Colin Forbes: By Stealth

Tweed shinned up to the top. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling illuminated the gleaming rail. Secreted behind the block of wood acting as a stop was another bug of the same sophisticated type. Tweed's expression was grim as he climbed down and moved the ladder back to its original position. The whole place was bugged. Surely Andover must have spotted the device beneath the desk lamp? He heard a slight movement, swung round and froze. Paula was standing at the door entrance. Her facial muscles were taut, her whole stance tense.

But what particularly caught his attention was the Browning. She was holding the gun with both hands, muzzle pointed at the floor, and ready for instant firing. What the devil had she found?

Earlier Paula had walked slowly towards the lighted doorway at the back of the hall. When she got close she stopped and listened for any sound of life. The dreadful silence which reminded her of the vigil at the marina filled the old house. Made worse, more nerve-wrackingly atmospheric by the smell of the fog which had penetrated the icy cold which was as raw as it had been outside.

A very old-fashioned radiator, ugly with its separate sections, stood by the hall wall. She felt it. Barely warm How could Andover stand living in a morgue like this?

She peered into the room and the atmosphere did not get any better. She was looking into a Victorian kitchen with a stone-flagged floor. A large and ancient kitchen range stood inside a massive alcove. It must have been there since some Victorian built this museum. She took two or three paces inside the depressing room. The cold stone flags muffled her footsteps.

The only concession to modernity was the fluorescent strip slung from the ceiling which illuminated the room clearly. That and a large chest freezer alongside a new fridge. A scrubbed wooden table occupied the centre of the stark room. Paula frowned.

On the table were several plates. One contained a loaf with several slices cut. Another had a chunk of Cheddar cheese. A butter dish of chinaware held a rectangle of butter, the cover lying beside it. The bread knife which had sliced the loaf also lay on the table.

Everything suggested the owner had just prepared himself a Spartan supper and had been interrupted before eating it. Facing her and beyond the table were windows screened with ragged net curtains, half covered with a heavy white curtain in need of a visit to the laundry.

She opened cupboards fixed to the wall, checking their contents. Next she opened a door in the wall and found herself staring into a large walk-in pantry with a tiled floor. The shelves – like the wall cupboards – were well stocked. She noticed something which contrasted with the primitive equipment: someone, presumably Andover, had arranged the items so the most recent sell-by dates were at the front.

She opened the large fridge and again it was amply stocked. About to leave the kitchen, she paused, staring at the big chest freezer. Might as well check everything. She took hold of the lid, raised it, nearly dropped it.

Don't faint, for God's sake, she told herself. Again there was a good stock of provisions. But on top of them was a deep plastic container about two feet wide and without a lid. Inside the container was a tumble of ice cubes. And below the first layer – showing so clearly through the ice – was a human right arm severed at the elbow, a bloodstained bandage covering the stump, a woman's hand stretched out, still attached, with an emerald ring on the third finger of the hand.

She stood in the doorway to the library, holding the Browning in both hands, prepared to fire point-blank at any intruder, at whoever had committed this barbaric act.

Tweed put a finger to his lips, frowning to warn her not to speak. He walked over to her, grasping her arm, led her to the desk, showed her the bugged lamp. With a waving gesture he indicated that there were more of them everywhere.

She nodded mechanically, then it was her turn to take Tweed by the arm, holding the automatic in her right hand. Like a sleepwalker she guided him to the kitchen, raised the lid of the freezer chest. He blinked once, leaned forward briefly to examine the severed limb, closed the lid. Holding his arm again, she propelled him across the hall and out beyond the front porch before she warned him.

The butcher is still here. Through the kitchen window I saw someone move in the back garden…'

`Go back to Newman,' Tweed told Paula. 'Tell him what has happened, briefly, then come back with him. And perhaps I'd better have the Browning.'

`We should go and find out who is roaming about behind the house now. Otherwise he'll get away…'

Tweed couldn't fault her logic. They couldn't afford to waste time arguing. Gesturing for her to follow, he moved off the cinder drive, stepping on to the rough-cut grass which ran round the side of the house.

There were no barriers, no side gate. Lousy security. It appeared Andover had never felt the need for it. There were no lights in the side windows to his left. On his right a wall of huge evergreens masked them from the next property.

Emerging at the back, Tweed realized Prevent had a sizeable estate. His night vision was coming back and a vast lawn spread away to distant trees. He paused, reaching a hand behind him to stop Paula. She had been right. In the middle of the lawn, coming closer to the house, a man was walking slowly.

`He's talking to himself,' Paula whispered.

`And I think I recognize the walk. Looks like Andover himself.'

At that moment the shadowy figure moved into the light splaying out from the kitchen window. Tweed had a clear view as the figure stood still and was appalled and shocked. In the icy cold, where drifts of fog hung motionless in the air, Andover wore only a pair of slacks and a shirt.

But it was his appearance which shook Tweed. Haggard, his face drawn, he had lost weight and his shoulders sagged. The phrase 'a lost soul' leapt into Tweed's mind. This bore no relationship to the crisply spoken, erect, decisive Andover he had known in London. This man was a physical wreck.

`Who is that?' He jumped as Tweed stepped into the light followed by Paula, her Browning held behind her trench coat. 'Oh, it's you, Tweed… What the hell are you doing here?… I distinctly told you to wait at Passford House until I called you… And to come alone…'

He spoke in a disjointed way, his voice hoarse. Only the last sentence was delivered in a familiar crisp tone.

`It's very cold out here,' Paula said to him quietly. 'I will fetch you a coat. I noticed a cloaks cupboard – I imagine that's what it is – in the hall.'

`Very kind of you, my dear.' His manner changed again, was polite, grateful. 'It is a cloaks cupboard.'

She turned and walked swiftly away, slipping the gun inside her shoulder-bag. Alone with their host, Tweed made his suggestion, testing Andover's reaction.

`We could go inside to talk..

`No! No!' Andover grabbed Tweed by the lapels of his British warm. 'And you've been inside, haven't you? Did the two of you talk while you were poking around?'

He was very agitated, trembling as he tugged at Tweed's coat as though trying to shake a reply out of him. Tweed stood stock still, made no attempt to remove the shuddering hands.

`I'll answer you only when you get a grip on yourself.'

Paula appeared round the corner, holding a woollen scarf and a heavy coat. Andover released Tweed as though ashamed that Paula had seen his performance. Standing back, he accepted the scarf, wrapped it round his neck, slipped his arms into the sleeves of the coat Paula was holding for him.

`That really was most considerate of you,' he said in a normal voice. 'It is a bit nippy tonight.'

`Quite Siberian – or maybe you're used to the elements,' Paula continued in a conversational tone. 'And I'm Paula Grey, Mr Tweed's assistant.'