Colin Forbes - The Savage Gorge

'They are both dead,' Tweed said quietly, 'mur dered outside the homes they rented in central London. Worse still, their faces had been badly mutilated by the killer.'

'Mutilated?' Bullerton pointed to the photos Tweed was collecting to put back inside his case. 'No sign of mutilation there.'

'The photos have been retouched,' said Tweed, who saw no point in explaining the genius of Hector Humble.

'Sounds like a serial killer.'

As he spoke Bullerton bent down to pick up the chess Queen he had knocked off the board when he jumped up. He stroked the piece as he muttered half to himself.

'She knows I'm after seducing her. Just like I do when I visit certain high-class ladies in Mayfair. They charge the earth. Still much cheaper than the expense of getting married. This Queen seems to get heavier. Ready for my assault. And you're a fake, Tweed. You come up here on a murder investigation but you take your time telling me the victims are my missing daughters.'

'I have my methods,' Tweed said calmly. 'And I do not believe the killer is a serial murderer…'

'Obviously you haven't heard that Hartland Trent, living, or lived, off the High Street has been found stabbed to death. Whole district is abuzz with the crime, but the chief investigator hasn't heard about it,' Bullerton sneered. 'An eccentric. The place swarms with them.'

Tweed was used to the minds of relatives of murder victims wandering all over the place in their shock.

'Another eccentric, the chief one, is Mrs Grout in the Village. A few years ago a crazy man bought a farm well north of the River Lyne, converted it into a zoo! Had a huge gorilla, a king cobra, a tiger and Lord knows what else. Oh, a crocodile too. I got the correct lot up from London and they closed him down. What helped was the local horsey aristocrats living in that area protested violently, saying one of the creatures in the zoo could escape and kill someone. The owner was venomous, swore vengeance, but sent his stock to Africa and India. Mrs Grout made a meal of it.'

'How did she do that?'

'She still tells some crazy story that she saw the zoo owner one moonlit night drive a truck to the edge of the river north of the bridge, open the doors, slide out a chute with the baby crocodile inside and dump it in the river. She's mad.'

'How long ago did this happen?'

'About three years, except it's just one of her sto ries.'

'So by now it would be fully grown,' Tweed remarked.

'Suppose so, wherever it is in India…'

The door opened and Mrs Shipton stood there, glaring. Her arms were folded. She barked.

'If you like cold food you can stay here chattering. It will be served in the dining room within five minutes.'

Bullerton hauled his bulk out of the armchair as the door was slammed shut. They walked to the dining room, which was tastefully illuminated by a magnificent chandelier that might have come from Versailles. They ate in silence, which suited Tweed, so he could enjoy the excellent dinner. He waited until they were sipping a first-class claret before he put the question.

'I had wondered whether Neville Guile might be another guest.'

'Told me he was going to race back to London. That the countryside bored him. Typical view of the average Londoner.'

'You like him? He seems to have achieved a lot.'

'Like so many London businessmen he's a crook. But in business you have to deal with all types.'

'I do know a number of businessmen who are trust worthy,' Tweed corrected him.

'Then don't count Neville among them.'

'Do you mind if I ask the nature of your dealings with him?'

'Sorry, but our negotiations are confidential. I do assure you, Mr Tweed, that it can have nothing to do with these awful murders.' He paused, embar rassed. 'One thing I will tell you. Neville had consumed a lot of brandy at eleven in the morning. I think he let his tongue slip. Told me he was going back to Finden Square to clear up the mess he knew he'd find. Then he was flying off to what he calls his sanc tuary, the island of Noak.' He spelt out the name. 'Sounds like Noah's Ark. It's somewhere not a million miles from the Channel Islands. Not under the juris diction of either Britain or France. When he told me he laughed – that weird giggle which passes for a laugh.'

'I think it's time I left. Thank you for the most glorious dinner. As good as the Ritz in London,' Tweed said, pushing back his chair.

'I suppose,' Bullerton remarked as they strolled towards the door, 'as chief investigator you'll be involved in the Trent murder here. With my two eldest daughters as victims the serial killer has moved up to Hobartshire. Not a pleasant thought.'

'My instinct, experience if you like, tells me all I need is to spot the motive. When I do I'll know who the killer is.'

The next morning a carefully dressed but nervous Paula tapped the agreed tattoo on Tweed's door. Wearing a sports jacket and grey slacks, he ushered her inside with a smile and a wave of his hand. He immediately noticed her unusually worried expression.

'Come in. Make yourself at home,' he greeted her cheerfully.

She sat down in a hard-backed chair, her feet together. She sat very erect, spoke softly.

'I have something to tell you I don't think you'll like.'

'A cup of steaming black coffee might help start the day.'

He poured her a cup and tactfully placed it on a small table next to her chair. He guessed she might have trouble not spilling it as she lifted the cup.

'I think we ought to have a full breakfast up here. I'll order it,' he said firmly, reaching for the phone.

'Won't the landlord think it funny I'm in your suite so early?' she ventured.

'Mr Bowling has been running this hotel for a long time, I'm sure. He'll be quite used to serving breakfasts to men who have spent the night with a lady friend. Par for the course.'

Over the phone he ordered a huge breakfast for two, to be served in twenty minutes. Tea, more coffee, toast – white and brown (which he knew Paula pre ferred), scrambled eggs for two, crispy bacon, toasted muffins…

'We'll both be fighting fit after that,' he said, refilling her cup. 'Now, I'll just listen.'

She told him of the events of the previous night, starting with her driving the Audi from the hotel and parking it inside the hedge overlooking Hobart House. She kept it brief and found herself talking more quickly as Tweed kept nodding his head to show her he was taking it all in. His expression was pleasant, that of the interested listener – until she came to the point where she quoted what Neville Guile had said to his henchman. Use her as a man likes to use a woman.

His lips tightened. He turned his head away so Paula would not see the cold fury in his eyes. From that moment on he couldn't wait until he met Neville Guile in a quiet place and slowly strangled him.

He lit a rare cigarette and when he turned to face

Paula again his expression of listening to every word she said had returned. She concluded with her walking away from the cottage with the crooked chimney back across the bowl to the parked car.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I should never have taken the risk…'

'Wrong!' he exploded. 'You were right. Haven't I always told every member of the team they must use their initiative? Which is exactly what you did. It may have been pretty grim for you, but you proved you can – and do – think for yourself.'

'Thank you,' she said quietly.

'The next problem is to get rid of the body of the fiend who attacked you.'

'It's already been done. On my way along the corri dor to get here I met Harry. He said the thug's name was Ned Marsh – he found his passport on his body in the cottage. With the help of Archie MacBlade he carried the body back up to Black Gorse Moor, found the tunnel I'd been in and the vertical drop. They dumped the body down the tunnel – it went all the way down. MacBlade said Guile is always checking. When he phones Marsh on his mobile during the night and gets no reply he'll send another thug at once to drive the truck. Haifa ton of rubble will be emptied down the tunnel. The thug who tried to rape and kill me will never be found.'