Colin Forbes: The Savage Gorge

'Conscious, just stunned. Could you get me a glass of water?'

Paula ran to the fridge. From a carafe she poured a large glass, handed it to Tweed. By now he had hoisted Falkirk off the floor and dropped him back into the armchair. He handed the glass to Falkirk, who was sagged against the chair's back.

'You sip this slowly,' Tweed ordered. 'After six sips you can drink a modest amount.'

Falkirk smiled wanly after drinking most of the glass, gazing at Tweed.

'They said you were tough. By George, they were right. What's now?' he asked in a normal voice.

Tweed carried a hard-backed chair close to Falkirk. He turned it round, sat with both arms resting on the top in front of him, his voice harsh during the inter rogation.

'Who hired you?'

'Lizbeth Mandeville, younger sister of the two murdered women.'

'You were the first person she approached?'

'No, she'd called the Yard.'

'Where from?'

'She's smart. From a public phone box.'

'What did Lizbeth say to them?'

'That there were two murdered mutilated women lying outside on the steps of a house at the end of Lynton Avenue.'

'What was their reaction?'

'Bloody terrible. The very rough policeman who answered asked for her name, address and where she was calling from.'

She got Reedbeck, Paula said to herself.

'She was furious, demanded when they were sending a patrol car. The rough-mannered policeman simply repeated his questions. She slammed the phone down on him. In the box she noticed a booklet someone had left listing private detectives. She took it home. For some weird reason she liked the name of my firm, called me. I buzzed straight over to her, middle of the night.'

'First you checked the corpses?'

'I did not. Lizbeth sounded scared out of her wits. We had an arrangement – at her suggestion. I wore a red tie and had a folded newspaper under my left arm. Lizbeth is smart. Re. corpses, I did see the one on the steps of the next-door house. Horrible. Her face was destroyed. Must be a sadist…'

'Or there could be another motive,' Tweed said. 'Go on. What happened next?'

'Rolls-Royce turns up, hardly moving when it passes the corpse. Checked the plate number later. Private car owned by Neville Guile, the billionaire. Bit weird. He had the tinted window down, was peering out towards the corpse. Then he cruises off round the corner where later I found the other sister mangled.'

'Then what?'

'Two police cars turn up. One with the technicians, the other with Speedy Reedbeck – only two hours after Lizbeth's call.'

'After that?'

'You know. I was falsely arrested by Reedbeck.'

'What I don't yet know,' Tweed continued in the same aggressive manner, 'is how you knew about Hobartshire.'

'Lizbeth told me all about where she had been brought up. She refused point blank to go up here with me. The prospect made her tremble. She thinks the murderer lives there.'

'All your story -' Tweed stood up – 'can be checked out with Lizbeth, who is now travelling north to Hobartshire under armed guard.'

'Is that wise?' queried Falkirk prior to leaving.

Til decide what is wise. I may have to see you later.'

'Can't decide what I need first,' their visitor remarked as Paula opened the door. 'A good hot bath or a really strong Scotch.'

'The bath first,' Paula told him firmly. 'His story appeared to fit the facts precisely,' she remarked after relocking the door.

'I've decided we'll have our planned supper with Archie MacBlade in the dining room. It's claustro phobic up here.'

Paula phoned the dining room for a quiet table. Then she got through to Archie, who accepted with enthusiasm. As she put down the phone she noticed Tweed was staring into the distance.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Your remark about Falkirk. To my mind, his story fitted just a little too precisely. Almost as though he'd rehearsed it in advance.'

The dining room was quiet. Few tables were occu pied. Archie was at a table inside a secluded alcove. He waved. As they sat on either side of him he took a package nicely wrapped out of a pocket of his tropical drill jacket, handed it to Paula.

'I have never thanked you for saving my life up on the moor. Otherwise I wouldn't be here tonight. Just a small gift.'

She opened it below the table, peeled off gold paper, removed green paper below, exposing an expensive leather case. Taking a deep breath, she unfastened the case and gasped.

Inside was a watch, its band and the watch itself studded with diamonds. Keeping it below the table she showed it to Tweed, turning to Archie.

'This is so beautiful – but it's far too much…'

'No more than you deserve,' Tweed commented with a smile.

'Thank you so much,' she said to Archie, 'but I can't accept it.'

'Yes, you can,' Archie responded. "The diamonds are fake. But don't consult it in the streets of London.'

He waved to a waiter he had told to come over only when he summoned him. By this time Tweed had helped Paula fasten the present to her slim wrist and she had pushed it up her sleeve out of sight. Menus were studied, orders placed.

'I'm still stunned,' Paula said as she studied the menu.

She looked at Archie. He really was a big man with a wide chest, a large head, a neat moustache and long thick hair. In some ways he reminded her of pictures she'd seen of prophets of the Old Testament. This impression was countered by the frequent warm smile of his thick lips. He looked back.

'You'll know me next time, won't you?' He chuck led.

The three-course dinner was so good they ate almost in silence. Talk would have ruined their savour ing the chef's excellent food. Then Archie signalled the waiter, who brought over a bottle he carried with extra care. Tweed stared at the label.

'Archie, that's the king of clarets. Costs a fortune!'

'Sip it first,' he advised. 'Now I'll tell you why we are here. About Black Gorse Moor…'

From a canvas satchel perched on the seat beyond

Paula, Archie lifted out a tightly capped plastic canis ter. Paula had seen him clutching it when she'd hauled him out of the hellhole. He first used large serviettes to create a concealing cloth tent. The table had already been cleared except for their glasses.

On their side of the 'tent' he placed the canister. He looked at Paula.

'Tell me what you see.'

'Four different levels of dissimilar liquids, separated by thick glass dividers.'

'An excellent start. Go on.'

'Bottom level is black as pitch, very murky. The level above is less dark with bits floating in it. Still pretty murky. How am I doing?'

'Fine so far. Now go on!' he urged.

'The liquid in the third level is lighter, but still very murky. The top level,' she concluded, 'is the purest brown-black. Almost has an oily texture -'

'Not almost,' Archie broke in. 'It is oil – of the finest quality, once treated in a refinery. Black Gorse Moor is sitting on top of endless deposits of oil. Forget Texas. I calculate there's at least enough oil there to last all Great Britain's needs for the next hundred years at least. We can forget Saudia Arabia and the rest of the OPEC blackmailers. How is the claret?'

After more valuable conversation with Archie, Tweed left the table and headed with Paula for the garage. Once inside he sat behind the wheel and stared ahead without moving.

'Billions and billions, Archie said the moor is worth, and Neville Guile offers Bullerton one million. He must have been furious when Archie sent him a phoney report by courier – and returned the huge fee Guile had paid him.'

'Which is why he tried to kill Archie on the moor. He spotted the fake. We'll now drive over to Hobart House. I want a word with Lord Bullerton.'