Colin Forbes: The Savage Gorge

Newman had seen all this in a wall mirror as, hunched down in his ancient raincoat, he padded slowly to the door and into the street. He was having trouble assessing Lepard. Outside he hailed a cab, asked to be taken to Huston Road. No point in men tioning Park Crescent in this area.

Dusk was falling as Paula and Marler entered Tweed's office. Paula immediately gave Tweed a brief description of what they had witnessed in Finden Square. Her chief liked terse reports.

'You're thinking of the Rolls which cruised past us when we were standing outside the double murder location,' he suggested.

'Yes, I am.'

'Did you get the plate number of the Rolls driving away from Otranto's HQ?'

'No, I couldn't. Only saw the car's side parked.'

'Then it's a guess, not evidence?'

'My instinct rather than a guess,' she countered.

'And,' Marler intervened, 'in the past Paula's instinct has so often proved to be right.'

'True,' Tweed agreed. He lit one of his rare ciga rettes. 'We have several threads but none of them ties with the others…'

He stopped speaking as Newman opened the door, walked across the room, perched on the edge of Paula's desk next to Marler. He opened both hands in a negative gesture, then reported his experience inside the Pig's Trotters. He concluded with a shrug.

'Doesn't get us any further, does it?'

'You sound confused about this character Lepard,' Tweed told him.

'Well, if he is a killer he has good manners, which doesn't add up.'

'I've remarked before,' Tweed said amiably, 'that I never cease to be fascinated by the complexity of human nature, the mixture of good and evil in one man – or woman. You explained he was of mixed parentage. Some of these professional killers have egos as big as the Ritz. The strange name has sinister undertones. Le could be part of a French name, Pard might be short for Pardoe – might be his mother's maiden name.' He placed his hands behind his neck. 'It's another thread, floating in the wind.'

'So where do we go from here?' asked Paula.

'First, I suggest we all go home early, get a good night's sleep. Who knows? I need a very positive lead. Could come tomorrow.'

Tweed had no idea that the following morning the investigation would explode in their faces.

Tweed arrived early at Park Crescent the next day, to find his whole team in his office, again with the excep tion of Harry Butler. As he hung up his camel-hair coat he glanced through the windows towards Regent's Park, which was bathed in sunlight. Another glorious May day. Monica leaned forward as he sat at his desk.

'You have a visitor in the waiting room downstairs. A Hector Humble.'

'Why park him in that dreary room?'

'He preferred not to invade your office until you arrived. He was quite firm about it.'

'Invite him up immediately.' Tweed sighed. 'He's come to warn me the photos of the two murdered women won't be ready for weeks.'

A clatter of feet on the stairs, the door opened,

Hector bounced into the room. His jacket was open and underneath he was clad in a waistcoat of many colours, all tasteful.

'Love your waistcoat,' Paula called out. 'Really unique.'

'Got it in the Old Kent Road. Half price – it had been displayed for weeks.'

Under his right arm he clutched two cardboard- backed envelopes. He was still blushing at Paula's praise, shyly accepted Monica's offer of coffee. He eased his rounded body into the chair Tweed, stand ing up, had gestured towards after shaking hands.

'Done it,' he said with an air of triumph. 'Worked dirough the night. Got absorbed. Knew you needed them urgently.'

Diving into the thicker envelope he produced a batch of photos. He spread two copies in front of Tweed, who stared in disbelief. He knew he was looking at glossy prints of the two murdered women as they had appeared alive. Even their long hair falling to their shoulders looked real.

The whole team gathered round the desk. Paula peered over his shoulder. She pursed her lips as she made her remark.

'They were both beautiful. We've got to get the swine who ruined them.'

'You have seven copies,' Hector went on. 'Don't look now inside this envelope. It will upset you. They're copies of how they looked before I rebuilt their faces. Just for your files.'

'But eventually,' Newman said fiercely, 'to show the jury when we've dragged the killer into court by his heels.'

The door opened and Howard, the Director, strolled in. He was a tall man with the beginnings of a stout stomach. He was perfectly dressed in a new grey Armani suit, pristine white shirt, cuffs shot beyond the sleeves, exposing gold cufflinks. An Hermes tie decorated the shirt front. Normally ami able, he had a serious expression as Tweed showed him the photos.

'Hector has performed a miracle. I told you about him before I went home last night.'

'Well, write out Mr Humble the cheque I approved.'

Tweed already had his chequebook out, was filling it in for ten thousand pounds. Hector protested.

'I quoted too much. Seven or eight would be most acceptable.'

'A deal is a deal,' Tweed insisted, writing in the orig inally agreed amount.

Howard picked up the photos of both women as they had been in life. He sighed.

'I'd like to have taken either lady to dinner…' He gulped. 'God! That was in the worst taste. I do apolo gize. I'm off back to my office.' He held out his large pink hand.

'Mr Humble, I've seen the work of experts in other fields but words fail me to express my admiration for your quite unique skill.'

He hurried from the office, still embarrassed by his remark. Hector swallowed the rest of the coffee Monica had brought him, stood up, the cheque in his wallet. He grasped hold of Paula, kissed her on both cheeks.

'You're such a nice lady,' he murmured, blushing.

He darted out of the room before Paula could decide how to react. Tweed was sorting the photos into pairs, each pair comprising one photo of each murdered woman. He instructed Paula as the others returned to their desks.

'Every member of the team must have a copy.' He raised his voice. 'But everyone must be discriminating as to who sees them. Under no circumstances are you to reveal both women were murdered. It's identification of the victims that is holding up the investigation.'

'So not in the newspapers,' Newman suggested.

'Last place on earth,' Tweed replied emphatically.

'Well,' Newman insisted, 'this morning's Clarion has a big splash headline. It's my top newspaper friend, of course, Drew Franklin. Show him, Paula.'

Tweed looked up at Paula, who had spread the front page across his desk. Lower down on the same page something had been cut out. Tweed didn't waste time reading Franklin's lurid prose as he asked his ques tion.

'Among the few people who knew about this crime, who would be your choice for the informant who accepted a bundle of cash to call Franklin – probably from a public phone box?'

'Roadblock,' she said promptly. 'Chief Inspector Reedbeck.'

'My choice too, although we'd never prove it. And something was cut out lower down. What was it?'

'Archie MacBlade is back in town after weeks abroad.'

'I've just about heard the name.'

'MacBlade is just about the most successful oil prospector on the planet,' Newman broke in. 'Back from Brunei, the oil-rich nation in the Far East. Controlled by the Sultan, perhaps the richest man in the world. MacBlade prospected in the jungle, brought up the most gigantic gusher ever seen there. The Sultan is probably three times richer than he was before.'

'I only cut this out because I was impressed by the picture of him. Struck me as a man of exceptional character.'