Colin Forbes: The Savage Gorge

Tweed glanced at the cutting she'd pushed in front of him. He agreed with her estimate. The photograph was of a man with shaggy hair, piercing eyes under bushy brows, a Roman nose, a shaggy moustache and a wide mouth, below that a strong jaw. He had a pleasant smile. Tweed nodded, pushed the cutting back to her.

'I agree,' he said in a bored voice, 'but it's nothing to do with our present problem…'

The phone rang. Monica picked it up, listened, looked excited as she pointed to Tweed's phone.

'You might want to take this call. It's Harry.'

'Great to hear from you,' Tweed began. 'Where the devil are you? Hobartshire? Could you repeat that?'

Paula had already returned to her desk with her cut ting. She hauled out a map from a desk drawer, waited.

It was a long conversation. Most of the time Tweed was scribbling data on a pad. Occasionally he said, 'Are you sure?' then he went on scribbling. Finally he asked, 'If Paula and I left now could we get there by lunchtime?'

'Yes, we could,' Paula called out.

'Did you say Gunners Gorge? Funny name,' Tweed commented.

'Got it,' Paula called out again. 'Small town on the River Lyne.'

'Can anyone hear this?' Tweed asked. 'Oh, you're on your mobile in a field. Sounds secure enough. If that's all, Paula and I will be starting out in five min utes. You've done well, Harry. Exceptionally well. See you…'

Tweed replaced the phone. His expression con cealed the relief, the excitement he was feeling. He looked round the room at the members of his team.

'I sense this is the breakthrough we've been patiently waiting for. Patiently? Didn't apply to me. I apologize to all of you for my flashes of temper yesterday. Now,

Harry. He has tracked Falkirk to – of all places – Hobartshire. To what he called the weirdest of small towns – Gunners Gorge. He's booking suites for Paula and me at a good hotel, the Nag's Head. All the data is on this pad, which I'll leave with Monica. If I need reinforcements, you all have Paula's mobile number. Use that if something happens down there…'

As he was finishing speaking he jumped up, put on his camel-hair coat. Paula had already picked up two suitcases kept for emergency departures, one for her self, one for Tweed. She was striding to the door when Tweed relieved her of his own case and Pete Nield spoke.

'You don't know what you're walking into. I sug gest you travel in the second Audi parked at the back. The one with armourplate on the body and armoured glass in the windows. Harry has souped up the engine.'

'Good thinking. I agree,' Tweed replied.

'I'll come down the back way with you – I've got the keys,' Pete added.

'Then,' Paula remarked, 'with the Audi the wrong people associate with us left parked out at the front they'll think we're still here.'

'More good thinking,' Tweed agreed.

Paula took the wheel, saying she knew the route. After crawling through the dense traffic of London, she drove faster through the suburbs, then accelerated as they reached the countryside. They were on a wide country road and Paula sighed with pleasure.

'Oh, this is wonderful. Away from the stench of petrol, the noise, young girls with mobiles pressed to their ears who walk into you, the pointless rush and bustle.'

'And the scenery,' Tweed added.

On either side were hedges in leaf, their twigs festooned with bright yellow honeysuckle. Through the gaps they saw endless slopes of green grass, copses of trees perched on isolated hillocks.

Above them the sun blazed down out of a clear duck-egg-blue sky. A large passenger plane had flown to a great height, was still climbing. Tweed pointed towards it as it changed direction, heading west.

'Look at what they're leaving behind, an earthly paradise.'

'Could be heading for the Bahamas,' Paula sug gested. 'Those yacht basins crammed with private boats, the narrow streets choked with shoppers. No, thank you…'

As they kept heading roughly north-eastward Paula occasionally used a motorway. Overtaking, overtaking, overtaking. Back into the slow lane, then up a slip road, leaving the torrent of huge trucks and fast cars behind. Back into countryside.

'Where is Hobartshire?' Tweed enquired.

'Middle of nowhere. Least populated county. Not one city – inhabited by people with large estates who hunt for exercise.'

'Sounds like large parts of Britain used to be.' 'I gathered from a girl friend once it's just that.' The scenery changed as they crossed from one county to the next. They passed an area of massive white rocks; here and there men with machines worked quarries. Then the road took them into a forest so dense and dark it blotted out the sun. Emerging from the forest, fertile and gently rolling grass-covered hills lay on either side. Tweed checked the time.

'We should be nearly there, shouldn't we?' 'The man's a genius,' said Paula and laughed. 'Look at that road sign,' she suggested as she slowed to a crawl.

The larger than usual metal sign carried a message, a very clear message.

'Something tells me we might not be welcome in this neck of the woods,' Tweed remarked. 'We have just entered the bailiwick of Lord Bullerton.'

They drove on, with glimpses of rolling green slopes when gaps in the tall hedges gave them a view. They came to a point where the road descended into a vil lage. Paula drove slowly now, staring.

'Funny sort of place/ she commented. 'No sign of a gorge.'

The village was strange. On either side of the nar rowed road was a continuous line of old terraced cottages with white stone walls. Each cottage had a bright blue front door and tiny dormer windows in its low cramped roof. There was no one about and the place seemed eerie.

They arrived at a cottage on their left which had a bright red front door. On her hands and knees an old woman in a black coat was scrubbing fiercely at a stone step which, as far as Tweed could see, was as already white as snow. Paula stopped the car.

'Might get some information from her if she's the chatty type,' Tweed said.

The old lady stood straight up with surprising speed, dropped her scrubbing brush. She stared straight at them with alert eyes under a lined brow.

Tm Mrs Grout,' she snapped. 'Who be 'ee?'

Tweed decided to try impressing her from the start. He produced his identity folder, held it up, then put it away. She was quick and there was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

'Deputy Chief, but not with the police is my guess.'

'Maybe a little more powerful,' Tweed said smiling.

'Come up a bit late to check on the murder of Lady Bullerton. Going to put the wind up Pit Bull?'

Tit Bull? Sounds like a savage animal.'

'Which is what he is. You don't call 'im that to 'is face. He would find some way of running you out of 'Obartshire. He's got 'imself made Chief Constable by suckin' up to powerful folk in Lunnon.'

'So how would he run someone he didn't like here out of the county?'

'Well,' she began, 'a few years ago Pit Bull bought up the Village. That's what it's called. Cottages were on short leases, which 'e renews when they ends. Contracts were drawn up so that he could throw ten ants out at a moment's notice. But before he bought the Village I'd 'ad a legacy from an aunt. Used it to buy my cottage. Means 'e can't tell me what to do. He was mad as an 'atter when Fingle, his local lawyer, missed it.'

'Why are all the doors painted bright blue?' Tweed wondered.

'It's in the leases for all other cottagers. Doors must be painted blue.' She chuckled. 'To show I'm inde pendent I painted mine red. He's in a rage but can't do anything about it. So there!'

'You did mention,' Tweed said casually, 'that Lady Bullerton had been murdered. By whom and how do you know?'