The Savage Gorge (19 page)

For Paula, the strain of his weight on her legs and
shoulders was agonizing. She thanked God for her
recent tough training exercise at the SIS mansion
hidden on the Surrey border. She had stopped peering over the rim so was surprised at the speed with which
MacBlade reached the top, fell across her, rolled off her and lay beside her, panting for breath.

They lay together like that for a while, exercising limbs
and recovering. Then MacBlade squeezed her arm gently and asked, 'What next?'

'We get out of this fiendish tunnel. I know the way.
I'll go first. Keep close behind me.'

'Gal, you've got guts,' he said.

'What's that plastic canister you've got in your
pocket?'

'A sample. Let's start the crawl. . .'

As she eventually emerged from the tunnel she
couldn't recall experiencing such a sense of relief. And

now for the first time the moon had come out, illumi
nating the bowl far below. She screwed the lid back in
position over the entrance, sat on it. MacBlade was
stamping around in lively fashion.

'The Audi is parked in a hole in the hedge on this
side of the road,' she told him. 'You make your way to it and I'll follow in a few minutes. Two people will be
easier to spot in this moonlight.'

'Nothing doing,' he told her. 'You need protection -
the least I can do after what you've done.'

'Do as you're damned well told!' she burst out. 'I
need a few minutes on my own.'

'Then I'll wait over there.'

'For God's sake leave me alone,' she snapped, sud
denly realizing she had raised her voice.

'Have it your own way,' he said with a warm smile and
began walking away down from the moor into the bowl.

He had almost reached the bowl when once again
he looked back. He wasn't able to see her: the hedge
masked the round lid.

Paula stood up, stretched her legs and shoulders. A
thick cloth hood descended over her head. Wiry hands
swung her round, took hold of her wrists, clamped them in front of her with handcuffs. Then a familiar
voice spoke with a cut-glass tone.

'She's all yours, Ned. Use her as a man likes to use
a woman. Then kill her and bury the body. She knows
too much.'

Paula found herself swung round, then frogmarched
away from the moor. A wet cloth had been wrapped
round her mouth so it was impossible to shout to
MacBlade, who was probably too far away now.
Where was she being taken by the lustful Ned Marsh?

THIRTEEN

Marsh's hands gripped her arms so tightly she knew it
would be useless to struggle. He continued to propel
her across a grassy surface. She had to be somewhere
in the bowl which encircled Hobart House.

'You're goin' to enjoy this,' his coarse voice told her.
'At least the first part.'

'And the second part?' she said quietly.

'You won't know a thing. Guile is clever. He's seen
you're Tweed's bit. When you disappear forever it will
destroy your Mr Tweed. Guile knows he's the greatest
danger.'

'Tweed will hunt you down, if he has to search the world for you . . .'

'Shut your face.'

Marsh's grip on her arms tightened painfully. They
slowed down. She heard the squeak of a gate opening,

felt her feet move off grass onto paving. She jerked her
head up. The hood slipped back and she had a
glimpse of the outside world.

She was looking up at a tiled cottage roof. A
crooked chimney tilted down towards her. She knew
where she was. Marsh rammed the hood back over her
head. His tone was vicious.

'Don't get clever on me. We'll be longer on the
bed.'

She knew where she was. She remembered seeing
the tilted chimney across the bowl, the cottage almost
hidden inside a copse of trees on the edge. Was this
where Guile had remained out of sight for days? With
Lord Bullerton's permission.

'Lift your clumsy feet,' Marsh ordered. 'We're going inside somewhere. Won't be long before you're flat on
the bed. You lookin' forward to it? Be the last time
you'll be with a man.'

She stumbled over a step and it was cooler. She was
inside the cottage, being pushed along a wooden floor
she assumed was the hall.

'Now you climb the stairs,' Marsh informed her.
'Slowly. Step by step, with me 'oldin' on to you.
Nearly there for your last experience . . .'

Normally, whatever the danger, Paula remained
calm and alert. For the first time in her life she was in
a cold murderous fury. She remembered Neville
Guile's words.
Use her as a man likes to use a woman.
She was incensed, in a killing mood.

She climbed the staircase carefully, feeling for the

next step before lifting a foot. Arriving at the top,
Marsh guided her into a room, removed the hood,
flung her onto the double bed. She was careful to fall
on her back, sprawling her legs along the sheet. Marsh
had made one fatal mistake.

He stood at the end of the bed, stripped off his
jacket, then his shirt. He was grinning evilly. She lay
with her cuffed hands and the long metal chain
between them over the lower part of her body.

'You can stretch your arms,' he said with a leer.
'They're in the way.'

She raised both arms behind her head as he
sprawled on top of her. Her hands whipped down,
over his head, round his neck, were winding the chain,
long enough, thank God, to encircle his throat. She crossed her hands within seconds, pulled them outwards. The chain bit deep into his windpipe. She increased the pressure. The chain dug deeper.

He was choking. His hands, which might other
wise have been used to beat at her body, flew up to his throat, fingers desperately trying to insert them
selves under the chain but the metal links were
buried too tightly. Coldly, she watched him fighting
for breath which couldn't enter the windpipe. She felt his feet and legs hammering on the bed. He
opened his mouth but no words emerged. She
pulled the chain a fraction tighter and his face was
changing colour. Then the hammering of feet and
legs ceased. His hands, which had been clawing at
the chain, fell to his sides. He was very still. She held

on. To be sure. His body had slumped, lifeless, on
hers.

She eased herself from beneath him after lifting the
chain. She rubbed her hands to bring back circula
tion, rolled his body to the edge of the bed, dipped her
hand into the pocket of his shirt on the floor where
she had seen him tuck the handcuff key.

Her hands trembled but she managed to unlock the
cuffs, which she dropped on the floor, kicking them
under the bed. As a final precaution she checked his
carotid artery. No pulse. Pushing the body off the bed,
she shoved it underneath.

She found a small bathroom, turned the cold-water
tap, soaked her face and hands. She wiped her finger
prints off the tap, collected from the stairs the
motoring gloves she had surreptitiously dropped, left
the cottage and started walking across the bowl on
stiffish legs to where she had parked the Audi.
Vaguely, seeing lights in Hobart House, she wondered
whether Tweed was still dining with Lord Bullerton.

'My God, where have you been?'

It was MacBlade's voice, but she nearly jumped out
of her skin. He told her Harry had turned up on foot
out of nowhere and was guarding the vehicle. Arriving
at the parked Audi she told both of them in short sen
tences what had happened. Harry reacted
immediately, turning to MacBlade.

'Give me a hand to remove the body from the cot
tage?'

'Sure thing. You OK to drive back to the hotel, Paula?'

'What I could do with. A nice quiet drive back to
the hotel.'

Arriving back at the hotel, she parked the Audi, was
surprised to realize she was ravenously hungry. She
took off her smeared tunic and jeans, washed, brushed
her hair and went downstairs.

She dined alone. The food was excellent and she
devoured a three-course meal. Arriving back at her
suite she forced herself to take a quick shower.
Afterwards she couldn't be bothered to get into her
night attire. Her last thought before she fell into a
deep sleep was how Tweed had fared during his
dinner with Lord Bullerton.

FOURTEEN

Earlier in the evening, Tweed was driven to Hobart
House by Harry in his Fiat. Harry left his chief at the
foot of the steps, drove the car round the back

Tweed had adopted a tactic he'd used before, catch
ing people on the wrong foot by arriving early. The
door was opened for him by an elegantly dressed Mrs
Shipton. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head.
He thought he detected fairish strands. Her shapely
body was encased firmly in a green dress with a wide
gold belt emphasizing her narrow waist.

'You are early,' she greeted him with an inviting
smile. 'We could have time for a drink. Lord Bullerton
is ensconced in his study. Shall we use the library?'