'If I try to move I'll shift this soil bulge and drop twenty more feet. Bit of a problem, Paula.'
'Don't move an inch,' she whispered back. 'I've got an idea.'
The ingenious Harry had from time to time given her different equipment she might need. One item, stowed in her backpack, was a length of rope tightly knotted at three-foot intervals, and with a metal hook at one end covered with thick rubber. He'd told her it would 'come in handy' for entering the first floor of a target house. Lowering the rope, hooked end first, she told MacBlade what to do. As she talked, she wrapped the other end of the rope round her waist, praying she'd be strong enough to hold his weight. Twisting her body round, she pressed both feet against the top of the tunnel where the metal surface was rougher. She peered over the edge, told him to come up when ready. MacBlade had followed her instructions to the letter. With the rubber-covered hook tucked inside his thick leather waist belt, he began hauling himself up, hands gripping a knot, then another. As soon as he moved, the soil bulge which had held him collapsed. Without the rope, he would have fallen at least twenty feet into the depths.
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.