Rhinoceros (3 page)

She couldn't go back into the living room, but before leaving she stood close to the door and whispered.

'I'm so sorry, Helga. So very sorry. But I couldn't ever have foreseen this would happen . . .'

Swallowing, Lisa left the flat, closed the door, locked
it and made her way carefully down the stairs. She had
already taken the small Beretta 6.35mm automatic from
her handbag and tucked it down the side of her belt round
her trouser suit. With her case in her left hand, front door
key in her right, she slowly descended the stairs, again avoiding the creaky treads. She paused before opening the
front door.

'Get on with it,' she snapped.

She opened the door suddenly, went out, closed it
swiftly, ran down the steps. Reaching the street, she kept moving but looked u
p at the first-floor window opposite.
No lights in the building anywhere. The window from
which the fatal shots had been fired, she felt sure, was
half open. By the front railing was a notice board. FOR
SALE.

Lisa hurried back to her car, seeing no one, and drove
off, keeping an eye on her rear-view mirror. She was alone
in the cold night.

Parking near Victoria Station, she walked until she saw a rank of phone boxes. She dialled 999, asked for
the police. A sharp-voiced man answered her call. She reported the murder, gave the address, refused to identify
herself, slammed down the phone, went back to her car.

'That's the best I can do for you, Helga,' Lisa said aloud to herself.

When renting the flat she had given one of her many false names, paying three months' rent in advance. Near
Ebury Street she parked her car in a wide alley. Grabbing
hold of her case, she walked back round the corner and
into a small hotel which still had lights on. In the small reception hall, behind a counter, stood a fat woman widi
purple-rinsed hair, arms akimbo.

'What have we here at this hour?' the woman demanded.

'I'd like a room . . .'

'Bit late to be comin' in off the street.'

'How much per night for a room?' Lisa had her wallet stuffed with banknotes in her hand. 'I'm an airline stew
ardess and my flight was delayed.' The woman unfolded
her arms, her eyes on the wallet. She named an extortionate
amount. 'I'll pay now for three nights,' Lisa snapped.

The room on the first floor was poorly furnished but the
bed linen was clean. After locking and bolting the door,
Lisa would have given anything for a shower but she hadn't
the strength. So far she had held up but she was thinking,
seeing
Helga's body on the floor, Tiger beside her.

She had never got on well with Helga, who treated her husband like a servant, but now she gave way. Sobbing,
the tears rolling down her face, she kicked off her shoes.

'I couldn't have done any more,' she choked. 'They'd just have taken her away, held me for questioning. And I am
the Messenger . . .' She flopped on the bed, shuddering
and shaking with remorse. When she woke in the morning
the pillow was soaked with her tears.

Tweed drove slowly into the ancient village of Alfriston. By his side Paula tensed. Like entering the Black Hole of Calcutta. A police car stopped them in the High Street. In
places, she remembered, it was so narrow two cars couldn't
pass each other. The only illumination was a distant lamp
attached to a wall bracket. Old buildings of stone walled them in. Tweed lowered the window, explained briefly to
a middle-aged uniformed policeman who he was.

'I'm Sergeant Pole,' the policeman introduced himself.
He bent close as Tweed emerged from the car. 'We 'eard
a superintendent would be down from London.' Tweed
nodded, avoiding correcting the reference to his rank. 'S'pose I shouldn't say it,' Pole went on, 'but we have a
problem. Chap called Bogle, Assistant Chief Constable,
has turned up. Throwing his weight about. . .'

He stopped talking as a small burly man wearing a
dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat appeared. He
reminded Paula of a pig and his manners fitted his appear
ance.

'Who the blazes are you?' he demanded.

'This is Superintendent Tweed from London,' Pole said
quickly.

'And this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed added.
'Could we go straight to the body? I presume no one has
touched it?'

'Course not. Sir,' he added as an afterthought. 'Know
my job. I'm Assistant Chief Constable Bogle - from the
next county. They're all down with flu at Eastbourne,
plus a nasty accident on the A27. Happens all the time.

Pole, don't just stand there. Lift the tape so they can get through. I'll lead the way . . .'

Passing the walls of a few unlit houses perched at the
back of the uneven stone pavement, they arrived at a tiny
square like a large alcove. In the square was a dress
shop, then a notice illuminated by a dim lamp away
from the street.

Steps to

the Church

Tye and

Clergy

House

Bogle didn't bother to warn them as he went ahead
holding a flashlight. Parallel to the street there were two
concrete steps, down past a wrought-iron gate pushed back
against the wall, then a sharp right-angled turn to the left with six more steps leading down into a weird concrete
tunnel with an arched roof. Paula, clutching her fur collar close to her throat, had produced a powerful flashlight that
guided Tweed underground. The old concrete tunnel was only a few feet wide and disappeared into the distance,
where it ended at a-moonlit archway.

'There he is,' growled Bogle. 'Damned queer places people choose to commit suicide.'

Despite the fact that the left-hand side of the head was
blown away, Paula immediately recognized the late Jeremy
Mordaunt. The body was slumped at right angles to the
tunnel, seated on the floor, head sagged forward, blood
down the front of his Armani suit, legs spread out across
the passage. The visible back of his suit was smeared with concrete powder, the fingers of his left hand were tucked
inside the firing mechanism of a .38 Smith & Wesson
revolver.

'Open-and-shut case,' Bogle rasped. 'Clear matter of
suicide. He leant against the wall, pressed the gun against his head, pulled the trigger, went to kingdom come as he
slid down the wall.'

'Really?' Tweed was crouched down, close to the body.
'No trace of powder burns on his hand.'

'But,' objected Paula, 'he was right-handed. I saw him
at a cocktail party recently. He held his glass in his right
hand, and when he smoked a cigarette he held it in his
right hand.'

Mordaunt's passport, the old type with a black cover
engraved with the gilt seal, was lying close to his slumped
leg. It was open at the page which gave the holder's details.
Tweed, still crouched, facing the corpse, pointed to the
passport.

'Air Bogle' he asked, without turning his head, 'who
first suggested to you it was suicide?'

'Obvious, isn't it?'

'Is it? Who did you phone when you reported this
tragedy?'

'London.'

'London covers a lot of people.
Who
in London did
you call?'

'Well, I saw from his passport who he was. So I decided it was a diplomatic matter. I called the Ministry of Arma
ments.'

'Naturally,' Tweed agreed amiably, still not looking at Bogle which was beginning to disturb the policeman. 'Precisely who did you speak to?'

'Can't see that this is relevant. I spoke to the Minister,
Gavin Thunder. Must admit I was a bit surprised when
he answered the phone.'

'Yes, that was a bit odd. Almost as though he was expect
ing the call. And who first mentioned the word "suicide"?'

'Well.' Bogle shuffled his feet. 'It was him - the Minister.
Said something like "Oh, my God. Jeremy has killed him
self, poor devil. Keep this under wraps. No publicity. I'll
send someone in authority down immediately." Then he
rang off.'

'And had you explained to the Minister what we see
now?'

'There wasn't time. I've relayed to you the exact conversation I had with him before he slammed down the phone.
I did tell him the body was inside an underground tunnel down here at Alfriston. Nothing more.' He looked away
from Tweed, who was now staring at him. 'Hit the nail on
the head, didn't he? Suicide.'

'When Miss Grey has just told you that Mordaunt was
right-handed? Are you suggesting that a man using a heavy gun to kill himself holds the weapon in his right hand, then
bends his arm across his face, somehow manages to aim
the gun at the other side of his forehead, pulls the trigger,
then transfers the weapon to his left hand?'

'The autopsy will settle the matter,' Bogle almost shouted.

'That reminds me. Any moment now an ambulance
from London will arrive with Professor Charles Saafeld aboard to take the body to his laboratory. Our top pathologist, he will perform the autopsy. I phoned him before we
came here.'

'Bloody hell!' Bogle stormed. 'I've called Eastbourne to
send an ambulance. We
do
have pathologists from here
..."

'Then perhaps,' Tweed suggested as he stood up, 'it
would be an idea to get on your mobile and recall your
ambulance. I see from the powder on the wall your scene-
of-crime crew have already been here, checked the sur
roundings and probably taken their photographs.'

'Of course they have,' growled Bogle and stomped off,
up the steps and out of sight.

'I think Saafeld and his ambulance have arrived,' Paula
reported after a brief visit to the outside world. 'I'll show
him the way.'

'If you would, please . . .'

An imposing figure appeared. For a man of his heavy
bulk, Saafeld ran nimbly down the steps. His round,
plumpish complexion had a pinkish tinge and he exuded
an air of authority. He peered at Tweed over his half-moon
glasses, nodded, took in the surroundings with swift
glances.

'Hello, Paula,' he said quietly.

'This place is like a tomb.' She clutched the collar of
her fur coat more closely. 'It's freezing.'

'A tomb,' Saafeld repeated. 'Complete with a body.'
He looked back at a youngish man with a camera who
had followed him. 'Reg. Take pictures quickly.' He bent
down, hands covered with latex gloves, pressed a delicate
ringer on Mordaunt's right hand. 'No rigor mortis yet, but
we'd better hurry.'