Cell

'Abinger Hammer,' Tweed said. 'From here on I'm in no man's land. I think he's going up the Downs.'

They followed Buchanan round a steep turn-off on to a narrow climbing road which rose very steeply, swinging round sharp bends. Buchanan was using his horn as he approached one. The angle increased. It was colder still. Paula noticed traces of frost on the green slopes. A signpost to Holmbury St Mary which they drove past. Still climbing and now they saw a black dense forest ahead, a mix of evergreens and stark trees, leafless and like huge bristle brooms. Buchanan slowed down, turned slowly up a short road, part of a triangle, with another angle leading back to the road they had left. Jumping out, he ran back.

'So you know where you are, we are entering Black Wood.'

'Looks so welcoming,' Paula remarked cynically.

'Nothing about where we are going is welcoming,' Buchanan assured her. 'That "Road Closed" sign is to keep traffic away from the scene of the crime area, which is taped off.'

Buchanan ran back to his car, jumped inside, drove straight ahead up the steepest hill they'd negotiated yet. The road narrowed to a simple lane and they continued climbing. They were inside the dense wood now. Steep banks rose vertically on either side and they crawled. There was only just enough clearance to get through. Paula gazed up to the top of the steep bank on her side, saw Black Wood leaning over them.

'What if we meet something coming the other way?' she wondered.

'We'll have to hope we can squeeze into one of the setbacks they've carved out at intervals.'

'I feel like a rabbit in its burrow,' she remarked.

'This is Carp Lane. I noticed the sign at the entrance. Can't be far now,' Tweed said hopefully.

'Buchanan used the phrase "scene of the crime". Disturbing. We don't know a crime has been committed yet.'

'Your imagination is running away with you. I'm sure he was referring to the police tapes they've put up wherever this abandoned car has been brought back to.'

'If you say so…'

The 'burrow' suddenly started dropping precipitously as they continued crawling. They emerged into daylight when Buchanan signalled a left turn. At a T-junction they turned left and began climbing again. At least we're out of that horrid wood, Paula thought. The rolling frosted slopes of a high down swept away. The frost was heavy now, the colour of creme-de-menthe. Then the parked Porsche came into view and police tape barred their way. Several policemen in uniform stared at them curiously. Buchanan stopped his car, jumped out, addressed a policeman.

'Sergeant Abbott, if I remember. Sorry to put you to all this trouble.'

'If it helps find her, sir…'

Paula was the first to leave the car, followed by Tweed, as the policeman accompanied them. The Porsche, pointing homeward, was parked on the wrong side of the road, just this side of the bend. Paula, who had pulled on her latex gloves, walked to the car, peered inside.

'Sergeant Abbott,' she asked, 'is this exactly how it was found? The ignition key is still in place. Was it turned on?'

'No. It was exactly as you see it. You can get inside if you wish, even sit behind the wheel. The lab people have finished going over it thoroughly.'

'Did they find anything?'

'One or two red hairs were found against the back of the driver's seat. Compared with hair brought from her home in London they match. Nothing else in the way of fibres.'

Paula opened the driver's door, eased her way behind the wheel. She felt strange grasping the wheel. The previous hands in this position had presumably been Linda Warner's. She looked out at Buchanan, Tweed and Abbott standing outside.

'The only window down is the driver's. Is that the way you found it.'

'It is, Madame,' Abbott told her.

'She parked on the wrong side of the road. Any signs of another car coming up the hill which blocked her way?'

'I know what you're thinking,' Abbott said with a smile.

'That if it had been waiting there for a while it might have leaked oil. We checked. Not a drop.'

'Would it be possible,' Paula suggested, 'for me to back the car a short way round the bend – the way she would be coming?'

'No trouble. I'll stand at the bend and beckon you so there's no danger of another vehicle coming down and driving through the tape. Lunatics are everywhere.'

Paula switched on the engine, kept a close eye on Buchanan, beckoning her. Slowly she backed round the sharp corner where a limestone crag protruded dangerously. Stopping the car she tried to imagine she was Mrs Warner, who would know the road. She drove forward, crawling, realized why the car had been found on the wrong side of the road – it was the only way she could see safely round the bend. Pulling up at the exact point where the Porsche had been found, she sat, thinking.

'Something, someone stopped her.' She was talking to herself. 'She had her window down so she could hear if anything was coming.'

'Then,' suggested Buchanan, standing outside the window, 'a man with a gun aimed it through the window, ordered her to get out. One theory.'

'A man?' Paula queried. 'Or a woman.'

'Abbott,' Buchanan called out as Paula slowly left the car, 'get this vehicle out of the way. I want to take my associates up to Carpford.' He looked grimly towards Paula. 'You're in for a shock.'

'I don't like it,' Paula said to Tweed as they followed Buchanan beyond the bend and up another section of steep hill.

'You think she's been kidnapped then?'

'I just hope to God that's all it is…'

They drove over a crest and Buchanan pulled in on to the verge. A plateau stretched out before them. In the middle was a large lake with a landing stage, a small yacht was moored and the light was fading as wisps of pale mist swirled in the distance.

'This is Carpford?' Paula asked. 'It's really weird.'

'Warned you were in for a shock. Look at the houses.'

Well spaced out and near the edge of the silent lake was the oddest collection of dwellings Paula had ever seen. The nearest to where they stood was a distance back from the lake, perched on a small hill. It had a massive tower at one corner with a mosaic-decorated roof rising high above the three floors below. Attached to it were lower floors with tall narrow windows. At the far end was a smaller tower with a peaked roof.

'What is it?' Paula said aloud. 'It's almost Italianate in architecture.'

'Victor Warner's hideaway,' Buchanan told her. 'Called Garda. Place is like a fortress. He's the only occupant who had his place built to his specification. All the others are rented.'

'Rented to who?' Tweed enquired.

'The New Age Development Corp. The rents are paid to a dubious lawyer in London. He sends the money on to the Banque de Bruxelles et Liege, a small bank in Belgium.'

'And it stays there?'

'We don't think so. But what happens to the money we have no idea. You know how difficult it is to get information from a Belgian bank. Much tighter even than the Swiss.'

'I might know someone who can track it,' Tweed remarked, staring round the lake.

Near the edge of the lake stood a dwelling reminding Paula of a concrete blockhouse. Cubes of massive concrete were piled on top of each other with circular windows carved out of the concrete. Tweed pointed.

'Who lives in that horror?'

'Drew Franklin, the most highly paid gossip columnist in Britain. An awkward so-and-so. Told me the police always got it wrong, that he'd only answer questions with his lawyer present.'

'And who has the pseudo-Cotswold cottage beyond?'

'Mrs Agatha Gobble. Believe it or not, that's a shop selling antiques. She'll talk if you approach her in the right way. Gets going and you can't stop her.'

'Gobble?' said Paula. 'You must be joking.'

'No. That's her name. Trouble is she's a bit muddled in the upper storey.'

'And,' Tweed persisted, 'what about that two-storey round wooden barn on the far side of the lake? First time I've seen a round barn.'