'Oh, no! Oh, my God!' she whispered.
Lisa looked at the torn net curtain, at the two jagged holes in the glass, at the scratches made by Tiger's paws close to the holes. She felt faint, sat down on a nearby chair, a lump in her throat.
'Get a grip on yourself,' she snapped.
Half her mind was paralysed by the horror while the other half worked out what had happened. Like herself, Helga, the older sister, had red hair, was about the same height. The fatal shots had been fired from a window across the street. The gunman had seen Helga – maybe standing by the window after nightfall – had assumed it was Lisa. Tiger had charged at the window, clawing at the glass. The gunman had shot him to keep him quiet.
Lisa went down on her knees, crawled across in case the gunman was still across the street, felt Helga's pulse.
Nothing. Tiger also was dead. She crawled back, only stood up out of view of the window.
'Do something. React!'
That was what her employer would expect of her. Not to crumble in an emergency. There was nothing she could do to help poor Helga. She had to get out of this flat quickly. Alive. She had a vital mission. She was the Messenger. She had to reach Tweed in the morning. To warn him of the terrible danger. That was why she was here.
She slipped into the narrow hall, went into the bedroom, blotting out the memory of the bodies in the living room. She packed her things in a small case neatly but quickly. Then she rolled back the carpet, used a screwdriver to lever up the loose floorboard. With mild relief when she saw that the file of papers with vital data was in the cavity. Grabbing hold of it, she stood up, slid the file inside the outer zip-up compartment in her case. Bending down again, she replaced the floorboard, rolled the carpet back in place.
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 up 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 stewardess 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 appearance.
'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 amp; 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.'