Methodically Balaclava ran round the kitchen, coshing each one on the head. Up to this moment the 'postman' had worn leather gloves. For the next weapon sensitive finger control would be needed. Stripping off the leather gloves carefully, hands encased in surgical gloves were exposed.
The 'postman' checked the time. Two minutes since the butler had been dealt with. On the central table lay a silver tray with mousse in individual glass bowls. Venison and other items were cooking in a modern oven against a wall. A hand switched off the cooker – no point in risking a fire. Glancing round at the unconscious forms slumped on the floor, Balaclava extracted an Uzi machine-pistol from his bag. A firing rate of six hundred rounds a minute. Balaclava left the kitchen, closed the door.
Able to hold a breath for a minute, the 'postman' sucked in air. Rubber-soled shoes made no sound as Balaclava approached the dining-room door. A hand hovered, grasped the handle, threw the door open.
Seven men stared at the Balaclava-clad figure holding the Uzi. For a brief second in time they froze. They had been expecting the butler whom Amberg had summoned by pressing a wall bell. That brief second was fatal. Balaclava pressed the trigger, aiming first at the guards, spraying them as Amberg jumped to his feet. The last six bullets stitched a neat row of red buttons down his shirt front, buttons which rapidly enlarged. The banker fell backwards, sagged into the seat, hit the rear of the chair with such force the top half broke. He was grotesquely sprawled at a reclining angle, supported by the intact lower half. His face stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
The assassin extracted the empty magazine, which had held forty rounds, and shoved it in a pocket, then inserted a fresh mag. Walking round the table, he emptied it into already inert corpses. Best to be sure.
Cradling the Uzi, Balaclava brought out a glass spray bottle two-thirds full of sulphuric acid. The spray was aimed at Amberg's face, the plunger pressed. A jet of acid enveloped the face from the bridge of the banker's nose to the chin. Replacing the cap, the assassin thrust it into a pocket, shoved Uzi and empty mag into the bag still looped from the shoulder. After leaving the dining-room, the door was closed.
In the hall the Balaclava helmet was removed, dropped inside the bag, replaced by the 'postman's' official cap. The front door was opened with gloved hands, closed from the outside, the bag was placed on the front rack of the cycle propped against the wall. The 'postman' rode off down the drive.
'Well, I delivered the parcel,' the assassin commented aloud with cold-blooded indifference.
2
Paula checked her appearance in the toilet mirror. She was feeling better, stomach settled, but rather weak. 'Not bad,' she said to her reflection. 'A bit white round the gills.'
Her image stared back. An attractive girl in her early thirties, long raven-black hair, good bone structure, calm eyes which missed nothing, a firm shapely chin. She wore a cream blouse with a mandarin collar, a navy blue suit, pleated skirt, flesh-coloured tights and soft-soled loafers.
Paula had been sick. Which left her with a washed-out f eeling, she had cleaned up the basin. She suddenly felt empty, hungry.
'Maybe I could tackle a little venison,' she said to herself as she mounted the steps, unlocked the door.
She took two paces into the hall, stopped. Mounce lay flat on his back near the closed front door, the handle of a knife protruding from his midriff. A red stain discoloured his white shirt. The Browning. 32 automatic was already in Paula's right hand. She edged against the wall, listened, looked.
All doors closed, including the dining-room and the kitchen. She forgot her weakness, glanced up the staircase. Was the killer still in the house? Her loafers made no sound as she crossed the floor, bent over the butler, whose hand was still clutching the package. The 'postman'…
Her mind was racing as she quickly checked his carotid pulse. Dead. What the hell was going on? She straightened up, approached the dining-room door. She listened before her left hand reached out for the handle. Another solid door which shut out all sound. She revolved the handle slowly, using her handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, opened the door suddenly, stepped one pace inside, her gun ready to swivel on any target.
'Oh, my God!'
She had the presence of mind to whisper the words. Her mind struggled to take in the macabre horror. It was a massacre. Two guards were still seated, sprawled across the table in lakes of dark red blood. Some security, she thought bitterly. Four other guards had toppled out of their chairs, lay on the floor in pools of blood. She closed the door quietly, still wary that the killer might be inside the manor. Facing the door, she bent down again and checked the pulses of the two men on her side of the table. Nothing. Corpses ready for the morgue.
Sucking in her breath, she moved to the top of the table where Amberg's body was bent over the broken- backed chair. Paula was about to check his neck pulse when she suddenly saw his head. She gasped, trembled with shock. Julius Amberg was faceless. Large parts of the flesh had been eaten away. Even as she watched, the original face was rapidly being converted into a skull.
Forcing herself to stoop closer, her acute sense of smell caught a sharp whiff. Some kind of acid? Why? Why this extra barbarity? She stood up, looked round the walls of the panelled dining-room – panelled from floor to ceiling. A beautiful room – which seemed to emphasize the horror of what she was witnessing.
Her eyes whipped up to the ceiling, then gazed at it. Like the Great Hall, where they'd had drinks, the plasterwork was sculpted in an artistic design of scrolls and ripples. But what caught her attention was a disfigurement. A vivid splash of blood spread immediately above the banker. One of the bullets must have hit an artery, sending up a spurt of blood. As she watched, a drop fell, landed on the relics of Amberg's skull-like head.
She looked at the table. In front of where she had been seated she had thrown her napkin over her place setting -which was probably why the killer hadn't noticed the absence of a guest. In any case it was clear he had moved with great speed to complete his devilish work.
'Get a grip on yourself,' she said under her breath.
She felt terribly alone but she went back into the hall. The staff! Inside the kitchen. She paused before opening the door, fearful of what she would find.
'Not them, too,' she prayed.
Another faint whiff met her sensitive nostrils when she eased the door open. Tear-gas. Four bodies sprawled on the stone-flagged floor. Swiftly she checked their pulses. She was startled to find they, were all alive. Unconscious, but alive. She assumed the plump older woman, clad in white overalls and a white cap slumped near the venison, was Cook. Paula took a cushion off a chair, eased it gently under her head. The younger girls, also clad in white overalls, were less likely to have suffered serious damage.
It was then she noticed the cooker had been switched off, which puzzled her. She was careful not to touch the dials. Fingerprints. She opened a window to let in fresh air to clear the remnants of tear-gas and, warily, explored the rest of the ground floor.
One door led to a study furnished with expensive antiques. Another opened on to a large living-room with french windows at the back facing a gap in the firs framing a view of the bleak moor beyond. The sight emphasized her solitariness. Paula ploughed on, entering the Great Hall. Empty, like the other rooms. The long stretch of windows looked out on to the drive. Two cars were approaching.
Tweed climbed out from behind the wheel of the Ford Escort followed by the sturdy Harry Butler dressed in a windcheater and corduroy trousers. Behind them Pete Nield and Philip Cardon left the Sierra.
'Sorry we're so late,' Tweed began and smiled. 'We were held up by running into a convoy of those travellers -gypsies, whatever. I hope Julius will excuse…'
He had spoken rapidly and stopped as he saw Paula's expression, the gun she was still holding in her right hand. His manner changed instantly.
'What's wrong, Paula? Trouble? What kind?'
'The worst kind. And I'd expected Bob Newman to come.'
It was the type of pointless remark made by someone suffering from delayed shock – by someone who had held herself together by sheer will-power and character. No longer alone, she was giving way. She made a great effort: they had to be told.
'Newman had gone off somewhere,' Tweed replied. 'Monica left a message on his answerphone to come and see her. She'll tell him where we've gone.'
