'That's horrible,' Paula said after clearing her throat.
'One of the worst cases in my experience – and I've just about seen everything, or so I thought. I think now we ought to adjourn to the drawing room. My wife will provide refreshment. We can discuss the case in more pleasant surroundings.'
He turned to a youngish man who was washing his hands at a deep sink.
'John, I know you've taken X-rays and photos of the lady on my table. I'd like you to take more photos, concentrating on every angle. Thank you…'
In the small room they had passed through earlier he relieved them of their white clothes. As he closed the cupboard doors he turned to Tweed.
'I'm very fussy. Those clothes will be burned, in case you picked up something undesirable while in the mortuary. Now for that tea.'
They mounted the steps into the hall. Saafeld closed the heavy door and did not bother to use his key card. Paula guessed it locked again automatically.
They were seated in armchairs in the luxurious comfortable drawing room when a tall grey-haired lady, in her late fifties Paula guessed, came in carrying a large silver tray laden with plates of cakes, Wedgwood china, a teapot and another pot containing coffee.
Saafeld started to get up. 'I'll take that…' 'No, you won't, Willy,' she said firmly. 'I can still cope with this.' She laid the tray on a table between the chairs.
'Hello, Paula. So nice to see you again. And you, Mr Tweed.'
'You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble,' Paula said, returning her warm smile.
'You'll have to excuse me,' Mrs Saafeld went on. 'We have people coming to dinner so my place is in the kitchen.'
'We have…?' Saafeld began, then stopped as she gave him a certain look, then left the room. She knows what we've seen, Paula thought, so she's tactfully leaving us alone.
Paula accepted tea with a little milk but no sugar when their host also offered her both plates of cakes. She forced herself to smile when she refused. She had arrived hungry but her appetite had deserted her. Tweed accepted coffee but he also declined anything to eat.
'We had lunch before we came to you,' fibbed Paula.
'Can you tell us anything about the killer?' Tweed asked.
Saafeld settled back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling as though choosing his words carefully.
'The killer is exceptionally strong,' he began. 'That's proved by the fact that each time he wielded the cleaver – if that's what it was, but I think so – it not only sliced through bone, muscle and flesh in one blow but ended up leaving a deep gash in the oak floor. It must have taken more strength to ease the weapon free for the next strike.'
'Surely he must have had blood all over his clothes?' Tweed suggested.
'Not if he was clad as you two were in the mortuary, plus the kind of face mask used by surgeons. Afterwards he'd have taken all his whites off and stuffed them inside some container he took away with him.'
'Any sign of forced entry at Fox Street?'
'None at all. Which suggested Vander-Browne knew whoever killed her. Very premeditated murder,' Saafeld went on. 'The way he – or she -' he glanced over at Paula -'arrived with all his equipment – weapon, the whites. I suspect he arrived in normal dress. I say this because in the bathroom was cotton wool, traces of powder. Vander- Browne's visitor may have arrived early. He puts on his whites while she is in the bathroom. I think that's about all I can tell you.'
'Is it?' Tweed pressed.
'Well, I'm not a psychiatrist. We may be dealing with a psycho, but that's a vague word. What happens to some people who are strong-blooded and evil is that the pressure starts to build up inside them. The process probably accelerates over a period of days, maybe even a few weeks. They reach the stage when they are ready to murder – and revel in what they are doing.'
'Difficult to detect,' Tweed muttered half to himself.
'I call it blood storm,' Saafeld concluded.
6
As Tweed drove them back towards Park Crescent, Paula glanced several times at him, pretending she was looking at traffic. His expression was unusual – grave, despondent. And he had not said a word since they entered the car.
'Please pull in,' she asked.
He signalled, turned the vehicle to the side of the road, looked at her. She told him to turn off the engine. He did so, then slumped in his seat. She took hold of his arm.
'What is it?' she enquired gently.
'Nothing. I'm OK.'
'You're not – by a long chalk. Tell me. Talking it out always helps.'
He drank half the water from the slim flask she had taken from the pocket in her door. He sipped first as she'd suggested, then drank large quantities. He handed back the flask.
'Thanks. I'm all right now.'
'You're not,' she repeated firmly. 'Tell me. This is Paula.'
'When we were in the mortuary I was thinking of how Viola had looked when we had dinner at Mungano's. Ravishing and young. I liked her. I think she liked me. If only I'd escorted her home – instead of slinking back into that alley and falling asleep. She'd be alive now. I'll never forgive myself…'
He paused as Paula's mobile buzzed. She answered, listened, asked very few questions, then slipped the mobile back into her pocket.
'That was Professor Saafeld,' she said quietly. 'He sends you his apology but he forgot to tell you the results of the blood test. He said your margarita was laced with Percodin.' She spelt it. 'Not Percodan, an American drug, but quite different. Percodin dulls the nervous system, neutralizes it. Puts you completely out of action. You told him you'd only drunk about a fifth of the margarita. It creeps up on you, then suddenly you get the full effect. He also said if you'd drunk the lot your mind would have been destabilized for twenty-four hours. So how the hell could you have escorted Viola home? You couldn't have done. Feel a bit better about things now?'
'What I want to do is to find out who fed me that bloody drink.' Tweed had straightened up; his expression was grim, determined, even ferocious. 'I can remember the waitress who served the thing to me. Mungano should be able to identify her. We'd better get moving…'
Tweed was still silent when they reached Park Crescent. Thank God Saafeld phoned me, Paula said to herself.
Entering the office they found that Nield had returned, looking rather pleased. Monica relieved Tweed of his coat.
'Your friend Chief Inspector Hammer called,' she said, 'wanted to come and see you, said it was urgent.'
'Urgent to him,' Tweed commented sarcastically as he settled behind his desk.
'I told him you'd left the office and I had an idea you had gone abroad. No, I had no idea where or when you'd be back.'
'One in the eye for him,' Paula commented from behind her desk. 'Where is Harry?'
'He went out, dressed even more like a tramp, if that's possible. Said he had some pals in the East End he wanted to question.'
'Good for Harry. How have you got on, Pete? You're back quickly.'
'You know me,' Nield said, perching on the front edge of Tweed's desk, arms folded. 'I don't waste time. So far I've found out Benton Macomber is married to a woman called Georgina. Has a successful fashion-design business. Is reputed to be very clever and popular. Benton has a house in Hampstead. I've got the address and phone number. Noel, the youngster, is a different proposition. Likes women, plenty of them. He has girlfriends, drops them when he spots something he fancies more. Just dumps them when he wants variety. A real lady-killer.
