by Colin Forbes
She smiled. 'I'm expecting no one. And we are fellow guests. Do sit down.'
'After I've got you a drink.' He put his glass down. 'What do you fancy?'
'Would a glass of champers be in order? I prefer to stay with the same drink ...'
She had listened carefully and caught no trace of accent. He brought the glass of champagne back, sat next to her, raised his own glass.
'Cheers! Here's to a memorable evening.'
'Cheers!' Paula responded. 'I'm afraid I don't have the whole evening though. I spent too much time talking to Jean Burgoyne a little while ago. In this bar.'
'Really? Who is Jean Burgoyne?'
'She's a well-known society girl. Gets her picture in the top magazines a lot. And sometimes in the gossip columns in the newspapers. She's just returned from France. Do you know France at all?'
'Excuse me. My manners must be slipping. I'm James Sanders...'
'Paula Grey. You don't know France, then?'
Berthier adjusted his glasses, pushed them up the bridge of his strong aquiline nose. He turned to face her. It bothered her that she couldn't see his eyes clearly.
'As a matter of fact, I've just returned from Paris...' Always stick as close to the truth as you can, Lamy had trained him. 'A waste of time,' he went on. 'Business at this time of the year is dead.'
'What business is that? I'm sorry, that was rather personal.'
'Selling marine equipment. Wholesale and retail to private buyers. Boaty people. Which is why I'm here. Loads of boaty types in Aldeburgh.'
She nodded. Was he piling on the English colloquialisms a little too heavily? She couldn't be sure.
'Isn't business pretty dead here. At this time of year?'
He swallowed half his drink. 'I hope to make contacts for the spring. My business is seasonal. Out of season you can often meet a lot of chaps who'll be interested when winter is just a bad memory.' He still faced her, the tinted lenses like soulless eyes.
'Vous en voulez un autre?' Paula asked suddenly.
She spoke very rapidly the way a Frenchwoman would, enquiring whether he'd like another drink. He moved, as though about to get up, then shifted his position, settling himself more comfortably. For a second she could have sworn his face froze.
'I'm sorry.' she went on, 'I assumed you'd speak French. Seeing as you have to do business in France.'
He grinned, waving his strong hands. 'I know I should but I don't. Usual British attitude - damned foreigners are expected to speak English. As a matter of fact, they do - the few people I deal with in Paris. And mostly I'm showing them marine spare parts in a catalogue. So it's easy. What did you say, actually?'
'I asked if you'd like another drink.'
'I'm the host.' he replied. 'How about another glass of champers?'
'I've had enough. But I was suggesting I bought you one this time.'
'I think I've had enough too.' He adjusted his glasses again. 'You're sure you can't join me for dinner?'
'I'd love to. But I've already arranged to have dinner with two friends.' She looked at her watch. 'And if you don't mind, Mr Sanders ...'
'James...'
'If you don't mind I'm expected in the dining room. It's been nice talking to you. Good luck with making useful contacts.'
She stood up and he stood with her, pulling his chair out of the way. He cleared his throat as though unsure whether to say more. Then he came out with the invitation she was expecting.
'Maybe tomorrow I could take you out for a drive round the countryside? We should be able to find somewhere upmarket for lunch.'
She smiled. 'That's nice of you. But tomorrow's out of the question. I have an appointment. Maybe some other day. If we're still both here ...'
He was walking back towards the bar counter when she left. A couple were walking out of the elevator and she dived inside, pressed the button for the first floor. Tapping on Tweed's door in a certain way, she waited until the door was opened.
Tweed was dabbing his mouth with a napkin and he had a visitor. Marler, immaculately clad in a sports jacket and well-pressed slacks, wearing hand-made shoes which gleamed like glass, gave her a mock salute.
'I suspect the clever lady has been busy,' he drawled as Tweed re-locked the door.
'Another helping of sandwiches?' Paula asked, eyeing the plate on the table alongside a pot of coffee.
'You know I'm always hungry when I've reached the stage of deploying forces.' Tweed sat down at the table. 'I've just been giving Marler some very special instructions.' He indicated sheets of papers with names scrawled, some listed in groups encircled with loops. Dotted lines joined certain groups together. Tweed looked at Paula.
'Any luck with Newman's pseudo-Englishman? If he is.'
'Name, James Sanders. So he said.' She wrinkled her brows. 'The devil of it is I can't be sure. He almost talks like a foreigner with an excellent command of English, but peppers his conversation with colloquialisms in a way I'm not certain a genuine Englishman would. I threw a question at him in French - would he like another drink? He seemed to start getting out of his chair, but the movement was so slight again I couldn't swear he was French. Verdict? Not proven. Now I must get down to join Bob and Rosewater for dinner, leaving you two to plot.'
'Tomorrow...' Tweed's expression was grave. 'Be extremely cautious at Grenville Grange. I have a sixth sense there could be danger inside that place.'
Chapter Fifteen
A Gothic horror.
Paula had stopped her car - borrowed from Nield - in front of the closed wrought-iron gates which guarded Grenville Grange. At the end of a long curving drive she saw the grotesque mansion. Victorian architecture at its most hideous: a grey, three-storey pile with a projecting wing at either end; small turrets foresting from the roof; huge gargoyles silhouetted against the clear wintry sky.
She had driven out of Aldeburgh, turning left, speeding along the A1094 past the golf course on her right. The rolling green had been covered with heavy frost the colour of creme de menthe. Turning left near Snape, she had driven on past the famous Maltings, turning left once more along a narrow country road to Iken. Frequently she checked the road map open on the seat beside her. One more left turn and she was out in the wilds with a view down to a wide loop of the river Aide which looked like a sheet of blue ice. Now this ...
She pressed her horn several times, a large figure dressed like a countryman appeared, holding a savage-looking wolfhound on a leash which leapt towards her, snarling. Welcome to Grenville Grange.
'What do you want?' the big man asked. 'Private property.'
'Pretty obvious,' Paula called back. 'Paula Grey. I have an appointment with Lord Dane Dawlish. At noon.'
'Show some identification.'
'Come out and damn well look for yourself.' she shouted back. 'And keep that silly pup away from me. Or, alternatively, call up his Lordship and tell him you have stopped me driving in...'
Glaring, the guard unlocked the gates, opened one, shortened the leash, walked towards her. Paula noticed all his clothes looked brand new. Not what she would have expected from a guard.
She showed him the press card, one of several cards produced for her in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent. She hung on to a corner while he examined it.
'You'd better drive in.' he said grudgingly.
'So you did know I was coming?'
She smiled at his flushed face as he went back, pushed open the other gate, then jumped back as she rammed her foot down, scattering gravel over the wolfhound as she raced up to the house. A wide semicircle gave plenty of parking space below a wide balustraded terrace with steps leading to the entrance.
She switched off the engine and immediately heard the cr-a-a-ck of shotguns firing. The shoot was in progress somewhere behind the looming pile. She noted Newman's Mercedes 280E was parked at the edge of two rows of cars. About twenty vehicles with a number of BMWs, a Ferrari and a Lamborghini. Dawlish liked money at his shooting parties. She checked the time. 11.5
0 a.m. Ten minutes early. She liked to throw strangers she was visiting off balance. Sometimes you found out something they wished to conceal.
Locking the car, she avoided the steps up to the entrance, wandered round the left-hand side of the mansion. At the rear a vast lawn bordered on two sides by walls of firs ran down to a large landing-stage projecting into the Aide.
She counted about thirty guns, men of different ages, all smartly - even foppishly - dressed. It was still barely above freezing point and she wore a knee-length suede coat and a silk scarf. The shooters were ignoring the black pottery shards raining down on the lawn as the shotgun-wielding men spaced round the edge of the lawn took it in turn with their twelve-bores. She saw Marler take aim as five more targets flew above the lawn. He missed three out of the five and in a brief silence she heard his drawling voice.
'Can't hit the damned things ...'
'Like hell, you can't, she thought. If you wanted to you'd shoot the lot out of the sky.
She looked up as she heard a chopper flying low. Skimming the treetops, it hovered, then flew on over the roof of the mansion out of sight. Paula, thinking for a moment it might be a Coastguard machine, tried to catch its identification markings. As far as she could see, it didn't have any. Staring straight up the side of the house, she saw a satyr-like gargoyle leering down at her.
'Chap up there on the roof seems quite keen on you,' an upper-crust voice suggested.
She swung round and a young chinless wonder was eyeing her with open interest. He had his shotgun perched over his shoulder at an affected angle.
'You must be one of his Lordship's harem of fillies,' he continued. 'He's over there...' He jerked his head. 'Waiting for you, I'm sure - all eager beaver and able.'
Paula stared straight back. 'I've got another suggestion.' she said coldly. 'Why don't you drop dead?'
'Be like that.'
The young fop strolled off and Paula looked in the direction he'd indicated. Newman was talking to a heavily built man of medium height clad in riding gear. Dawlish was listening with a grim look and suddenly there was a hush among the crowd spread round the lawn, sensing that something dramatic was happening. Marler stood behind Newman, lighting a king-size cigarette. Paula heard the exchange clearly.
'What was that question you asked?' Dawlish rumbled.
'I hear you have an armaments factory not far from here. I gather that's one of your main sources of income. The end of the Cold War will have to make you find customers for weapons elsewhere. Or maybe you're glad we just may have peace on earth - even if it eliminates profits from wars?'
'You were invited here as a guest at my shooting party.' Dawlish rasped, one hand tucked in the pocket of his jodhpurs. 'Now you're trying to get an interview out of me, Newman. For Der Spiegel, you said...'
'Don't you want publicity for some reason?' Newman went on amiably. 'As one of the leading industrialists in the Western world? They say you can sell guns to peoples and places no one else can. You must have contacts at the very top...'
'The exit is that way.' Dawlish broke in, jerked a thumb towards the car park. 'If you're not off the property in two minutes I can have you escorted.'
'Save your manpower.' Newman suggested jocularly. 'Your hired thugs probably have other dirty work to do ...'
'Thugs?'
Dawlish took one pace closer to Newman. He looked choleric. High blood pressure? Paula wondered.
'Your so called gamekeepers and beaters.' Newman continued, 'in their fancy new gear. Dressed up to look like countrymen. Professional security guards would be my guess. Kicked out of respectable security firms?'
'Two minutes ...'
Dawlish turned away, looked round, beckoned to a heavily-built man with dark hair, who came running. Paula realized Dawlish didn't miss much: he was heading straight for her as the other man joined him. She caught the first part of Dawlish's instructions.
'Radio the chopper. Tell them to follow Newman. He has an old blue Merc. Big job. If necessary, they teach him a lesson. I've been warned about Newman...'
He lowered his voice and even though they were coming closer to her she couldn't catch the rest of what Dawlish said. She saw Newman hand his gun to a guard, Marler hand his weapon to the same man and the two of them wandered towards the car park without a glance in her direction. She was worried: on her way to Grenville Grange she'd seen no sign of Butler and Nield, recalling that Tweed had told them to act as protectors. Then it struck her that wherever Butler and Nield were waiting she'd never have seen them: they were professionals.
'Get on with it now, Brand. They're leaving...'
She heard Dawlish's last order to the heavy-set man who hurried away as the owner of Grenville Grange approached her with a broad grin. He whipped off his hard hat.
'Paula Grey? You're early ...'
'I like to be prompt.'
Brown eyes like bullets swept over her. A strong hand gripped her right arm as he guided her up steps, across the rear steps, opened a French window, ushered her inside, locked the door, adjusted the heavy net curtains.
'Let me take your coat, my dear ...'
As he helped her off with the coat his fingers lingered a few seconds too long on her well-shaped shoulders. He gestured towards a large deep couch with cushions as he took her coat, opened a cupboard, slipped it on a hanger and left it on a hook.
Paula looked round for a single armchair but Dawlish had organized the room well for her reception. Each armchair was occupied with a pile of leather-bound tomes. Which left no alternative but to set herself on the couch at one end. Dawlish offered her Scotch or wine but she chose coffee. He pressed a button in the wall. A manservant clad in black opened a door in the rear of the large room.
'Coffee for my guest, Walters. A large Scotch for me. And next time knock before you come in. Get on with it...'
Which seemed to be his favourite phrase Paula thought as she glanced round the room while extracting her notebook from her shoulder bag. Except for the windows overlooking the lawn, the other three walls were oak-panelled from floor to ceiling with bookcases inset at intervals. In the wall facing her a log fire crackled inside a deep-arched alcove. The atmosphere was overpoweringly warm as Dawlish stripped off his riding boots, dumped them in the hearth, slipped his large feet into a pair of handmade brogues.
'Mind if I strip off my jacket?'
He was doing so while his eyes roamed over her coatless figure. He sat on the couch close to her, laid a hand on the right knee of her crossed legs, squeezed it.
'Where do we start?' he asked with a broad smile.
Dawlish emanated an aura of great physical energy and, despite his bulk, his movements were swift. Like sitting next to a sexual powerhouse, Paula thought before she replied.
'We start by your removing your hand off my person.'
'But such an alluring person...'
The nails of her right hand hovered over the hand. She had very tough nails. They dug gently into the back of his hairy hand when he didn't move.
'I'm quite capable of drawing blood, scratching so you will be scarred for weeks. Then I'll leave at once - in other words, go to hell.'
'Spirited. I like that.'
But he took his hand away from her knee. Leaning back against the cushions, he fingered the sideburn closest to her, studying her as though seeing her for the first time.
'I'm at your service.' he said eventually.
'I understand you're interested in conservation. Also underwater exploration. I hear you're financing the new expedition to explore the sunken village of Dunwich.'
'The Cat is a dream for that job.'
'The cat?'
Paula, puzzled, stared at Dawlish as there was a knock on the door. Dawlish, looking pleased with the effect he'd created, bawled out, 'Come on in...' They waited while Walters put down a silver tray, poured coffee for Paula, handed Dawlish a cut-glass tumbler of neat Scotch and left the room.
'Down the hatch!' Dawlish said, swallowed half the dr
ink.
'I'm all at sea,' Paula commented after sipping coffee.
'All at sea!'
Dawlish repeated her words, roared a deep belly laugh. Before she knew what was happening he looped an arm round her slim waist, hoisted her to her feet, led her across the room to a section of wall to the right of the huge fireplace. He pressed another button.
There was a whirring sound of unseen machinery operating. A large section of panelling slid upwards, revealed what looked to Paula like one of the dioramas she'd seen in military museums. She was gazing at a huge sheet of plate-glass shaped like a porthole. Beyond, a strange model of a vessel perched on a stretch of blue sea. Dawlish pressed the button again. The weird vessel sailed through waves which suddenly rose up ahead of its prow.
Paula was still carrying her notebook and pen. For a moment her expression froze. Dawlish watched her with amusement, mistaking her fear for astonishment. Paula was gazing at a model replica of the weird vessel which she'd seen with Karin when they'd surfaced off Dunwich, clambered aboard their dinghy, had fled for their lives from the scuba divers with knives between their teeth. To cover her reaction she scribbled indecipherable shorthand in her book.
