The Janus Man tac-4

by Colin Forbes

  `How? Apart from that deafening row?'

  `The Vopos may well be thirsty – it is a hot day. They'll get nothing to drink. Hildegarde will see to that.'

  `Again, how?'

  `As soon as she'd made up the three beds – which would take her no time at all – she'll have turned off the water at the main. Very hard to find, the mains tap. She'll tell them something's gone wrong with the water supply. No milk. The cows haven't been milked – they drank what there was for their breakfast. No Harz fire water. That is locked away in a concealed cupboard. No nothing…'

  'But something for us,' Gerda called out. 'Bless her, the old saint.'

  `What's that?' Newman called over his shoulder.

  `A basket with a cloth over it. Black bread. Canned food and fruit. A thermos of coffee. She must have prepared this and brought it out to the car while we slept. We can survive for another day without going near a shop. There's even a large bottle of mineral water, some paper cups.'

  `A remarkable couple,' Newman said. 'But I worry about them. If they play up those Vopos they could turn rough, wreck the farm.'

  `Then they will get the surprise of their lives,' Falken commented. 'Radom won't tell them, but he has influence in high places. His farm should have been merged long ago with a collective. His protector stopped that.'

  `And who is this benefactor?'

  `A man called Markus Wolf.' Falken chuckled. 'Wolf has one weakness. His stomach. He likes good country food – fresh eggs, butter, fowl. Radom provides it. Those Vopos make the wrong move and they end up working in a labour battalion.'

  `Pull up,' Newman said suddenly. 'Isn't that the highway?'

  `Yes.' Falken had stopped the car. 'Why?'

  `Because I'm taking over the wheel. I'm Border Police. And you're both risking your necks for me. But before we change places, I want to know what's waiting for me. This witness – who is she?'

  `We are close enough now to tell you. She was the nursing sister at the hospital for tropical diseases where Dr Berlin arrived twenty-odd years ago when he returned from Africa – because he was afflicted with a rare tropical disease, they said.'

  `Go on.'

  `Karen Piper – that is her name – was attached to the private ward Dr Berlin occupied. Eventually she became what you would call in England the matron. What she will tell you will come as a great shock. Now, if you insist, we change places.'

  They had turned on to the broad highway when Falken made his remark. 'I have a feeling we are going to be lucky in Leipzig.'

  `Why then,' asked Gerda, 'does my woman's intuition tell me we are driving into terrible danger?'

  Thirty-One

  No way could they approach Hawkswood Farm stealthily, parking the Cortina some distance from it and walking the last few hundred yards, as they had with Masterson's Clematis Cottage. The flatlands of the Wash spread away from it in all directions.

  `Where is the sea?' Diana asked as Tweed stopped the car by the picket gate.

  `Over there, beyond the dyke.'

  At ten o'clock in the morning the great bank shimmered in the haze. The sun was high in a vault of cloudless blue. It was going to be another hot day but the air was fresh with a tang of salt from the invisible Wash. The funnel and superstructure of a small cargo vessel appeared, seemed to glide along the top of the dyke.

  `Heading for King's Lynn,' Tweed said as he opened the door and alighted at the same moment as Hugh Grey appeared round the side of the farmhouse, a Labrador panting at his heels with its tongue out. Wearing an immaculate check sports jacket, powder blue slacks, a striped shirt and a plain matching powder blue tie, he looked extremely fit.

  `Welcome to World's End,' he called out to Tweed, looking at Diana with interest.

  Tweed made brief introductions as the raven-haired Paula opened the front door and stood very still. Grey took Diana by the arm as though she might stumble and Tweed saw Paula's mouth tighten. She shook hands with Diana with an expressionless face and led the way into the farmhouse. Oh Lord, Tweed thought, she's taken agin her already. Grey made no pretence of concealing that the reverse was the case with him.

  `I was just taking Charles for walkies,' he announced, pink- faced like a cherub. 'Fancy a breath of fresh air, Diana? We can have coffee when we get back…'

  `That would be nice.' Diana clutched her handbag under her arm and smiled warmly.

  `We'll expect you in a couple of hours then,' Paula remarked, her face still blank.

  `Oh, we shan't be that long, darling. Just taking Charles for a short trot.'

  It would be Charles, Tweed thought as he settled himself in the same arm chair he'd occupied on his previous visit. The name somehow went with any dog Grey would own.

  `Expect you when we see you,' Paula replied. She was pouring coffee from a brown earthenware pot. The front door banged shut as she went on. 'This is fresh coffee, Mr Tweed. You just happened to arrive when I'd made it.'

  `It smells very good…'

  `And who is the femme fatale you brought with you this time?'

  The coffee cup wobbled in the saucer as she handed it to Tweed. She nearly spilt some but he took it from her in time. She was trembling. Whether with fear or fury he couldn't decide. Had their arrival coincided with the mother and father of a row?

  He didn't think so. Grey was good at concealing his emotions, but he'd seemed perfectly normal when he appeared. None of the little signs Tweed could have detected if there had been trouble. Puzzled, Tweed sipped his coffee, working out his reply. The ploy that Diana might be coming to work for them didn't seem tactful, considering Paula's reaction of instant dislike.

  `She's the sister of a friend,' he said. 'She's got a bit of holiday and has never seen this part of the world. You like sporting prints, I see.' He glanced at the framed pictures on the walls.

  `I hate the bloody things. Makes the place look like a pub. Hugh says they go with the farmhouse, give the place the sort of atmosphere visitors will expect.'

  She spoke as though Hugh had arranged the whole farmhouse like a stage set. Decorated with the right props. Tweed recalled he'd lived here with his first wife. Perhaps Paula had tried to effect some changes and he'd resisted her ideas. He found the theory unconvincing. But she'd given him the opening he was looking for.

  `Somebody – can't remember now who it was – referred to that party you held here about two years ago. The date July 14 sticks in my mind…'

  Over the rim of her cup her face froze. She stared back at him, her eyes very still. 'You do have a good memory, Tweed. I suppose you need it in your job. It was Hugh's birthday. We had some of his colleagues here. Harry Masterson, Guy Dalby and The Professor – Erich Lindemann. It was quite an evening. Broke up in a quarrel. They'd had far too much to drink. And they all drove home afterwards. Lucky none of them were stopped by the police. Except for Lindemann, of course.'

  `Why Lindemann?'

  `Didn't you know? He's teetotal. Never drinks anything but fruit juice and coffee. Bit of a dry stick. Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke. Hasn't any interest in women.'

  `You mentioned a quarrel,' Tweed probed gently.

  `Oh, yes. I'd better set the stage for you. Harry Masterson drank half a bottle of whisky, then went on to wine and liqueurs. Guy – Dalby – sat quietly consuming a large quantity of white wine. Frankly, Hugh was well away, too. They left very late – we have nowhere to put people up. I did suggest they could kip down in the sitting-room here, but they refused. Near the end of the meal Hugh – he's ambitious, you know – started asking his guests what they expected out of life. Fishing for information. We weren't married then, just living together. Harry got very aggressive, Guy was argumentative. I went to bed and left them to it.'

  `When did they eventually leave?'

  `Between about one and two in the morning. All separately. You seem very interested in a two-year-old party…'

  `It was the quarrel which intrigued me.'

  She jumped up. 'God, I've forgotten the cakes. What a rott
en hostess I am. No. You must try them. Please. Home-made. I'd like your opinion. New recipe…'

  She disappeared beyond the door into the kitchen. He sat holding his cup while she was gone. What was the girl's name? The one Inspector Cresswell at King's Lynn police station had told him had been brutally murdered. In the early hours of the morning of July 14. Carole Langley. That was it.

  He looked up as Paula came back with a plate of macaroons and offered them. He took one to be polite and she sat down again.

  `As you see, they're macaroons, not cakes. I'm not with it this morning. I nearly burnt myself making those.'

  `Very good. I like the flavour. Oh, you referred to my companion as a femme fatale…'

  `Which was very rude of me. The point is I drove up to town yesterday afternoon to meet Hugh. We were in Knightsbridge about fourish and saw someone just like her. Hugh said, "I do believe that's Diana Chadwick." When I asked who she was he said she was a friend of one of his staff at the Frankfurt office.'

  And you didn't believe him, Tweed thought. All part of your hiring Portman to investigate your husband. He understood now Paula's hostility. Bringing that woman into my home, taking her out for a walk on your own as soon as she sets foot over the threshold.

  She offered another macaroon and he took one.

  `These are really excellent. Stick to your new recipe. We were talking about your party. I'll bet you didn't get a lot of sleep that night.'

  `You're right. I lay in bed tossing and turning, listening to them going at it hammer and tongs. Again, except for Lindemann. He never said a word…'

  `How did it break up then? You said they left separately.'

  `Harry Masterson must have driven off about one, as far as I can remember. Shortly afterwards Lindemann went. I'd got up to go to the bathroom and I watched from the window. Just because I couldn't sleep. Dalby drove off at 1.30 a.m. I do know that because I looked at my watch. Then I flopped into bed and slept and slept.' She stared at the front door, made a warning gesture. 'Shush! They're coming back…'

  Tweed was surprised. She had even more acute hearing than his own. Probably the familiar creak of a gate. The door opened, Diana came in, and immediately Tweed knew something was wrong. Her normally white face had a flush of anger. Grey was beaming, casual and assured as always. Tweed stood up.

  `Hugh, could you stand another breath of fresh air? I've had no exercise since I got up.'

  `Be my guest.' He grinned. 'Come to think of it, you are!' Charles sprawled on a rug, mouth open, panting. They left him behind as Grey led the way, opening the gate and turning left.

  `Fancy a walk to the dyke? A look-see at the Wash?'

  `Suits me. Hugh, there's something I wanted to talk to you about…'

  `Guessed as much. You never leave business behind, do you? You ought to learn to relax, have some fun.' He looked sideways at Tweed. 'Or maybe at long last you are having fun – with Diana. Dishy. Just what the doctor ordered for you..

  Did you,' Tweed persisted, 'or did you not have me followed while I was in Germany?'

  `As a matter of fact, I did. Put two of my best men on the job. I thought you needed some protection. I didn't know you had Newman escorting you. They tracked you to Lubeck and Travemunde. After all,' he went on defensively, 'you were in my sector. I felt responsible. And you were near Dr Berlin. The BND people are worried about him.'

  'Why?'

  They continued walking along the smooth-surfaced tarred road elevated above the surrounding fields while Grey considered his reply. Arriving at a small track, they turned off the road to the left, heading towards the distant dyke.

  `They have him under surveillance because he came from Leipzig. Nothing definite to go on. About half the time they lose him. He simply vanishes into thin air. My men were aboard that ferry you took to Priwall Island to attend his party. They got no further than the gate. No invitation cards.'

  `You have been a busy little bee…'

  `I repeat, you were in my sector. If it had been Howard I would have done the same thing. You're right on the edge of the border there, you know.'

  `I know.'

  Tweed said nothing more as they strolled on under the blazing sun. They came to the end of the track. To their right stood a lonely farmhouse, smaller than Grey's. No sign of life. Grey led the way up a rise and down the other side. The track narrowed to a small uneven path strewn with humps of grass.

  The dyke loomed closer. They walked in single file, Grey in the lead, the path was so narrow, dropping into a ditch on either side. Grey suddenly broke into a run, leaping up the steep landward side of the dyke. Standing on the top his hair was blown by a breeze offshore. Tweed joined him at a more leisurely pace.

  `Most people never see this.' Grey was at his most buoyant, waving both arms wide to embrace the view. 'The peace of it all is truly magnificent. World's end…'

  Below them a steep path descended to an area of mud-flats and snaking creeks, winding in and out of the marshland. An ancient landing-stage had been reinforced with fresh timbers. Beyond, the vast expanse of the Wash stretched away to the horizon, a blue sea which went on and on until it reached the continent.

  It was very calm, water without a ripple. The breeze no longer blew. Not a vessel in sight. The surface was smooth as a lake of oil. It looked as though you could safely walk across it. Grey took in a deep breath, spread his arms again.

  The freshest air on the planet.'

  `Hugh,' Tweed said quietly.

  `Yes?'

  `If I return to Hamburg you will under no circumstances put any of your streetwalkers on my track.'

  Streetwalkers was Park Crescent jargon for shadows, trackers. Grey dropped his arms, stiffened with resentment. Then he lifted his hands in a theatrical gesture of resignation.

  `If you say so.'

  `I do. Now, we'd better get back.'

  Grey ran down the side of the dyke. Tweed glanced back before he followed. Along the edges of the creeks were areas of murky soft mud mingling with sand. Sinister islets of green sedge peered above the mud. Quicksands.

  All the way back to Hawkswood Farm neither man exchanged one word with the other. If anything Grey's face was even pinker than normal, flushed with annoyance at Tweed's rebuke.

  Diana and Paula were engaged in the over-polite conversation adopted by two women who disliked each other. Tweed heard a snatch as they entered the farmhouse and Grey said he had to go to the bathroom and would be back in a minute.

  `So you don't really like England as it is today?' Paula was saying. 'May I ask why?'

  `I read an article once by Jimmy Goldsmith, I think it was, and he said it all. The trouble with Britain today is the breakdown of the caste system. No one knows where they are any more.'

  `And that was how life was in Kenya?' Paula enquired sweetly. 'A nice cosy caste system? The natives knew their place?'

  `They did before 1963. Then came independence and the rot set in…'

  `How perfectly rotten,' Paula commented, sipping more coffee.

  `Indeed, yes.' Diana gave her warmest smile. 'Massacre everywhere. Mugabe in Rhodesia, Idi Amin in Uganda. You name it.' She looked up. 'Enjoy your constitutional, Tweedy?'

  `Is that what it was?' Tweed broke the surface tension with a rueful smile, sagging into his arm chair. He raised his hands in mock horror, including Paula. 'Fresh air. Smells most odd. If you don't mind we'll have to push off soon.'

  `Nothing doing!' Hugh returned from the bathroom full of joy and bounce. 'You're staying to lunch. Paula can rustle up a bit of a meal. Can't you, darling?'

  `I love the way men talk of rustling up a meal,' Diana said archly. 'Just as though we snap our fingers. Hey presto! A meal appears as though by magic.'

  `You're welcome to stay,' Paula responded without great enthusiasm. 'And since this is my shopping day and I haven't done any yet, Hugh can take us to The Duke's Head in King's Lynn. Can't you, dear?'

  Tweed stood up, shook his head. 'Very kind. But we have an appointmen
t in London. Thank you both. And the macaroons were a delight.'

  `Wave you off then,' Grey suggested. 'Next time we'll lay on a feast.' Tweed noticed that as they were leaving he did not take Diana's arm, was careful not to touch her after she'd thanked Paula.

  They settled themselves inside the car while Hugh and Paula stood apart at the gate. As Tweed began to drive away he saw in the rear view mirror Hugh still standing there, both hands clasped above his head in a boxer's salute. The soul of self-assurance to the end. Paula had gone back inside the farmhouse.

  `Were you in the vicinity of Knightsbridge yesterday afternoon?' Tweed asked as he drove away from the Wash towards King's Lynn.

  'Yes. I told you I was going to Harrods…'

  'Any idea what time?'

  'About four o'clock. Why?'

  'Hugh and Paula saw you. That is, Hugh saw you and pointed you out to Paula.'

  'But how on earth would he know who I was?'

  'From a photo. Now, be a good girl, don't ask any more questions.'

  She made a moue, asked if she could switch on the radio, did so when Tweed nodded. She lapsed into unaccustomed silence as Tweed thought. He guessed what had happened. The two men Grey had used to follow him – he'd noticed them on the Priwall ferry – had secretly taken photos. Including some of Diana. Normal procedure when a subject – himself this time – was under surveillance.

  He also knew why Grey had taken this course of action. For his protection! Cobblers! Grey was ambitious, had wanted to grab as much of the credit as he could if Tweed had pulled off some coup. Monica had been right – Hugh Grey was after his job. At least he was efficient. And he'd owned up to having Tweed followed. That was a plus for Grey. It was the sector chief who tried to win the game by concealing information from his superiors who was a menace.

  Later he'd omitted to inform Tweed about the taking of photos after he'd been ticked off on the dyke. Again understandable. Why add further blots to his copybook? Tweed realized Diana had not said a word recently. He stopped the car. 'Like to take a last look at it before we drive back to what passes for civilization.'