The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'And that was the extent of Harry's knowledge?'

  'No. Weird business. He knew about the tragedy. After they landed on Siros successfully the diamonds were handed to Gavalas to pass on to his Greek contact. The commando team was returning to the beach down a gully and found Gavalas lying dead with a knife stuck in his back.' Davies' expression became grim. 'It was a commando knife.'

  'You can't mean that one of…'

  'The three commandos? No. Barrymore immediately gathered his team together and asked to see their weapons. All of them, including himself, had their knives.'

  'Weird, as you say. Why didn't the killer remove the knife?'

  'Well, that's something I can understand. Apparently it had been driven into Gavalas with great force. Ever tried to pull out a knife from a dead body? It can take some doing-if it's rammed in deep. 'Barrymore tried to pull it out and couldn't manage it. So they scarpered pretty damn quick.'

  'And Harry explained all this before seeing the file?'

  'I think he wanted me to realize he wasn't on a fishing expedition, that he knew a great deal about the murder on Siros.'

  'And was it eventually brought home to the killer?'

  'Not as far as I know.' Davies made a sweeping gesture with his hand. 'Look at the range of suspects. The EDES section which knew Gavalas was coming. The Germans occupying the island. They patrolled constantly, I gather.'

  'And the diamonds had been handed over before the Barrymore team left Gavalas the first time – alive?'

  'No, they hadn't.' Davies pursed his lips.

  'So the first thing Barrymore would do when he realized Gavalas was dead would be to check for the diamonds.'

  'Which he did. They'd vanished.'

  'What was a fortune in diamonds worth then? Any data?'

  'One hundred thousand pounds. God knows what they'd be worth now. That covers what Harry told me before I searched for the file and he sat in that same chair reading it. His next request was what startled me. Tell you about it when you've scanned the file.' Davies smiled cynically. 'You can't, of course, borrow that file, photograph it, or make a single note. It's the regulations.'

  'I know.' Tweed glanced up and caught the cynical smile. He understood. Davies knew Tweed's reputation for a photographic memory. He only had to read a long document once and he had total recall. Every word would be imprinted on his brain.

  Five minutes later Tweed pushed the file back across the desk. He sat with hands clasped as he asked the question.

  'And what was the request Harry made that startled you?'

  'He asked me if I could give him the present whereabouts of Barrymore, Robson and Kearns – if they'd survived. I don't think I can take this any further, Tweed. It involves another department. Better ask Harry when you see him again.'

  'Not possible, Willie.' Tweed paused. 'Harry is dead.'

  Davies stiffened, his face froze. He opened a drawer, took out an ash tray, a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He dropped the pack back inside the drawer.

  'Rarely smoke these days. You tricked me, Tweed. Not like you.. .'

  'I thought you might close down on me. It's just possible he was murdered. I've thrown away the rule book. I'm going to find out how he died come hell or high water. You'd do the same thing if our roles were reversed.'

  'You're right there,' Davies admitted. 'May I ask where and how?'

  'In Greece. He's supposed to have stumbled off a three-hundred-feet cliff a good way south-east of Athens…'

  'Bloody rubbish. Never!' Davies stubbed out the cigarette, drummed his thick fingers on the desk-top. 'Not Harry. And you won't stop until you've found out what happened.'

  'No, I won't.'

  Davies stood up, went back to the cabinet, unlocked it, took out a thin blue file and laid it before Tweed. He sat down, lips tightly compressed before he spoke.

  'You can look at that appendix to the other file. Same regulations apply… Hell, I don't have to tell you. When Harry asked for that information I didn't think I could oblige. I checked with this other department which keeps certain records. You see, Barrymore and Kearns stayed in the Army for a few years after the war. The girl who checks records like that is a tigress. Never gives up. I gave her all three names – Robson and Kearns as well as Barrymore. She located Barrymore easily. Then she obtained a copy of the phone directory of the same area. Came up with all three addresses. Better look in that file.'

  A single sheet of paper. Tweed stared, unable to believe it. All the addresses were in Somerset. 'The last two are from the directory,' Davies explained.

  'After all these years, they all live in the Exmoor area.'

  'Odd, isn't it? Odd, too, that Harry died in Greece – not a hundred miles from the island of Siros from what you've told me.'

  Tweed closed the second file, stood up slowly, his mind whirling. He thanked Willie, said they must have a drink soon. At the door he turned before he opened it.

  'When I came in you said something about a queue from my outfit.'

  Davies was standing close to him, hands thrust in his trouser pockets. He stood thinking for a moment.

  'I wasn't too accurate there. You used to be with Scotland Yard. I made a subconscious connection.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'A few days after Harry visited me someone else arrived – an ex-Chief Inspector from the Yard called Partridge.'

  'Sam Partridge of Homicide? Now retired. I know him.'

  'Might as well tell you the lot. Partridge carries no status here, of course. But he's a persuasive sort of chap. And coming so soon after Harry. Well… Long and short of it is he also wanted the present whereabouts of Barrymore, Robson and Kearns. I ended up giving him the addresses.'

  'May I ask what was his interest?'

  'He's still investigating a murder which took place over forty years ago. Never solved. Can't sit at home and cultivate a vegetable patch now he's retired. Very vigorous type.'

  The murder of Gavalas on Siros?'

  'No. This is going to shake you. It did me. After Harry. Which is why I coughed up those addresses, I suppose. I'm sure there can't be a connection.'

  'A connection between who?'

  'The killing of Gavalas on Siros and the murder of some other Greek at the HO of certain secret units in Cairo, Ionides I think he called him.'

  3

  'Jim Corcoran came through from Heathrow Airport Security,' Paula reported as Tweed walked into his office. 'We've got the data you need. Corcoran checked the computers. Harry flew out to Athens via Zurich on Swissair Flight 805. Ten days ago.'

  'Which gave him about another ten days to poke about on Exmoor before he left. And I know now why he went there.'

  'The news is even better. Harry booked two seats aboard the flight in advance. Guess the name of the passenger who sat in the seat next to him.'

  'Not in the mood for guessing games. And I've got a mass of my own data to dictate to you…'

  'A Christina Gavalas sat next to him.'

  'My God, it's beginning to link up.'

  'How?'

  'Exactly how I've no idea. Ready for dictation? File One.'

  Tweed stood quite still, eyes half-closed, while he recalled the contents of the Siros file. Paula took it down in her shorthand book, scrawled a fresh heading for File Two, recorded the three addresses Tweed reeled off.

  'Two copies only,' he warned. 'One for Newman and Marler. The other for us.'

  'Consider it done. Newman and Marler can collect the tickets from Heathrow if they're leaving tomorrow.'

  'They are doing just that. I had a word with them on my way in. Let them have the first copy of the Siros file earliest.'

  He was sitting behind his desk when the door opened and Monica walked in. She waved reassuring hands as Paula jumped up. 'I'm all right. Better back in the front line than moping at home.' She went to her desk. 'Can I help?'

  'Yes,' said Tweed. 'Call the Yard. Superintendent Jack Richardson. Give him my best wishes. I need the ho
me address of Chief Inspector Sam Partridge of Homicide, now retired.'

  'Before you phone,' he said as Monica sat behind her desk, 'I want you to react quickly to this question. One possibly important clue from Harry's cigar box. One single word. Ready? Endslation.'

  The name of some operation. Codename.'

  'Doesn't add up,' Paula intervened. 'It could have been the codename tor the raid on Siros. But there's no reference to any codename in the. file. Also, Harry wrote it on a British postcard. That points to Somerset.'

  She turned to Monica. 'Isn't all this pretty painful for you? You knew Harry well. Is it a good idea to come back yet?'

  'Anything I can do to track down the swine who killed him. I want to be a part of this. I'll call the Yard.' She reached for the phone.

  Tweed was heading for the door. 'Something else to pass on to Newman and Marler. Someone else is taking an interest in the Siros file. Partridge. What's the betting he's in Greece at this moment?'

  'Do you think it's a good idea Newman going to Athens with Marler?' Paula asked after Tweed had left the room. They seem to fight like cat and dog. Square up to each other on every issue. Bob is early forties, Marler barely thirty.'

  'And there, my dear, you have put your finger on it,' Monica assured her. 'They do scrap, I agree. But whereas Marler is quick off the mark, independent-minded – just the way Bob used to be until recently – Bob has become harder, tougher, wary. They could make an ideal combination once they're out there on their own. I think Tweed is banking on that.'

  'What changed Bob? Made him a hard man? After all he was an international foreign correspondent. Still is, if a story interests him.'

  'Ah, that was his experience behind the lines in East Germany when he went underground with a resistance group. A bitter, grim time, but he came through. Now, I'd better get on…'

  When Tweed walked briskly back into the room Monica was putting down the phone. She waited until he had sat behind his desk, scribbled a note on his tasks pad.

  'Did you know when you were at Scotland Yard they had a nickname for you? Quicksilver Tweed, they called you, according to Superintendent Richardson…'

  'A long time ago.' Tweed made a dismissive gesture. 'What about Partridge?'

  'I have his phone number at Cheam. Thought I'd call him when you got back.'

  'Yes, I'd like to talk to him personally.'

  Monica dialled a number. She had a brief conversation with someone, then put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  'Partridge isn't there. It's Mrs Partridge…'

  'I don't know whether you'll remember me,' Tweed began, using his own phone, 'my name is Tweed…'

  'I know you, it must be years…' She had a cultured voice. 'Sam worked with you at the Yard. We met once at a party. I recognize your voice…'

  'Sorry to bother you, but I need to speak with Sam urgently.'

  'He's not here, Mr Tweed. And I've no idea where he is…'

  Tweed frowned, detected a note of anxiety in her voice now.

  'Something wrong, Mrs Partridge? Why don't you know where he is?'

  'You know how Sam is. He can't retire gracefully. Too active, restless. He's investigating some old murder case. I am worried. Before he left he said something he's never said to me before.'

  'What was that?'

  'He warned me never to open the door to strangers. Especially if they looked to be foreigners. He even had a spyglass fitted in the front door before he dashed off.'

  'Dashed off where, if I may ask?'

  'I've no idea as I said earlier. He packed his own bag. He's taken enough clothes to last him several weeks.'

  'What sort of clothes?'

  'Some of his old Army khaki drill suits. Plus a lot of normal clothes- the kind of things he wears in this country.

  Tweed paused, wondering how to word it. 'Mrs Partridge, don't be alarmed by my call. It's something I'm working on connected with my insurance job as claims investigator. Wives are pretty clever where their husbands are concerned. They often spot a clue as to what they're up to. Have you any suspicions as to where he might have gone?'

  'You're not thinking of another woman?'

  Oh Christ, Tweed thought, are all marriages like this? Always the wives not a hundred per cent certain about their menfolk? Mrs Partridge went on talking.

  'Sam's not like that. I'd know if it was anything untoward.'

  'I phrased that badly. As you say, Sam is like the Rock of Gibraltar. It's his destination I'm interested in. I do need to contact him urgently.'

  'Oh, I see what you mean. Sorry, Mr Tweed, I simply haven't a clue as to where he might be.'

  'Here or abroad?' Tweed persisted, hating himself.

  'I just don't know. He took off two weeks ago and I haven't had a word from him since. Mind you, he warned me that might happen. I just wish I could help…'

  That's quite all right. I'm sure you'll hear from Sam soon. By the way, I'd follow his advice. No opening the door to strangers, especially foreigners. I've no idea why he said that – but Sam usually knows what he's talking about. He'll explain it all when he gets back. Take care.'

  He put down the phone and stared into the distance. Paula was typing the Siros file out, slim fingers skimming the keys.

  'What was all that about?' asked Monica. 'And who is this Partridge character? Where does he fit in?'

  'He called on Brigadier Davies after Harry had been there. Wanted the addresses of the three commandos who made up the team which raided Siros. You'll understand that bit when Paula gives you the file for a quick look before it goes to Newman and Marler. Where does Partridge fit in? I wish I knew. It's a peculiar business. Partridge told Davies he was investigating the murder of a Greek called Ionides over forty years ago in Cairo.'

  'My God!' Paula paused briefly. 'That makes two murders. And both of them Greeks.'

  'And Partridge warned his wife against opening the door to any foreigners. Greeks? Partridge has disappeared off the face of the earth, went off on some trip a fortnight ago. Destination unknown. I've got an awful feeling oi presentiment. Harry walked into something too big even for him to handle.'

  'But you'll find out what it is,' Monica told him.

  'We'll try. Paula and I drive to Somerset tomorrow. You hold the fort. I'll keep in touch – for any messages from Newman.' He clenched his fist on the desk. 'One of us has to come up with something.'

  4

  'Ten minutes before we land,' said Newman and peered down out of the window of the Swissair DC9 as the plane banked and swung eastwards.

  'And we've got damn all to go on,' Marler observed.

  From thirty thousand feet Newman stared down as they left the sapphire blue of the Adriatic Sea behind and flew over a landscape of bleak mountains studded with maquis – scrub. Savage gulches cleft the terrain between the mountain ridges. A wilderness of rock. They were over Greece.

  The air was incredibly clear, the sun shining brilliantly.

  He felt he could reach down and touch the summits of the highest peaks. He looked at Marler sitting next to him, arms crossed, his face expressionless.

  'If I were flying in to follow up a story I'd feel I had more than I normally had. We have to locate Christina Gavalas – the girl Harry flew to Athens with. We have copies of his photo to show round the hotels to find where he stayed. We've got Andreas Gavalas who went with the commando group forty odd years ago to check. We have the island of Siros to visit. We have Nick the Greek…'

  'Who?'

  'A driver who makes his living taking tourists from the Hotel Grande Bretagne on trips in his Mercedes. Nick is an old friend of mine. Very reliable, tough. He knows a lot about what goes on in this country.'

  'You make it sound like a piece of cake. Anything else?'

  'We have Cape Sounion to visit. I want to look at that cliff where Harry supposedly stumbled over the edge. And we have Chief Inspector Peter Sarris of Homicide in Athens. I once did him a favour – so he owes me one.'

  'You know so
mething, Newman?'

  'You're going to tell me anyway.'

  'I think we've got bugger all. And we should have brought someone to do the legwork.'

  'If necessary, I'll do that while you prop up the bar at the Grande Bretagne,' Newman said quietly.

  'I think Tweed is rushing it. I like a good basis of solid research.'

  'He's moving fast before Howard writes Harry's death off as an accident.'

  'I suppose it could have been just that.'

  'You're forgetting the cigar box he sent. He knew he was walking a tightrope.' Newman said tersely. 'That he might not be coming back.'

  'Trouble is I hardly knew Harry,' Marler reflected, still keeping his voice low. The seats in front of them were unoccupied.

  'But I did. And we're starting to descend. End of conversation.'

  'Endstation,' Marler responded sardonically.

  The big heat hit them like a heavy door as they descended the mobile staircase. Newman looked quickly round. Those bare hills loomed in close to the airport. The light was a glare. Mid-afternoon. Marler made a gesture as they walked towards the airport bus with the other passengers.

  'Hardly Heathrow.'

  'That has its advantages.'

  But Marler had a point, he thought, as they boarded the waiting bus which would take them to the arrivals building which was smaller than any garage at London Airport. They passed the entry checks without any fuss and within minutes climbed inside a yellow taxi.

  'Hotel Grande Bretagne,' Newman told the driver in English, 'and we're in a hurry.'

  Marler glanced at Newman as they moved off. The driver had not understood the second instruction. That much was clear from his throwaway gesture. Marler marked up a notch in his companion's favour. Newman was concealing the fact that he spoke Greek fluently.

  The Grande Bretagne is a solid-looking edifice standing on a corner of Constitution Square – Syntagma as the Greeks call it. The hotel looks as though it has stood there for generations, which it has. Inside they crossed the marble floor to reception.