by Colin Forbes
'And what about the number of accidents that have taken place in that area? Hikers and mountaineers who never come back?'
'I've never been able to pin anything on the old villain – but I'm certain his men tossed them over precipices. No one penetrates his territory and survives. He's the old school. Comes from Macedonia. They play rough up there. Yes, I do hope Newman gives that one a miss
…'
2 p.m. 90°F. 32°C. Newman was freshly shaved, showered, his brain was alert, he had eaten a large lunch in the hotel dining room with Marler and they had returned to his room with Nick who had arrived promptly.
'We're going into action,' Newman rapped out. 'We'll stir the pot, as Marler put it earlier. Not to make it simmer – I want it boiling over.'
'The weather is boiling over already,' Nick remarked as he mopped his forehead.
'We'll drive down towards Cape Sounion,' Newman went on. 'My bet is we'll be followed. That will confirm we are getting somewhere. We'll enquire at the main hotels in the coastal resorts to see if we can find where Masterson holed up. We'll ask openly about the Greek Key…'
'What is that?'asked Nick.'Sounds like a night club…'
'That is what we want to find out. And Christina will be in a rage after what happened. She may make a wrong move. Let's get to the car.' He picked up a large plastic bottle of mineral water and they left the room.
Nick ran ahead while Newman and Marler walked down the empty corridor. Newman never used elevators if they could be avoided, if a staircase were available: elevators could become traps.
'You know, Marler, I think we're missing something. Maybe something under our noses.'
'Why the doubts?'
'This mystery is full of twists, unexplained contradictions. Why was Christina aboard that yacht, Venus III, if she is supposed to hate its owner, her grandfather, Petros? Who is paying for that expensive apartment she has in Kolonaki? We must visit her there.' He corrected himself. 'I must visit her. She may tell me more than she told you.'
'I whetted your appetite,' Marler said cynically.
'What did Masterson find out that decided someone he had to be murdered? What was the link between him and Christina? Don't forget – they first met in London. Why did Masterson visit the Ministry of Defence to ask about that commando raid on Siros over forty years ago?'
'My head begins to spin…'
'I wish we had one man here who is a master when it comes to a manhunt, to untangling a complex web.'
'You mean…'
'Tweed. I miss Tweed…'.
9
A sea of grey unbroken cloud pressed down like a smothering blanket: not a hint of blue anywhere. A fine drizzle like a sea mist covered the desolate landscape, settled on the windscreen of the Mercedes 280E Tweed had borrowed from Newman. He drove slowly along the narrow country road elevated above the grim marshland on either side. Not a soul in sight. At two in the afternoon they had the dreary world to themselves.
'Are we going the right way?' Paula asked as she studied the ordnance survey map. 'I'm lost.' She glanced out of the window, settled in the front passenger seat beside Tweed.
'We're right in the middle of the Somerset Levels, the area Masterson noted down on a scrap of paper in the cigar box he sent from Athens,' Tweed remarked. 'This is where the sea used to flood in centuries ago. Now they cut peat. I want to get the atmosphere of this place.'
He stopped the car, but kept the engine running as he stared around at the bleakness. Paula, dressed in a windcheater and a blouse and pleated skirt, shivered.
'I find this place creepy. Look, there's some kind of a building over there under those willows.'
'One of the farms – the peat-cutting farms.'
Below the road there stretched a ditch full of stagnant water. Paula lowered her window and wrinkled her nose as an odour of decay drifted inside the car. She opened the door, stepped out to take a closer look.
The ditch was coated with an acidic green slime across its surface. Patches of black water showed here and there. In the distance stood the ramshackle building Tweed had called a farm. Its roof slanted at a crooked angle. Smoke curled up from a squat chimney. Another smell assailed her nostrils and again she crinkled them in disgust.
'That's the smell of peat. You can see this side of that farm where they're cutting it. And someone is coming…'
Tweed's grip on the wheel tightened as he stopped speaking. Paula turned again to look towards the collection of hovels he had called a farm. Two men were advancing towards them, one walking behind the other along a grassy path leading to where she stood.
Both wore stained old pea-jackets, grubby caps and muddy corduroy trousers stuffed into the tops of rubber boots. Each carried over his shoulder a long-handled implement. One was some kind of vicious-shaped hoe, the other a long spade more like an iron scoop. Both walked with steady intent, wide shoulders hunched, primitive faces staring at the intruders.
'Get in the car quick!' Tweed snapped. He had the car moving as she slammed the heavy door and then increased speed. Pauia let out her breath, a sigh of relief. Tweed started the windscreen wipers going.
'I didn't like the look of them at all,' Paula said. 'A couple of ugly customers,' Tweed agreed. 'The peat diggers are an enclosed community shut off from the outside world. I know this area well. Went to school at Blundell's near Tiverton. Hated every minute of it – like being in prison. During my spare time I used to cycle for miles – including round here. Pedalled like mad down this miserable road. Even then it frightened me.'
'Why cycle here then?' 'Kid stuff. Got a thrill out of scaring myself. You know something…' He glanced across the dank marshlands. 'This would be a good place to hide a body.' 'I'm glad you kept the engine running. There seem to be a lot of willows growing in this wilderness.'
'The other industry here. See those clumps growing by that ditch running away from the road? They're called withies. Shoots from pollarded willows. The osier-workers cut them and make wicker baskets to sell. Chairs, too. They can keep busy all the year round. When they've used up the withies and are waiting for next year's crop they dig up the peat. Goes way back over a couple of centuries. The Victorians were very keen on wickerwork.'
'And where are we?' She was studying the map again. 'I do hate to be lost.'
'Sign of a good navigator. Westonzoyland is probably the nearest point of civilization. We left the A372 and drove north. We're heading for the A39. We turn left on to that, head for Bridgwater and then west to Dunster via Watchet.' 'Got it. What was in that large package which arrived from Harry this morning with the Athens postmark?' 'Look in the glove compartment. Another mess of clues. And after glancing at them I haven't one. A clue. See what you make of it.'
She sifted the contents of the reinforced envelope with the address again written in Harry Masterson's distinctive hand. Pulling out something as Tweed switched on the headlights to warn any oncoming vehicle, she examined it and then unfastened a clip, wrapped it round her wrist, closed the clip.
'It's a girl's bracelet. Why would he send that?' she wondered.
'No idea.'
'It's quite beautiful. You've seen the symbol the pendant has been designed as in imitation jewellery?'
'No. I told you I only had time to glance at the contents before we started out from Park Crescent.'
'It's the Greek key.'
Through a hole in the lowering clouds a shaft of sunlight like a searchlight moved across the great sweeping brown ridges in the distance. Tweed nodded towards them as they travelled along a hedge-lined road, approaching a small town.
'Up beyond there is Exmoor. A lonely place for the trio who long ago raided that island of Siros. And why should they all settle in the same area?'
'Let's ask them…'
'I intend to. We're close to Dunster now.'
They passed a signpost on their right pointing down a narrow road. Watchet. Tweed grunted and Paula looked at him.
'You had a thought.'
&n
bsp; 'Watchet. I checked it in guide books before we left. My memory was right. It's the only port between here and Land's End. A real port, I mean. In a small way of business. It exports scrap metal and wastepaper to Scandinavia. And, guess where.'
'We turn left soon according to the map. Can't guess.'
'I know where we turn. I remember the road. From Watchet there is the occasional ship plying between the Bristol Channel and Portugal. Turn here…'
At The Luttrell Arms Tweed waited until they were settled in their separate rooms before strolling down the staircase to tackle the manager. Each room had its name on the door. Tweed had Avill, a large and comfortable room with a door leading to a garden at the back. The manager, a tall, pleasant man clad in black, looked up from behind the reception counter as Tweed placed a photograph on the woodwork.
'Can you do me a favour, please,' Tweed began. 'Has this man stayed here recently?'
The manager stared at the print of Harry Masterson without a change of expression. He looked up at Tweed.
'It is, I am sure you will understand, company policy not to give out information about other guests. If someone came and asked the same question about yourself…'
'Special Branch.'
Tweed laid the card forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent alongside the photo. The manager stared at it with curiosity. He had a quiet deliberate voice, the kind of voice used to pacifying impossible guests.
'I have heard about your organization. This is the first time I have met one of you.'
'So I would appreciate it if you would answer my questions in confidence. A question of national security.'
'Oh dear.' The manager paused. Tweed replaced the card in his pocket in case anyone came past them. The place seemed deserted. 'I do recognize him,' the manager said eventually. 'He stayed here about three weeks ago…'
'For how long?'
Keep them talking – once you've opened their mouths.
'Five days, Mr Tweed.'
'In what name?'
'Harry Masterson. A jolly man. Well-dressed. A joker – made me laugh.'
'And this person?'
Tweed removed Masterson's photograph, replaced it with the blow-up of the picture of Christina Gavalas which had arrived in the cigar box. He watched the manager intently.
'No question of scandal involved, I hope?' ventured the manager.
'I did say in confidence.'
'Of course. Yes, she came with him. They had separate rooms,' he added quickly. 'As a matter of fact, Mr Master-son had the Garden Room, Avill, the one you have, the best in the house.'
'And the girl?'
'The same room as your Miss Grey. Gallox.'
'Registered in what name?'
'Christina Bland. She wore a wedding ring. You see why I was concerned about a little scandal. Foreign, I thought.'
'Don't be concerned. What did they do while they were here? I realize that's a difficult question – but everyone has to pass this reception area when they come downstairs. Did they spend a lot of time out?'
'A striking couple.' The manager eyed Tweed as though to confirm he was the genuine article. 'Yes, they did go out most of the time. They would have breakfast – I help with that when staff is off duty – and ask for a packed lunch each day. Then we wouldn't see them until long after dinner. We close that front door at eleven and late-nighters have to ring the bell for admittance. Twice I let them in at midnight. I thought maybe they had friends round Exmoor they visited. That's a pure guess. You will keep this between us?'
'You have my word.'Tweed paused, smiled. 'You will keep entirely to yourself the nature of my job?'
'Good Lord, yes, Mr Tweed. The privacy of the guests must be sacred.' He looked embarrassed. 'Yours is, of course, a special case.'
Tweed picked up the second photograph. He put it inside his pocket, turned away, then turned back as though a thought had suddenly struck him.
'In connection with the same investigation, would you happen to know any of these three men? A Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore, a Captain Robson, a man called Kearns? I do have their addresses. Barrymore, for one, lives at Quarme Manor, Oare.'
The manager took his time fastening up the middle button of his black jacket. Giving himself time to think, Tweed guessed. So I've given him something to think about.
'Again in complete confidence, I assure you.'
'This is a strange business you're investigating, if I may say so.'
'Very strange, very serious, very urgent.'
'Well… The three of them are friends. Every Saturday night they dine here. Always the same quiet table at the far end of the dining room. A kind of ritual, I gather.'
'They were here last Saturday? Two nights ago?' Tweed asked quickly.
'Well, no. The colonel is very formal. Always phones himself to book the table in advance. They've missed for three weeks. Probably on holiday. Only my guess, I emphasize.'
'Thank you.' Tweed paused. He looked the manager straight in the eye. 'When you wake tomorrow morning you'll possibly worry about what you've told me. Don't. Worry, I mean. It is Monday. If I am still here next Saturday I shall make a point of dining elsewhere. Then if they come back you won't have me in the room. We do consider people's feelings.'
'So it seems. I thought, if you won't resent it, that your outfit were more aggressive.'
'On the contrary, we find we get the best results by being exceptionally discreet. And the local police shouldn't know I am here. Then we can't have any gossip about my being in the area.' Tweed leaned forward. 'We keep it just between the two of us. So, sleep well.'
'Thank you, sir. And if it's not out of place, I hope you enjoy your stay here. I'm not worrying.'
Tweed went back upstairs and knocked on the door of the room named Gallox. 'Who is it?' Paula called out.
'It's me,' said Tweed. She called out again for him to come in.
'Just look at this,' she began as he entered. 'Isn't it marvellous?'
She was sitting on the edge of a huge four-poster bed with a large canopy. It gave the large room a medieval atmosphere. Five feet six tall, the mattress was so high her feet dangled above the floor.
'You should have plenty of room in that,' Tweed observed and sat in an armchair. 'I have just talked with the manager. A tricky conversation. I had to show him my Special Branch card before he'd tell me a thing.'
'I like him. There's something Dickensian about his appearance.'
'And he's a man of great integrity…' Tweed told her about their conversation. She listened, watching him, and he knew every word was being imprinted on her memory.
'That's queer,' she commented. 'We thought it peculiar that those three men should end up living in the same part of the country. After all these years they obviously keep in close touch. Why?' They could have stayed friends,' Tweed pointed out. 'They were together during the Second World War. Occasionally it does happen. But I think there's more than that to it – the trouble is I can't imagine what.' 'So where do we start?'
'We drive over by the coast road to Quarme Manor. I checked it on the map. Oare is down some side turning. That is after we've had a cream tea at the best place in this village.'
'Why? The manager said they were all away somewhere.'
'I want to see whether Barrymore – for starters – really is away. And if so, where he's gone – if possible…'
This is one hell of a road,' Paula said with feeling.
'Porlock Hill. One of the most diabolical in Britain.'
Tweed was driving up a gradient like the side of a mountain. Added to the incredibly steep angle, the road twisted and turned round blind bends. Added to that, a grey mist was coming in off the moor, coils of sinister grey vapour creeping down the road.
Tweed drove with undipped headlights to warn any oncoming traffic, ready to dip them at the first sign of lights from the opposite direction. Like Tweed, Paula was tilted back in her seat as though inside an aircraft taking off. They passed a road turning off to thei
r right and Tweed nodded towards it.
That's the toll road, as they call it. That's fun too – it goes down like a water chute slide with a sheer drop on one side towards the sea.'
They had bypassed Minehead before they started the ascent and Paula patted her stomach. 'At least I'm full. That cream tea was fantastic. I'll get fat as a pig. And we're going to miss that turn-off to Oare,' she warned.
They had reached the top of the hill and drove along the level. No other traffic in either direction. The mist was thickening, making it as dark as night. The headlights picked up an inn sign. Culbone Inn.
'I'll check here for that turn-off,' said Tweed, swinging off the main road on to a wide drive.
He returned after a few minutes, climbed back behind the wheel. 'They say it's the next turn-off. A mile or so ahead. Easy to miss. And the road to Oare is very narrow.'
'Sounds great. Just what we need – for a car this size. How big is Oare?'
'Hardly a hamlet. Very spread out, as I remember. Two manor houses. Oare Manor and Quarme Manor, the stately home of Colonel Barrymore.'
'What exactly are we trying to do?' Paula was sat forward, braced against the seat belt, trying to spot the turn-off. At this height the mist was thinning. A chilly sea breeze blew in through her window. She pressed the button to close it.
'It's damn cold. Can I put on the heater?'
'As high as you like.'
Paula glanced at Tweed as she switched on the heater. He seemed impervious to extremes of both cold and heat. He wore a new hacking jacket, a pair of grey flannels, and a deerstalker hat which should have looked slightly ridiculous. But it suited him, gave him a commanding air. He read her thoughts.
'Dressed to merge into the landscape. Wear a London business suit out here and I'd stick out like a sore thumb…'
'Stop! You turn off here…'
He'd just checked the rear-view mirror, something he did every ten seconds. He swung the wheel and they began to drop downhill. The country lane was so narrow the Mercedes just slid past the grass verges on either side. Beyond them a bank rose, topped with dense hedges. It didn't help visibility as the lane spiralled down steeply, a series of sharp bends. But the mist had evaporated and now they moved through a weird half-light as they dropped and dropped. At the bottom they drove across a gushing ford, reached an intersection. Paula desperately searched the map as Tweed swung right.
