by Colin Forbes
'You didn't think I'd leave you on your own in a lonely place like this, did you?'
Tweed was watching his wing mirror. Paula froze suddenly and then jerked her head round. A slim hatless man was walking alongside the car from behind them. He leant on the window ledge. She let out her breath, lowered the window. Pete Nield grinned, pulled at his small dark moustache with his index finger.
'How goes the battle?' he enquired.
'Where on earth did you spring from?' she asked.
'Pete has followed us in my Cortina all the way from London. I told you he was coming. He's been parked a short distance behind you ever since I left you.'
'In this road?'
'No,' Nield told her. 'I parked the car beyond a gate leading to a field. Then I sat in a hedge close behind you. I was ready to intervene when that character in the Daimler pulled up by you if he'd tried anything on.'
'But what about in Dunster?'
'Parked the car at the other end of the village. I still have to register at The Luttrell Arms – but I warned them over the phone I'd be late. They won't realize we're together. At the hotel, I mean.'
'You haven't told me what you spotted about the colonel,' Tweed remarked. 'Only that you dislike him. Irrelevant. Pete, get in the back of the car and listen. Now I want both of you to grasp this. Ready, Pete?'
'Jolly comfortable back here. Nice to see how the other half lives.'
'Masterson came down to Exmoor with the Greek girl,
Christina. All three men involved in a raid over forty years ago on Siros, a German-occupied Greek island, are living on Exmoor. Harry Masterson, I'm sure, knew that. From Christina…'
'Assumption,' interjected Paula.
'Listen! Our main task is to interrogate all three men. And every word said by these men is important. One of them may let something slip. There was something very peculiar about that raid on Siros. Now, Paula, you were there when Barrymore gave his version.'
'Well, he was very suntanned,' she said slowly. 'So he could have just come back from Greece…'
'Now we're getting warmer. You see, Pete, this Colonel Barrymore has a terse way of speaking. Typical Army officer. But when Paula remarked on his suntan he became positively loquacious – explaining at some length how he'd been to the Caribbean. No specific mention of locales. It was the only time he really opened up.'
'You mean he was lying?' Pete asked.
'Paula, when we get back to London, will type out the transcript of each of the three men's statements – including their description of what happened on Siros. You can read them, decide for yourself.'
'You also asked his opinion of the other two men,' Paula recalled. 'I couldn't see the point.'
'In the end the whole thing may hang on the psychology of these three men. Would one of them be capable of murder? And did you notice,' he asked Paula, 'that when I mentioned a murder, Barrymore said, 'Which murder?' It sounded to me as though he was thinking of more than one murder. Who else could he be thinking of besides Andreas Gavalas who accompanied them on the Siros raid?'
'Harry Masterson?' suggested Nield.
'Or possibly a third murder over forty years ago – mentioned briefly to me at the Ministry of Defence. Back to your car, Pete. We must tackle our next member of the trio.'
'Who is that?' asked Paula as Pete left the Mercedes.
'Captain Oliver Robson. He lives the other side of Oare. I was given directions at that pub at Culbone. Robson calls there for a pint occasionally…'
11
After the gloomy Quarme Manor the modern L-shaped bungalow perched on the hillside in the dark looked to be out of another world. Which, Tweed reflected as he stopped the car, in fact it was. A wild leap from the fifteenth century into the twentieth.
The residence was a blaze of lights, standing at the top of a tarred drive above the lane. A wide stone-paved terrace ran the full width of the frontage. Ornamental lanterns were placed at intervals along a stone wall below the terrace, shedding light over the long slope of rough-cut grass to the hedge by the lane. The white-painted gate was open.
Tweed studied the large bungalow carefully. Curtains were drawn back but it was impossible to see inside the picture windows from below. Searchlight beams flooded the night from each corner, illuminating all approaches. He drove in through the entrance slowly, glancing to left and right.
'They'll know we're coming,' he commented.
'They'll hear the car, you mean?' Paula asked.
'No. In each of the gateposts there are photo-electric cells. As we drove through that invitingly open gateway we broke a beam. It will have set off an alarm inside the bungalow.'
'I suppose it's wise to take precautions – living in such an isolated position on the edge of the moor.'
'Including spy cameras projecting from under the eaves? Every possible kind of security measure has been installed. I begin to see something Colonel Barrymore and Captain Robson have in common. When I trudged round Quarme Manor before going up to the front entrance I noticed the high walls were topped with barbed wire. And a straight wire ran beneath it. Electrified, I'm sure. Remember all the security precautions on the front door? Both places are like fortresses.'
'That's what the owners have in common?'
'No. Both of them are scared stiff of dangerous intruders. To an almost pathological extent it appears…'
He stopped speaking. He had parked the car at the top of the drive. The front door opened. Framed in the dark opening – the lights inside had been switched off – stood the silhouette of a man. Holding a pump-action shotgun. Aimed at the Mercedes point blank.
'I'll sort him out,' said Tweed.
'God! What a welcome,' whispered Paula. 'Worse than Quarme Manor. ..'
'Good evening.' Tweed had lowered his window. 'We are looking for Captain Robson. It says Endpoint on the name plate.'
'Who are you? What do you want?'
A trace of Scots accent. The voice clear, level in tone, controlled.
'Special Branch. My name is Tweed. We have just called on Colonel Barrymore…'
Tweed made it sound as though Barrymore had led them to Endpoint. He waited for a reaction, said no more. Silence is a potent weapon.
'You'd better come in then.' The shotgun was lowered, still held ready for action as they alighted from the car and walked across the terrace. 'You have some identification?'
'Just about to show you. I'm taking my card out of my pocket.. .'
'It is very lonely out here. There have been two attempts to break in to my home. I'm Robson.'
As he looked at the card, shotgun tucked under his arm, Tweed studied Robson. Medium height, heavily built, but all of it muscle and bone, he was about the same age as Barrymore. And like the colonel his skin was deeply suntanned. The top of his rounded head was covered with an untidy thatch of brown hair and he had a straggly moustache of the same colour. Clad in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his shirt was open-necked, but his well-worn grey slacks had a razor-edged crease.
'Better come in, I suppose.' He handed back the card. 'Special Branch? Sure you've got the right man? Let's go and make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room.'
'Oh, this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed introduced.
'Welcome.'
Robson hardly gave her a glance as he closed the door and walked across a hall towards an open door. A brown-haired woman of about the same age appeared wearing an apron over her dress.
'Who is it, Oliver?'
Tweed detected a note of anxiety in her voice. White-faced, she had an air of bustle. Robson gestured towards her.
'My sister, May. Looks after me. Keeps the place going. Be lost without her. It's all right, May. Barrymore sent them along. We'll chat in the sitting room.' The moment she entered the hall the warmth hit Paula. Two old-fashioned radiators stood against the painted walls. The sitting room was long and large with a Wilton carpet wall to wail. Cosy-looking armchairs and couches were spread about and a log fire crackled
beneath a huge burnished copper hood. 'Do take a pew, anywhere you like. This is my work room, too.'
He sat in an old swivel chair behind a desk with a scruffed top. A tumbler of something which looked like whisky stood next to a pile of newspapers. Robson stood up as they sat down.
'I'm forgetting my manners. What would you like to drink? I can do Scotch, white wine if you prefer…'
Paula had sat down close to him near the end of the desk. He stared suddenly as she adjusted the bracelet round her wrist. His right hand jerked, knocking over the tumbler. Liquid ran over the edge of the desk.
'Sorry. Damn careless of me…' He opened a drawer, took out a cloth and began mopping up the mess. 'Just back off holiday. Half here, half somewhere else.'
'I guessed that from your suntan,' Tweed remarked. 'You'd hardly have acquired that in this country. Go far?'
'Sailing off Morocco. Agadir and Casablanca. By myself. May can't stand the sea. Stayed back to guard the fort. Drinks?'
Both Tweed and Paula, notebook perched on her lap, asked for wine. Robson poured two glasses of Montrachet. Returning behind his desk, he produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe.
Tire away.'
'I'm checking details of a murder which took place over forty years ago,' Tweed began. 'During your stint of duty in the Middle East.'
'A long time ago, as you say – that grim business when we made that raid on Siros. Barrymore was in command, but you know that – just coming from his place. Why has it become important now?'
'Because someone else investigating it has just been murdered. Ever met Harry Masterson?'
Robson's thumb, tamping tobacco in the bowl, remained poised for a second or two. Paula saw the pause. Cautious was a word Barrymore had used, describing Robson.
'Yes, he visited me. Jolly sort of cove. Life and soul of the party type. Asked some rum questions. What on earth is going on? 'Just been murdered,' you said.'
That is what I am trying to find out. Could you tell me in your own words what did happen on Siros?'
'Who else's words would I use?' Robson smiled drily.
'And if you don't mind, Miss Grey will record your statement – for the record.'
'Of course not. Certainly she may. Special Branch. You have a system, I suppose. One thing I am entitled to, I assume. A copy of the statement. Siros.' He settled himself at ease in his chair, lit his pipe, watching Tweed from beneath his upswept eyebrows, his light blue eyes thoughtful. What a contrast to Barrymore, Paula thought: he's the soul of relaxation. And his house reflects his informal personality.
'Siros,' Robson repeated, puffed at the pipe, 'the main island in the Cyclades group. Shaped like a boomerang, a huge one. Steep cliffs along the southern coast – rising up to Mount Ida. Same name as the tallest mountain on Crete. No idea why. Siros was the headquarters of General Hugo Geiger, who commanded the German troops occupying the Cyclades…'
'Is Geiger still alive?' Tweed interjected.
'No idea. Bit long in the tooth by now if he is. Like our little group. Now… The Greek Resistance had made its own HQ on Siros. They thought hiding under the Germans' noses was a smart tactic. We were carrying a fortune in diamonds to hand over to the Resistance.. .'
'Who is 'we'?'
'The colonel, of course. Myself. You wouldn't think I was a commando in those days. I'm a doctor. The Resistance lot were short of medical help. Plus CSM Kearns, stout fellow. Lastly, the Greek, Gavalas. He was to be the contact with his own people. He'd escaped to Cairo. He was the one who carried the diamonds. To cut a long story short, we landed from the motor launch at night on the southern shore, made our way up a difficult defile cut in the mountainside – where the Germans would least expect a landing. It was wild terrain. Someone – can't remember who – sounded the alarm. German patrol. Every man for himself in that situation. We scattered, later reassembled at an agreed rendezvous – and Gavalas was missing.'
'He'd handed over those diamonds?'
'No one knew. Unlikely. That rendezvous was several miles away on the northern slopes of Mount Ida. We were still to the south. We started searching for Gavalas. It was pretty dramatic – horrific. Barrymore found him. Dead. A knife sticking out from under his left shoulder blade. And the diamonds had gone. We headed back for the rendezvous with the motor launch due to take us off. Nothing else to do.'
'And the knife?' Tweed prodded gently.
'That made it more horrific. A commando knife. The colonel checked us. We all still had our own knives -including the colonel. Later we wondered whether the knife had been taken off one of the two earlier teams which had perished while raiding Siros.'
'Who by?'
'Could have been one of the Greek Resistance. Even a German soldier. Someone must have had quite a collection. There were six commandos who died on Siros.'
'And the value of those diamonds?' Tweed asked.
'A hundred thousand pounds. Wartime value.' Robson tamped his pipe, glanced at Paula writing in shorthand.
'One more question before we go, if I may. Could you please give me your assessment of the characters and temperaments of Barrymore and Kearns?'
'We make a good team. Kearns has a place on the way to Simonsbath, a stone's throw from here. The colonel is decisive, ice-cold in an emergency. The most controlled man I've ever known. Remarkable. Always ready for any danger, however outlandish. Never lets up his guard.'
'And Kearns?'
'A natural CSM. Very young in those days. Weren't we all? Your legendary man of action. But an excellent planner as well. The two don't usually go together. Could always see three moves ahead in the game. Still can. I think that sums them up. More wine?'
'Thank you, but I think we've taken up enough of your time.' Tweed stood up. 'Could I possibly visit your loo?'
'Of course. Remiss of me not to show you when you arrived.'
When he strolled back into the room Paula had slid her notebook inside her shoulder bag and was standing close to the picture window. Pete Nield would be out there watching and she was trying to signal to him they were leaving. Robson padded across and joined her by the window.
'I'm a lifelong bachelor,' he remarked, fiddling with his dead pipe. 'Not from choice. Once I was madly in love with a debutante. Can you imagine that?'
'Yes, I can. What happened, if I may ask?'
'Why not? It was all a long time ago. I thought my feelings for her were reciprocated. She left me standing at the church. Sounds like an old joke, but it happened. A telegram arrived. Sorry, Oliver. It won't work. Very sorry. Diana. And Diana was a Greek goddess in mythology. Went off and married a baronet. Rather put me off women. Present company excluded.'
'It must have been an awful blow.'
'It was a bit. She was a silly girl.' He made the comment with such vehemence Paula glanced at him. The eyes were like stones, the mouth twisted in an expression of bitter irony. 'Her baronet hadn't a penny. Had to take a job…'
Thank you for being so helpful,' said Tweed as he returned and stood on the other side of Robson. He tapped the long thin picture window. 'Good view by day, I imagine.'
'Yes, it is. A lookout point over the moor. As to helping you, my pleasure. I'll show you out.'
'You keep your home beautifully warm,' said Paula. It was the first remark which came into her head and she sensed Robson was embarrassed by his display of emotion.
'It has to be oil-fired central heating out here. Tricky during the oil crisis. We practically lived in this room. The log fire…'
In the hall the pump-action shotgun was perched in an umbrella stand, the twin barrels pointing at the ceiling. Ready to hand for the next caller, Tweed noted.
The door closed behind them and they climbed into the car. Before starting the engine Tweed looked back at the bungalow, at the security cameras. The viewing screen must be in a room he hadn't seen. 'Something odd about this place,' he said as he reached to turn on the ignition and then leant back. 'Look at the roof, the far end of the long stem on the bungalow. We c
ouldn't see it when we arrived because of the dark and the glare of those searchlights.'
Paula stared through the windscreen. Projecting above the roof of the bungalow rose a wide circular column which reminded her of a lighthouse. Even more so because at the top was a circular rail and behind it the column was made of glass. She expected at any moment to see a slowly revolving light.
The moon came up while we were inside,' Tweed pointed out. 'Which is why we can see it clearly now. It's like a watch tower. Mind you, when I went to the loo his sister, May, took me the full length of the bungalow behind the sitting room to the main bathroom. On the walls are fishing nets with those glass balls suspended they use to keep nets afloat close to the surface. And fishing rods crossed like swords. Very much a man of the sea, Captain Robson.'
There's someone inside the lighthouse. I can see his shadow against the moonlight.'
'Time to go.'
'Why did you liken it to a watch tower?' she asked while he drove down the drive and turned back the way they had come along the lane.
'I passed the base of the circular column on the way to the bathroom. It had a curved door, closed. Inside there must be a spiral staircase. Watch tower? Because I think Robson uses it to keep a close eye on the approaches to his home. The ridge along the moor continues from Quarme Manor, runs above Endpoint.'
'They both gave me the impression they're waiting for something dangerous to arrive – Barrymore with that wall and an electrified wire you saw. Now Robson – again with all that expensive security. The kind of thing you expect to see protecting a Beverly Hills mansion.'
'As though they were expecting Nemesis,' said Tweed.
12
Tweed, who had studied the map of Exmoor, drove back the way they had come and then turned on to a country lane leading away from Quarrae Manor. Paula watched his expression as the headlight beams followed the twists of the hedge-lined road. The darkness seemed eerie, the moor closing in on all sides.
