The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'It's early days for you and me,' she said.

  Then she was gone.

  The phone was ringing when Tweed returned to his room. He ran, knowing the ringing would stop as he reached for the receiver. He lifted it, said 'Hello.' The manager answered, said there was a call for him.

  'That you, Tweed?'

  Partridge's voice. Sounded as though he'd been hurrying before he used the phone.

  'Yes, Sam.' A click, which told him the manager had put down his instrument. 'I think it's all right to speak now. Where are you?'

  'Winsford. You take the road out of Dunster where you met me on horseback. Continue on until you come to a signpost on the right. I'll meet you at The Royal Oak Inn for lunch. 12.30 suit you?'

  'I'll be there. Stay off the moor, Sam. We'll cooperate. I can tell you something about Masterson…'

  'Really?' Still sounded in a rush. 'One thing you should know. Antikhana. You know where that is? What happened there a long time ago?'

  'I'm with you.' Partridge was exercising caution, not trusting the phone. 'Go on…'

  'I didn't like the look of Selim, the Sudanese on duty the evening it happened. Humble had questioned him. Superficially. I put him through the wringer. He was hiding something. No doubt about it. Selim vanished shortly afterwards. I think someone used a carrot and stick. The carrot, money. The stick, fear. Never seen again. Rumoured he'd gone back to Khartoum. My bet is he ended up floating down the Nile. Must go now…'

  'Stay off the moor,' Tweed repeated.

  'See you for lunch…'

  The connection was broken. Tweed replaced the receiver slowly. He felt very unhappy about the call. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced the large room. Later he went out into the garden for some fresh air. He stood on a neat lawn, looking at the old castle which perched above the small town at the other end of the High Street. Beyond the wall at the end of the garden green fields stretched away. An atmosphere of pure peace. And the last thing he was experiencing was peace of mind.

  Tweed checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes to twelve. He had studied his map of Exmoor, obtained from a newsagent down the High Street. He calculated thirty minutes would be ample time to drive to Winsford. He would give Paula and Nield until noon to get back from Minehead; if they didn't arrive he would leave a note and drive there alone. Someone tapped softly on his door.

  'We were quick,' Paula told him as she entered the room followed by Nield. 'Both windows have been replaced.'

  'That was quick.'

  'I found a Mercedes dealer,' Nield explained. 'With a garage next door. I tipped them well before they started. Four men worked on the job. We're off to Watchet now?'

  'No. Something came up…'

  'She certainly did,' Paula commented, teasing him. 'You've come into close combat with the enemy, I see.'

  She reached for Tweed's right shoulder, took something between her fingers off his blue bird's-eye suit and held it up. A long blonde hair. 'Good job we didn't get back earlier.'

  'Sit,' Tweed commanded. He was irked by his carelessness. He'd wiped his mouth clean of Jill Reams' lipstick. He should have checked more thoroughly in the mirror. 'I have a lot to tell – and not much time to tell it. We have to be in Winsford to meet Partridge at 12.30 …'

  He repeated a concise account of his encounter with Jill Reams; he had total recall for conversations. Paula and Nield sat and listened while he then went on and told them about the telephone call from Partridge.

  'And now you're up to date,' he concluded.

  'She doesn't waste much time,' Paula remarked, then clapped her hand to her mouth. 'Sorry, that was pretty catty. She sounds like a very frightened woman. But frightened of what exactly?'

  'Or a first-rate actress,' Tweed pointed out. 'Sent by Kearns to probe me, find out what I'm really up to.'

  'My own thought,' Nield interjected. 'And why should we assume it was Kearns who sent her? If she's having an affair with one of the other two – Barrymore or Robson?'

  'You are a couple of cynics,' Paula observed.

  'Pete could be right,' Tweed said. 'Someone may have sent her on a fishing expedition.'

  'But what was your real impression?' Paula demanded, leaning forward, staring hard at Tweed.

  'Not enough data yet. I'm in a neutral zone. And it's time we set off for Winsford. Same procedure, Pete. Paula comes with me in the Merc. You follow in the Cortina. When we get to The Royal Oak, sit at a separate table. You're not with us. Let's move…'

  'It's Wednesday,' Paula said suddenly. 'That's the day those three – Barrymore, etc., have lunch at The Royal Oak.'

  'And that had occurred to me when Partridge suggested meeting me there. No coincidence I'm sure. Sam knows what he's doing. So, when we arrive we don't recognize him unless he comes up to us. It's his game. Let him play it his way.'

  Tweed had taken the right-hand turn off the main road to Dulverton. following the signpost to Winsford. The day was overcast and chilly, the winding road ahead deserted. Paula sat beside Tweed, gazing at the huge brown sweeping ridges of Exmoor towering in the distance.

  'Look.' she said, 'it's coming back.'

  Tweed glanced to his right. Along the high edge of the ridges a wave curled like a surf-crested sea. The mist crept down, blotting out the upper slopes of the moor, advancing remorselessly. Paula shivered. There was something sinister the way the grey vapour swallowed up the moor.

  'I hope to God Partridge has reached Winsford,' Tweed remarked. 'Imagine getting lost in that stuff.'

  'You would get lost then?'

  'Well, it depends. I guess by now he knows Exmoor pretty well. The amount of time he seems to have spent roaming over it. He probably knows which gulches lead down into Winsford. I just don't like the idea of him being up there at all. Let's hope we find him at The Royal Oak, sitting with a pint in front of him. Then I'll feel better.'

  Astride his horse Partridge spotted the first wraiths of mist higher up, wraiths which merged into a solid wave of grey as it rolled towards him. Time to head down for Winsford. Turning his horse, he was about to ride down a gully which would take him on to the main road when he saw the second horse.

  It stood riderless, reins draped, head down as it nuzzled tufts of grass. The rider lay sprawled on the ground, face down, his head resting on a boulder. His riding cap was askew, tilted no doubt when the animal had thrown him. Or had he been taken ill, fallen from the horse, his head striking the iron-hard boulder?

  Partridge gave a quick glance at the mist which was close now. Dismounting, he strode towards the stricken man. It would be the devil of a job getting him down to Winsford. He'd have to try and fold the unconscious man over his own horse. If he was still alive…

  The thought made him hurry. At the very least he could have cracked his skull – hitting that boulder. Granite. The hardest of rocks. The mist was floating over the sprawled figure when he reached it. The dampness felt cold on his face. He stood astride the figure, stooped to examine it further…

  You bloody fool! Suddenly Partridge's instinct for danger flared. Reins draped… No one falling from a horse had time to do that. He was straightening up when the figure came to life. Mist swirled round Partridge's head as hands like a vice gripped his ankles, toppled him face down. He fell heavily, was winded. He ignored the shock. Started to lift himself on his elbows, to whip over and over. He was seconds too late. He felt a dull ache under his left shoulder blade as the knife was driven home. Then he plunged into a bottomless pit of darkness.

  'What a lovely-looking place,' said Paula.

  They were approaching The Royal Oak after driving past several thatched cottages. The ancient inn had a steep brown thatched roof. The thatch curved round arched windows close to the inn's sign, a painting of an oak tree. Several cars were parked outside.

  Winsford was a sprawling village located at a point where several roads met. It nestled snugly below hilly green fields and as they entered the place Paula saw stately evergreen trees shaped like
pepperpots. An oasis of civilization amid the grim unseen moor which loomed behind the mist.

  'We'll go inside, get a bite to eat,' Tweed said as he parked the car. In his wing mirror he saw Nield's Cortina arrive and stop on the other side of a small green.

  Outside, The Royal Oak was freshly painted, its walls a beige colour. Must have stood there for hundreds of years, Tweed thought as he locked the car and walked with Paula. She pulled up her raincoat collar: there was a chill in the air.

  Inside, the large, low-ceilinged room stretched away into separate sections with wide openings leading from one to another. The bar was crowded and behind it a giant of a man in an open-necked shirt served drinks and joked with his customers. Mostly locals, Tweed guessed. A log fire crackled and there was an air of animation.

  'Where do they all come from?' Paula whispered.

  'I expect they ride or drive in from miles around. You've seen some of the lonely places people live in this part of the world.'

  'No sign of Partridge,' she whispered again.

  'He'll be along. He's a punctual chap…'

  She gripped his arm..'Someone else has arrived.'

  Reams strode in as though on parade. Clad in riding gear- pale grey jodhpurs thrust into boots which gleamed, a drab windcheater – he waved his riding crop at the barman. 'What is it today?'

  'Hello, sir. Good to see you again. How about a nice chicken and mushroom pie? And your usual double Scotch?'

  That'll do…'

  'Here's your drink. I'll send over the food. We've kept your table.'

  Paula grabbed Tweed's arm again. 'The clan is gathering.'

  Oliver Robson, also dressed in riding gear, but scruffily dressed compared with the CSM, appeared, smiling, exchanging words with several people. The barman spotted him at once, called out again over the heads of the crowd.

  'Good morning, Doctor. Don't think you got that tan on the moor. Not this year. Nice to see you back…'

  He repeated the menu and Robson nodded amiably, said he'd have a glass of white wine. His manner was tentative, Paula was thinking. Like a man who was shy. He took the glass and sat down next to Kearns who sat upright, looking everywhere except in the direction of Tweed and Paula. The two men were sitting at a window table where a third chair remained empty.

  'Grab that table,' Tweed advised. 'You're hungry?'

  The chicken and mushroom pie smells good,' she replied as a serving woman passed them with a tray. 'And a glass of the white wine. The third member of the club is joining them…'

  She sat down at a small round table for two after draping her raincoat over the other chair. Barrymore, also wearing riding gear, had stalked in, his manner stiff. The barman greeted him as 'Colonel' and Barrymore nodded when offered food. He took the chair between Kearns and Robson without saying anything and stared around. Like the chairman of the bloody board, Paula thought.

  Tweed eased his way to the bar, gave his orders, waited while the wine was poured. Something made him glance over his shoulder. Barrymore had moved quickly. He was standing over Paula, a hand on her shoulder as he spoke. Paula gazed up at him, her expression cold, distant.

  Turning back to the bar, Tweed paid the bill. Picking up the two glasses he edged his way out of the crowd in time to see Barrymore sitting down again at his own table. Paula's flawless complexion was slightly flushed. He sensed annoyance.

  'You have an admirer,' he teased as he seated himself.

  'Saucy swine. He had the nerve to invite me over to Quarme Manor. For afternoon tea, and maybe a drink, he said.'

  'I'm sure you coped…'

  'I told him he could phone me at The Luttrell Arms sometime. They serve tea there.' She paused, drank some wine. 'If you think I might get something out of him I'm quite happy to play along.'

  'No! On no account are you to be alone with that man. On the other hand, if he does call you at Dunster, take your own decision. But only meet him in a public place. He's still staring at you.'

  'I know. Staring at my legs. I was right. He reminds me of a satyr. And Pete is doing his stuff.'

  Nield had perched himself on a stool close to the table where the three men sat. He was drinking a half pint of beer, gazing across the room.

  'He identified them quickly,' Paula remarked.

  'I gave him a verbal description of them. He has sharp hearing. Even with all this babble going on he'll be able to tell us what they were talking about.' Tweed checked his watch. 'Partridge is late. Very out of character.'

  'The mist may have delayed him…'

  'Not like him, not like him at all.'

  They had finished their chicken and mushroom pies, eaten some of the inn's excellent French bread, when the commotion started outside. Voices raised, the sound of running feet. Someone shouting. Tweed stood up.

  'Back in a minute. I'll just see what's going on…'

  'You look grim.' She spoke softly. The babble inside the pub was suddenly hushed. People stared out of the windows. Tweed slipped into the street, throwing on his coat as he walked. He paused to get his bearings. Beyond the small green was parked a Land Rover. A police car. its blue light whirling, was close to it. Uniformed policemen were gently pushing back the gathering crowd. Tweed took his card from his pocket, walked across the green. The grass was soggy underfoot. A uniformed inspector held up his hand.

  'Please keep back, sir.'

  Tweed, his eyes on the long sheath of folded canvas in the back of the Land Rover, showed the card. The inspector, a short and burly man. took the card, stared at it, compared the photograph with its owner, handed it back.

  'Special Branch? We don't see much of you in this part of the world. I'm Inspector Farthing.'

  'I may be able to help. What is inside that canvas bundle?'

  'Something rather shocking. Brought down from the moor by the chap over there with the corduroy cap. A local. Lock. Goes shooting rabbits on the moor. He found the body inside a rock cleft. Pure luck. Rabbit he'd just shot fell inside the cleft. Nothing in the way of identification. No wallet. No letters.'

  'Can I have a look?'

  'Of course. I hope you have a strong stomach, sir…'

  Tweed was moving to the back of the Land Rover when Paula joined him. He warned her it might be unpleasant. She bridled.

  'Goes with the territory. Don't treat me like a five-year-old.'

  'It's all right,' Tweed assured Farthing who had laid a hand on Paula's arm. 'She's my assistant.'

  He heard a retching sound. Lock, the driver, was stooped over a ditch. Nimbly, Tweed leapt up on to the rear of the vehicle open to the sky. Paula followed. Tweed bent down, folded back one end of the canvas. What remained of the face of Partridge stared up at him, eyes open, sightless. He had been savagely slashed many times with a knife. Folds and slivers of flesh hung in flaps. The nose and eyebrows had almost completely disappeared. The clothes as much as anything identified him for Tweed. Paula sucked in her breath. Plunging both hands inside her windcheater, she clenched them into fists.

  'I know this man. can identify him,' Tweed said, folding the canvas gently over the brutally ravaged face. He kept his voice low. Farthing crouched to hear him. The crowd of sightseers was still pushing close to the Land Rover. 'Sam Partridge,' Tweed said. He paused. 'A retired Chief Inspector of Homicide at Scotland Yard.'

  'Thank God you were here.' Farthing grunted. 'You don't want to see, but all his fingers are missing. Cut off at the base. I'd say they're at the bottom of some other crevice. And all makers' labels have been ripped off the clothes.'

  'Someone took trouble in the hope he wouldn't be found quickly – and by the time he was identification wouldn't be easy.'

  Farthing breathed heavily. 'Then this case is going to raise one hell of a stink.'

  'I'm sure of it. Can I make a suggestion? People rushed out of The Royal Oak to gawk. But three men are still sitting inside at a window table. Colonel Barrymore, Dr Robson and Stuart Kearns. Send a man in to ask them to come out and look at the corpse…
'

  'Study the reactions of each man,' Tweed whispered to Paula when they had moved to the rear of the crowd.

  Kearns came out first, strode briskly to the vehicle, climbed into it. Farthing pulled back the canvas, exposed the hideously mutilated face. Kearns stood erect -as he gazed down. No trace of emotion showed as he shook his head. 'Never seen him before,' he informed Farthing, jumped down and walked back to the inn.

  Robson arrived next and Farthing greeted him more effusively. 'I am glad you were here. Doctor. You're the first medical man to see the victim. He's dead, of course. Do you know him?'

  'Let's check before we make assumptions,' Robson replied in a relaxed voice. Tweed could just catch what he said. Robson stooped over the body, felt the pulse at the side of the neck, then nodded. 'He's dead. No doubt about that.'

  'An ambulance has been summoned,' Farthing explained. 'But you have given us valuable assistance before. Any idea of the timing of his demise?'

  'I could only guess.' Robson frowned. 'Something odd

  – you see the small amount of blood? Yet the face has been savaged. He was dead before the murderer did that.' His tone was dry and professional as he pulled open the windcheater at the top. 'I suppose you realize the head has almost been severed from the body? Look at that.'

  Bile rose in Farthing's mouth as he crouched on his haunches beside Robson. An enormous red gash ran just below the throat, continued out of sight. 'We ought to wait for the forensic team from Taunton before I explore further,' Robson reminded the inspector.

  'On the other hand he'll have to be shifted into the ambulance when it arrives,' Farthing pointed out.

  Then we'll go a little further, see if I can find out how he died. Not from that vicious slash across the throat. Again – not enough blood. He was dead when that happened.' Robson unfolded more canvas to the corpse's waist.

  Gently he turned the body on its side. The head lolled like the broken neck of a doll. Robson pointed to the back of the windcheater, to a wide rip and crusted blood below the left shoulder blade.

  'I would imagine that was the death thrust. He was attacked from behind. A knife was plunged deep upwards, penetrating the heart. That came first.'