The Janus Man

by Forbes, Colin

  `Tell me.'

  `I lost him. Much Hadham again. Then I was driving through London and I picked him up in my rear view mirror. Couldn't believe it. Where would he pick up that skill? He's something in insurance. He was still with me when I arrived in Soho.'

  `So he knows who you are? What you are?'

  `Not bloody likely.' Portman perked up. 'I parked the car, then walked into a solicitor pal's office near here.'

  `Surely he waited for you?'

  `No. You see, I have an arrangement with the solicitor in question. He needs me from time to time. I foresaw I might have this problem one day. The plate outside the solicitor's office reads — I'm making up the other names — Blenkinsop, Mahoney and Portman. He thought I was a solicitor. It must have puzzled him.'

  `How can you be so sure of that?'

  `Blighter walked in to reception and asked the girl. He said he was Special Branch.' Portman stared at Tweed, watching his reaction.

  `Cheeky sod,' Tweed replied immediately, expressing just the right amount of indignation. 'Give me your impression of Hugh Grey.'

  `Full of confidence. But then these insurance chaps have to be — peddling the sort of stuff they do. I wondered if he was mixed up in drug smuggling, if his girl, later his wife, suspected the same thing.'

  'Why?'

  `Frequent trips abroad. The way he sometimes knew I was on his tail, the way he ditched me, and the way he enquired about me here in Soho. The skill,' Portman repeated, 'that's what I don't understand. Plus the cheek of the devil. Doesn't sound like insurance to me at all.'

  `Must have cost his wife a fortune hiring you. Two years is a long time.' Tweed was probing, searching for he wasn't sure what. Portman clasped his hands behind his head, a gesture which reminded Tweed of Guy Dalby.

  `It was spasmodic,' he explained. 'Only when he was leaving to go somewhere from Norfolk. Often I lost him, as I mentioned. I used to race direct to Heathrow, hoping to catch him there, but often he never turned up at Terminal Two — or I missed him.'

  `Ever follow him anywhere else? Maybe to somewhere inside this country?' Tweed asked casually.

  `Never once. Always Heathrow — or I lost him.'

  That meant Grey had spotted Portman, eluded him, whenever he was bound for Park Crescent — or his pied a terre at Cheyne Walk for that matter. Grey certainly knew his job. `How does Paula Grey pay you?' Tweed asked.

  `Always in cash — no matter how large the fee. That's normal in such cases. Cheques can be traced. I gather she has her own business of some sort. In any case, a third of the population in Norfolk is part of the black economy...' He clapped a hand over his mouth. 'Now I've put my foot in it.' Portman frowned. `You're a very persuasive chap — you get people to let down their guard.'

  `I'm not interested in things like that. Last question. What is Paula Grey's attitude now?'

  `She's still worried about something. Can we leave it at that?'

  `Why not?' Tweed rose to go. So far Portman was intrigued with the novelty of his visitor. Soon he might begin to wonder about Tweed. 'One thing,' Tweed said as Portman accompanied him to the door, 'I've never been here. This interview never took place.'

  `Official Secrets Act?'

  `Well...' Tweed smiled, `... at least I never read it to you.'

  `Did you find out anything from Portman?' Monica asked, all eager-beaver as Tweed closed his office door.

  `I'm not sure. Only the absence of something.'

  `That's right, go all cryptic on me. It means you have a definite lead but you're not telling. Want me to hang up your Burberry?'

  `No, thank you. I have to collect Diana in a minute from Newman's flat, then we drive down to Harry Masterson's. He is at his cottage?'

  `Yes, I called him as you asked. Said you might want to phone him. He said he'd be there all day — he's painting one of his portraits. What are you doing?'

  Tweed had collected a pair of dividers from a cupboard and was standing in front of the wall-map. He placed one point on Vienna, then measured the road distance to Lübeck. He repeated the exercise with Bern and Frankfurt, again measuring the road distances to Lübeck. Then he stood back from the map and placed the dividers on a table.

  `Any one of them could have managed it by road,' he said.

  'I don't understand.'

  `After the second blonde girl, Iris Hansen, was murdered out on the beach at Travemünde, I called all the sector chiefs. None of them were at home. And no one knew where they had gone.'

  `Normal procedure if their security is tight — and it's pretty tight with this new lot you chose.'

  `As you say. I'd better get off...'

  `You're suggesting one of them could be a maniac killer? That would be terrible for the department.'

  It's not so good for the victims who were murdered,' Tweed replied and left the room.

  `What a lovely cottage. The clematis is glorious.'

  Diana walked with Tweed along the country lane to the gate of Harry Masterson's cottage near Apfield. Brilliant sunshine glowed out of a clear blue sky. In nearby trees birds chirrupped. Tweed had his hand on the gate, looking at the garden which was a mess, the lawn uncut, the rose beds full of weeds, when he realized she had stopped, was standing like a frozen statue.

  He looked up. Masterson had appeared in the doorway, his bulky figure filling it. Tweed glanced at Diana. Her face seemed even whiter than usual.

  `What's wrong?' he asked.

  `From here it's just like my mother's cottage in Devon. She was only forty-two when she died. I suppose the similarity gave me a shock.' Her normal exuberance returned. 'Come on, Tweedy, we mustn't keep him waiting...'

  Masterson, his thick black hair gleaming in the sunlight, came down the scruffy footpath to meet them. Dressed in a pair of cream slacks and an open-necked white shirt, he held a paintbrush in his right hand which he transferred to the other hand.

  `Welcome to Paradise Cottage, Tweed. And who is this delightful vision you've brought with you? Now the day is perfect...'

  He shook hands with her and Tweed made introductions. He had warned her before what he would say.

  `This is Diana Chadwick, niece of an old friend of mine. She's in London on holiday.'

  `Niece, eh?' Masterson dug Tweed gently in the ribs. 'You can do better than that, Tweed.' He looked at her and grinned.

  `If we take him at his word there's hope for me yet. Come on in, both of you. Care for a drink? And where the devil is your car? You can't have walked here.'

  `I parked it up the lane. I wasn't sure I was on the right road,' Tweed lied. He'd wanted to surprise his host. Masterson hustled them inside, grasping Diana by the arm. He doesn't waste time, Tweed thought ruefully. He glanced up at the cascade of purple-flowering clematis flowing down either side of the doorway as he entered. Masterson glanced back, missing nothing.

  `Damned good stuff, that creeper. Doesn't need a thing doing to it. Just grows and grows, like Topsy did. Can't stand gardening...'

  `So I observed,' Tweed replied drily.

  `I'll show Diana the cottage,' Masterson rambled on buoyantly. 'You've seen the place, Tweed. Make yourself at home in the sitting-room. Help yourself to a drink. We'll be back soon...'

  He winked at Tweed as Diana dropped her handbag on a settee in the cluttered living-room, the soft furniture covered with chintz designs. Cushions lay scattered at random, several on the floor.

  Tweed waited until they had climbed the twisting, creaking steps of the staircase. He'd have good warning when they were coming back. His agile fingers picked up Diana's handbag, opened it, checked the contents quickly. No travellers' cheques, just a wad of folded banknotes. He counted them. ?250. Mostly in twenties. When he'd met her at Heathrow she'd excused herself while she went to the Midland Bank exchange. He returned the notes to the zip pocket exactly as he found them and replaced the handbag on the settee.

  Thrusting both hands in the pockets of his sports jacket, he wandered over to the bookshelves. The selection surprised
him. A number of works by Jung and Freud, thrillers by popular authors, a large collection of travel books about Eastern Europe — the latter working material, he presumed.

  He bent down to study Masterson's record collection, all LPs. Again an odd range of taste. Stravinsky, Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert and some music to dance to, mostly tangos. The hi-fi deck incorporated into the bookcase at eye-level was expensive. Hearing them at the top of the staircase, he grabbed a travel book and was sitting in an arm chair when they reappeared deep in conversation, chattering and joking. Diana sat down on the settee next to her handbag. Masterson disappeared into the kitchen, Tweed heard the clunk of the fridge door and their host waltzed in holding a bottle aloft.

  `Champagne for the troops! Come into the kitchen. Watch an expert at work!'

  He was stripping off the foil as they followed him. Tweed took in the equipment at a glance. Modern laminated cupboards and worktops in dark blue. None of your rustic olde worlde equipment favoured by Hugh Grey who would always go for the new and the trendy. Harry Masterson wouldn't give a damn.

  A collection of kitchen knives lay in the compartment of the wooden box next to the sink. So far as Tweed could see there was no sign of a chef's knife. Over the sink on the wall a brass plate (in need of cleaning) hung, rather like a medieval shield with a central boss.

  `I'm going to hit that brass plate dead centre,' Masterson joked as he fiddled with the cork, aiming it at the plate. He aimed the bottle like a gun, the cork shot out and hit the boss.

  `Bull's-eye!'

  He held the bottle over an aluminium jug placed alongside three tulip glasses. The surplus champagne was caught inside the jug. Masterson was extraordinarily agile.

  `That's some of mine,' he bubbled, filling the glasses, then handing them round.

  `A toast! We must have a toast!'

  `Well, what are we drinking to?' Tweed enquired. `Damnation to our enemies!'

  `What a funny toast,' Diana said after drinking. 'I can think of only one enemy I've got...'

  `And who is that?' asked Masterson, wrapping an arm round her waist as he escorted her back to the living-room.

  `A woman called Ann Grayle. Used to be a diplomat's wife,' she said as she sat down on the settee. Masterson perched his backside on the arm, next to her. 'I first knew her in Africa, Kenya — all of twenty years ago.'

  `Kenya?' Masterson sounded intrigued. 'Twenty years ago it had just gained its independence...'

  `In 1963. I was there before then in what Ann calls the good old days. They were, too. Lots of parties. Went on all hours. We saw the dawn come up over the bush. You know Kenya, Mr Masterson?'

  `Harry. May I call you Diana? I'm going to anyway. And I've never been near Kenya in my life. Sounds just like my sort of place. Twenty-odd years ago. Don't you agree, Tweed?'

  `Oh yes, you'd have played hell with the women, Harry.'

  Tweed's tone was caustic. He was studying the two of them as he settled further back in a deep arm chair. Masterson's chin had a blued look. He had obviously shaved first thing but already he was showing a five o'clock shadow. He laid a large hand on Diana's exposed and shapely knee as she sat with her legs crossed.

  `Why not make it a day in the country? I can rustle up something edible. For dinner we could all go to a super place not five miles away. The trout is out of this world.'

  `I think we have to get back to London,' she said and lifted his hand from her knee, placing it back on his leg. 'Isn't that right, Tweed?'

  `Yes, I'm afraid it is, but thanks for the invitation.' Masterson jumped up, grabbed the bottle and refilled glasses. He looked at Tweed.

  `Tell you what. I'll give you both a rare treat, show you some of my paintings. My studio's through that door. North facing light and all that. I don't show many people,' he went on as he led the way.

  The studio was littered with oil paintings, some of them on the floor face up. Tweed followed Diana, holding his glass and stepping carefully over the pictures. A large old-fashioned wooden easel stood at an angle to the window, the painting Masterson was working on draped with a cloth so it was invisible.

  `Sit down,' Masterson invited.

  `Where?' asked Tweed.

  `Sorry. Half a tick...'

  He removed piles of sketch-books off two hard-backed, rush-seated chairs. As they sat down Tweed was thinking all the furniture in the cottage had probably been handed down to Masterson from relatives — or picked up for a song in Portobello Road. The usual public school background— Masterson had gone to Winchester— which made a man totally unaware of his surroundings.

  Like a matador, their host took hold of the cloth, paused and then whipped aside the cloth swirling it like a cape. Tweed stiffened, staring at the exposed portrait. A head with staring eyes hung in space. No head and shoulders, just the head, strangely alive. The eyes stared at Tweed with extraordinary intensity, a chilling coldness. Behind it a giant wave hovered, just before breaking, foam curling along its crest. It was a portrait of Hugh Grey.

  `A poor thing, but mine own,' Masterson joked.

  `I find it remarkable,' Tweed said in a subdued tone. `Next one coming up...'

  He whipped the unframed canvas off the easel, propped it up against a wall, collected another canvas, also draped with a cloth. He took trouble centring it and removed the cloth with his back to them so they couldn't see. Then he stepped aside.

  This time Tweed was ready and sat with his hands relaxed in his lap. Guy Dalby. A three-quarter view, again the head only, suspended in a fog, the kind of fog Tweed associated with Norfolk. More like a ghost than a man, but still unmistakable a likeness. A devilishly clever likeness, but exaggerated, which made it even more life-like.

  The hair was plastered down over the head and the expression was saturnine. Self-satisfaction oozed from every pore. Devilish. That was the word which sprang to mind. And the only visible eye, the left one, stared through Tweed.

  `Is this really how you see your colleagues?' Tweed asked. Masterson shrugged. 'I'm no Gauguin, as you must realize by now. It's a bit of fun. Next one coming up.'

  He performed the same conjuring trick, standing with his back to them after he had substituted a third painting for Dalby's. Then he stood aside and picked up his champagne glass and drank the rest of the contents.

  Tweed heard Diana stifle a gasp. Another head suspended alone in space, if you could use the term 'head'. A grinning skull gazed at Tweed, ice-blue eyes embedded in the sockets. Against a background of a cloudless Scandinavian-type sky with extraordinary clarity of light. But it was Erich Lindemann. Stripped to the bones.

  `A cold fish,' Masterson commented.

  `Portrait painters,' Tweed remarked, 'always do a self- portrait. That I'd like to see.'

  `It's not finished.'

  Masterson, brash and abrasive, was abnormally defensive. `I'd still like to see it,' Tweed insisted. He pointed to a canvas facing the wall.

  `Don't miss a trick, do you? If I must...'

  `You must.'

  Masterson followed his previous pantomime, but hurriedly. He concealed the new canvas until it was perched on the easel, then stepped aside.

  A fourth head, three-quarter view like Dalby's portrait, all seen against the background of a huge yellow sunburst. The single eye visible was cynical, mistrustful of the world. Beneath the strong nose the mouth curved in a sensual smile.

  Tweed was reminded of a satyr. What impressed him most was the sheer brutal physical energy of the painting, emphasized by the sunburst radiating tremendous heat and drive.

  `Pretty bloody awful,' Masterson commented.

  `No association with the sea,' Tweed remarked.

  `You noticed that? The wave behind Hugh Grey's picture — the sea mist background for Guy Dalby. Boaty types. They can keep it.'

  `You're not attracted by messing about in boats?' Tweed suggested.

  `God, no! The sea never keeps still. Give me dry land any time. Another drink?'

  `Thank you, no. We'll have to
be going soon.'

  He looked at Diana who was staring round the cluttered studio. She frowned and shook her head slightly, a gesture Masterson caught. He grinned.

  `Bit of a pigsty?'

  `You need a good woman to look after you,' she told him. `I'd sooner have a bad one.' He grinned again, wickedly. 'Do you qualify?'

  Not really. I'm a hopeless housewife,' she fended him off, picked up her handbag, accepted his offer to use the toilet so, for the first time, Tweed and Masterson were on their own. Their host sat down in a chair close to Tweed and dug him in the ribs. 'That's what you need to lighten your life. A bad woman. She's made to order.'

  `Actually, she's pretty top drawer, Harry.'

  `Better still.' Masterson smiled cynically. 'A niece you said. She's too old and you're too young. You'd make a good team.

  Think about it...'

  When Diana returned Tweed said he'd also like to use the toilet. He left them alone for a few minutes, thinking about what he had seen. When he returned Diana was standing up, smoking a cigarette in her long ivory holder and pacing slowly round while Masterson sat on the settee.

  `Don't forget what I said,' he reminded Tweed as he accompanied them to the garden gate and opened it. He was still standing by the gate a few minutes later when Tweed drove slowly past the cottage.

  `Wrong way for London,' he shouted.

  `Going to show Diana the creeks,' Tweed called back. 'See you...'

  Diana glanced over her shoulder and waved through the window at the rear of the Cortina. Then she tapped ash from her cigarette in the tray and concentrated on the view ahead.

  `That was funny,' she remarked.

  `What was?'

  `When I looked back he looked furious, a real grim expression. He made a pass at me while you were in the loo. I told him to grow up.'

  'That's Harry,' Tweed replied and continued driving slowly, peering to his right. In a few minutes he slowed down even more, then stopped. They were heading for Bosham and through the trees he could see a forest of masts. Boating country. He released the brake and turned right along a well- defined track, stopping by a landing-stage at the edge of open water. A large power cruiser like the Südwind was moored to the side of the landing-stage. No one about. Tweed checked his watch. Precisely seven minutes from Masterson's cottage.