By Stealth

8

On the surface Moor's Landing appeared to be the kind of village you occasionally see on picture postcards. Stepping off the long railed catwalk they had walked on down a short country lane which ended at the beginning of the main street.

`It's so picturesque,' Paula said.

`It doesn't look real to me,' Tweed said in a neutral tone, registering his first impression. He'd found in the past initial impressions were correct.

They stood close to an old stone well in the middle of a straight cobbled street. On either side were detached cottages with thatched roofs and small walled gardens in front. Tweed counted fourteen cottages, seven on each side. Then the village ended as abruptly as it had started where they stood.

`No sign of shops, not even a general store,' Nield remarked. 'Just an estate agent half-way down on the right. Strange sort of village. And not a soul anywhere.'

He had caught something of the atmosphere which had attracted Tweed's attention. All the windows of the cottages facing each other were curtained. They appeared inhabited except there were no inhabitants.

`Not too keen on this place,' Newman commented. 'It is like a facade carefully presented but hiding something.'

He was right about the presentation, Paula thought. All the cottages had their white walls freshly whitewashed. The thatch was in perfect condition. Each door was painted a different bright colour. And beside each door was a coach-lamp, gleaming even under the grey overcast which made everything seem more unreal.

`I don't believe this place,' Paula said. 'What do we do next?'

`The barman at the Ship Inn did tell us a developer had bought up the place and renovated it,' Tweed reminded her. 'Our next move is to call on the estate agent, pretend we're house-hunting.'

`So you and I are now Mr and Mrs Gulliver,' Paula decided.

She switched the two rings she wore on to the third finger of her left hand. Newman loosened his trench coat to hide the bulge of his Smith amp; Wesson.

`I'm coming with you. Just in case. I'm your adviser.'

`And I'll keep my eyes open here,' Nield suggested. 'I want to make sure Mordaunt doesn't take off and leave us stranded…'

There was still no sign of life as they strolled down to the fourth cottage on the right. Even the cobbles seemed freshly laid to Tweed. They paused outside the cottage. A board attached to the wall, its paint peeling, carried the legend 'A. Barton. Estate Agent'.

Tweed opened the wrought-iron gate, let Paula walk up the path first. She was about to press the bell when the door was opened and a six-foot-tall, heavily built man with remote eyes and no warmth in his manner spoke to her.

`Yes? What is it? What do you want?'

`Are you Mr Barton?' she enquired.

`That's me.'

`You are an estate agent?'

`Says so on the board up there.'

`Mr and Mrs Gulliver. We are looking for somewhere to live. This village seems ideal. This is our adviser. May we come in?'

`Yes, if you want to, but you're wasting your time.'

She entered a front room sparsely furnished with a trestle table, a fold-up chair behind it on bare floorboards, and several photos, curling up at the edges, displayed in a frame on the wall. Pictures of various properties, some of them clearly cottages at Moor's Landing, all with a red SOLD sticker on them – except for one. She wandered over to the framed board as Tweed and Newman followed her inside.

A burly man, Barton wore an expensive smart grey suit and a striped shirt with a silk tie, and handmade shoes, which contrasted oddly with his stark surroundings. He stood silently as Paula turned round.

`It's really one of the cottages here we'd like to see. I suppose someone is thinking of moving if the price is right? And may we sit down?'

Barton, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, shook his large head. Without any show of enthusiasm he fetched two fold-up canvas chairs leaning against a wall, opened them on the clients' side of the trestle table. As Tweed sat down with Paula, Barton lowered himself carefully into his own canvas seat. Tweed had the impression he hadn't sat in it much and didn't trust it with his bulk. Newman walked over to study the photos.

`You won't get a cottage here for love or money,' Barton informed Paula in his abrasive manner.

`Why not?' Tweed asked quietly.

`Because none are for sale.' Barton glared at Tweed. `That clear enough for you?'

`No, it isn't. My wife has decided she wants to live here. Money is no object. Your job is to sell houses to earn your commission. You seem to have a funny way of going about it.'

I told you,' Barton snapped. 'I know all the owners. Not one will sell. Not for any price.'

`They're all millionaires?' Tweed enquired politely. `They're just settled. Settled! Get it?'

`Then how do you stay in business?' Newman asked as he swung round to stare at the man behind the trestle.

`I do have other properties in other areas. But if it's Moor's Landing you're set on, forget it.'

Paula intervened quickly. She sensed Newman's temper was on a short fuse.

`In that case what about the Brockenhurst property you've got on your board? It looks like a nice house. Belongs to a Mrs Goshawk, I see. Perhaps you could phone her?'

`Not at this time of day. She's always out.'

`Then the best thing is for us to go over there and take a look at it,' Paula persisted. 'I've memorized her address. How do we find Cray's Road?'

`I'll draw you a map. But she'll be out. Is most of the time. Doesn't help to sell a property…'

Two minutes later Paula had folded the sheet of paper Barton had used to draw a map on, stood up, smiled, thanked him for his help, and left. Newman was close behind her as she strolled back down the path and looked at the far end of the village.

An old woman dressed in black was scrubbing her doorstep. It was the only cottage with a badly weathered door and no bright colour on it. She whispered to Newman.

`Bob, detain that awful boor for me. I want to go and have a chat with that woman cleaning her doorstep – with Tweed…'

Newman reacted instantly. He turned back, let Tweed pass him, and buttonholed Barton, standing in his way so he couldn't reach the street.

`Barton, just how long has Mrs Goshawk's house out at Brockenhurst been on the market? We're going to look at it but from the state of your photo that property has been sticking for months…'

Tweed agreed it was a good idea to talk to the old lady since she was the one person who might know something about Moor's Landing. She looked up suspiciously as they walked up her path and used her hand-brush to scrub the stone even more vigorously. Her first words revealed the reason for her suspicion.

`If you've come 'ere to try and get me to sell you can turn round and walk straight back where youse come from. This is my 'ome and they'll carry me out when my time comes.'

`We're nothing to do with that uncouth brute,' Paula reassured her. 'We're trying to find out what's going on here.'

`Dark doin's, no mistake about that. Who are you, then?'

`I'm a Chief Investigator for phoney insurance claims,' Tweed said quickly. 'And this lady is my assistant. I don't quite understand, What dark doin's?'

`I'm Mrs Garnett,' the old lady went on. Her grey hair was tied back in a bun and she continued scrubbing as she talked. 'Know how they got the folk who once owned these cottages out?'

`No, I don't,' said Tweed. 'But I'm interested.'

`That developer offers them all double the price they'd get from an ordinary buyer. Greed took all my friends away.'

`What happened next?' Paula asked.

`Funny business. Every cottage – except mine – done up posh. Spent a fortune they did. Then sold the lot in three days.' She paused in her work to look up with alert eyes. 'I ask you – houses going in three days – all of them. Except mine. I wouldn't sell.'

`What sort of people bought them?' Tweed enquired.

`That's a funny business, too. Professional folk, so I heard. Supposed to work in Southampton. Nearly all men.'

`You mean several men to a cottage?' Tweed coaxed.

`That's right. Two or three in a cottage in some. And three of them share the same woman. That's a secret they don't think I knows. Supposed to be married. I never 'eard of one woman being married to three men. They don't fool me with their trick.'

`What trick was that?' Paula asked.

`When she came back with a different so-called husband she dressed differently, wore a wig. But I could tell,' Mrs Garnett went on vehemently, 'from the way she moved. One woman doesn't fool another with fancy dressin' up.'

`You mentioned professional people working in Southampton,' Tweed recalled. 'How do they get there? I don't see any garages – or do they park.

`Garages are round back at end of street. Old barns converted to take their cars. They can drive off in either direction to Southampton.'

`I'm surprised there's no village store,' Paula remarked.

`Was one. Cottage at top end of the street, near the landing stage. When Mrs Rogers sold out they converted it into a cottage to live in, like the rest.'

`Is the landing stage used much?' Tweed asked casually.

`Not in daylight. None of them 'as boats. But I sleep light. In the middle of the night about every three months a couple of new men arrive and move in to two of the cottages. Those there moves out. Lord knows where. But they comes and goes by the river. There,' she stood up with remarkably agility. 'Step's finished so I'm goin' to make myself a nice cup of tea.'

`Thank you for your information,' Paula said. 'Now do take care of yourself.'

`Got my trusty cudgel. Anyone who tries to move me out ends up with a cracked skull. I own this cottage…'

As they walked back to where Newman was engaging Barton in conversation it appeared an argument was taking place. Barton was pushing past Newman, red in the face.

`No cars? I should have spotted that earlier. So you came down the river, used the landing stage. That is private. I may sue you for trespass.

`Don't talk such tripe,' retorted Nield, who had joined Newman. 'There's nothing to indicate it's private…'

`Bloody blind as a bat, are you? I'll show you,' Barton stormed.

They followed him down the lane. Barton's leather- soled shoes created a drumbeat as he marched down the long catwalk. Newman and Nield were close behind him as Tweed and Paula followed.

`What the devil…?'

Barton was standing on the landing, staring at where the warning notice had been. Tweed noticed Mordaunt was carefully not looking in Barton's direction as he stood up in the dinghy. Paula needled Barton.

`You should put up a notice if it's private property.' `There was a bloody notice…'

`Watch your language, old man. Especially when you're talking to a lady,' Newman suggested amiably.

`Vandals!' Barton was beside himself with fury. 'You don't expect them on the river but they come. Wreck things just for the pleasure of it…'

As he raved on Mordaunt helped Paula aboard the dinghy to the same seat at the prow. Tweed glanced downriver, joined her as Newman and Nield came aboard. Mordaunt started up the engine after releasing the rope tying the craft to the landing stage. They were moving out into midstream when Paula also glanced downriver and stiffened.

The temperature had nosedived, the sky was almost dark as night. And drifting swiftly up from the Solent was a dense freezing fog.

Paula's nerves were on edge but she made a great effort not to show it. The freezing fog – like ice mist – had caught up with them, blotted out both banks. It recalled for her the vigil at Lymington marina when she had waited for Harvey Boyd to return. Something was moving up close behind them.

The fog swirled like dense smoke. She peered back and saw it was only phantom shapes which came and went. At least so they appeared. Tweed sensed her nervousness, squeezed her arm.

`We'll soon be back at Buckler's Hard,' he said quietly.

`But how on earth will Mordaunt find his way up the main channel? We could end up marooned in one of those horrid marshy flats.'

`Seems to know what he's doing…'

The fog trailed clammy fingers over Paula's face. Just as it had done at the marina. She was living the nightmare all over again. Gritting her teeth, she continued to look over her shoulder, waiting for something huge to drive them under the water.

They had been talking in whispers. It was an unconscious reaction to the leaden hush which had fallen on the river with the arrival of the fog. Even the sound of their outboard was muffled as Mordaunt followed the familiar course of the channel. Then she heard a slapping noise of water washing against a hull. A second later a distinct shape loomed up to starboard. Paula's gloved hand clenched the plank seat tightly.

`Just a yacht moored to a buoy,' Tweed assured her.

They passed within a foot of the yacht with its mast a dim silhouette spearing up and vanishing inside the fog. Visibility dropped to zero as they rounded a sweeping bend. The freezing cold was penetrating Paula's windcheater. She turned away from Tweed to lick her lips, dry with fear. Then she leaned her head close to his.

`That water slapping against the yacht's hull – something must have disturbed the water. It's like oil. I wonder if that girl in the dinghy we saw coming down is also on her way back?'

`I expect so,' said Tweed in the same calm tone.

`I'd have thought we'd have reached Buckler's Hard by now.'

`We're nearly there. I remember coming round this steep curve. And the fog is thinning. We'll be safe on terra firma within minutes.'

`Don't tempt fate…'

Lee Holmes steered her small dinghy close to the shore by the boatyard. Brigadier Burgoyne appeared, wearing his driving helmet and goggles, scarf in one hand. As she stepped out he dragged the dinghy ashore up the slope to the hull of the large yacht.

`You took your time,' he snapped. 'I think I can hear them coming back. We've got to be away before they arrive.'

I haven't a lot to report…' she began.

`Then save it until we're well on our way.'

He ran to the shed. So they could leave quickly he had already opened the doors. She ran after him, pulling her sodden scarf off her head, shoving her misted-up glasses into her handbag. He had the engine going as she jumped in beside him. She was shutting the door of the Bentley when he drove off through the dark up the private road, his headlamps undimmed. On the outward journey Lee had remained hidden, huddled on the floor behind the front seats. Burgoyne rapped out his order.

Now, get on with your report.'

`No need to be so bossy. You're not dressing down one of your subalterns.'

`You cut it too damned fine. Get on with the report.'

`They all – except Mordaunt – got off at Moor's Landing and disappeared for ages. Tweed, Paula Grey, and two men I couldn't recognize – except one looked familiar through my glasses. It will come back to me who he is. When they returned Barton was with them, seemed to be in a rage, waving his hands about.'

`How long do you reckon they were there?'

It was dark now, which didn't stop Burgoyne racing along a straight stretch, headlamps blazing. He was anxious to reach the main road from Beaulieu to Brockenhurst before his targets appeared.

`Exactly thirty minutes. I timed them.'

`As long as that? They must have poked around a lot. I don't like it.'

`Then,' Lee continued, brushing her long mane of blonde hair, saw the fog coming upriver so decided I'd better hare back. Tweed and his friends were leaving, anyway. I nearly lost my way coming back up that bloody river.'

Did they see you?' Burgoyne snapped, indifferent to her problems.

`I don't think so. I stayed well back from them.'

`Thirty minutes at Moor's Landing,' Burgoyne repeated, jerking to a brief halt, then roaring round on to the main road. No, I don't like the sound of that at all. Tweed could ruin everything. He'll just have to be discouraged.'

`How?'

`I'll decide that,' he said grimly.

The fog had dispersed by the time Mordaunt brought the dinghy alongside the landing stage at Buckler's Hard. Paula jumped on to it before Mordaunt could offer his hand. To ease the tension out of her legs she left the others behind, crossed the catwalk, turned left along the river path and past the closed shop.

It was almost dark as she stood at the bottom of a wide gravel path leading uphill. On either side was a row of old terrace houses mounting steeply to the distant brow. They stood well back from a spacious grass verge. Mordaunt appeared beside her.

`I'd regard it as a great pleasure – for me – if you'd have lunch with me in London. Here's my card. Leave a message on the answer-phone if I'm out.'

`That's very kind of you. May I think about it?' `Think on…'

Mordaunt refused to accept any payment from Newman, even for the fuel. Thanking him, Newman hurried after the others. Tweed seemed to be in great haste to get away from Buckler's Hard.

`What's the rush?' Newman called over his shoulder as he drove the Mercedes uphill with Paula beside him. 'And Pete will be staying closer to us on the return trip in his Sierra. Doesn't want to lose us in the dark.'

`Stop the car,' Tweed said as they reached the top and turned on to the country road towards Beaulieu. want to listen.'

Newman signalled to Nield, stopped, switched off his engine. He looked at Tweed in his rear-view mirror. Tweed had lowered his window, sat with his head cocked to one side.

I thought so. I can hear that chopper again. Just taken to the air, I would suggest. After picking up whoever was watching us from the west bank with binoculars.'

`Does it matter?'

I advise you to drive very carefully from now on.'