By Stealth

9

Newman was heeding Tweed's warning, driving slowly down the steep winding hill close to the approaches to Beaulieu. His headlights showed up a road sign.

`Bunker's Hill,' said Paula, stifling a yawn. 'They got the name right.'

Tweed didn't take in what she'd said. Sitting in the left-hand seat he had his window lowered a few inches as Newman negotiated the dangerous turn, moving up another hill along the B3054 away from Beaulieu. Tweed again had his head cocked sideways, listening.

`Can't we shut that window?' pleaded Paula. 'Even with the heaters on it's freezing.'

`No, we can't. I sense danger. Please keep quiet…'

Paula sighed. Zipping her windcheater up to the collar, she closed her eyes, rested her head back, and went to sleep. Sitting next to Newman, the icy breeze played on her neck but she didn't notice it any more.

Ahead, their lights illuminated the lonely, hedge-lined road. They hadn't seen another vehicle since leaving Buckler's Hard. November, Newman was thinking. All the tourists gone. A heavy frost was forming. From the back of the car a hand reached over, shook Paula by the shoulder. She opened her eyes, blinked.

`What the hell is it now?'

You must stay awake, alert,' Tweed called out. `Thanks a lot.' Wearily she picked up the map. 'Where are we now?'

`We're approaching Hatchet Gate. It's just a handful of houses. If you remember, on the way out we passed that sheet of water by the roadside on our right – Hatchet Pond. Although it's quite large and more like a small lake.'

`Why did you wake me up?' Paula asked, studying the map.

`Because I can hear that chopper coming closer. It seems to be heading straight for us.'

`Just a chopper,' Paula commented. 'Incidentally, I see from the map we could take the left fork by Hatchet Pond and go back to Passford House via Boldre. It's a more direct route.'

`We'll try it then,' said Newman.

`It takes us across Beaulieu Heath,' Paula went on. 'I do remember that on the outward trip. It's very level and looks like a blasted heath, to quote Shakespeare, I think. Easier driving.'

That was when she heard what Tweed's acute ears had picked up. The steady egg-beater chug-chug of a helicopter. It sounded as though it was behind them and losing altitude rapidly. Worried, she woke up quickly. The chug-chug was a roar and now it sounded to be just above the roof of the car.

`What the devil is he playing at?' Newman snapped. `I don't think he's playing,' Tweed warned.

Newman rammed his foot down on the accelerator, swerved off the main road on to the left fork. As he did so the undercarriage of the chopper appeared just ahead of them. Paula stiffened. The damned thing was flying barely twenty feet above them.

Newman had just completed his swerve, was straightening up to drive along the road across the desolate moorland which showed up in his headlights. He also saw the so-called pond alongside the road to his right, stretching away for some distance. He was still moving fast, trying to out-race the crazy pilot.

`Brace yourselves…'

It was the only warning he had time to shout. Paula pressed her back into the seat, her feet against the front of the car. In the back Tweed took similar precautions, grabbing hold of the overhead handle. Newman braked furiously, bringing the Mercedes to a teeth-rattling emergency stop. He was jerked forward but held on to the wheel.

The chopper had dropped a projectile which hit the road in front of them and burst. By the lakeside another lake had spread – covering a large area of the road surface from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlights a dense dark glutinous liquid gleamed with a sinister reflection.

`Oil,' Newman said, releasing his seat-belt. 'If we'd hit that at the speed I was moving at we'd have ended up in Hatchet Pond. And we had heavy rain a few days back, so it's probably deep..

Behind them Nield, who had been driving at a proper distance from them, slowed, stopped, leapt out of his car. He hoisted the Walther he was gripping with two hands to aim at the helicopter, then lowered it without firing. All the passengers in the Mercedes walked towards him.

`No good,' Nield told them. 'It was out of range. You could have drowned.'

`I'm sure that was the idea,' Tweed agreed mildly.

`I'm going over to that house,' Newman said. 'Someone should inform the police about the mess in the road – or the wrong people could have a fatal accident…'

He returned quickly, carrying an illuminated hurricane lamp. By his side walked an old stooped man with a bushy moustache, carrying another lamp.

`We were lucky,' Newman called out. 'And Mr Harmer here is going to call the police when we've got these warning lamps in position.'

`I'll take mine other side of the slick,' Harmer said.

He walked on the grass verge, well clear of the seeping oil, placed his lamp on the far side of the oil lake. Newman had backed his car and placed his own lamp as the old boy returned.

`Spillage from some oil truck, I suppose,' Newman remarked before the others could speak.

`Come past my 'ouse like express trains,' grumbled Harmer. 'Where are you bound for? You won't get past that.'

`Brockenhurst,' Newman said promptly.

`Then you was goin' the wrong way. Road across moor leads to Boldre and Lymington. Back a bit more and then take this road through Forest. Now, I'd better get home, make that phone call to police. Drive carefully..

Nobody said anything as Newman started up his engine, reversed a few feet, drove back the way they had come along the B3055. Tweed realized they were experiencing delayed shock: reaction had set in. He was the first to break the silence and avoided referring directly to the attack.

`One advantage of this route is we can see who – if anyone – is at home in those houses we visited.'

`I suppose that's the result of your idea that on the way out we crawled past,' Newman told him. 'The chopper.'

`We don't know that,' Tweed replied. 'But the enemy has committed two tactical errors. First, the attempt to kill Paula and me with the concrete mixer. Now this fresh attempt on our lives. I find it rather satisfying.'

`That's one way of looking at it,' Newman responded with heavy irony. 'What enemy?'

`I've no idea. But at least we know there is one.'

There was another spell of silence as they came close to The Last Haven, Fanshawe's residence. The Swedish- style house was a blaze of lights. Newman drove on slowly. Passing Leopard's Leap, Burgoyne's luxurious home, they saw a faint glimmer of lights beyond the shrubberies. Newman continued driving at low speed.

They reached the entrance to Prevent. Tweed was expecting darkness.

Instead he saw two patrol cars parked in the drive and behind the straggle of shrubbery the Victorian house was ablaze with lights.

`Stop!' he called out. 'Something's happened…'

A few hours earlier the same day two men in their twenties had anchored their small yacht offshore about midway between the mouths of the rivers Beaulieu and Lymington. It was a clear cold day on the Solent and before any sign of the freezing fog had appeared.

George Day and Charlie Neal worked in a stockbroker's office in London. But both men lived for their fishing trips aboard the yacht. A strong breeze was blowing up as they sat with their fishing rods, saying little, staring across the water.

`Time we started getting back to Lymington,' Charlie said reluctantly after checking his watch. 'And a fog was forecast for this evening.'

`Not yet,' George protested, 'I think I've caught something big…'

He began to reel in his line but his catch seemed to be carried towards the hull of the yacht by the current. George stopped reeling in, puzzled by the feel of what his hook was snagged in. He leaned forward. It was coming up from the stern, drifting along the side of their vessel. He waited, leaned further forward to get a closer view.

`Oh, my God!' he gasped. 'Look!'

`What is it?' Charlie chaffed him. 'Bit of driftwood? You and your big catch…'

He stopped in mid-sentence as the floating body slid under where they peered over. Charlie was the first to react. He reached down, grabbed, found he was holding a handful of dark hair. George was helping him now.

Leaning over together, they hauled the corpse aboard. White-faced, they stared at their catch as water ran over the deck. Charlie was the first to speak in a hoarse voice.

`Jesus! It's a girl. And she's lost an arm. Dear God! There's a blood-soaked bandage coming loose. It's horrible.'

`We'd better get straight back to the marina,' said Charlie. 'She can't be much over twenty, if that. Let's find something to cover her up. I can't stare at that while we're heading back. And I don't understand that bandage. Come on, let's get moving. This is something for the police. And you won't get me fishing here again.'