By Stealth

1

To Paula's relief, the fog disappeared on the outskirts of Lymington. With the map open on the seat beside her, she drove at speed along the deserted A337 with desolate heath on either side. She welcomed being on her own: it gave her a chance to restore her normal resilience. Concentrating on driving pushed out of her mind the dreadful experience.

Approaching Brockenhurst, she just caught sight of the right-hand turn-off to Beaulieu in time, flashed her indicator, swung on to a twisting country road which was the B3055, leading eventually to the first place of human habitation, Beaulieu.

Walford had warned her there was a long stretch of what he'd called the wilderness – the fringe of the New Forest. In her rear-view mirror she saw the comforting headlights of Newman's Merc. tracking her a short distance behind. Now she had to be sure not to drive past Prevent, the home of Sir Gerald Andover, buried in the woods as Walford had described it.

In the Mercedes Newman maintained the same speed as Paula but was careful to keep a reasonable distance from her. He guessed she might have difficulty finding the house and wanted room for an emergency stop if she pulled up suddenly.

`Was it a good idea to let her drive alone out here after such a shock?' he asked.

`I did it deliberately,' Tweed replied. 'She needs to get her act together as quickly as possible. She'll want to show me she can do just that. And she'll do it much better on her own for half an hour or so.'

`If you say so. I had a look at Boyd in the ambulance.' `And how did you manage that? They don't let just anyone examine a corpse,' Tweed remarked.

`Oh, I said, wouldn't you let his brother see him? They let me inside at once. Note I didn't say I was his brother. They just made the assumption.'

`One of your tricks from your foreign correspondent days. What was your impression? It wasn't a pleasant sight.'

`That a bloody great meat cleaver wielded by a Norse god had sliced away the side of his skull. No ordinary ship could have caused such a frightful clean-cut injury. It would break through the hull first, carrying some of the wreckage with it,' Newman pointed out.

`And Paula didn't hear the sound of any other vessel's engine. Only the chug-chug of Boyd's powerboat – until it stopped for ever. It's a mystery.'

`Another minor mystery is why did you come down to the Passford House Hotel? Very nice place – but you don't take holidays.'

`I had a call from Sir Gerald Andover asking me to come and stay there. He asked me to wait until he contacted me,' Tweed said.

`So you rushed down – and at the same time Paula's driving down to the same place with Boyd. What's going on?'

`I wish I knew. Another mystery.'

Newman reduced speed. The well-surfaced road, more hilly than he'd expected, was twisting and turning round sharp bends. On either side his headlights swept over bare trees, branches reaching up towards the sky like skeletal hands. A lot of oaks, and here and there a copse of dense evergreens. And mist was appearing in the Forest, curling forward between the trunks, masking his windscreen. He started the wipers going and Paula's red lights came up clearer.

`Who is this Sir Gerald Andover?'

`A near genius. For years he was research director on the main board of one of the biggest oil companies. His main job was to predict the future – how the world would develop globally. He foresaw the 1973 oil crisis long before it happened, even sent the PM of the day a report warning him the Arab sheiks would form a cartel and blackmail the West by rocketing the oil price. No one took any notice of him. Then, as you know, it all came true. I know him. Bit of an odd type.'

`Odd in what way?'

`Self-sufficient to an extreme degree. Never suffers fools gladly.'

`I can't stand stupidity myself. Draw me a picture of him.'

As they drove deeper into the Forest the grey mist thickened into a near-fog. Newman set his wipers moving at top speed. The atmosphere was becoming claustrophobic with the fog, the trees closing in to the road's edge. Not a sign of any other traffic.

`Andover is a tall, erect man in his fifties. A trim fair moustache. Slimly built. An authoritative manner. An old China hand.'

`Meaning precisely?' Newman probed.

`That was an exaggeration. He visited Hong Kong a lot but never settled there. Something strange happened about three or four months ago. At the height of his career he resigned overnight from the oil company and other directorships he held. Became a recluse. Out of character. Then this weird phone call to me.'

`What was weird about it?'

`I didn't even recognize his voice to start with – sounded as though he'd aged ten years since I talked to him five months ago in his club. He begged me to come down and see him. Forbade me to call him at his house – which I've not seen so far. I asked him where he was calling from. The answer was strange.'

`Don't keep me in suspense.'

`He said from a local phone box. Why not call me from his house? I didn't ask him. He sounded agitated. Totally unlike the calm, self-controlled man I knew.'

`Give you any hint why he was so desperate to see you?'

`Not a thing. I didn't ask him. He sounded too nervous – as though he wanted to get out of the call box as quickly as he could. Something is very seriously wrong at Prevent.'

`Strange name for a house,' Newman commented.

`Typical of Andover. He reckons his lifetime work is to look into the future, as I explained. Hoping that by warning the people of influence and power he'll help to prevent a coming catastrophe. And, I emphasize, he can think in global terms.'

`What's the domestic situation? If any.'

`Divorced his wife years ago for adultery. He has one daughter, Irene. Must be about eighteen now. They get on as well together as any daughter and father do these days. Lives at Prevent. Mad keen on horse riding.'

`This is the right place for it… Now what is Paula up to?'

Ahead of them, on her own in the Escort, a small car compared with Newman's large Merc., she was feeling the sensation of claustrophobia strongly as her headlights shone through a tunnel of trees and she swung round yet another bend.

Half a minute later she slowed as quickly as she dared to warn Newman. The headlights shone on a tarred drive leading off to the left into the forest. At the entrance two large stone pillars flanked it and high wrought-iron gates stood open. She pulled up, leaned forward to see the name. Leopard's Leap. Wrong house.

She continued staring as Newman pulled up a few yards behind her, dipped his headlights. On top of each stone pillar was perched an extraordinarily lifelike black sculpture of a leopard leaping forward as though springing on its prey.

Paula felt sure she might have missed the entrance to Prevent. A short distance back out of the corner of her eye she'd seen a track leading off the road on the same side. At that point the curve of the road had angled her headlights on to the other side.

Flashing her indicator, she swung slowly through a U-turn until she faced the way she had come. Through the open window she waved her hand for Newman to follow. She drove slowly back and now the headlights showed up a cinder track leading into the trees. No gates but a squat concrete block carried the name-plate in large letters. Prevent. She shuddered, and wondered why.

Tweed had decided at the entrance that he would take over his Escort and drive in with Paula. He asked Newman to wait in the Mercedes, to hide the car as best he could in the undergrowth on the far side of the road facing the entrance.

`Andover may not welcome a delegation,' he explained. 'On the phone he urged me to come alone.'

`He won't object to my presence?' Paula queried.

`At times you're more persuasive than I am in coaxing men to talk. And I had the impression Andover is a frightened man..

Paula found it creepy as Tweed drove the Escort slowly along the winding track out of sight of the road. On both sides massed rhododendron bushes over nine feet high formed a dense wall. They had a straggly look as though they hadn't been trimmed in years. She remarked on the fact to Tweed.

`Doesn't surprise me a bit. Andover is a man without interest in his surroundings.'

`The house confirms that,' she commented.

Rounding another bend the headlights played over a Victorian pile of no great architectural value. It was a large house with three large gables and an air of neglect. Tweed was surprised at the size of the place. He pulled up in front of the main entrance, his wheels crunching on the cinders.

`The front door is wide open,' Paula observed quietly. She took off her right-hand glove, delved into her shoulder-bag, extracted her. 32 Browning automatic. `I don't like the look of this.'

`What made you bring the Browning?'

`Harvey was so insistent there was something menacing on the Solent. I'd hoped I could go with him in the powerboat. I wanted to be ready for trouble. There could be some here.'

`That open door on a night like this is peculiar,' Tweed agreed. `So, we proceed with caution..

`Shall I go round the back?'

He had opened the door of the Escort and he looked at her as the courtesy light shone down on her. It gleamed on her raven-black hair, showed up her fine bone structure, the determined chin. He sensed she was making a great effort to convince him she'd thrown off the shock of her experience at the marina. Another traumatic experience tonight would be a bit much for her.

`No,' he whispered, 'we'll stick together. And we'll try the front entrance. But the minimum of talk.'

He switched off the headlights, got out, locked the car and led the way up two worn stone steps to the massive stone porch, then paused. The wide-open front door was made of heavy wood with a stained-glass window in the upper half. There appeared to be a curtain behind it and he noticed the fish-eye spyglass let into the side of the door. Andover took precautions against undesirable visitors. So why leave the door wide open?

Tweed hauled on the handle of the pull-chain. Somewhere inside the brooding house a bell rang. Beyond the doorway was a large hall spread with a woodblock floor. Tweed hauled the pull-chain and again the distant bell rang. Still no one appeared.

`There's something awfully wrong here,' Paula whispered.

`I can't say I like the look of it too much myself. At this hour.'

`So what next?'

`We'll go into the hall and I'll call out for Andover. But only after we've listened for a short time. Maybe someone has broken in. Better give me the gun.'

`I can use it if I have to. It's mine,' she said firmly.

He shrugged with resignation. She was a crack shot on the range and seemed to have a grip on herself. If he insisted she'd take it as a display of a lack of confidence in her.

`Andover,' he called out as they walked quietly into the deserted hall.

He raised a hand to keep her silent. A wide old- fashioned staircase of oak mounted to a landing at the rear of the hall, then turned back on itself to climb higher. Round the first floor above them ran a railed gallery. Tweed looked up, checked it carefully. So often people forgot the danger could be at the higher level.

The hall smelt of fog which had drifted in through the open door. Paula found the atmosphere, the total lack of movement, the silence, spooky. A light shone through an open door at the rear of the hall, another from an open door to their right. No light illuminated the hall which was oak-panelled and full of disturbing shadows.

`Andover!' Tweed called out louder and waited.

When there was no response he pointed to the rear door for Paula to explore, made a second gesture indicating he would check the right-hand room. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound as they moved in their different directions.

Tweed, standing at the entrance, peered inside the room which had the appearance of a study and library. The illumination came from a large shaded lamp on an ancient desk. He noted the heavy ceiling to floor curtains were closed over the windows, shabby crimson velvet curtains which needed replacing.

Three walls were lined with glass-fronted bookcases and again they ran from ceiling to floor. A wooden ladder was perched against one bookcase and Tweed guessed the top had wheels so the ladder could be slid along. What was wrong with the empty room?

The desktop was neat. A blotter framed in leather, a notepad with a fountain-pen ready for note-taking. The black telephone perched at one corner within a hand's reach of a carver chair behind the desk reminded him of Andover's agonized call from a public phone box. Why?

As he walked slowly across the threadbare Axminster carpet he took off his glasses, began cleaning them on his handkerchief. A white mug with a delft design stood on a place mat on the desk full of brown liquid. He felt it with one hand and the mug was cold. In doing so he dropped his glasses.

Stuffing his handkerchief in his pocket, he stooped to retrieve them, put them on, still crouched. He was straightening up when he caught sight of something at the top of the wire frame inside the large lamp shade. He stared at the small concealed object. Like a small glass eye it was covered with a fine grille. A listening bug.

Tweed began moving with great agility. Picking up the telephone receiver, he unscrewed the speaking end. Inside was another listening bug. It was the most advanced type and voice-activated. He searched the whole room, knowing now where to look.

Standing on a chair after lighting the central chandelier, he found a third of the devices cunningly secreted among the glass pendants. He replaced the chair, walked over to the ladder, climbed it until he could look along the rail. Nothing.

He climbed down quickly, lifted the ladder, moved it cautiously towards the door, then more swiftly when he found the wheels were well oiled, made hardly a sound. The ladder slid along the rail and was then stopped by some obstruction close to the door. Normal with such ladders.

Tweed shinned up to the top. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling illuminated the gleaming rail. Secreted behind the block of wood acting as a stop was another bug of the same sophisticated type. Tweed's expression was grim as he climbed down and moved the ladder back to its original position. The whole place was bugged. Surely Andover must have spotted the device beneath the desk lamp? He heard a slight movement, swung round and froze. Paula was standing at the door entrance. Her facial muscles were taut, her whole stance tense.

But what particularly caught his attention was the Browning. She was holding the gun with both hands, muzzle pointed at the floor, and ready for instant firing. What the devil had she found?

Earlier Paula had walked slowly towards the lighted doorway at the back of the hall. When she got close she stopped and listened for any sound of life. The dreadful silence which reminded her of the vigil at the marina filled the old house. Made worse, more nerve-wrackingly atmospheric by the smell of the fog which had penetrated the icy cold which was as raw as it had been outside.

A very old-fashioned radiator, ugly with its separate sections, stood by the hall wall. She felt it. Barely warm How could Andover stand living in a morgue like this?

She peered into the room and the atmosphere did not get any better. She was looking into a Victorian kitchen with a stone-flagged floor. A large and ancient kitchen range stood inside a massive alcove. It must have been there since some Victorian built this museum. She took two or three paces inside the depressing room. The cold stone flags muffled her footsteps.

The only concession to modernity was the fluorescent strip slung from the ceiling which illuminated the room clearly. That and a large chest freezer alongside a new fridge. A scrubbed wooden table occupied the centre of the stark room. Paula frowned.

On the table were several plates. One contained a loaf with several slices cut. Another had a chunk of Cheddar cheese. A butter dish of chinaware held a rectangle of butter, the cover lying beside it. The bread knife which had sliced the loaf also lay on the table.

Everything suggested the owner had just prepared himself a Spartan supper and had been interrupted before eating it. Facing her and beyond the table were windows screened with ragged net curtains, half covered with a heavy white curtain in need of a visit to the laundry.

She opened cupboards fixed to the wall, checking their contents. Next she opened a door in the wall and found herself staring into a large walk-in pantry with a tiled floor. The shelves – like the wall cupboards – were well stocked. She noticed something which contrasted with the primitive equipment: someone, presumably Andover, had arranged the items so the most recent sell-by dates were at the front.

She opened the large fridge and again it was amply stocked. About to leave the kitchen, she paused, staring at the big chest freezer. Might as well check everything. She took hold of the lid, raised it, nearly dropped it.

Don't faint, for God's sake, she told herself. Again there was a good stock of provisions. But on top of them was a deep plastic container about two feet wide and without a lid. Inside the container was a tumble of ice cubes. And below the first layer – showing so clearly through the ice – was a human right arm severed at the elbow, a bloodstained bandage covering the stump, a woman's hand stretched out, still attached, with an emerald ring on the third finger of the hand.

She stood in the doorway to the library, holding the Browning in both hands, prepared to fire point-blank at any intruder, at whoever had committed this barbaric act.

Tweed put a finger to his lips, frowning to warn her not to speak. He walked over to her, grasping her arm, led her to the desk, showed her the bugged lamp. With a waving gesture he indicated that there were more of them everywhere.

She nodded mechanically, then it was her turn to take Tweed by the arm, holding the automatic in her right hand. Like a sleepwalker she guided him to the kitchen, raised the lid of the freezer chest. He blinked once, leaned forward briefly to examine the severed limb, closed the lid. Holding his arm again, she propelled him across the hall and out beyond the front porch before she warned him.

The butcher is still here. Through the kitchen window I saw someone move in the back garden…'