Deadlock

20

'Action at last,' said Pete Nield, sitting in the back of the Mercedes 280E as Newman pulled up, then turned into the car park near the Blakeney waterfront. As he turned off the ignition he had no idea he was close to the spot where Tweed had parked the same car while he waited for the Bomb Disposal team to do its job.

A brisk breeze was blowing off the sea into Norfolk and the village had a deserted look. Harry Butler, seated beside Newman, replied to Nield over his shoulder.

'Patience is what you need a little more of in this job -I've told you before. Newman knows what he's doing.'

'Don't dispute it – but hanging round in King's Lynn for days got on my wick.'

'Sorry about that,' Newman commented, adjusting the field-glasses hanging from a loop round his neck. 'I had to go to Brighton to check up on Dr Portch – that's where he came from before he bought the practice in Cockley Ford. We'll be going there to look around tonight. I'm going along to chat with the skipper of that coaster. Why don't the two of you pop into the bar on the front, have a jar. I want to appear to be on my own…'

The coaster, moored next to the tall silo, was unloading a cargo of soya bean meal. Newman could see faint white dust rising as the dock crane worked. He had been to Blakeney the day before, had learned a lot chatting to the barman in the pub facing the small harbour.

He wore a deerstalker hat, a windcheater, corduroy trousers tucked into rubber knee-length boots. Standard gear for a bird-watcher. The coaster's skipper, a certain Caleb Fox, was leaning against the sea wall, taking a swig from a hip flask. He hastily pocketed it when Newman arrived.

'Gusty sort of day,' Newman remarked. 'What's the weather going to do?'

'Piss down this afternoon. We'll be unloaded by then -God willin'.'

'Bob Newman.' He held out his hand. The skipper took hold with slithery limp fingers. Like shaking hands with a fish. There was the smell of brandy on his breath.

'Caleb Fox,' he said after staring sideways at Newman. Fox. The name suited him. A small, wide-shouldered man, he stooped like a man accustomed to dipping his head aboard ship and his eyes were foxy. 'Them's pretty powerful binoculars,' he observed. 'Mighty expensive, I reckon. The camera, too.'

'You need good equipment for bird-watching. Soya bean meal your main cargo?'

'Sick of the sight of the stuff. Runs a shuttle, we does. Across to Europort, Rotterdam, pick up our ration from one o' the big container jobs comin' up from Africa, then back here.'

'Sounds a bit boring.'

'Bloody borin'. But when you're past fifty and shippin' is in a bad way, you takes what you can get. I used to sail a ten-thousand-ton freighter. Those were the days. Dead and gone, they are.'

'How big is the coaster?'

'Seven hundred tonner.' Fox spat over the wall. 'A pea-boat compared with what I once 'ad. A man needs money, a lot of it to be 'appy in this vale of sorrows.

'You live alone?'

"Ow did you know that?'

Sudden hostility, suspicion. The foxy eyes closed to mere slits, stared at Newman for a few seconds, then looked away.

'I didn't. You just sounded lonely.'

Newman had the impression it was the brandy which was talking, that had he come along earlier Fox would not have said a word. Now he was wondering whether he had talked too much. About what? Fox's right hand reached towards his hip, then withdrew and rested on the wall. Something odd, Newman felt.

A man needs money, a lot of it… Newman could have sworn Fox had brightened up for a few seconds when he uttered the words. The skipper, reassured by Newman's reply, started talking about his favourite topic. Himself.

'You're right, lives on me own. Got a small place at Brancaster. That's along the coast – towards King's Lynn. You look well fixed, Mister, if you don't mind me saying so.'

There was a question behind the statement. Fox darted another sidelong glance at his visitor. Newman replied carefully.

'I'm a writer. I've been lucky. Brings me in a good income.' He changed the subject. 'What's that funny rattling noise?'

Fox pulled at his greasy peaked cap. 'It's the wind shaking the riggin' against the metal mast of that boat over there, the one beached on the sandbank. Rubbish they are, rich men's toys. All fibreglass and aluminium. Not real boats at all.'

'Well, I think I've changed my mind about pushing off across the marshes,' Newman remarked. 'Don't like the look of those clouds coming in.'

Told you, didn't I? Goin' to piss down…'

Newman retraced his steps back to the waterfront pub. Butler and Nield sat at a window table, two glasses of beer in front of them. Newman walked to the bar, ordered a small Scotch, downed it, glanced at the two men and made his way back to the Mercedes.

His two companions came strolling along five minutes later, climbed back into the car. Nield again occupied a rear seat and spoke as Newman turned on the ignition.

'Found out something interesting talking to the landlord. That skipper you were chatting with is a pal of – guess who? Dr Portch from Cockley Ford.'

'I know,' Newman said as he turned out of the car park and left Blakeney Quay behind. 'He told me the same thing yesterday when I came here on my own. Not a popular character, Dr Portch. Except with the skipper of that coaster, Caleb Fox…'

'Why did we come to Blakeney?' asked Harry Butler,

'Because of Tweed's experience up here. There were two places where things happened. Blakeney and Cockley Ford. And that barman told me yesterday the coaster was due in here today from Rotterdam with another cargo of that soya stuff. Also that the skipper knew Dr Portch. Obvious conclusion: have a look at Caleb Fox.'

'And our next move?'

'Visit the other place this evening, Cockley Ford. You and I, Harry, had better get kitted up before we pay the village a call. Denims and windcheaters. We're going in as two SAS types, the couple Tweed invented for protection when he went there.'

'You can play the part,' Butler pointed out. 'You had SAS training when you did that series of articles on them. But what about me?'

Newman glanced at his passenger's sturdy frame, tall build. 'You won't have any trouble looking the part. Box and Cox. I'll be the gabby one, do the talking. You play the silent partner.'

'And where do I come into this?' Nield called out.

'You come into it all right. You'll follow us in Tweed's Cortina parked back at Tuesday Market. Give me one of those compact walkie-talkies you brought, carry another yourself. You park half-way up the side road leading to Cockley Ford. If I call you come like a bat out of hell. Flash that fake warrant card in your wallet. You're police. Special Branch.'

'Sounds as though you're expecting trouble,' Nield commented hopefully.

'I just don't know what Harry and I may be walking into. When Tweed first mentioned Dr Portch the name rang a bell. I checked the newspapers two years ago in the British Museum reading room. Then, as you know, I went to Brighton where Portch came from. I was right. And that Caleb Fox made a mistake.'

'Which was?'

'The sort of mistake Tweed is good at spotting. The absence of something. During our whole conversation he never once mentioned that bomb placed on Paula Grey's doorstep. Funny, that. While I was in that bar the locals were talking about nothing else.'

'And Dr Portch? You said you were right about him,' Nield recalled.

'He could be a two-time murderer – who got away with it in both cases.'

Newman drove back along the coast road – the A149 -towards King's Lynn. Nield, studying the map of Norfolk, pointed out it would be quicker to cut inland via Fakenham.

'I know,' Newman agreed, 'but I want to take a shufti at the place where Caleb Fox hangs out, Brancaster.'

The wind was rising, beating against the side of the Mercedes. A nor'easter coming in off the sea. The cloud bank had blotted out the sky and it was half-dark when the rain began to hammer down. Newman turned off the main highway to the right down a wisp of a road.

A winding road, it stretched across a flat area of sedge-land, wild and desolate. Beyond the sea was a dark belt flecked with white-capped rollers. They hadn't seen a soul since leaving the highway as they arrived at a crude car park, no more than a rectangle of flattened earth. Newman stopped the car, Close to the sea was a large isolated two-storey building. Two men with golf bags over their shoulders ran for shelter.

'While I remember,' Newman said, 'slight change of plan for this evening. Nield, you take my Mercedes – Tweed arrived at Cockley Ford in it that night he had his weird visit there. It might look funny if Butler and I turned up in the same car. So, we'll take the Cortina. Now, raincoats on. Time for us to stretch our legs, Harry. Pete, you stay dry and watch the car.'

'Suits me. You're going to get soaked.'

He was right, too, Newman thought as he walked with Butler towards the building and the sea. The nor'easter had increased in fury, forcing them to push against it as rain drenched down.

'What's this in aid of? Not that I mind a bath,' Butler enquired.

"Trying to find someone I can ask about Caleb Fox. Should be someone who knows inside that building. It's a golf clubhouse…'

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started but the wind continued to buffet them. They reached a board-walk which ran past the clubhouse down a slope to the edge of one of many creeks snaking away to the dark and distant belt.

'Sea's one hell of a long way out,' Butler shouted against the howl of the gale.

'And I should leave it there if I may make a suggestion,' an upper crust voice said.

A tall, distinguished-looking man with a white moustache had appeared round the side of the clubhouse. Wearing a waterproof hat and a dark blue raincoat, he carried a walking stick and his complexion had a weatherbeaten look. He gestured towards the building.

'Got a moment for a chat? We'll be out of the wind in the lee of the clubhouse.'

As they stood together Newman took off his hat and shook it free of some of the rain. The tall man stared hard at him.

'You look uncommonly like Robert Newman, chap who wrote that bestseller novel Kruger: The Computer That Failed.'

'That's right,' Newman admitted reluctantly.

Terrific book. Kept me up all night. Never thought I'd get the chance of thanking you for so much pleasure.'

'Glad you liked it.'

'Meant what I said about not walking out there.' He pointed his stick seawards. 'Look at the notice over there.'

The warning notice reared up close to the board-walk. Don't walk out to wrecks – incoming tide very swift. Newman gazed out beyond the slope which was covered with large pebbles. Dry creeks snaked in and out amid sandbanks, then vanished. It reminded him of Blakeney but here the creek system looked more insidiously complex. Blurred in the distance rose two hump-backed objects, one much further out. The shipwrecks.

'I'm Timms,' the stranger went on. 'Ex-Inspector of Coastguard stations.' He produced his wallet, extracted a card and handed it to Newman. Ronald Timms. Followed by a Brancaster address and phone number. 'If you've ever got a spare half-hour you'd always be welcome to drop in, have a drink.'

'Very good of you.'

Newman slipped the card into his own wallet, made a mental note to throw it away later. Too many cards in his wallet already. Timms went on, again pointing with his stick.

'Those two hulks are magnetic – and dangerous – attractions for children, especially. You walk out towards them and the tide comes in. Behind you. By the time you realize it you're marooned and it's too late. The tide covers all those sandbanks.'

"Thanks for the warning.'

'See that far hulk?' Timms persisted. 'Bit of a mystery. It ran aground one storm-ridden night. I strolled out to have a look-see one day – with my camera. Bit of an amateur photographer. Got to pass the time somehow at my age. I found someone had changed the original name of the vessel. Came up when I'd developed the pictures I'd taken. Fishy business. But by then the insurance had been paid so I left it alone. They don't like you trying to reopen a case once the claim is settled. If it turned out they'd been wrong someone would say they hadn't checked properly in the first instance. Desk wallahs for you.'

'I did want to ask you a question,' Newman said quickly before Timms resumed his monologue. 'I'mlooking for a Captain Caleb Fox who lives in Brancaster. He runs a coaster shuttle between Rotterdam and Blakeney…"

'Rotterdam. Europort. That's something to see. Biggest port in the world. Handles half the freight which keeps Europe going. Food, oil, you name it…"

'Caleb Fox," Newman repeated.

'Never heard of him. Mind you, Brancaster spreads out a bit. Sorry, can't help you…"

'I think we'd better get back to the car,' Newman interjected, looking up at the sky. 'I think another squall is on the way.'

'Well, good to meet you. Don't forget my invitation…'

'Very kind of you. Hope to see again. Goodbye.'

The rain began to pound down again as they made for the car. They ran the rest of the way. The wind was so strong Newman had to heave at the heavy door of the Mercedes to get it open. He flung his raincoat on the rear seat beside Nield and dived behind the wheel as Butler joined him.

'I said you'd get soaked,' Nield told them. 'Was it worth it?'

'Not really. We bumped into an old boy who talks the hind leg off a donkey,' replied Newman.

'Thought he'd never stop,' Butler agreed.

'He's lonely,' Newman said as he started up the engine. 'He made that remark about passing the time somehow. I was worried he'd start talking about my book again. I never know what to say when people do that. Now, straight back to The Duke's Head, a good lunch, a bit of a rest, and we'll be ready for our SAS attack on Cockley Ford -whatever that may hold for us.'

– – Part Two

The Long Pursuit

– – 21

Tweed plunged into furious activity the morning he arrived at Park Crescent. Monica was away with flu, so he put Paula in her place. He decided to tell her everything that had taken place in Switzerland – including his interview with General Lysenko.

Sitting at her own desk – she refused to sit at Monica's – she listened, her thick eyebrows furrowed with concentration. Tweed had warned nothing must be put down on paper. Except the special Moscow phone number Lysenko had given him.

He was relieved to find that Howard was away – also with the flu – and that the PM was visiting the North-East. For the moment he had the show to himself. He handed her the sheet Beck had given him with the details Geneva Forensic had provided of the probable height and weight of the killer of Gaston Blanc.

'Convert those decimals into feet and inches, stones and pounds. I never did like it when we went decimal.'

'One hundred and ninety centimetres,' she read out. 'Weight a hundred and ten kilogrammes. The man is a giant, as Beck said. Will do …'

Take these,' Tweed continued, pulling sheets of paper out of his brief-case and a plastic bag. 'You remember Colonel Romer said the sheets were chemical analyses of the explosive used to blow the vaults in Basle. The bag has debris collected from inside the same vaults. The lot goes urgently to Commander Bellenger of Naval Intelligence. You'll find his number in Monica's red card index box, top right drawer. Here's the key she left in my drawer. Don't tell Bellenger where I got them from – I just want to know if he can tell me the explosive used.'

'Will do…'

'Call this chap, Jacob Rubinstein, gold bullion merchant. Mention Colonel Romer's name. Make an appointment for me to see him today. Tell him I'm Special Branch. Give him my phone number if he wants to call back to check. Tell him fifteen minutes of his time will be enough if he tries to delay the appointment. Oh, ask Bellenger to send a courier to collect that stuff. It's top secret.'

Tweed paused, realizing he'd been firing instructions like a machine-gun. Paula's raven mane was bent over her desk, hand flying across her notebook as she made shorthand notes.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You're new and I'm piling it on a bit.'

'Are you?' She looked up and smiled. 'You've forgotten -I ran my own pottery business. Often I'd have two phone calls on the go at once – a buyer from San Francisco wanting urgent delivery, the Wisbech factory on the other line so I could give immediate information. The Americans like that.'

'Just as long as you can cope…'

She had continued writing in her notebook as he spoke. Now she looked up again. 'I've converted those decimal figures. A giant of a man. Height six foot three, weighs seventeen stone.'

'Doesn't sound like Zarov. I'll call that Moscow number. No, leave it to me. You deal with the other jobs…'

The Moscow girl operator asked him to wait after he'd given her the number. To Tweed's surprise Lysenko came on the line within thirty seconds.

'Something you missed giving me on Zarov,' Tweed told him. 'His height and weight.'

'Let me check the file. That was a bad omission on my part.'

Tweed cupped the mouthpiece with his hand, speaking to Paula. The Bear is friendly. Because he wants something. That is, he wishes to give me the impression he wants something…'

He broke off as Lysenko came back on the line. 'Ready? I have the data. Height one hundred and eighty-three centimetres, weighty seventy-eight kilogrammes. Has there been a development?'

'Absolutely nothing. One thing else I wanted to know. Are your own people still searching for him?'

'Of course. But with no hope of success. I told you, Tweed. The devil knows our organization, the people and places to avoid. I understand you interviewed Yuri Sabarin. You have been active. Was Sabarin a help?'

'He did his best. But it didn't take me any further. Thank you for the data. With the Identikit picture it gives me a more complete picture of Zarov. If he's still alive. I am still very doubtful.'

'We have heard more disturbing rumours – that the Americans are behind the planned catastrophe…'

'Somebody was short of material for a report. That's pure idiocy. Where did the report come from?'

'Paris,' Lysenko said after a brief pause. 'And you will be reporting progress to me?'

'I told you before I work in my own way. You've dropped this in my lap – leave it there. Goodbye.'

Tweed cut the call before Lysenko could reply. Paula was watching him. She hadn't understood a word because they had spoken in Russian. Tweed clasped his hands behind his head, shook it.

'Zarov is a hundred and eighty-three centimetres tall, and weighs seventy-eight kilogrammes. Translate that into English for me.'

She scribbled in her notepad. 'Six feet tall, twelve stone in weight. As opposed to Beck's six foot three and seventeen stone.'

'There you are. Not the same man at all. I thought it was stretching to assume the same killer dealt with Dikoyan, the Armenian driver found in the Bosphorus, plus the couple of UTS corpses dragged out of the Rhine, plus Gaston Blanc. Back to square one.'

'Are you sure?' Paula tapped her pen between her small white teeth. 'Surely Beck's people got these measurements, estimated the killer's likely weight, from the blood-stained coat they found in a locker at Geneva Cornavin.'

'Yes. So?'

She doodled on her pad as she talked. That had to be a pretty audacious, smart and well-organized killer who murdered Blanc on the express. Wouldn't you agree? He must have even been carrying a suitcase – something like that – to shove the blood-stained coat inside while he was still in that lavatory.'

'Agreed,' Tweed said thoughtfully, watching her closely.

'And when he dumped the case with the coat inside that locker he'd know the police would find it sometime. Beck probably found it faster than he anticipated.'

'Go on…'

'We've agreed he's very clever. Clever enough to foresee the Swiss police's forensic experts would come up with an estimate of his height and size – from that coat. So, maybe he wore a coat several sizes too large. Perhaps he was six feet tall, weighed twelve stone. Back on stage, Mr Igor Zarov?'

'I slipped up there.' Tweed gazed at her in admiration. 'I could have done with you in my days at the Yard. You think like a detective.'

'I'd better make my phone calls now. Rubinstein first, then Bellenger.'

Her hand was reaching for the phone when it rang. She spoke briefly, her tone businesslike, then gestured towards Tweed's instrument. 'It's Bob Newman for you.'

'Tweed, a brief report,' Newman said crisply. 'Butler and I are going in to Cockley Ford this evening. I've found out…'

'Where are you calling from?' Tweed broke in quickly.

'A public phone box, of course.' Newman sounded irked. 'You think I've lost my marbles?'

'Sorry, a lot is happening here

'One or two things are happening up here, too. As I was saying, I've found out interesting data on the background of the good Dr Portch. Tell you when I come in.'

'Be careful at Cockley Ford, The place has a peculiar atmosphere. When do I see you?' Tweed asked.

'Tomorrow. Early afternoon at a guess.'

'Good. I want your company on a trip – to Paris. OK?'

'If you say so. 'Bye.'

'Paris?' Paula repeated as she wrote down phone numbers. 'Do I get to know why? Or is that indiscreet?'

'Not at all. I'm flying over to see another of my private contacts. Can't give you his name – even Monica doesn't know. I have a string of them, built up over the years. They expect me to respect their secrecy. I'll be staying at the France et Choiseul, rue St Honore…"

'I reserve two rooms? For you and Bob. For how long?'

'Two days, I think. Details of the hotel are in a file Monica keeps, bottom right-hand drawer. I may then go on to Antwerp – again to meet a contact. I'll phone you when I know.'

He broke off as the phone rang. 'One of those days, I can sense it,' he muttered as Paula answered, then looked at him, hand over mouthpiece.

'A Rene Lasalle of the French DSI wants to talk to you…'

'Tweed here. How are you, you old ruffian?' Tweed asked in English.

'Fine. I'm not sure I'm calling the right person…' In the pause Tweed could almost see Lasalle shrugging his shoulders. '… but it is a delicate matter. I know you will handle with the finesse. ..'

'Rene,' Tweed interjected, 'does it help if I tell you I've been appointed a temporary Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad?'

'You have! Back to your old days. And you are still…'

'I still hold my old position. This is on scrambler?'

'Of course…'

'Hold it!' Tweed pressed a button on his instrument. 'Go ahead, we're both on scrambler.'

'There are growing rumours throughout all France of a major outrage being planned…'

'I know. Look, I happen to be flying to Paris tomorrow – why don't we meet? I'll be at my usual hotel. At least I think so. My new assistant, Paula, who is helping Monica, will call later and confirm the booking.'

'Excellent. We will have much to discuss. But one thing. There is a girl, English, Lara Seagrave…'

'Hold on again, if you don't mind…' Tweed called out to Paula. 'A girl called Lara Seagrave. I've heard that name somewhere. Just briefly.'

'Lara Seagrave. Step-daughter of Lady Windermere. Good background, but wild. Bit of a rebel. Does her own thing. On bad terms with Lady Windermere. Used to appear in the society papers. Balls, parties. But not lately – as far as I know. Gutsy type from her pictures.'

'Bit of a rebel, you said. Drugs and drink?'

'Not Lara. Has her head screwed on…'

Thanks.' He resumed his conversation with Lasalle. 'I was getting information on her. What about Lara?'

'I'll tell you more when you come. You sound busy. I'm having her watched night and day. She's staying at The Ritz. She's mixing – possibly – with the wrong people. Could just be a lead, although I doubt it. See you, my friend. Revoir.'

'And that,' Tweed said as he put down the phone, 'makes a trip to Paris even more important. Meantime, try and set up an appointment with Lady Windermere if she's in London…'

'Eaton Square. If she's at home. I remember reading that in The Tatler. Who are you for this meeting?'

'Same as for Jacob Rubinstein. Special Branch. No mention of Lara.'

'Will do. Still think Zarov is a ghost?'

'Probably, yes. But we'll check a bit more.'