Deadlock

**

Nield had opened a gate leading off the highway, backed the Mercedes into a field, and ten minutes later saw the lights of a car coming from Cockley Ford. He'd spent his time in checking his map of Norfolk and now all the routes from this area were impressed on his mind.

The Vauxhall emerged on to the highway, turned right and moved at speed north along the highway. 'You're headed for Swaffham, matey,' Nield said to himself, keeping well back as he followed. At this speed he guessed the Vauxhall would be keeping on the main highway for some distance. He was right.

At Swaffham the Vauxhall stopped, a man got out, leaving the motor running, went into a pub. Nield nodded to himself. Dr Portch. Fitted the description perfectly. Portch came out carrying a squat bottle, climbed back into his car, took a swig. 'Brandy, I'll bet,' Nield whispered. 'You're all shook up, you are. Could be interesting, this. ..'

Portch followed the highway through the night to Faken-ham. Here he turned on to the B1355. A sports car flashed past Nield, inserted itself between the Mercedes and the Vauxhall. Useful camouflage. The three cars whipped along the winding road, turned west on to the A149. The coast road.

Nield recognized the road from their journey along it from Blakeney that morning. He had an excellent memory for any route when he'd passed over it once. 'You're heading for Brancaster, my friend,' he thought. 'Yes, this could be interesting, very interesting indeed.'

The outskirts of Brancaster was a line of isolated cottages separated from each other by hedges. The sports car overtook as Portch turned into a drive. Nield went on past the drive, found a grass verge, parked, walked back.

He had trouble reading the lopsided sign outside the cottage where Portch had parked. The cottage looked tumbledown, the garden was knee-high in uncut lawn, the paved path a mass of weeds between the stones. He had to use a torch to make out the lettering. Crag Cove.

Lights were on in the front room behind drawn curtains. He walked along the highway past two cottages and went up to the front door of the third. Knocking on the door, he stood well back in case it was a woman who lived alone. It wasn't. The door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a rumpled pullover and uncreased slacks.

'Very sorry to bother you at this time of night,' Nield began, 'but I'm lost. I have to deliver an urgent package to an address in Brancaster. Trouble is the address is smeared. Looks like Crag Cove but I can't read the name.'

'Oh, him.' The man's tone was indifferent, almost hostile. 'Keeps himself to himself, he does. Crag Cove? Three doors up to your left at the end of my path. Seaman type called Caleb Fox. Got it?'

'Yes, indeed, I have got it,' said Nield. 'You have been most helpful.'