The Greek Key

15

The following morning Paula was walking down the old oak staircase when Nield caught up with her. Both had breakfasted with Tweed. Paula had gone to her room to fetch her outdoor clothes, leaving Tweed to linger over his coffee in the dining room.

'I'm off to Minehead to fix the Mercedes,' Nield told her. 'You look thoughtful.'

'It's Tweed. He's worried. He enquired for Partridge before we had breakfast. The manager told him Partridge had early breakfast and had gone off to the stables. He's going to ride over Exmoor again. Tweed wishes he'd leave it alone – or cooperate with us.'

'Independent chap, our Mr Partridge. And, like Tweed said, he's obsessed with a forty-year-old murder. You can't reason with an obsession.'

'I suppose you're right…'

She half-opened the door to the dining room, then stopped, paused, and closed it again quietly. Checking the belt of her raincoat, she glanced up at Nield from under her thick eyebrows.

'She doesn't waste much time. I thought she was a manhunter.'

'Who?'

'You'll never guess who's sitting at Tweed's table. Jill, Reams' ravishing blonde wife. She asked Tweed where he was staying just before we left Woodside House.'

'Tweed will handle her, maybe extract some information.'

'You could be right.' She hesitated. 'Do you mind if I come with you to Minehead, Pete? I can leave a note tor Tweed.'

'I'd welcome the company…'

Tweed had been sitting quietly, sipping his coffee, sorting out in his mind what he had learned, when Jill Kearns walked into the dining room. Slipping off her suede gloves and her camelhair coat, she'd perched in the chair opposite him.

'I hope I'm not too early for you. Stuart – my husband – went off riding on the moor so it seemed an ideal opportunity to pop over and see you.'

She wore a tight-fitting powder-blue sweater which showed off her well-rounded breasts and had a polo-necked collar. Using both elegant hands she threw her shoulder-length hair over her shoulders, inserted a cigarette in the ivory holder, pausing before she lit it.

'Do you mind? My smoking while you breakfast?'

'Not at all. I'm only drinking coffee.'

'And there's no one else about, so it's an ideal chance for us to get to know each other better.'

'As you say…'

Tweed smiled to encourage her. She had excellent bone structure, a well-shaped nose, a full-lipped mouth painted with bright red lipstick. Her eyes were a startling blue beneath blonde arched eyebrows. She radiated animation and he guessed her age at something over thirty. About half Reams' age. And very sexy.

'Let me tell you something about myself,' she began in the soft, husky voice he remembered well from the previous evening. 'My father was a squadron leader with the RAF in the Mid-East during the war. Stayed on afterwards as an adviser to the Egyptian Government. I was actually born in Cairo.' She cocked her head on one side, staring straight at him. 'Is this all a frightful bore? It must be…'

'On the contrary, I'm always interested in the background of a beautiful woman.' She inclined her head, smiled impishly as she acknowledged the compliment. 'Please go on.'

'My mother was Clementine Hamilton. Born in Dublin

'That name rings a bell.' He waited.

'My brother, David Hamilton, is a Member of Parliament. I was born late. My mother was forty.'

'Was? You mean…'

'Both my mother and father are dead. A car crash. They were in a pile-up on the M25…'She hurried on as Tweed began to say something. 'It's all right. It was quite a few years ago. Then I married Stuart – or he married me might be more accurate. His first wife died in a swimming accident. You'll have noticed the difference in age between my husband and myself. I found the younger men callow, quite boring. I didn't know Stuart at all well. He's very handsome – but looks aren't everything.'

'I suppose not,' Tweed commented cautiously.

She reached across the table with her right hand and placed it over his. Her hand was warm, the fingers supple as they entwined Tweed's.

'I need an ally, a confidant, someone I can trust…'

'I'm afraid I might not fit the role,' he began.

'Someone right outside this tight social circle on Exmoor. Wait,' she urged as he opened his mouth. 'Please, let me finish. I am becoming frightened. Something is wrong. Help me. Please.'

She released his hand but her eyes held his. Blue? More like lapis lazuli. For a moment Tweed was aware of himself standing mentally away from the table, observing his own reactions. The woman was getting to him, exercising all her charm, exerting an almost hypnotic effect.

He drank more coffee, gazed at the base of the inside of the cup. His brain began to tick over again. He chose his words carefully.

'What are you frightened of?'

'The atmosphere. As though something awful is about to happen.' She stubbed her cigarette, fitted a fresh one into the holder, lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. Tweed reached across to the next table, put a clean cup and saucer in front of her, poured coffee from the pot. She said, 'No, thank you,' when he offered cream and drank half the cup of steaming black coffee. 'Thank you, Tweed. I needed that.' He sensed they were already on intimate terms as he asked the question.

'I'm afraid I don't understand yet – what atmosphere?'

'The moor, for one thing. Being shut up in Woodside at night – cut off from the world by high walls. Like being in prison. My only companion. Wolf, my dog.'

'And for another thing, Mrs Reams?'

'Jill. Please call me Jill. Then there are Stuart's strange friends. Dr Robson and that Colonel Barrymore. Do you know they were in the same Army unit all those years ago? Now they still seem to be in the unit. They meet twice every week. Once here for dinner. On Saturdays. Then for lunch at The Royal Oak in Winsford each Wednesday.'

Today is Wednesday…'

'I know. Which is why Stuart won't be back until late this afternoon at the earliest. So I'm safe. Driving over here in the hope of seeing you. And, Tweed…' She leaned close to him and he caught the faintest whiff of perfume. Something expensive. His mind felt dazed. They'll all be at The Royal Oak,' she went on in her soft, soothing voice. 'And the weird thing is the colonel -Barrymore – still acts as though he's in command of them. He's creepy. The way he looks at my legs sometimes. I know what he's thinking.'

'Listen to me,' Tweed began briskly. 'Nothing you've said so far explains why you think something awful – that was the word you used – is going to happen.'

'They've all become so guarded – they seem to have closed ranks against some terrible force they fear is coming. Stuart has those dangerous mantraps concealed all round the house…'

'Mantraps?'

'Oh, yes.' She held the holder by the tip and waved it with an elegant gesture. 'He says they're to keep out vermin. I don't believe a word of it. The high walls would do that. Those gates are always kept closed. Stuart stays up half the night, pacing in his study, i can hear him as I lie awake. Now, do you see why I need a friend, an ally?'

'Why choose me? You have your brother David…'

'We're not close. He's very busy. I once tried to talk with him and he said it was all imaginings – that I should have married a younger man. We had a bit of a row after that.'

'I still say why me?'

'You're Special Branch.' She paused, her lips parted in a warm smile. 'It's more than that. The moment I saw you I felt that I could trust you. Are you going to turn me down flat?'

'I didn't say that. Can't you get away from Exmoor for a while? Spend a little time with a friend. Say in London?'

'Stuart wouldn't stand for it. He expects me to stay at Woodside. I'm his wife…'

'So talk to him about it – as you have to me…'

She shook her head. Her mass of blonde hair swirled in waves. Tweed wondered what it would be like to run his hand through that jungle of blondeness… His mouth tightened. Madness. 'I want you to remember one thing, Tweed. Never get mixed up with any woman connected with a case you're working on. That is the road to certain disaster. His mentor when he'd first joined the Yard.

'I can't,' she said vehemently. 'He's closed up inside himself. He always was too self-contained. I realized that after we were married. Too late. Can I come to you if things get worse?'

'If I'm still in Somerset. Why are these three men living so close together? Your husband, Robson and Barrymore.'

'Robson is a doctor. He came out of the Army at the end of the war. They kept in touch. When Stuart and Barrymore retired from the Service Robson helped them find homes. I didn't know any of this until after I was married. I never did like such a peculiar set-up. I'd better go now.'

Tweed stood up promptly, checked his watch. 'Actually, I have an appointment. I can't promise you anything…'

She slipped on her coat, left it open, stretching her breasts as she threw back her golden hair over the collar. Walking quickly round the table, she hugged him with both arms, pressed her body close to his and kissed him.

'It's early days for you and me,' she said.

Then she was gone.

The phone was ringing when Tweed returned to his room. He ran, knowing the ringing would stop as he reached for the receiver. He lifted it, said 'Hello.' The manager answered, said there was a call for him.

'That you, Tweed?'

Partridge's voice. Sounded as though he'd been hurrying before he used the phone.

'Yes, Sam.' A click, which told him the manager had put down his instrument. 'I think it's all right to speak now. Where are you?'

'Winsford. You take the road out of Dunster where you met me on horseback. Continue on until you come to a signpost on the right. I'll meet you at The Royal Oak Inn for lunch. 12.30 suit you?'

'I'll be there. Stay off the moor, Sam. We'll cooperate. I can tell you something about Masterson…'

'Really?' Still sounded in a rush. 'One thing you should know. Antikhana. You know where that is? What happened there a long time ago?'

'I'm with you.' Partridge was exercising caution, not trusting the phone. 'Go on…'

'I didn't like the look of Selim, the Sudanese on duty the evening it happened. Humble had questioned him. Superficially. I put him through the wringer. He was hiding something. No doubt about it. Selim vanished shortly afterwards. I think someone used a carrot and stick. The carrot, money. The stick, fear. Never seen again. Rumoured he'd gone back to Khartoum. My bet is he ended up floating down the Nile. Must go now…'

'Stay off the moor,' Tweed repeated.

'See you for lunch…'

The connection was broken. Tweed replaced the receiver slowly. He felt very unhappy about the call. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced the large room. Later he went out into the garden for some fresh air. He stood on a neat lawn, looking at the old castle which perched above the small town at the other end of the High Street. Beyond the wall at the end of the garden green fields stretched away. An atmosphere of pure peace. And the last thing he was experiencing was peace of mind.

Tweed checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes to twelve. He had studied his map of Exmoor, obtained from a newsagent down the High Street. He calculated thirty minutes would be ample time to drive to Winsford. He would give Paula and Nield until noon to get back from Minehead; if they didn't arrive he would leave a note and drive there alone. Someone tapped softly on his door.

'We were quick,' Paula told him as she entered the room followed by Nield. 'Both windows have been replaced.'

'That was quick.'

'I found a Mercedes dealer,' Nield explained. 'With a garage next door. I tipped them well before they started. Four men worked on the job. We're off to Watchet now?'

'No. Something came up…'

'She certainly did,' Paula commented, teasing him. 'You've come into close combat with the enemy, I see.'

She reached for Tweed's right shoulder, took something between her fingers off his blue bird's-eye suit and held it up. A long blonde hair. 'Good job we didn't get back earlier.'

'Sit,' Tweed commanded. He was irked by his carelessness. He'd wiped his mouth clean of Jill Reams' lipstick. He should have checked more thoroughly in the mirror. 'I have a lot to tell – and not much time to tell it. We have to be in Winsford to meet Partridge at 12.30 …'

He repeated a concise account of his encounter with Jill Reams; he had total recall for conversations. Paula and Nield sat and listened while he then went on and told them about the telephone call from Partridge.

'And now you're up to date,' he concluded.

'She doesn't waste much time,' Paula remarked, then clapped her hand to her mouth. 'Sorry, that was pretty catty. She sounds like a very frightened woman. But frightened of what exactly?'

'Or a first-rate actress,' Tweed pointed out. 'Sent by Kearns to probe me, find out what I'm really up to.'

'My own thought,' Nield interjected. 'And why should we assume it was Kearns who sent her? If she's having an affair with one of the other two – Barrymore or Robson?'

'You are a couple of cynics,' Paula observed.

'Pete could be right,' Tweed said. 'Someone may have sent her on a fishing expedition.'

'But what was your real impression?' Paula demanded, leaning forward, staring hard at Tweed.

'Not enough data yet. I'm in a neutral zone. And it's time we set off for Winsford. Same procedure, Pete. Paula comes with me in the Merc. You follow in the Cortina. When we get to The Royal Oak, sit at a separate table. You're not with us. Let's move…'

'It's Wednesday,' Paula said suddenly. 'That's the day those three – Barrymore, etc., have lunch at The Royal Oak.'

'And that had occurred to me when Partridge suggested meeting me there. No coincidence I'm sure. Sam knows what he's doing. So, when we arrive we don't recognize him unless he comes up to us. It's his game. Let him play it his way.'

Tweed had taken the right-hand turn off the main road to Dulverton. following the signpost to Winsford. The day was overcast and chilly, the winding road ahead deserted. Paula sat beside Tweed, gazing at the huge brown sweeping ridges of Exmoor towering in the distance.

'Look.' she said, 'it's coming back.'

Tweed glanced to his right. Along the high edge of the ridges a wave curled like a surf-crested sea. The mist crept down, blotting out the upper slopes of the moor, advancing remorselessly. Paula shivered. There was something sinister the way the grey vapour swallowed up the moor.

'I hope to God Partridge has reached Winsford,' Tweed remarked. 'Imagine getting lost in that stuff.'

'You would get lost then?'

'Well, it depends. I guess by now he knows Exmoor pretty well. The amount of time he seems to have spent roaming over it. He probably knows which gulches lead down into Winsford. I just don't like the idea of him being up there at all. Let's hope we find him at The Royal Oak, sitting with a pint in front of him. Then I'll feel better.'

Astride his horse Partridge spotted the first wraiths of mist higher up, wraiths which merged into a solid wave of grey as it rolled towards him. Time to head down for Winsford. Turning his horse, he was about to ride down a gully which would take him on to the main road when he saw the second horse.

It stood riderless, reins draped, head down as it nuzzled tufts of grass. The rider lay sprawled on the ground, face down, his head resting on a boulder. His riding cap was askew, tilted no doubt when the animal had thrown him. Or had he been taken ill, fallen from the horse, his head striking the iron-hard boulder?

Partridge gave a quick glance at the mist which was close now. Dismounting, he strode towards the stricken man. It would be the devil of a job getting him down to Winsford. He'd have to try and fold the unconscious man over his own horse. If he was still alive…

The thought made him hurry. At the very least he could have cracked his skull – hitting that boulder. Granite. The hardest of rocks. The mist was floating over the sprawled figure when he reached it. The dampness felt cold on his face. He stood astride the figure, stooped to examine it further…

You bloody fool! Suddenly Partridge's instinct for danger flared. Reins draped… No one falling from a horse had time to do that. He was straightening up when the figure came to life. Mist swirled round Partridge's head as hands like a vice gripped his ankles, toppled him face down. He fell heavily, was winded. He ignored the shock. Started to lift himself on his elbows, to whip over and over. He was seconds too late. He felt a dull ache under his left shoulder blade as the knife was driven home. Then he plunged into a bottomless pit of darkness.

'What a lovely-looking place,' said Paula.

They were approaching The Royal Oak after driving past several thatched cottages. The ancient inn had a steep brown thatched roof. The thatch curved round arched windows close to the inn's sign, a painting of an oak tree. Several cars were parked outside.

Winsford was a sprawling village located at a point where several roads met. It nestled snugly below hilly green fields and as they entered the place Paula saw stately evergreen trees shaped like pepperpots. An oasis of civilization amid the grim unseen moor which loomed behind the mist.

'We'll go inside, get a bite to eat,' Tweed said as he parked the car. In his wing mirror he saw Nield's Cortina arrive and stop on the other side of a small green.

Outside, The Royal Oak was freshly painted, its walls a beige colour. Must have stood there for hundreds of years, Tweed thought as he locked the car and walked with Paula. She pulled up her raincoat collar: there was a chill in the air.

Inside, the large, low-ceilinged room stretched away into separate sections with wide openings leading from one to another. The bar was crowded and behind it a giant of a man in an open-necked shirt served drinks and joked with his customers. Mostly locals, Tweed guessed. A log fire crackled and there was an air of animation.

'Where do they all come from?' Paula whispered.

'I expect they ride or drive in from miles around. You've seen some of the lonely places people live in this part of the world.'

'No sign of Partridge,' she whispered again.

'He'll be along. He's a punctual chap…'

She gripped his arm..'Someone else has arrived.'

Reams strode in as though on parade. Clad in riding gear- pale grey jodhpurs thrust into boots which gleamed, a drab windcheater – he waved his riding crop at the barman. 'What is it today?'

'Hello, sir. Good to see you again. How about a nice chicken and mushroom pie? And your usual double Scotch?'

That'll do…'

'Here's your drink. I'll send over the food. We've kept your table.'

Paula grabbed Tweed's arm again. 'The clan is gathering.'

Oliver Robson, also dressed in riding gear, but scruffily dressed compared with the CSM, appeared, smiling, exchanging words with several people. The barman spotted him at once, called out again over the heads of the crowd.

'Good morning, Doctor. Don't think you got that tan on the moor. Not this year. Nice to see you back…'

He repeated the menu and Robson nodded amiably, said he'd have a glass of white wine. His manner was tentative, Paula was thinking. Like a man who was shy. He took the glass and sat down next to Kearns who sat upright, looking everywhere except in the direction of Tweed and Paula. The two men were sitting at a window table where a third chair remained empty.

'Grab that table,' Tweed advised. 'You're hungry?'

The chicken and mushroom pie smells good,' she replied as a serving woman passed them with a tray. 'And a glass of the white wine. The third member of the club is joining them…'

She sat down at a small round table for two after draping her raincoat over the other chair. Barrymore, also wearing riding gear, had stalked in, his manner stiff. The barman greeted him as 'Colonel' and Barrymore nodded when offered food. He took the chair between Kearns and Robson without saying anything and stared around. Like the chairman of the bloody board, Paula thought.

Tweed eased his way to the bar, gave his orders, waited while the wine was poured. Something made him glance over his shoulder. Barrymore had moved quickly. He was standing over Paula, a hand on her shoulder as he spoke. Paula gazed up at him, her expression cold, distant.

Turning back to the bar, Tweed paid the bill. Picking up the two glasses he edged his way out of the crowd in time to see Barrymore sitting down again at his own table. Paula's flawless complexion was slightly flushed. He sensed annoyance.

'You have an admirer,' he teased as he seated himself.

'Saucy swine. He had the nerve to invite me over to Quarme Manor. For afternoon tea, and maybe a drink, he said.'

'I'm sure you coped…'

'I told him he could phone me at The Luttrell Arms sometime. They serve tea there.' She paused, drank some wine. 'If you think I might get something out of him I'm quite happy to play along.'

'No! On no account are you to be alone with that man. On the other hand, if he does call you at Dunster, take your own decision. But only meet him in a public place. He's still staring at you.'

'I know. Staring at my legs. I was right. He reminds me of a satyr. And Pete is doing his stuff.'

Nield had perched himself on a stool close to the table where the three men sat. He was drinking a half pint of beer, gazing across the room.

'He identified them quickly,' Paula remarked.

'I gave him a verbal description of them. He has sharp hearing. Even with all this babble going on he'll be able to tell us what they were talking about.' Tweed checked his watch. 'Partridge is late. Very out of character.'

'The mist may have delayed him…'

'Not like him, not like him at all.'

They had finished their chicken and mushroom pies, eaten some of the inn's excellent French bread, when the commotion started outside. Voices raised, the sound of running feet. Someone shouting. Tweed stood up.

'Back in a minute. I'll just see what's going on…'

'You look grim.' She spoke softly. The babble inside the pub was suddenly hushed. People stared out of the windows. Tweed slipped into the street, throwing on his coat as he walked. He paused to get his bearings. Beyond the small green was parked a Land Rover. A police car. its blue light whirling, was close to it. Uniformed policemen were gently pushing back the gathering crowd. Tweed took his card from his pocket, walked across the green. The grass was soggy underfoot. A uniformed inspector held up his hand.

'Please keep back, sir.'

Tweed, his eyes on the long sheath of folded canvas in the back of the Land Rover, showed the card. The inspector, a short and burly man. took the card, stared at it, compared the photograph with its owner, handed it back.

'Special Branch? We don't see much of you in this part of the world. I'm Inspector Farthing.'

'I may be able to help. What is inside that canvas bundle?'

'Something rather shocking. Brought down from the moor by the chap over there with the corduroy cap. A local. Lock. Goes shooting rabbits on the moor. He found the body inside a rock cleft. Pure luck. Rabbit he'd just shot fell inside the cleft. Nothing in the way of identification. No wallet. No letters.'

'Can I have a look?'

'Of course. I hope you have a strong stomach, sir…'

Tweed was moving to the back of the Land Rover when Paula joined him. He warned her it might be unpleasant. She bridled.

'Goes with the territory. Don't treat me like a five-year-old.'

'It's all right,' Tweed assured Farthing who had laid a hand on Paula's arm. 'She's my assistant.'

He heard a retching sound. Lock, the driver, was stooped over a ditch. Nimbly, Tweed leapt up on to the rear of the vehicle open to the sky. Paula followed. Tweed bent down, folded back one end of the canvas. What remained of the face of Partridge stared up at him, eyes open, sightless. He had been savagely slashed many times with a knife. Folds and slivers of flesh hung in flaps. The nose and eyebrows had almost completely disappeared. The clothes as much as anything identified him for Tweed. Paula sucked in her breath. Plunging both hands inside her windcheater, she clenched them into fists.

'I know this man. can identify him,' Tweed said, folding the canvas gently over the brutally ravaged face. He kept his voice low. Farthing crouched to hear him. The crowd of sightseers was still pushing close to the Land Rover. 'Sam Partridge,' Tweed said. He paused. 'A retired Chief Inspector of Homicide at Scotland Yard.'

'Thank God you were here.' Farthing grunted. 'You don't want to see, but all his fingers are missing. Cut off at the base. I'd say they're at the bottom of some other crevice. And all makers' labels have been ripped off the clothes.'

'Someone took trouble in the hope he wouldn't be found quickly – and by the time he was identification wouldn't be easy.'

Farthing breathed heavily. 'Then this case is going to raise one hell of a stink.'

'I'm sure of it. Can I make a suggestion? People rushed out of The Royal Oak to gawk. But three men are still sitting inside at a window table. Colonel Barrymore, Dr Robson and Stuart Kearns. Send a man in to ask them to come out and look at the corpse…'

'Study the reactions of each man,' Tweed whispered to Paula when they had moved to the rear of the crowd.

Kearns came out first, strode briskly to the vehicle, climbed into it. Farthing pulled back the canvas, exposed the hideously mutilated face. Kearns stood erect -as he gazed down. No trace of emotion showed as he shook his head. 'Never seen him before,' he informed Farthing, jumped down and walked back to the inn.

Robson arrived next and Farthing greeted him more effusively. 'I am glad you were here. Doctor. You're the first medical man to see the victim. He's dead, of course. Do you know him?'

'Let's check before we make assumptions,' Robson replied in a relaxed voice. Tweed could just catch what he said. Robson stooped over the body, felt the pulse at the side of the neck, then nodded. 'He's dead. No doubt about that.'

'An ambulance has been summoned,' Farthing explained. 'But you have given us valuable assistance before. Any idea of the timing of his demise?'

'I could only guess.' Robson frowned. 'Something odd

– you see the small amount of blood? Yet the face has been savaged. He was dead before the murderer did that.' His tone was dry and professional as he pulled open the windcheater at the top. 'I suppose you realize the head has almost been severed from the body? Look at that.'

Bile rose in Farthing's mouth as he crouched on his haunches beside Robson. An enormous red gash ran just below the throat, continued out of sight. 'We ought to wait for the forensic team from Taunton before I explore further,' Robson reminded the inspector.

'On the other hand he'll have to be shifted into the ambulance when it arrives,' Farthing pointed out.

Then we'll go a little further, see if I can find out how he died. Not from that vicious slash across the throat. Again – not enough blood. He was dead when that happened.' Robson unfolded more canvas to the corpse's waist.

Gently he turned the body on its side. The head lolled like the broken neck of a doll. Robson pointed to the back of the windcheater, to a wide rip and crusted blood below the left shoulder blade.

'I would imagine that was the death thrust. He was attacked from behind. A knife was plunged deep upwards, penetrating the heart. That came first.'

He was replacing the body in its original position, folding the canvas back, when the distant sound of a siren came closer. The inspector glanced up. 'Ambulance almost here. Now, Doctor, how long ago?'

'As I said, I can only guess. The Taunton pathologist will be able to give a more accurate diagnosis. During the past two hours I would say. Now, I'd better leave this to you…'

He was walking back to The Royal Oak to wash his hands when Colonel Barrymore appeared, strolling towards the crowd, which parted to let him pass through. He levered himself aboard the Land Rover, thrust both hands in his pockets, stared down while Farthing again exposed the face. Ambulance men carrying a stretcher paused behind the vehicle. Tweed stared hard as Barrymore glanced at Partridge's face.

'Must be the work of a lunatic,' he commented sardonically.'No, I've never seen him.'

Leaping down from the Land Rover, he strolled back to The Royal Oak, presumably to finish his lunch. 'Coldblooded bastard,' Paula hissed.

'He will have seen a lot of war casualties,' Tweed reminded her.

As they loaded the pathetic canvas bundle aboard a stretcher and carried it to the ambulance Paula stared round. The crowd was dispersing; some heading for The Royal Oak before closing time, others trudging to their homes, while a few men and women stood, unsure what to do next now the show was over.

The quiet country village seemed to have taken on a macabre atmosphere. She looked up towards the overcast sky, a threatening gloomy pall; towards the moor where the mist was slowly retreating, exposing the sweep of the grim brown ridges. Somewhere up there a frightful murder had taken place. She hated the moor now and turned to Tweed.

'What do we do next? Did you notice anything about the way those three men reacted to looking at poor Partridge?'

'I noticed the absence of something.'

'Don't start talking to me in riddles.' She played with the bracelet composed of Greek key symbols. 'The murder of Partridge is reminiscent of what we heard about that other horrific murder of the Greek in Cairo during the war.'

'Which reminds me of something I should tell Farthing…'

He caught up with the inspector who was just about to climb into his car. Farthing looked at him with an impatient expression.

'Bringing those three chaps out of The Royal Oak didn't get us far. What was all that about?'

'They're all locals. I thought they might have seen Partridge. But there's something else you ought to do. Have you a notebook? Good. Note this down.' He gave Partridge's description of Anton Gavalas, spelt his name. 'I should put out an all points for him. Partridge told me he saw him riding all over Exmoor. And there was one occasion when the Greek confronted him, accused Partridge of following him.'

'We'll check…' Farthing held a microphone from the radio car in his hand and studied the description he'd noted down.

'I'll be at The Luttrell Arms in Dunster if the CID man put in charge of the case from Taunton wants to talk with me.'

'Roger…'

Farthing was issuing an all points bulletin for Gavalas as Tweed and Paula walked back to the Mercedes. Nield strolled out of The Royal Oak towards the Cortina.

Tweed drove back at speed to Dunster, overtaking the ambulance, his expression grim. Paula glanced at him, laid a gentle hand on his arm. He showed no emotion but she sensed he was concealing a feeling of deep shock.

'You're upset, aren't you?'

'I worked with Sam at the Yard once. He was a good friend and my mentor. I learned a lot from him. Facts, he used to say, concentrate on facts. Then the solution will come sooner or later. He was generous with professional advice. Not always the case. Now I have to hunt down the man – or men – who killed Sam and Harry Masterson. Whatever it takes.'

She was disturbed. She had never heard him express himself with such vehemence; almost as though he were prepared to throw away the rule book. 'I have a feeling this is important.' She dangled her bracelet. 'Harry wouldn't have sent this Greek key bracelet unless it pointed to something. I wish we knew what it means.'

It began to rain. Tweed turned on the windscreen wipers. The moor was lost in a veil of fine drizzle, disappearing like a monster retreating to its lair, Paula thought. A beastly day – in every way. Wet, chilly, a nightmare day. Tweed made the remark as they reached Dunster.

He turned into the High Street, the cobbled areas like sweating stones. No one about; people were huddled indoors. He swung the Mercedes into one of the parking spaces opposite the hotel.

'You could be right,' he muttered. 'Maybe the answer lies not here but in Greece. Let's hope Newman and Marler get lucky.'