The Greek Key

40

They arrived back at The Anchor and found Butler and Nield having a drink in the bar. Nield sat at the corner table with his head leant against the wall, his eyes half-closed. It was early for business: they had the place to themselves.

'Don't get up,' Paula said as Nield stirred. 'You look all in.'

'Application to the job in hand.' Nield smiled. 'Your boss expects non-stop action,' he said as Tweed arrived with the drinks: mineral water for himself, a glass of white wine for Paula. 'I've been driving over those moors until they seem to start moving.'

'Application!' Butler snorted and drank from his half-pint glass. That's what we're here for.' He lowered his voice, speaking to Tweed, who sat next to him. 'Barrymore left Quarme Manor soon after you'd gone. Drove into Minehead. Made a call from a public box. Funny thing to do – he ha* his phone at home.'

'How long a call?'

'Between one and two minutes. I was going to time it but found my watch had stopped. Then he drives straight back to Quarme Manor.'

'Odd,' Tweed agreed. He looked round the table. 'Does anyone know whether Jill Kearns used to take that Alsatian when she went for her early morning walk on the moor?'

'I do,' Nield said. 'The answer is yes. Came out in a chat I had with the barman over there. She was well-known for those walks. Always started at 6.30 a.m. on the dot. The dog always went with her. For protection as much as company, I imagine. A lonely place, the moor.'

'That means the dog was pining for her,' Tweed remarked. 'And why am I worried about Mrs Larcombe down the road? Something she said. It will come back to me. What is it?'

Paula plucked at his sleeve. 'Look outside.' He twisted round, gazed out of the window. Two men and two girls clad in denims and windcheaters were getting out of a Land Rover covered with a canvas roof. They walked off towards the harbour. 'You see,' she said, 'another of those vehicles.'

Butler nodded. 'Four-wheel drives? They're pretty common – Pete and I have seen a number while we've driven around.'

'And there,' said Tweed, 'goes another theory I had. Every time I think I've got somewhere it turns into a dead end.'

'Like Porlock Weir,' Paula chimed in and sipped more wine.

'One thing I'd like you to do,' Tweed said to Nield, 'is check on the inhabitants of that bungalow estate near Kearns' place. Any titbit you can pick up.'

'First target the electoral register,' Nield replied. Then go on from there.'

'Why the interest?' Paula asked.

'Two remarks you made. That it didn't look real. And that you almost expected robots to emerge. Incidentally, the pathologist at Taunton told me Partridge was killed by someone who knew just where to insert the knife. Another thing. Pete,' he went on, 'I need to know whether Kearns still takes those night rides up to the summit of Dunkery Beacon…'

'Certainly not at the moment. Only when there's enough moonlight to see his way. Tricky riding those moors at night even for a really experienced horseman.' He drank more beer. 'Well, that should keep my days filled.'

'There's more for you.' Tweed smiled at Nield's expression. 'You'll cope. I'd like you sometime – in daylight – to get up to the top of Dunkery Beacon and poke around up there. With Butler's help you'll manage. Plus, of course, keeping an eye on the other two. I wouldn't want you to have time on your hands, to get bored.' He finished his mineral water and stood up. 'I fancy a breath of fresh air. Want to come, Paula?'

'Lovely idea. Help to work up an appetite for dinner. That remark you made about the pathologist's comment again points the ringer at the commandos.'

'Any news from Greece?' Tweed asked Butler as he donned his Burberry. 'You check regularly?'

'As you requested. Not a word. Monica didn't seem worried. She said Newman only calls when he has something solid. Same with Marler.'

'See you." Tweed nodded to the barman, opened the door, paused. 'Pretty blustery out there.' He took his old waterproof hat off a peg and rammed it over his head. Paula wrapped a scarf round hers.

'Gale warnings round all coasts,' the barman called out.

'Which means a sleepless night,' Tweed remarked to Paula. 'Our bedroom windows both face the front.'

'Harry and Pete will be OK. Theirs face the back. I'm OK…''

The wind hit them as they plodded west along the road and then over the track which was still moist from the morning tide. To their right they could hear the crash of the sea against the rocky shoal. Spume, caught by the wind, blew off the wave crests and they felt it on their faces as they walked against the nor'wester.

'Are we staying here long?' Paula asked, her mouth close to his ear.

'I haven't decided. We may push off back to London within a day or two. I've stirred up those three ex-commandos again. One of them may be nudged into making a wrong move. I'm stumped, Paula. And this doesn't seem the right place for any funny goings-on. That vehicle Mrs Larcombe saw would have to drive on through Porlock village even before it could turn up Porlock Hill. Too much risk of being seen.'

That's not so. Harry told me about the toll road.'

Told you what?'

'A very lonely road which turns up the hill just outside Porlock Weir. Apparently it turns up and joins the main road to Culbone. Sheer drop on one side. Harry's point was, that is the direct route to Quarme Manor and End-point – even on to our Mr Kearns' place. You take the first left off the main road like we did during our last visit. No one would see you driving that route late at night.'

'I've had enough of this,' said Tweed. 'We'll turn back.'

The wind was hammering them, making it difficult to walk over the sliding pebbles. They reached the track and were hurrying towards The Anchor when Tweed grabbed Paula's arm.

'Let me take a quick look at the harbourmaster's office. It has a notice behind the window.'

He took out a pencil torch, went close up to the deserted building. He shone the beam on the cardboard clock with adjustable hands. High Tide 10.50 p.m. The sea was already surging inside the channel which fed the harbour.

'I hope we decide to go back to London.' said Paula. 'If it's going on like this.'

Arriving back in the bar, they hung up their raincoats and got rid of their headgear. Butler and Nield sat at the same table. Tweed offered drinks.

'Not for me,' said Butler. 'I'll stick with this half pint -you may want to send me off somewhere.'

'I'll have a second,' Nield decided. Tin not going anywhere. Except to bed after a good dinner.'

'Harry," Tweed said as he sat down, after calling out the order to the barman, 'have you shown Masterson's photograph to the barman here?'

'No. You told us to keep quiet about him – unless a lead turned up. It didn't.'

Tweed pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, extracted the matt print inside. When the barman arrived with Nield's drink he tapped the print.

'Recognize him? A friend of mine. Said he might stay here a few days. I owe him twenty pounds he lent me when I found I'd left my wallet behind. Can't trace him.'

The barman took hold of the print, studied it with half-closed eyes. He pursed his lips. 'You couldn't add a pair of tinted glasses? And a yachting cap – one of those peaked efforts with gold braid.'

Tweed took back the print, handed it to Paula. 'You're the artist.' She opened her handbag, delved inside, her hand came out holding a felt-tip pen. She frowned for a moment, then started working. She added tinted glasses and a yachting cap. Tweed was startled: it was just the type of gear Masterson would go for. He handed it again to the barman.

'Yes, that's him. Came in here half a dozen times. Thought I knew him when you showed me it first time. Now I'm sure. Had a whizz of a girl with him. Long dark hair and eyes a man could drown in. Spoke good English, but she looked foreign.'

'How long ago was this?' Tweed asked quietly.

'Seems like months ago. A lot of weeks anyway. It's coming back to me. Engaging sort of guy. I remember him asking about the colonel. Did he come in here? I said now and again. Mostly in the evenings.' He handed back the print.

'The colonel?' Tweed queried.

'Yes. Colonel Barrymore. Lives over at Quarme Manor near the Doone Valley. Gloomy old place.'

'Thank you,' said Tweed, and gave him a pound coin. Paula crossed her legs. She swung one foot up and down. Studying the mud on her shoe, she asked the question. 'Does that mean we'll be staying?' 'I'll sleep on it.'

The Oporto mounted a huge wave, the deck tilting at a steep angle. Even in the dark Anton, clinging to the rail, could see its foaming crest. Knowing what was coming, he tightened his grip. The freighter hovered on the crest, then plunged downwards into the chasm. All around him Anton could see giant walls of water which seemed about to overwhelm the vessel. The plunge continued, as though it was heading for the bottom of the ocean. It was pitching and tossing at the same time.

The wind tore at his sodden windcheater, threatening to rip it off his body, howling in his ears. He had just returned from a perilous trip to the hold crammed with baled cork. Twice each day he checked the canvas-covered Stingers, tucked away by Gomez next to the bulkhead.

Anton had taken the precaution of tucking a thread of cotton pulled from a shirt under one of the straps. If anyone fooled around with his precious cargo he would know. The cotton thread was still in position when he made his recent check. As the Oporto regained its equilibrium in the trough, Anton ran up to the bridge before it started climbing another mountain.

He opened the door to the wheelhouse and the wind snatched it from his grasp. It took all his strength to pull the door shut. Behind his wheel, Gomez glanced round, his expression impassive as always despite the fury of the storm. Anton hung on to a side rail, ignoring the mate who understood no English.

'Where are we?' he asked.

'Just abreast of Ushant in France. To the east.' Gomez made a quick gesture to his right, then grabbed at the wheel.

The freighter was heading downwards again, its bow flooded with teeming sea. Anton thanked God he was a good sailor. But the view from the bridge was terrifying. An army of tidal-size waves moved towards them from all directions.

'Are we keeping to schedule?' he asked anxiously. 'I mean with this storm.'

'We shall be heaving to off Porlock Weir two days from now. On schedule.' Gomez gave him an evil grin, showing the gold in his teeth. 'If we survive…'

Seton-Charles looked like anything but a professor in Greek Studies as he drove back to the Victorian bed-and-breakfast boarding house in Norwich close to midnight. He wore a boiler suit used for gardening. Before leaving his bungalow he had smeared the overalls with a mixture of oil and grease.

He had decided to leave for Norwich early and had driven off ten minutes after Tweed and Paula made their way back to Porlock Weir from Reams' house. Now he would be in Norwich, ready to visit Camelford Removals, first thing the following day.

Well along the A303 he had seen a truck drivers' cafe and had pulled in alongside a giant twelve-wheeler. Inside the cafe he ordered a mug of steaming tea and sat down at a table close to the door. The place was full of drivers, some chatting, others slumped over their own mugs. A juke box playing pop records had added to the noise and the place was filled with blue smoke.

After drinking half the mug of tea, Seton-Charles had left. On his way out he paused to button up his suit at the neck. He eyed the row of caps hanging from wooden hooks. He took a cap with a plastic peak and walked out.

He didn't try it on until he reached a lay-by well clear of the cafe. It fitted well enough. And for the rimless glasses he normally wore he had substituted his spare pair of horn-rims.

After reserving a room for the night at the boarding house, he ordered a plate of fish and chips and another mug of tea at a cheap cafe. While he ate he studied the town map he had bought from a newsagent. He decided to take a look at Camelford Removals. He parked the Volvo round the corner from the warehouse, surprised to see lights inside. The figure of a man was silhouetted against a grimy window.

'I've come to take a look at a couple of furniture vans,' he informed a short middle-aged man who introduced himself as Mr Latimer, owner of the bankrupt business. 'They mayn't be what I'm after, but I come on spec…'

He slurred his vowels and spoke with a coarse accent. Latimer showed him the four vans still for sale. Seton-Charles chose the two largest, then began haggling over the price, which was expected. He bargained carefully: not offering too little but refusing to agree to Larimer's first price.

They compromised and Seton-Charles pulled a bundle of well-used fifty-pound notes from a pocket in his stained overalls. He paid the agreed deposit and Latimer held several of the notes up to the naked light bulb suspended over a roughened table.

"Done.' he had said 'You'll collect soon? Pay the balance before you drive them away?'

'Only way to do business. Night…'

As he settled between grubby sheets that night Seton-Charles was satisfied. Within two days he'd have both vans hidden away in the barn at Cherry Farm. Although God knew what Jupiter wanted them for.