The Greek Key

47

Tweed had 'broken silence'.

He had sent out a general alert all over Europe to counter-espionage chiefs, to his personal underground network of informants. The message was always the same.

Any data on past and present movements of Anton Gavalas, citizen of Greece. Suspected member of hardline Communist group the Greek Key. Also identical data on Professor Guy Seton-Charles, British citizen, Professor of Greek Studies at Bristol University, England, and Athens University, Greece. Data required extreme urgency. Tweed.

Copies of a photograph of Anton – made from the print inside the file Kalos had provided for Tweed – accompanied the request. But only a word description of Seton-Charles was sent. Tweed realized they had made a bad mistake in not photographing the professor.

Howard wandered into Tweed's office a week after the messages had been sent. It was his blue pinstripe suit day. He perched his buttocks on the edge of Tweed's desk, adjusted his tie, smiled at Monica who was stunned by such amiability.

'Any progress from the boys abroad?' he enquired.

Tweed winced inwardly at the phraseology. 'Nothing that gives us any kind of lead. Later this afternoon I have a meeting with the Prime Minister. I thought it was time she knew about this business.'

He waited for the explosion of outrage. It didn't come. Instead, Howard ran his fingers over his plump pink face and nodded approval. 'I was just coming in to suggest maybe we ought to let her know. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't seek an earlier conference.'

'No hard facts to go on. Ever since Masterson was killed it's been like seeing shadowy figures in the mists of Exmoor. You aren't sure whether you actually saw anything or not. It may be a tricky interview. She does like facts. Oh, Paula is on her way here, driving up from Somerset. I just hope she gets here before I leave for Downing Street.'

'And why is the delightful Paula driving back to London? She could have reported over the phone from that public call box in Minehead.'

'She said she had information she'd sooner give me face to face.'

'Sounds intriguing. I suppose you couldn't record her report so I could play it back later?'

'I'll do that.'

Howard glanced at the machine on Tweed's desk, the neat piles of cassettes. 'You've been listening to those things yet again? The tapes of Butler's phoned reports and that clandestine job Nield did during dinner at The Luttrell Arms? You still think you've spotted which one of the three is the killer?'

'Yes.' Tweed stood up, began pacing slowly. 'But no proof. In case anything happens to me I typed out a secret report which is inside a sealed envelope in the safe.'

Howard stood up, pulled down his jacket at the back. 'Damned if I could point the finger at any of them. And God knows I've listened to them often enough. Why be so cryptic?'

'Because I could be wrong. The main thing at the moment is two people have gone missing. Anton Gavalas. I checked with Sarris and there's no sign he has returned to Greece. Then Guy Seton-Charles has vanished off the face of the earth. He'd accumulated several months' leave, so Bristol University informed us. He said he was going abroad. No trace of him on any airline passenger manifest.

And he always flew everywhere – again according to Bristol.'

'So, we're up the proverbial gum tree. Good luck with the PM.'

On this encouraging note Howard left the office. Monica stopped studying her file. 'He's also worried. Like you are. And although I hate Howard's guts, his instinct is sometimes very sound. I wish you hadn't said that thing about in case anything happens to you. It's tempting fate.'

'Don't be so superstitious,' Tweed chided.

Monica slammed her pencil down on her desk. 'Have we got one damn thing to go on after all this effort?'

'Two things. When I was interviewing old Petros at his farm he mentioned there had been rumours during the Second World War that the Greek Key was controlled by an Englishman in Cairo.'

'Seton-Charles was in Cairo…'

'So were the three commandos. The second thing also came from Greece. Kalos told me a radio ham – a friend of Sarris' – had picked up a coded message. At the end there was an instruction in English. From now on the call sign is changed to Colonel Winter. History can be changed by such chance happenings.'

Paula arrived early when Tweed and Monica were standing by the window, drinking tea. She was behind the wheel of Newman's Mercedes. As she parked by the kerb further along the Crescent Tweed saw the automatic radio aerial retracting, sliding down inside the rear. He frowned, held his cup in mid-air.

'What is it?' asked Monica.

'Nothing. Just an idea.'

'She's made very good time. And she seems to be in a rush – she's almost running. And her clothes!'

Paula was wearing a pair of tight blue denims and a windcheater. An outfit neither of them had ever seen her adopt before. Paula was classic pleated skirts and blouse with a well-fitting jacket. She disappeared inside the entrance below them.

'I'll make her coffee,' Monica decided. 'She's had quite a long drive. Back in a minute. And I think something's wrong.'

Tweed had his back to the window when there was a knock on his door, he called, 'Come in,' and Paula appeared, carrying in one hand her briefcase, in the other her small travelling case.

'What's the matter?' he asked, coming forward.

'Does there have to be something?' she asked, went to her desk and dumped two cases. Her voice was cool, too cool. She turned, leaning against the desk, and smiled wanly as he gave her a hug, kissed her on the cheek. She was a shade too controlled.

She took off her gloves slowly, placed one neatly on top of the other. Then she folded her arms, tilted her chin in the defiant look he knew so well. She was white-faced and there were dark circles under her eyes.

'I drove like a bat out of hell to get here.' She smiled again at his expression. 'But within the speed limit all the way.'

'What's the matter?' he repeated.

'You really are the most perceptive man.' She paused. 'It's good to be back.' Another pause. 'I've just shot two men.'

Tweed concealed the jolt he'd felt. 'Why not sit down and tell me about it? Monica is coming with coffee. The Browning automatic I sent down by courier was for you then? Not for Newman or Marler, as I thought?' 'They've given me hell, those two.' She sat down, crossed her legs. 'I gave them hell back. Am I – or am I not – a fully-fledged member of this outfit?'

'Very fledged.' He smiled and drew a chair close to her. 'I have always shown you that's the way I feel, surely?'

'Yes. You have. Want to hear about my target-shooting – with live targets?'

Her voice was steady but Tweed sensed tension under the surface. He fetched a bottle of cognac and a glass from a cupboard, poured a hefty snifter. 'Get that down inside yourself.'

'Thanks.' She held the balloon glass in both hands to drink – to stop the glass shaking, Tweed suspected. 'My, that's made a difference.' She relaxed against the chair-back, her normal colour started to return. 'I hardly know where to start. I suppose it was Marler who saved my life. He arrived soon after I did.'

'Because I decided we needed every possible person down there. Exmoor is a vast territory to cover. And why not start at the beginning? When you'd arrived with Newman at Porlock Weir…'

Monica had phoned ahead and there were two rooms reserved for them when Newman and Paula carried their cases into The Anchor. They reached Porlock Weir in the early evening – Newman had encountered heavy sea mist drifting across the road. The moor was blotted out.

They had a conference with Butler and Nield over dinner and divided up duties. Newman took charge, made the suggestion. The dining room was almost empty so they could talk easily.

'We have three people to watch – Robson, Barrymore and Kearns. Nield, you take Robson. I'll keep an eye on Barrymore. That leaves Butler for Kearns…'

'No go,' Butler informed him. 'Tweed has given me the job of checking out the people who live on that bungalow estate near Reams' place.'

'And I'd like to help Harry, if he doesn't mind,' Paula said. 'I was the one who thought there was something odd about the place.'

'Be my guest,' replied Butler with enthusiasm. 'I've been helping Nield watch the three commando types. The electoral register in Taunton is our first check,' he told Paula.

'Then I'll have to take on both Barrymore and Kearns,' Newman decided. He grinned at Paula. 'You're just about as bloody… independent as Marler.'

'You were going to say bloody-minded,' Paula told him. 'Maybe I am. Do I get the order of the boot?'

'I'll overlook it this time. Eat your dinner, it's getting cold. ..'

The problem solved itself the following day when Marler turned up at The Anchor, sent down by Tweed. Secretly Newman had been relieved the previous evening: Paula would have protection, working with Butler. He was careful not to point this out to Paula.

While Paula and Butler visited Taunton, Newman gave Marler the task of shadowing Kearns in his hired Peugeot. Apart from Newman, they all travelled in hired cars. It took a week for Butler and Paula to come up with a list of names of the owners of the bungalows on the estate. Once she had the names Paula took to visiting The Royal Oak at Winsford where she was soon firm friends with the heavily built barman. She always arrived before the crowd at lunchtime, always came alone.

Bit by bit she told Jack, the barman, about herself. 'I'm recovering from an illness – convalescent leave they call it, the insurance company I work for. And when I was a kid I used to come down to Taunton to visit relatives…'

Her psychology was shrewd: country folk liked to know who they were talking to. Gradually she extracted from Jack information about the occupants of the bungalow estate. The one day she avoided was Wednesday: she had seen Barrymore and Robson lunching at their usual table. They were still keeping up the ritual meetings, but Kearns was not there with them. She checked his absence on two Wednesdays before avoiding that day.

'Thinkin' of buyin' one of those bungalows when it comes on the market?' Jack commented to her one day. 'You'll be lucky. A funny set-up that lot, you mark my words.'

Tunny in what way?' she asked.

'Ever 'card of a bungalow estate put up fifteen years ago and not one of the original owners has moved? Six bungalows there are. Six men. You'd think at least one would have moved on. New job, somethin' like that. Not a bit of it. They're all still there. And keeps themselves to themselves.'

'You mean you've never met one of them?'

'Now I didn't say that, did I, miss? One of them came in here soon after they'd all moved in. Chap called Foster. Didn't take to 'im. Drank gin and tonics while he chatted. La-di-dah type.'

'What did he chat about? It sounds like a mystery. I love mysteries,' Paula glowed.

'Said he was an investment counsellor, whatever that might be. Works in Bristol. His wife has some big job overseas. Never seen 'er. Said his friend, Saunders, also had his wife abroad. Some job with the UN in New York. Funny sort of married life. Wouldn't suit me – visiting the missus once or twice a year.'

'You mean the wives never come here?'

'That's about the long and short of it. Then there's the crank. Professor Guy Seton-Charles. Bachelor. Something to do with Bristol University. In summer they mows their lawns at the weekends. That's about all you see of 'em. Stuffy lot, if you ask me.'

Paula swallowed a piece of her chicken and mushroom pie, the day's speciality chalked up on a blackboard. She sipped at her glass of white wine. Jack was polishing yet another glass until it came up gleaming like silver crystal.

'I heard there was a Mr Simon Mode living in one of the bungalows,' she said casually.

'Maybe. I wouldn't know. They're there and yet they're not there.' People were beginning to fill up the tables. He turned to another customer. 'What can I get you, sir?'

That was the night they had the most almighty row back at The Anchor.

They were all assembled for dinner at their usual table. Paula sat between Newman and Marler. Butler and Nield faced them, and Nield, inadvertently, lit the fuse.

'Saw you today, Paula. I was tracking Robson when he tried to call on Kearns. Got no joy. I thought Kearns must be out. Robson pressed the gate bell several times, no one came out, so he pushed off. I had wondered whether Kearns was ill.'

'I think he is,' Paula replied. ' I saw Robson call, then drive off. A few minutes later Dr Underwood – we met him in the bar if you remember – called. Kearns came out and let him in.'

'What did you mean, Pete?' Marler asked. 'You said you saw Paula. Driving along the road?'

'No. Parked in her hired Renault inside a gateway overlooking that bungalow colony – and Kearns' place.'

Marler turned to Paula. 'What the devil were you doing there?'

'Observing that bungalow estate. You can look down on it. It's odd – one woman seems to clean the lot. Furtively.'

'How do you mean?' Nield enquired.

'She always slips in by the back doors. She has a key to each of them. I've used night glasses to watch her after dark…'

'After dark?' Marler's tone expressed incredulity 'How long have you been keeping up this vigil?'

'For about two weeks.'

'You do realize it's only a matter of time before you're spotted,' Marler persisted in a cold voice. 'It's madness.'

'I have already realized that.' She said the words deliberately, disliking his tone. 'I saw the solution today. There's a riding stable near Dunster which hires out horses. In future I'll ride – which means I can get on the moor, check the area from different angles.'

'You bloody well won't…'

'Partridge used a horse,' she snapped. 'For the same reason, I suspect. He could see more from a horse.'

'And look where it got him.' Marler leaned his long white face – his Grecian suntan had long since faded -close to hers. 'It got him a knife in the back. You should be armed. You shouldn't be doing it at all.'

'No one's going to stop me,' she said icily, staring hard at Marler. 'If you feel that way, get me a weapon…'

It was Newman who calmed the atmosphere. He knew Paula was seething at the unspoken suggestion that she couldn't take care of herself. He remembered times when Tweed had put her in the front line to toughen her up. Standing up, he said he was driving into Minehead to call Tweed, to ask him to send a Browning automatic with spare magazines by motorbike courier. While he was away the rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

The following morning after breakfast Newman tapped on Paula's door. Inside he handed her a Browning and spare mags.

'So, I've come of age,' she said and smiled drily.

'How are you going to carry it on a horse – so it's easy to get at in an emergency?'

She produced a makeshift but neat holster made of blue denim and took hold of the Browning where she had laid it on a table. Releasing the magazine inside the butt, she checked to make sure there wasn't a bullet up the spout, pushed the mag back inside the gun and slipped it inside the holster. Two straps of the same material were attached to it.

She was wearing tight denims thrust inside riding boots and a padded windcheater. All purchased the previous day. Then she strapped the holster to her right upper leg close to her crotch. Parading round the room, she made a gesture with her slim hand.

'I'm on a horse. You meet me. Would you notice it?'

'No. It blends in perfectly. How on earth did you make that holster?'

'By staying up half the night. I cut material from the bottom of my jeans – tucked inside my boots you can't see where I took it from. Then a lot of careful sewing.' She came close to him, kissed him on the cheek. 'I expected you to flare up like Marler last night. Thanks for your vote of confidence.'

Newman shrugged, grinned. 'You are one of the team. Marler's got a short fuse. What did that cleaning woman you saw down at the estate look like?'

'Middle-aged. Medium height. About a hundred and twenty pounds. Grey hair tied back in a bun. I've got several photographs of her. I was carrying my camera with the telephoto lens. Should we send the film to Tweed?'

'Let me have it. Maybe in a few days one of us will have to go up to London. You'd finished the film?'

She handed him the spool. 'Yes. And I've a fresh one in the camera. The one you're holding has pictures of all the men living there. Plus pictures of the bungalows. Including Seton-Charles' place with that weird complex of TV aerials attached to his chimney.'

She hid the Browning with its holster and the mags at the bottom of the wardrobe, then picked up neat rows of shoes and spread them over the gun. Straightening up, she looked at Newman.

'After that row at dinner last night I feel like a walk along the coast. I didn't get much sleep and I'm feeling restless.'

'Let's go…'

It was dark but the gale had slackened to a strong breeze as they strolled along the track westward. Paula glanced at the cottage where Mrs Larcombe had lived, then looked away. Newman was careful not to refer to it.

'What are the others doing?' she asked as they picked their way across the pebbles.

'We're keeping up the watch on the commandos. Kearns appears to have recovered, but he's limping a bit. Maybe he twisted his ankle. Butler followed one of the men who live in those bungalows to the Somerset and Cornwall Bank in Bristol. Watched him draw about a thousand pounds in fifties. He's reported it to Tweed who has now started a discreet check on where that money comes from.'

'Anything new on the commandos?'

'Not really, blast it. Robson still rides to see his patients at all hours. He has one old duck who delights in using her bedside phone and calling him out late at night. Lives in a creepy old mansion near Dulverton. Barrymore is still making calls from that public box in Minehead. Kearns has no help in his house – looks after the place himself, does his own cooking. Army type, I suppose…'

He stopped speaking as Paula grasped his arm. They were some distance west of Porlock Weir, walking close to towering cliffs. 'I heard something funny, a sinister noise,' Paula whispered.

Then Newman heard it. A crumbling sound, the noise of grinding rocks. He looked above them, grabbed Paula's hand, shouted at her to run. They headed for the sea. Behind them the sound increased, grew to a rumbling roar. At the water's edge Newman turned and Paula swung round with him. She gazed, appalled.

By the light of the rising moon they saw a gigantic slab of cliff sliding down from the summit, a slab which broke into smaller pieces as it rolled towards the beach. Enormous boulders bounded downwards towards where they stood, their backs to the sea. The boulders lost momentum, came to rest two dozen yards away. A sudden silence descended. Paula shivered, huddled closer to Newman.

'It's OK,' he said. That's it.'

'My God, if we hadn't run we'd have been under that.'

She pointed towards a dark mass of rocks piled up the height of a two-storey house. They were making their way back, keeping to the edge of the sea, when Paula pointed again.

'Who can that be?'

In the distance, close to the track, a man on horseback was riding away from them. Hunched forward, close to the horse's head, it was impossible to make out his shape, guess his height. He reached the track and the horse broke into a gallop. When they arrived back at The Anchor there was no sign of any horseman and they hurried inside to report the landslip.

The violent incident took place next day.