The Power

8

Ed, a small pock-marked American, dialled the new number for Norton as he stood inside a phone hood in Piccadilly Underground Station. Norton kept constantly on the move, never stayed at the same place for more than one night.

'Who is it?' Norton's abrasive voice demanded.

'It's Ed. I've been staring at wallpaper since we tracked Joel to London Airport.'

'We? Bill tracked him to the Swissair flight he boarded for Zurich

…'

'Well, we're a team

'You're a schmuck who takes orders from me. And we have more schmucks in Zurich. Guess what happens.'

'No idea,' Ed replied cautiously.

'You always were short of ideas. The people waiting at Zurich Airport lost Joel. Can you believe it?'

'Yes, you just told me…'

'Don't get smart-ass with me. I had another team grouped by the entrance to Amberg's Zurcher Kredit Bank in Talstrasse. Guess again.'

'No… You really had Zurich sewn up.'

'Wrong again. I thought I had Zurich sewn up. So, Joel walks into the Zurcher. Never comes out again. The staff leave, the doors are locked. Still no Joel. You have one guess.'

'Beats me…'

'Seems most things do. Joel must have been let out the back entrance – which the schmucks who call themselves operatives didn't know about. You know Zurich. You know Joel. Get out there to Zurich pretty damned fast. Find him. Got it now?'

'Sure. And when I do find him?'

'Goddamnit!' There was a pause and Ed would not have been surprised to hear a snarl. 'I'll tell you what you do… Norton's voice had gone deceptively soft. 'You break his fingers one by one. You break his arms, his legs, until he tells you where he's hidden what we must find fast. And then you snuff him out.'

'Got it…'

'I do hope so, Ed,' the soft voice went on. 'For your sake.'

'What about Tweed?' Ed ventured.

'He's still around. Not for long. He's a walking corpse. And when you get to London Airport don't forget to buy Swiss currency.'

'I had thought of that.'

'You amaze me…'

The phone went silent.

Tweed was stunned when he left the Padstow phone box and was joined by Butler. Nield waited on the far side of the road. Tweed had never known Dillon be frightened of anyone. So what group could have scared the tough American, made him start running?

'Where is Paula?' he asked.

'She went off with Newman and Cardon towards the harbour. They're collecting the car ready for their drive to Bodmin Moor.'

'I don't like it,' Tweed commented. 'Lord knows what they will run into on that blood-soaked moor…'

Newman had led Paula and Cardon to the harbour to show them the complex layout. Paula saw there was an inner harbour full of water, which puzzled her since the tide was out. She stopped to look at a large luxurious cabin cruiser with an array of radar equipment. Mayflower III.

'That's cost somebody a bomb,' she remarked.

A gnarled old fisherman sorting out his orange-coloured fishing net near by looked up. Paula smiled at him and he walked over to her.

'Admirin' the Squire's boat? It could sail to Europe in bad weather.'

'The Squire?' Paula queried.

'Yes. Squire Gaunt. Lives on the moor. Comes down 'ere quite often and takes her out for days.'

'To somewhere in Europe?' she asked casually.

'Ah! No one knows. Keeps a tight mouth on his doin's, does the Squire. You'll excuse me, lady. This won't earn a crust of bread. Enjoy yourselves.'

Newman led them back into the car park. He pointed to a single-storey building.

'Harbour Master's office. I enquired there about the tidal rise and fall. Seven point six metres, they told me.'

'That's fantastic.' She did a quick calculation. 'Over twenty feet.'

'I'd say you need to be skilled sailing round here,' Newman commented, leading them along a quay.

They reached a narrow footbridge linking one side of the harbour with the other. As they strolled over the white metal bridge Paula stopped, looked down. She realized they were walking over a large lock gate. To her left was the inner harbour full of water, to her right a drop like an abyss to a mudbank. Water trickled through the gate. Only then did she see an outer harbour, exposed to the sea.

It lay to her right and was a basin of mud. Small craft moored to the walls were canted over at a drunken angle. Beyond the closed lock gate on the seaward side a thin channel of water led out of sight towards the ocean. Newman pointed across to the outer jetty enclosing the waterless harbour.

'That's what they call the Pier. When the tide starts coming in you catch the ferry to Rock from some steps on the far side. Now you have to take that coastal path to the cove further out where there is still water.'

Paula saw a flight of steps leading up to a steep path which disappeared behind a new development of fiats, directly overlooking the river.

'Wouldn't like to live there,' she remarked. 'No wonder they're all for sale. It must be as lonely as hell.'

'Padstow is pretty much hidden away,' Newman agreed. 'Which is why Tweed has chosen this place to give himself a little time to think. Turn round and you'll see the whole of the little town.'

Paula swung round. Beyond the harbour and the quays a densely packed series of old buildings was stepped up like a giant staircase. Newman checked his watch, looked at Cardon.

'Now I think it's time we headed for Bodmin Moor and bearded this Celia Yeo – if you can do that with a girl. Philip, you sit in the back and keep your eyes open…'

There was a little more traffic on the A30 as Newman swooped down a huge slope and then whipped up the other side. The sun shone down on the moor out of a clear blue sky but Paula found it no less hostile. A strong wind beat against the side of the Mercedes 280E as Newman made his suggestion. He perched dark glasses on the bridge of his strong nose, then rammed a black beret on his head.

'Paula, I think you ought to disguise yourself. We've no idea what may face us at Five Lanes. It's possible we won't want to be recognized.'

'A smart idea,' she agreed.

She took a pair of dark glasses from her shoulder-bag. After putting them on she took out a scarf, wrapped it over her raven-black hair and framed her face. Both actions completely altered her normal appearance. Newman grinned.

'You look like a madonna.'

'Just so long as I don't look like the contemporary Madonna. I suppose not – I'm wearing too many clothes.'

'While I'm waiting with the car,' Cardon called out, 'I'll sit hunched up like a midget.'

'You look like a midget normally,' Newman retorted, which was unfair. Cardon stood five feet ten tall and was very muscular.

Paula called out a warning to Newman. 'We're approaching the turn-off to Five Lanes. Celia lives in a cottage called Grey Tears on the outskirts.'

'Let's hope that peculiar name isn't prophetic,' Newman remarked.

Grey Tears was a small single-storey stone dwelling set in a hollow outside the village of Five Lanes. It was almost on the moor and Paul noticed that High Tor reared up as a clear-cut cone against the blue near by. Newman parked the car in another hollow off the road and followed Paula who was lifting a brightly polished knocker carved in the form of a sheep's head and hammering it down.

'That polishing job doesn't look like Celia to me,' she whispered.

The ancient wooden door swung inward to reveal a stooped crone wearing an overall over her flowered dress. Her lively eyes studied the new arrivals.

'We have come by arrangement to see Celia Yeo,' Paula began. 'She told me this was her day off from her job at Tresillian Manor.'

'Not one of we locals will ever work there again. Not after what 'appened yesterday. 'Orrible.' She clamped a worn hand to her lips, the hand of a worker. 'Dearie me, we're not supposed to talk about that to anyone.' She brightened up. 'Still, I 'aven't told you anything, come to think. Celia's gettin' ready to go out.'

'Well, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling her a lady has arrived who'd like a word with her.'

'See what she says…'

The door was closed slowly, not rudely, in their faces. Newman, keeping his voice down, stared at Paula.

'Why didn't you mention your name? Just your first name? There are other Paulas in the world, so it wouldn't have positively identified us.'

'Intuition. I have a feeling Celia may be reluctant to talk to me.'

They waited several minutes. Newman paced backward and forward and Paula bit her lip to stop telling him to for God's sake keep still. Then the door opened slowly again. Newman studied Celia. She had an odd-shaped head, almost misshapen. Not a lot of intelligence and her eyes reminded him of a cow's. Celia pulled the door to without closing it and stood outside with them.

'What was it you were wanting, miss?' Sullenly.

'We agreed to meet today, Celia. There are a few questions I'd like to ask you.'

The servant girl's eyes opened wider. She stared at Paula like a startled fawn.

'It's you, miss. I never recognize you till you spoke.'

Newman glanced at Paula. Wearing ski pants tucked inside the tops of leather boots and a windcheater, she looked very different from when she had arrived at the Metropole. Celia's eyes swivelled to Newman, gazed at the eyes she couldn't see behind the glasses.

'Who is he?'

'My brother,' Paula said quickly. 'Now, about yesterday. That tea towel – the bright red one I saw you bringing back from so-called drying. It was a signal, wasn't it?'

'Information costs money.' Her manner was suddenly truculent. 'I've no boy friends. No man ever looks twice at me, I have to get something out of life, don't I? Like money.'

Newman took out his wallet. He extracted a twenty-pound note, saw her expression, added another one to it. He held the banknotes folded between his fingers.

'First, answer my sister's question, please.'

'You guessed right,' Celia said after a brief hesitation. 'It were a signal. I was paid a hundred pounds just for doin' that after the guests arrived for lunch. Then another…

She stopped in mid-sentence. Celia was dressed for going somewhere. Above her shabby raincoat she wore a bright yellow woollen scarf. Her frizzy hair did nothing to improve her appearance.

'Who paid you to do that?' Paula asked quietly.

'I 'ad nothing to do with those awful murders at the manor!' she burst out. 'So don't you go thinkin' I did.'

'I'm sure you didn't. Who paid you, Celia?' Paula asked again.

'A man…' She hesitated. 'Never seen 'im before,' she went on quickly. 'And I've left a pot on cooker for Mrs Pethick. Talkin' about payment, before I says any more I want me money.'

Newman handed over the forty pounds to her. She grasped the notes eagerly, shoved them deep into a pocket of her raincoat. Glancing back inside the house, she retreated, opening the heavy door wider.

'Before I tells you more I must attend to pot. It will boil over and then Mrs Pethick will throw me out. I need these lodgings…'

The door closed in their faces with a heavy thud. Paula looked at Newman.

Tweed was right. The massacre was diabolically well organized. And I think she does know who paid her.'

'So do I…'

They waited. There were no sounds from inside the small primitive dwelling. Five minutes later – Newman had timed her disappearance by his watch – he voiced the same worry that had entered Paula's head.

'I think she's run off. There's probably a back way – let's check.'

At the rear of the cottage the 'garden' was a miserable vegetable patch. There was also a back door. Closed. Paula took off her glasses, looked towards High Tor, pointed.

There she is. That flash of yellow. She's headed out across the moor.'

'And,' Newman replied grimly, 'she was on the verge of saying her paymaster was going to pay her another hundred pounds today. God knows what she's walking into. We have to catch her up. Before it's too late

…'

Newman began running along a track which led towards the base of High Tor. He could still see the flash of yellow scarf in the sunlight. He was surprised at the speed Celia Yeo could keep up as she ran. Behind him Paula followed. When they were out of sight of the cottage Newman grabbed his. 38 Smith amp; Wesson out of the hip holster.

Paula lost sight of Newman as he kept up a marathon pace, descended into a deep gulley. She came to a fork in the path. Which way? She chose the left-hand path, kept on running, her eyes watching the ground which was uneven, making it easy to stumble.

She was nearing High Tor when she realized she had chosen the wrong fork. Newman was racing up the east side of the tor. No sign of Celia. 'Might as well go on, see where this leads to,' she said to herself.

She paused for breath and the ominous silence of the moor descended. A silence she could hear. Not even a hint of birdsong. The undulating moor stretched away on all sides, in a series of gorse-covered hillocks, cutting her off from any distant view. Paula shivered and then looked up. The view upwards was even less reassuring.

She was close to the west side of High Tor. Unlike the shallow slopes she had associated with it, at this point from the peak it fell sheer into an abyss. At the base she saw a tumble of huge boulders. She was about to resume running when she caught sight of movement at the summit.

'Oh, God, no!'

She spoke the words aloud. Even at that height Celia was easily identified by the yellow of her scarf. She stood perched on the edge of the fearsome drop. Why? Seeing her – and what happened next – took a matter of seconds.

Celia seemed to push out her stomach and Paula realized there was someone – out of sight – immediately behind her. One moment she was poised there. The next moment she plunged into space, her body cartwheeling in mid-air as she fell and fell and fell. Her scream of terror echoed over the moor as Paula watched in horror. The scream was cut off suddenly. It might have been her imagination, but Paula thought she heard the dreadful thud as her body hit the boulders. The silence of the moor returned like a threat.

Paula ran like mad, heading for the point where Celia had landed. Once, she glanced up briefly, but saw no one.

Whoever had shoved Celia into eternity had kept well hidden. Paula slowed down as she saw what remained of the servant girl.

She was sprawled, face up, over a boulder of massive size. Paula shuddered as she thought of the impact. She kept running until she stood by the boulder. Celia's spine was arched over the rock, her neck twisted at an angle. Blood and brains which had oozed from her skull were already drying in the sun. Without hope, Paula bent down, checked the carotid artery. Nothing.

She was about to close the eyes, staring sightless up at the summit where Celia had started her death plunge, when Paula decided not to touch anything. She wasn't sure at that moment why she took this decision.

She was breathing heavily when she glanced up again at the summit. Newman stood on the edge, staring down. She beckoned to him. Cupping her hands round her mouth, she called up to him.

'Comedown, Bob.'

Her words echoed round the moor, recalling that terrible scream.

Newman's legs had never stopped moving since he started to climb High Tor. Boulders and smaller rocks were scattered across the surface above him. He couldn't see the summit and he had long since lost sight of Celia as he followed the twisting path.

As so often happens with climbing heights, he reached the summit suddenly. Flat-topped, it had more rocks – some perilously close to the edge, he saw in time. With the gun still in his hand, he walked slowly to the brink, gazed down. He sucked in his breath at what lay below.

He could see the bright yellow scarf now. A small flash of colour on the tiny crumpled form lying across a huge boulder. He was startled to see Paula looking up, her right hand raised as she beckoned, then cupped both hands against her mouth.

'Come down, Bob.'

Her cry was faint but he heard the words clearly. He waved to acknowledge he had heard her. Had Celia thrown herself over? Seemed most unlikely. Newman stood where he was for a moment, looked round. Just behind him was a patch of grey sand. Clearly imprinted in it was the outline of a large fresh footprint. Much larger than Celia's small feet. And, he recalled, she had worn flat-heeled walking shoes. The imprint showed small indentations inside the outline. Studded climbing boots. Celia had been brutally murdered – shoved over the precipice.

The view from the summit of High Tor was panoramic and he could see over the moor for miles in every direction. Newman took a small pair of field-glasses out of his coat pocket, removed his dark glasses, began to scan the moor. He must have missed the murderer by minutes.

Through the lenses he saw how rough the country below was. Deep gullies where a horseman could ride unseen. Stretches of dense gorse which could mask sunken paths. Avoiding the footprint, he walked to the four points of the compass to look down the slopes. No sign of anyone, but there were boulders the size of houses. He decided he must hurry back to join Paula.