The Greek Key (13 page)

'Precisely. And it is an old British commando knife. The war museum has a specimen. I compared them. The knife in Giorgos is an exact replica. Macabre. Some kind of symbolic gesture?'

'Or something to put us off the real identity of the killer?'

'Could be. I just hope Newman doesn't go poking round in Devil's Valley. Petros Gavalas controls that area like some medieval baron.'

'And what about the number of accidents that have taken place in that area? Hikers and mountaineers who never come back?'

'I've never been able to pin anything on the old villain - but I'm certain his men tossed them over precipices. No one penetrates his territory and survives. He's the old school. Comes from Macedonia. They play rough up there. Yes, I do hope Newman gives that one a miss . . .'

2 p.m. 90°F. 32°C
. Newman was freshly shaved, showered, his brain was alert, he had eaten a large lunch in the hotel dining room with Marler and they had returned to his room with Nick who had arrived promptly.

'We're going into action,' Newman rapped out. 'We'll stir the pot, as Marler put it earlier. Not to make it simmer - I want it boiling over.'

'The weather is boiling over already,' Nick remarked as he mopped his forehead.

'We'll drive down towards Cape Sounion,' Newman went on. 'My bet is we'll be followed. That will confirm we are getting somewhere. We'll enquire at the main hotels in the coastal resorts to see if we can find where Masterson holed up. We'll ask openly about the Greek Key . . .'

'What is that?'asked Nick.'Sounds like a night club . . .'

'That is what we want to find out. And Christina will be in a rage after what happened. She may make a wrong move. Let's get to the car.' He picked up a large plastic bottle of mineral water and they left the room.

Nick ran ahead while Newman and Marler walked down the empty corridor. Newman never used elevators if they could be avoided, if a staircase were available: elevators could become traps.

'You know, Marler, I think we're missing something. Maybe something under our noses.'

'Why the doubts?'

'This mystery is full of twists, unexplained contradictions. Why was Christina aboard that yacht,
Venus III
, if she is supposed to hate its owner, her grandfather, Petros? Who is paying for that expensive apartment she has in Kolonaki? We must visit her there.' He corrected himself. 'I must visit her. She may tell me more than she told you.'

'I whetted your appetite,' Marler said cynically.

'What did Masterson find out that decided someone he had to be murdered? What was the link between him and Christina? Don't forget - they first met in London. Why did Masterson visit the Ministry of Defence to ask about that commando raid on Siros over forty years ago?'

'My head begins to spin . . .'

'I wish we had one man here who is a master when it comes to a manhunt, to untangling a complex web.'

'You mean . . .'

'Tweed. I miss Tweed . . .'.

9

A sea of grey unbroken cloud pressed down like a smothering blanket: not a hint of blue anywhere. A fine drizzle like a sea mist covered the desolate landscape, settled on the windscreen of the Mercedes 280E Tweed had borrowed from Newman. He drove slowly along the narrow country

road elevated above the grim marshland on either side. Not a soul in sight. At two in the afternoon they had the dreary world to themselves.

'Are we going the right way?' Paula asked as she studied the ordnance survey map. 'I'm lost.' She glanced out of the window, settled in the front passenger seat beside Tweed.

'We're right in the middle of the Somerset Levels, the area Masterson noted down on a scrap of paper in the cigar box he sent from Athens,' Tweed remarked. 'This is where the sea used to flood in centuries ago. Now they cut peat. I want to get the atmosphere of this place.'

He stopped the car, but kept the engine running as he stared around at the bleakness. Paula, dressed in a windcheater and a blouse and pleated skirt, shivered.

'I find this place creepy. Look, there's some kind of a building over there under those willows.'

'One of the farms - the peat-cutting farms.'

Below the road there stretched a ditch full of stagnant water. Paula lowered her window and wrinkled her nose as an odour of decay drifted inside the car. She opened the door, stepped out to take a closer look.

The ditch was coated with an acidic green slime across its surface. Patches of black water showed here and there. In the distance stood the ramshackle building Tweed had called a farm. Its roof slanted at a crooked angle. Smoke curled up from a squat chimney. Another smell assailed her nostrils and again she crinkled them in disgust.

'That's the smell of peat. You can see this side of that farm where they're cutting it. And someone is coming ...'

Tweed's grip on the wheel tightened as he stopped speaking. Paula turned again to look towards the collection of hovels he had called a farm. Two men were advancing towards them, one walking behind the other along a grassy path leading to where she stood.

Both wore stained old pea-jackets, grubby caps and
muddy corduroy trousers stuffed into the tops of rubber
boots. Each carried over his shoulder a long-handled implement. One was some kind of vicious-shaped hoe, the other a long spade more like an iron scoop. Both walked
with steady intent, wide shoulders hunched, primitive faces
staring at the intruders.

'Get in the car quick!' Tweed snapped.

He had the car moving as she slammed the heavy
door and then increased speed. Pauia let out her breath,
a sigh of relief. Tweed started the windscreen wipers
going.

'I didn't like the look of them at all,' Paula said.

'A couple of ugly customers,' Tweed agreed. 'The peat
diggers are an enclosed community shut off from the out
side world. I know this area well. Went to school at
Blundell's near Tiverton. Hated every minute of it - like
being in prison. During my spare time I used to cycle for miles - including round here. Pedalled like mad down this
miserable road. Even then it frightened me.'

'Why cycle here then?'

'Kid stuff. Got a thrill out of scaring myself. You know
something . . .' He glanced across the dank marshlands.
'This would be a good place to hide a body.'

'I'm glad you kept the engine running. There seem to be a lot of willows growing in this wilderness.'

'The other industry here. See those clumps growing by that ditch running away from the road? They're called withies. Shoots from pollarded willows. The osier-workers cut them and make wicker baskets to sell. Chairs, too. They can keep busy all the year round. When they've used up the withies and are waiting for next year's crop they dig up the peat. Goes way back over a couple of centuries. The Victorians were very keen on wickerwork.'

'And where are we?' She was studying the map again. 'I do hate to be lost.'

'Sign of a good navigator. Westonzoyland is probably the nearest point of civilization. We left the A372 and drove north. We're heading for the A39. We turn left on to that, head for Bridgwater and then west to Dunster via Watchet.'

'Got it. What was in that large package which arrived from Harry this morning with the Athens
postmark?'

'Look in the glove compartment. Another mess of clues. And after glancing at them I haven't one. A clue. See what you make of it.'

She sifted the contents of the reinforced envelope with the address again written in Harry Masterson's distinctive hand. Pulling out something as Tweed switched on the headlights to warn any oncoming vehicle, she examined it and then unfastened a clip, wrapped it round her wrist, closed the clip.

'It's a girl's bracelet. Why would he send that?' she wondered.

'No idea.'

'It's quite beautiful. You've seen the symbol the pendant has been designed as in imitation jewellery?'

'No. I told you I only had time to glance at the contents before we started out from Park Crescent.'

'It's the Greek key.'

Through a hole in the lowering clouds a shaft of sunlight like a searchlight moved across the great sweeping brown ridges in the distance. Tweed nodded towards them as they travelled along a hedge-lined road, approaching a small town.

'Up beyond there is Exmoor. A lonely place for the trio who long ago raided that island of Siros. And why should they all settle in the same area?'

'Let's ask them . . .'

'I intend to. We're close to Dunster now.'

They passed a signpost on their right pointing down a narrow road.
Watchet
. Tweed grunted and Paula looked at him.

'You had a thought.'

'Watchet. I checked it in guide books before we left. My memory was right. It's the only port between here and Land's End. A real port, I mean. In a small way of business. It exports scrap metal and wastepaper to Scandinavia. And, guess where.'

'We turn left soon according to the map. Can't guess.'

'I know where we turn. I remember the road. From Watchet there is the occasional ship plying between the Bristol Channel and Portugal. Turn here . . .'

At The Luttrell Arms Tweed waited until they were settled in their separate rooms before strolling down the staircase to tackle the manager. Each room had its name on the door. Tweed had
Avill
, a large and comfortable room with a door leading to a garden at the back. The manager, a tall, pleasant man clad in black, looked up from behind the reception counter as Tweed placed a photograph on the woodwork.

'Can you do me a favour, please,' Tweed began. 'Has this man stayed here recently?'

The manager stared at the print of Harry Masterson without a change of expression. He looked up at Tweed.

'It is, I am sure you will understand, company policy not to give out information about other guests. If someone came and asked the same question about yourself . . .'

'Special Branch.'

Tweed laid the card forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent alongside the photo. The manager stared at it with curiosity. He had a quiet deliberate voice, the kind of voice used to pacifying impossible guests.

'I have heard about your organization. This is the first time I have met one of you.'

'So I would appreciate it if you would answer my questions in confidence. A question of national security.'

'Oh dear.' The manager paused. Tweed replaced the card in his pocket in case anyone came past them. The place seemed deserted. 'I do recognize him,' the manager said eventually. 'He stayed here about three weeks ago . . .'

'For how long?'

Keep them talking - once you've opened their mouths.

'Five days, Mr Tweed.'

'In what name?'

'Harry Masterson. A jolly man. Well-dressed. A joker - made me laugh.'

'And this person?'

Tweed removed Masterson's photograph, replaced it with the blow-up of the picture of Christina Gavalas which had arrived in the cigar box. He watched the manager intently.

'No question of scandal involved, I hope?' ventured the manager.

'I did say in confidence.'

'Of course. Yes, she came with him. They had separate rooms,' he added quickly. 'As a matter of fact, Mr Master-son had the Garden Room,
Avill
, the one you have, the best in the house.'

'And the girl?'

'The same room as your Miss Grey. Gallox.'

'Registered in what name?'

'Christina Bland. She wore a wedding ring. You see why I was concerned about a little scandal. Foreign, I thought.'

'Don't be concerned. What did they do while they were here? I realize that's a difficult question - but everyone has to pass this reception area when they come downstairs. Did they spend a lot of time out?'

'A striking couple.' The manager eyed Tweed as though to confirm he was the genuine article. 'Yes, they did go out most of the time. They would have breakfast - I help with that when staff is off duty - and ask for a packed lunch each day. Then we wouldn't see them until long after dinner. We close that front door at eleven and late-nighters have to ring the bell for admittance. Twice I let them in at midnight. I thought maybe they had friends round Exmoor they visited. That's a pure guess. You will keep this between us?'