The Greek Key (15 page)

'What be it?' the old woman demanded.

'I wish to see Colonel Barrymore . . .'

'He b'aint be available.'

'You mean he is away somewhere?'

'He b'aint be available.'

She repeated the words as though she had been taught to say them by rote. She was tall, late sixties, her grey hair brushed close to the skull, her expression hostile. She was closing the door when Tweed spoke more firmly.

'The colonel will want to see me. When do you expect him to be back?'

'Name?'

'I shall have to tell him you were uncooperative. And he won't like that . . .'

'Phone for appointment . . .'

She was closing the door when they both heard the sound of a car approaching. It stopped outside. A shadowy figure opened both gates after jumping lightly out of the car. Before the headlights blinded him Tweed saw it was a crimson Daimler. Swinging round the short curve, it pulled up for a moment. A face behind the wheel stared out, then the car continued on round the side of the house. To the garage, he assumed.

This is Colonel Barrymore?' Tweed asked the woman who still stood by the door.

'Better ask him, 'adn't you? Doesn't welcome strangers, you know.'

'It's becoming somewhat apparent,' Tweed remarked drily.

He turned as he heard the crunch of boots on gravel approaching from the side of the mansion. A tall, slim, elegant man in his mid-sixties appeared and stood, studying Tweed with an expression of disdain. Thick black hair was brushed over his high forehead and beneath his aquiline nose he sported a thin dark moustache.

He wore a sheepskin against the night chill and cavalry twill trousers shoved inside riding boots gleaming like glass. How the devil does he drive in those? Tweed wondered. The voice was crisp, offhand, as though addressing a junior subaltern.

'Who are you? If you are selling something you can take your immediate departure. And is that your Mercedes parked in the way down the lane?'

'Which question first?' Tweed asked mildly. 'And my car is in a lay-by. Plenty of room for you to get past even in your Daimler. That's what lay-bys are for . . .'

'I asked that stupid girl to move it and she refused . . .'

'She's not stupid and she's quite right to ignore intimidation.' Tweed produced his card. 'Before you say another word you'd better know who I am. And while we're talking identification, who are you?'

'Colonel Barrymore.'

He moved under the lantern to examine the card, then looked up. 'It's all right, Mrs Atyeo, I'll sort this out myself.' He waited until she had disappeared, then stared at Tweed, handing back the card. 'Special Branch? A bit off the beaten track, aren't you?'

'So is Siros.'

Barrymore stiffened, stood even more erect. He jerked his head. 'Better come inside, I suppose. Just wait in my study until I'm ready to see you.'

By the light of the lantern Tweed saw Barrymore's skin was a tanned mahogany. He stood pulling slowly at one of the kid gloves he was wearing, taking hold of each finger and sliding it slowly half-way off. Even the slightest of the colonel's movements was slow and calculated.

'I'll go and fetch my assistant first,' Tweed said. 'She'll be taking notes . . .'

He was walking away before Barrymore could react. He felt he had left Paula alone in the car quite long enough. She greeted him with relief, told him quickly about the horseman on the ridge.

'That was very bright of you,' he said gratefully. To think of shining the torch. Oddly enough. Colonel Barrymore wears riding boots.'

'The man who stopped his Daimler alongside me and rudely told me to push off?'

'The very same gentleman. Surely there was plenty of room for him to pass?'

'Oodles. What do you think of His Lordship?'

'You said it. Let's get back to the manor. We have a right tartar to deal with. Something odd about him. Coldblooded is the word, I suspect . . .'

10

'Go in there. No notes will be taken. I will join you when I can.'

Barrymore turned his back on them and disappeared through a doorway. They were standing in a stone-flagged hall. At the back a huge staircase mounted to the first floor, turning on a landing. Grim-faced, Mrs Atyeo stood holding open a heavy panelled door.

'In 'ere is where 'e wants you.'

'Always wears his riding boots, does he?' Tweed enquired as he walked towards the doorway.

'Part of 'is uniform, 'ain't it? 'E is The Colonel.'

'In capital letters, it appears.'

Tweed entered followed by Paula holding her notebook, the bracelet she had taken out of Masterson's last envelope still dangling from her wrist. Mrs Atyeo's expression changed, became ashen. She was staring at the bracelet and shrank back against the wall to let Paula pass, closing the door behind them.

Tartar is the word,' Paula commented. 'And for some reason Mrs Atyeo nearly had a fit when she saw this bracelet.'

'I wonder why. Keep wearing it. Sit over there, notebook poised. It puts you offside from the chair behind that desk, may put the colonel off balance.'

The study was also a library. Three of the walls were lined with books. The door into the room was cut out of a bookcase wall and lined with green baize on the inside. The fourth wall was occupied by tall mullion-paned

windows which overlooked the garden and the distant moor.

'Not very comfortable,' Paula remarked, staring at the tall hard-backed chair behind the desk, the spartan woodblocks forming the floor, the lack of any soft furnishings and the desk which was a large block of oak. She shifted in her chair, trying to find a less awkward position. Tweed was looking at the books.

'What a man reads can tell you a lot about him. Military history of the Second World War, the campaigns of Wellington, a lot of travel books. None on Greece . . .'

'Prying, are we?'

The soft voice came from the direction of the well-oiled door which had opened silently. Tweed turned slowly and faced the colonel. He wore a dark silk shirt, a regimental tie, his cavalry twill trousers and the riding boots.

Tweed sat down in front of the desk, made no reply as Barrymore crept round the far side and sat upright in his chair, crossing his legs. The man moved like a cat. That was it, Tweed decided: cat-like in his movements and gestures.

'Well?' He waited for Tweed to respond but his visitor sat studying him. He glanced round at Paula. 'I said no notes.'

'And I said Special Branch,' Tweed snapped. 'A statement has to be taken of this conversation. If you object, we can always drive straight to London and conduct the interrogation formaiSy. You know our powers.'

'Get on with it then.'

Barrymore opened a drawer. Taking out a ruler he held it between both hands. As they talked he bent the ruler slowly, then let it revert to its original shape. Substitute for an officer's stick.

'You've got yourself a good suntan, Colonel,' Paula intervened before Tweed began.

'Just, back from the Caribbean.' He swivelled his gaze,

looking at her shapely crossed legs, her well-formed breasts outlined by her N. Peal cashmere sweater. Her windcheater was draped over the back of her chair. He took his time studying her. There are some lovely islands out there,' he went on. 'Not the package-deal spots. Islands with hotels like select clubs. Emphasis on privacy. The last bastions of a civilized holiday. Native servants to attend to your every wish. All the guests vetted. Word of mouth the only entree. None of your wog nonsense like Marbella. You'd like it. I didn't catch your name.'

'Paula Grey.' She clamped her mouth tightly.

'Siros,' Tweed said suddenly. 'During the war you led a raid on the island.'

'Did I?'

'The Ministry of Defence files say you did.'

'Oh, you've been permitted to poke round the MOD?'

'No doors are closed to us. Especially when the murder of a Government employee is involved . . .'

'Which murder?'

The ruler was bent like a bow, close to snapping point. The colonel released the tension, straightened it. His eyes were dark under hooded lids. No trace of expression crossed his tanned face as he watched Tweed.

'The murder of Harry Masterson. You've met him? He was in this area - with a Greek girl.'

'He called here.' Barrymore paused. 'He asked a lot of damn-fool questions. Who was this Greek girl?'

'We're straying. You led the raid on Siros. Tell me what happened - what went wrong? And who came with you?'

'Someone knew we were coming. Cairo was a hotbed of gossip. We were carrying a fortune in diamonds to hand over to the Greek Resistance. To help finance them. Two first-rate men came with me. Captain Oliver Robson and CSM Stuart Kearns. Plus one Greek who knew the island. Andreas Gavalas. His job to hand over the baubles. Someone grabbed them off him. Mission aborted.'

'Haven't you left something out?'

'Probably. Over forty years ago? Is there much more?' He glanced at his watch. 'I've had a long journey. A bath would be welcome.'

He stifled a yawn, hand over mouth. Long slender fingers, more like those of a beautiful woman. Paula was writing shorthand in her book, recording every word. She looked up. Tweed was again waiting. She glanced at a side table near her elbow. A copy of The Times lay on it, folded open at the personal advertisements section.

'Andreas Gavalas was murdered,' Tweed said eventually.

'Top secret. They couldn't have let you read that file?'

'That was the most significant incident of the raid. Tell me about it.'

'Unpleasant. One of my few flops. The four-man party got separated. There was an alarm. Someone - forget who

- said a German patrol had been spotted. We dived for cover. False alarm. When we found Gavaias he had a knife in his back - the diamonds were gone. We beat a hasty retreat - back to the beach for rendezvous with the motor launch. Then back to Mersa Matruh by night. That's a wog port on the African coast - inside the Gyppo border.'

'I know where Mersa Matruh is. What kind of knife?' Barrymore slammed down the ruler. 'If you read the file you know. This isn't quiz time. A commando knife - as well you are aware. Embarrassing. I checked both Robson's and Reams' equipment. Both had their knives. Showed them my own. Any more? I hope not.'

'One final question. Could you please - in a few words

- give me your estimate of the characters of Captain Robson and CSM Kearns?'

It was the last question Barrymore had expected. Paula saw the puzzlement in his saturnine face. The colonel steepled his hands, a concentrated look in his dark eyes. Like a man reliving some experience of long ago.

'Robson was seconded from the Medical Corps. Steady as a rock in a tight corner. Cautious. Always looked where he was placing the next footstep. Never panicked. Dour.'

'And Kearns?'

'Courage came to him second nature. Fast on his feet, in his thinking. Could be impulsive. Didn't matter. Had a sixth sense for danger. In an emergency very audacious. Time you went.'

Tweed stood up, showed no sign of resenting the abrupt dismissal. Like the ending of a military inspection. Paula slipped her notebook inside her shoulder bag, walked after Tweed to the door without a glance at Barrymore.

Opening the door, Tweed stood aside and let her walk into the bleak hall. He glanced back. Barrymore sat behind his desk like a statue, hands still steepled, a glazed expression on his long-jawed face. Suddenly he seemed aware they were leaving. He stood up, remained behind the desk, bowed formally, said not another word as Tweed closed the door.

'You'll be leavin' now.'

Mrs Atyeo was waiting in the hall. She unclasped the hands which had rested on her thin waist, went to the front door, drew back bolts, peered through the diamond-shaped window, unleashed the heavy chain, opened it and waited as they filed past her into the night.

They paused under the lantern on the porch as the door was shut behind them. They could hear the bolts sliding back into position, the chain being fixed, a lock turned. The lantern went out, plunging them into darkness. Night had fallen.

Tweed looped Paula's arm through his and they made their way slowly down the drive. He waited until they were inside the car before he sighed and asked the question.