The Greek Key (16 page)

'What was your impression of Barrymore?'

'Nasty piece of work. Like a satyr. Did you notice how he was looking at me? Undressing me with his lecherous

eyes. I felt I was naked. Thinks a lot of himself. I can imagine him riding a horse inspecting his troops, riding very slowly along the line with an expression of cynical contempt. And he moves oddly - like a cat. Took those gloves off with a feline grace . . .' She paused and shivered. 'I'm glad you're back with me in the car.'

'You didn't think I'd leave you on your own in a lonely place like this, did you?'

Tweed was watching his wing mirror. Paula froze suddenly and then jerked her head round. A slim hatless man was walking alongside the car from behind them. He leant on the window ledge. She let out her breath, lowered the window. Pete Nield grinned, pulled at his small dark moustache with his index finger.

'How goes the battle?' he enquired.

'Where on earth did you spring from?' she asked.

'Pete has followed us in my Cortina all the way from London. I told you he was coming. He's been parked a short distance behind you ever since I left you.'

'In this road?'

'No,' Nield told her. 'I parked the car beyond a gate leading to a field. Then I sat in a hedge close behind you. I was ready to intervene when that character in the Daimler pulled up by you if he'd tried anything on.'

'But what about in Dunster?'

'Parked the car at the other end of the village. I still have to register at The Luttrell Arms - but I warned them over the phone I'd be late. They won't realize we're together. At the hotel, I mean.'

'You haven't told me what you spotted about the colonel,' Tweed remarked. 'Only that you dislike him. Irrelevant. Pete, get in the back of the car and listen. Now I want both of you to grasp this. Ready, Pete?'

'Jolly comfortable back here. Nice to see how the other half lives.'

'Masterson came down to Exmoor with the Greek girl,

Christina. All three men involved in a raid over forty years ago on Siros, a German-occupied Greek island, are living on Exmoor. Harry Masterson, I'm sure, knew that. From Christina . . .'

'Assumption,' interjected Paula.

'Listen! Our main task is to interrogate all three men. And every word said by these men is important. One of them may let something slip. There was something very peculiar about that raid on Siros. Now, Paula, you were there when Barrymore gave his version.'

'Well, he was very suntanned,' she said slowly. 'So he could have just come back from Greece . . .'

'Now we're getting warmer. You see, Pete, this Colonel Barrymore has a terse way of speaking. Typical Army officer. But when Paula remarked on his suntan he became positively loquacious - explaining at some length how he'd been to the Caribbean. No specific mention of locales. It was the only time he really opened up.'

'You mean he was lying?' Pete asked.

'Paula, when we get back to London, will type out the transcript of each of the three men's statements - including their description of what happened on Siros. You can read them, decide for yourself.'

'You also asked his opinion of the other two men,' Paula recalled. 'I couldn't see the point.'

'In the end the whole thing may hang on the
psychology
of these three men. Would one of them be capable of murder? And did you notice,' he asked Paula, 'that when I mentioned a murder, Barrymore said, 'Which murder?' It sounded to me as though he was thinking of more than one murder. Who else could he be thinking of besides Andreas Gavalas who accompanied them on the Siros raid?'

'Harry Masterson?' suggested Nield.

'Or possibly a third murder over forty years ago - mentioned briefly to me at the Ministry of Defence. Back to your car, Pete. We must tackle our next member of the trio.'

'Who is that?' asked Paula as Pete left the Mercedes.

'Captain Oliver Robson. He lives the other side of Oare. I was given directions at that pub at Culbone. Robson calls there for a pint occasionally …'

11

After the gloomy Quarme Manor the modern L-shaped bungalow perched on the hillside in the dark looked to be out of another world. Which, Tweed reflected as he stopped the car, in fact it was. A wild leap from the fifteenth century into the twentieth.

The residence was a blaze of lights, standing at the top of a tarred drive above the lane. A wide stone-paved terrace ran the full width of the frontage. Ornamental lanterns were placed at intervals along a stone wall below the terrace, shedding light over the long slope of rough-cut grass to the hedge by the lane. The white-painted gate was open.

Tweed studied the large bungalow carefully. Curtains were drawn back but it was impossible to see inside the picture windows from below. Searchlight beams flooded the night from each corner, illuminating all approaches. He drove in through the entrance slowly, glancing to left and right.

'They'll know we're coming,' he commented.

'They'll hear the car, you mean?' Paula asked.

'No. In each of the gateposts there are photo-electric cells. As we drove through that invitingly open gateway we broke a beam. It will have set off an alarm inside the bungalow.'

'I suppose it's wise to take precautions - living in such an isolated position on the edge of the moor.'

'Including spy cameras projecting from under the eaves? Every possible kind of security measure has been installed. I begin to see something Colonel Barrymore and Captain Robson have in common. When I trudged round Quarme Manor before going up to the front entrance I noticed the high walls were topped with barbed wire. And a straight wire ran beneath it. Electrified, I'm sure. Remember all the security precautions on the front door? Both places are like fortresses.'

'That's what the owners have in common?'

'No. Both of them are scared stiff of dangerous intruders. To an almost pathological extent it appears . . .'

He stopped speaking. He had parked the car at the top of the drive. The front door opened. Framed in the dark opening - the lights inside had been switched off - stood the silhouette of a man. Holding a pump-action shotgun. Aimed at the Mercedes point blank.

'I'll sort him out,' said Tweed.

'God! What a welcome,' whispered Paula. 'Worse than Quarme Manor . . .'

'Good evening.' Tweed had lowered his window. 'We are looking for Captain Robson. It says Endpoint on the name plate.'

'Who are you? What do you want?'

A trace of Scots accent. The voice clear, level in tone, controlled.

'Special Branch. My name is Tweed. We have just called on Colonel Barrymore . . .'

Tweed made it sound as though Barrymore had led them to Endpoint. He waited for a reaction, said no more. Silence is a potent weapon.

'You'd better come in then.' The shotgun was lowered, still held ready for action as they alighted from the car and walked across the terrace. 'You have some identification?'

'Just about to show you. I'm taking my card out of my pocket . . .'

'It is very lonely out here. There have been two attempts to break in to my home. I'm Robson.'

As he looked at the card, shotgun tucked under his arm, Tweed studied Robson. Medium height, heavily built, but all of it muscle and bone, he was about the same age as Barrymore. And like the colonel his skin was deeply suntanned. The top of his rounded head was covered with an untidy thatch of brown hair and he had a straggly moustache of the same colour. Clad in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his shirt was open-necked, but his well-worn grey slacks had a razor-edged crease.

'Better come in, I suppose.' He handed back the card. 'Special Branch? Sure you've got the right man? Let's go and make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room.'

'Oh, this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed introduced.

'Welcome.'

Robson hardly gave her a glance as he closed the door and walked across a hall towards an open door. A brown-haired woman of about the same age appeared wearing an apron over her dress.

'Who is it, Oliver?'

Tweed detected a note of anxiety in her voice. White-faced, she had an air of bustle. Robson gestured towards her.

'My sister, May. Looks after me. Keeps the place going. Be lost without her. It's all right, May. Barrymore sent them along. We'll chat in the sitting room.'

The moment she entered the hall the warmth hit Paula. Two old-fashioned radiators stood against
the painted walls. The sitting room was long and large with a Wilton carpet wall to wail. Cosy-looking armchairs and couches were spread about and a log fire crackled beneath a huge burnished copper hood.

'Do take a pew, anywhere you like. This is my work room, too.'

He sat in an old swivel chair behind a desk with a scruffed top. A tumbler of something which looked like whisky stood next to a pile of newspapers. Robson stood up as they sat down.

'I'm forgetting my manners. What would you like to drink? I can do Scotch, white wine if you prefer . . .'

Paula had sat down close to him near the end of the desk. He stared suddenly as she adjusted the bracelet round her wrist. His right hand jerked, knocking over the tumbler. Liquid ran over the edge of the desk.

'Sorry. Damn careless of me . . .' He opened a drawer, took out a cloth and began mopping up the mess. 'Just back off holiday. Half here, half somewhere else.'

'I guessed that from your suntan,' Tweed remarked. 'You'd hardly have acquired that in this country. Go far?'

'Sailing off Morocco. Agadir and Casablanca. By myself. May can't stand the sea. Stayed back to guard the fort. Drinks?'

Both Tweed and Paula, notebook perched on her lap, asked for wine. Robson poured two glasses of Montrachet. Returning behind his desk, he produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe.

Tire away.'

'I'm checking details of a murder which took place over forty years ago,' Tweed began. 'During your stint of duty in the Middle East.'

'A long time ago, as you say - that grim business when we made that raid on Siros. Barrymore was in command, but you know that - just coming from his place. Why has it become important now?'

'Because someone else investigating it has just been murdered. Ever met Harry Masterson?'

Robson's thumb, tamping tobacco in the bowl, remained poised for a second or two. Paula saw the pause. Cautious was a word Barrymore had used, describing Robson.

'Yes, he visited me. Jolly sort of cove. Life and soul of the party type. Asked some rum questions. What on earth is going on? 'Just been murdered,' you said.'

That is what I am trying to find out. Could you tell me in your own words what did happen on Siros?'

'Who else's words would I use?' Robson smiled drily.

'And if you don't mind, Miss Grey will record your statement - for the record.'

'Of course not. Certainly she may. Special Branch. You have a system, I suppose. One thing I am entitled to, I assume. A copy of the statement. Siros.' He settled himself at ease in his chair, lit his pipe, watching Tweed from beneath his upswept eyebrows, his light blue eyes thoughtful. What a contrast to Barrymore, Paula thought: he's the soul of relaxation. And his house reflects his informal personality.

'Siros,' Robson repeated, puffed at the pipe, 'the main island in the Cyclades group. Shaped like a boomerang, a huge one. Steep cliffs along the southern coast - rising up to Mount Ida. Same name as the tallest mountain on Crete. No idea why. Siros was the headquarters of General Hugo Geiger, who commanded the German troops occupying the Cyclades . . .'

'Is Geiger still alive?' Tweed interjected.

'No idea. Bit long in the tooth by now if he is. Like our little group. Now . . . The Greek Resistance had made its own HQ on Siros. They thought hiding under the Germans' noses was a smart tactic. We were carrying a fortune in diamonds to hand over to the Resistance . . .'

'Who is 'we'?'

'The colonel, of course. Myself. You wouldn't think I was a commando in those days. I'm a doctor. The Resistance lot were short of medical help. Plus CSM Kearns, stout fellow. Lastly, the Greek, Gavalas. He was to be the contact with his own people. He'd escaped to Cairo. He was the one who carried the diamonds. To cut a long story short, we landed from the motor launch at night on the southern shore, made our way up a difficult defile cut in the mountainside - where the Germans would least expect a landing. It was wild terrain. Someone - can't remember who - sounded the alarm. German patrol. Every man for himself in that situation. We scattered, later reassembled at an agreed rendezvous - and Gavalas was missing.'