The Greek Key (17 page)

'He'd handed over those diamonds?'

'No one knew. Unlikely. That rendezvous was several miles away on the
northern
slopes of Mount Ida. We were still to the south. We started searching for Gavalas. It was pretty dramatic - horrific. Barrymore found him. Dead. A knife sticking out from under his left shoulder blade. And the diamonds had gone. We headed back for the rendezvous with the motor launch due to take us off. Nothing else to do.'

'And the knife?' Tweed prodded gently.

'That made it more horrific. A commando knife. The colonel checked us. We all still had our own knives -including the colonel. Later we wondered whether the knife had been taken off one of the two earlier teams which had perished while raiding Siros.'

'Who by?'

'Could have been one of the Greek Resistance. Even a German soldier. Someone must have had quite a collection. There were six commandos who died on Siros.'

'And the value of those diamonds?' Tweed asked.

'A hundred thousand pounds. Wartime value.' Robson tamped his pipe, glanced at Paula writing in shorthand.

'One more question before we go, if I may. Could you please give me your assessment of the characters and temperaments of Barrymore and Kearns?'

'We make a good team. Kearns has a place on the way to Simonsbath, a stone's throw from here. The colonel is decisive, ice-cold in an emergency. The most controlled man I've ever known. Remarkable. Always ready for any danger, however outlandish. Never lets up his guard.'

'And Kearns?'

'A natural CSM. Very young in those days. Weren't we all? Your legendary man of action. But an excellent planner as well. The two don't usually go together. Could always see three moves ahead in the game. Still can. I think that sums them up. More wine?'

'Thank you, but I think we've taken up enough of your time.' Tweed stood up. 'Could I possibly visit your loo?'

'Of course. Remiss of me not to show you when you arrived.'

When he strolled back into the room Paula had slid her notebook inside her shoulder bag and was standing close to the picture window. Pete Nield would be out there watching and she was trying to signal to him they were leaving. Robson padded across and joined her by the window.

'I'm a lifelong bachelor,' he remarked, fiddling with his dead pipe. 'Not from choice. Once I was madly in love with a debutante. Can you imagine that?'

'Yes, I can. What happened, if I may ask?'

'Why not? It was all a long time ago. I thought my feelings for her were reciprocated. She left me standing at the church. Sounds like an old joke, but it happened. A telegram arrived.
Sorry, Oliver. It won't work. Very sorry. Diana
. And Diana was a Greek goddess in mythology. Went off and married a baronet. Rather put me off women. Present company excluded.'

'It must have been an awful blow.'

'It was a bit. She was a silly girl.' He made the comment with such vehemence Paula glanced at him. The eyes were like stones, the mouth twisted in an expression of bitter irony. 'Her baronet hadn't a penny. Had to take a job . . .'

Thank you for being so helpful,' said Tweed as he returned and stood on the other side of Robson. He tapped the long thin picture window. 'Good view by day, I imagine.'

'Yes, it is. A lookout point over the moor. As to helping you, my pleasure. I'll show you out.'

'You keep your home beautifully warm,' said Paula. It was the first remark which came into her head and she sensed Robson was embarrassed by his display of emotion.

'It has to be oil-fired central heating out here. Tricky during the oil crisis. We practically lived in this room. The log fire . . .'

In the hall the pump-action shotgun was perched in an umbrella stand, the twin barrels pointing at the ceiling. Ready to hand for the next caller, Tweed noted.

The door closed behind them and they climbed into the car. Before starting the engine Tweed looked back at the bungalow, at the security cameras. The viewing screen must be in a room he hadn't seen. 'Something odd about this place,' he said as he reached to turn on the ignition and then leant back. 'Look at the roof, the far end of the long stem on the bungalow. We couldn't see it when we arrived because of the dark and the glare of those searchlights.'

Paula stared through the windscreen. Projecting above the roof of the bungalow rose a wide circular column which reminded her of a lighthouse. Even more so because at the top was a circular rail and behind it the column was made of glass. She expected at any moment to see a slowly revolving light.

The moon came up while we were inside,' Tweed pointed out. 'Which is why we can see it clearly now. It's like a watch tower. Mind you, when I went to the loo his sister, May, took me the full length of the bungalow behind the sitting room to the main bathroom. On the walls are fishing nets with those glass balls suspended they use to keep nets afloat close to the surface. And fishing rods crossed like swords. Very much a man of the sea, Captain Robson.'

There's someone inside the lighthouse. I can see his shadow against the moonlight.'

'Time to go.'

'Why did you liken it to a watch tower?' she asked while he drove down the drive and turned back the way they had come along the lane.

'I passed the base of the circular column on the way to the bathroom. It had a curved door, closed. Inside there must be a spiral staircase. Watch tower? Because I think Robson uses it to keep a close eye on the approaches to his home. The ridge along the moor continues from Quarme Manor, runs above Endpoint.'

'They both gave me the impression they're waiting for something dangerous to arrive - Barrymore with that wall and an electrified wire you saw. Now Robson - again with all that expensive security. The kind of thing you expect to see protecting a Beverly Hills mansion.'

'As though they were expecting Nemesis,' said Tweed.

12

Tweed, who had studied the map of Exmoor, drove back the way they had come and then turned on to a country lane leading away from Quarrae Manor. Paula watched his expression as the headlight beams followed the twists of the hedge-lined road. The darkness seemed eerie, the moor closing in on all sides.

'Pete is still following us if that's what you're wondering,' she remarked. 'I saw his lights a moment ago behind us.'

'I was wondering about the name of Robson's bungalow. Endpoint.'

'Rather obvious. The lane comes to a full stop below where his bungalow is perched.'

'I noticed that. Something else came back to me. One of those notes Harry Masterson sent back from Athens -wrapped up as a clue only I would understand, he thought. Endstation. Close to Endpoint, wouldn't you say?'

'My God! It never occurred to me. Was Harry pointing a finger at Robson?'

'Who knows? It's early days yet.'

'It's getting late nights. Where are we off to now?'

'To pay a call on the third member of the party which raided Siros all those years ago. CSM Kearns. If we can ever find his place in the dark. I've marked where I think it is on that map. Navigate, girl.'

'Maybe he won't welcome a surprise visit at this hour . . .'

'So, maybe we catch him off guard. It's odd the way the three of them live so close together.'

'Perhaps they've remained close friends even after all these years.'

'And you don't sound any more convinced than I am . . .'

It was a difficult drive even when the moon rose, casting a weird light over the landscape. The light became weirder as a mist began creeping down from high up the moor. Behind the phosphorescent glow Paula could still see the ridge crests sweeping across Exmoor like giant waves.

They met no other traffic. They passed no villages. For miles on their way towards Simonsbath they saw not even one isolated dwelling. They were alone in the desolate wilderness as Tweed descended a long curving road, lights undimmed to warn any vehicle approaching from the opposite direction.

'What on earth is that?' Paula asked suddenly.

Lights suddenly appeared further down the slope, lights close together on their right-hand side. Tweed frowned, slowed to a crawl. They were still several miles from Simonsbath from his memory of the map. Woods now lined either side, and the lights gleamed between the tree trunks, flashing on and off as the trunks momentarily obscured them. He stopped the car and stared through the windscreen.

'It's a small estate of modern bungalows. They're crammed pretty close together. Must have been built during the past ten or fifteen years.'

'And I think we may have pulled up just outside CSM Kearns' house,' Paula commented.

To their left inside a gap in the trees stood an old stone two-storey house perched higher up the slope. Surrounded by a high stone wall, there were two six-feet-high solid wooden gates. Tweed reached for his flashlight in the glove compartment, asked Paula to lower her window, switched on the light. A large metal plate carried the name. Wood-side House. 'This is his place,' he agreed.

He continued to move the light over the solid wooden gates. On the roadside was a grille covering each slab of wood. Reaching over to the rear seat, he grasped a heavy wooden walking stick he had purchased in Dunster. He was never sure afterwards what had made him do this.

'Let's investigate,' he said, switched off the engine and extracted the ignition key.

He locked the car before walking round it to join Paula who stood staring at the gates. Carrying the stick in his right hand, the light in his left, he swivelled the beam to the side of the right-hand gate and saw a bell-push. He pressed firmly with his thumb and they waited.

In the distance beyond the wall there was the sound of a door being opened, a door which creaked loudly in the heavy silence of the mist-bound night. Footsteps approached with a brisk tread across what sounded like a cobbled yard. Suddenly a ferocious snarl murdered the night, followed by barking.

'My God, what's that?' Paula asked.

'Guard dog.'

'Sounds as though it's short of food - and thinks we'd make a good dinner.'

'Who is it?'

A cultured voice. Terse. Commanding. Talking at them through a small window flap opened in the right-hand gate.

'My name is Tweed. Are you Mr Kearns?'

'Yes. What do you want?'

'Special Branch. I want a talk with you. Now.'

'You have identification?'

'Of course. Wait a minute.' The unseen animal was growling, its claws pawing at the inside of the gate. It couldn't wait to get out. Paula shivered. Tweed produced his card, held it up to the spyhole, shone his torch on it.

'Stand quite still when I open the gate. Move and you'll be torn to pieces.'

'Charming,' Paula mumbled under her breath.

The flap slammed shut. A sound of bolts being withdrawn, the turn of a key and the right-hand gate swung inward. They were still faced with the heavy iron grille. Tactfully, Tweed switched off his light. Also, he wanted to regain his night vision. He felt Paula tense beside him.

The tall figure of a man stood inserting a key into the grille with his left hand. His right gripped a chain holding a huge dog. The creature became excited again, baying and snarling, lunging forward.

'Quiet, Wolf,' the crisp voice commanded. 'Come in. He's harmless . . .'

'You could have fooled me,' Tweed rapped back.

'And who is this girl? Not also Special Branch? She can wait in the car.'

'She can come in with me, for God's sake. She's not waiting by herself out here in the middle of nowhere. And she is Special Branch. My assistant, Paula Grey . . .'

As this exchange took place Kearns was closing the grille and the gate, relocking everything. Tweed wandered up the slope paved with stone flags towards the house. Over a hundred years old if it was a day. Paula kept pace, anxious to distance herself from Wolf, which she had now identified as an Alsatian.

'Wait here,' Tweed said as they reached the steps up to the front door. 'Back in a moment.'

He walked swiftly in his rubber-soled shoes round the left side of the stone hulk. At the entrance to a wide passage a horse had recently relieved itself on the stones. Rounding the corner, he was confronted with a stable door, the upper flap open. A horse's head regarded him, poked itself further over the flap and whinnied softly. Tweed held out a hand, stroked its neck. Its smooth hair was wet. It had been ridden hard. And not long ago.