The Greek Key (52 page)

'Except he didn't,' Butler said. 'I checked that out. A two-storey building looking straight down on the harbour there is Customs and the harbourmaster. I followed him into a pub and got chatting. Told him a cock-and-bull story about how a friend had boasted he'd come ashore from that freighter without being spotted. The harbourmaster said bullshit. They keep a sharp lookout for suspicious characters trying to sneak ashore. It's this drugs problem. He was a solid ex-seaman type. Said it was impossible. I believe him.'

'Another theory gone down the drain. Let's wander west along the coast a bit. Looks pretty lonely.'

Butler led the way back across the footbridge and they walked down a road a short distance. It stopped abruptly and they had to pick their way across a treacherous surface of pebbles and small rocks.

'It really is the end of the world out here,' Tweed remarked.

'Maybe that's what Masterson meant when he wrote
Endstation
,' Butler suggested. Wearing a thick woollen pullover as protection against the damp sea mist drifting in, he walked with his hands inside his trouser pockets. There's an old dear back in one of those cottages who says she's seen ghosts - and lights flashing late at night. The barman told me so I called on her. A Mrs Larcombe. In her late seventies, but sharp as a tack.'

'I don't think you're right,' Paula objected. '
Endstation
is one of those two terminal stations on that railway -Taunton or Minehead.'

'What's got into him?' Butler asked her.

Tweed was striding ahead, peering at the ground, his Burberry collar buttoned to the neck. He seemed totally absorbed in his thoughts.

Paula told Butler about the death of Jill Kearns. He listened as she explained Monica's anxiety about Tweed becoming obsessed. 'And now his mind is full of three deaths,' she went on. 'Masterson's, of course, and Sam Partridge and Jill.'

'Don't see how they link up. One in Greece, one on Exmoor, one in London.'

'That's what he's trying to do - link them all together. Drop the subject, he's coming back . . .'

'I found traces of a wheeled vehicle,' Tweed announced. 'In a patch where sand showed.'

'No vehicle would cross that terrain,' commented Butler.

'And on the way back, could we call on Mrs Larcombe if she's at home? I'd like a word with her . . .'

The cottage was built of stone, roofed with red tiles mellowed by the years. Swagged lace curtains draped the windows, the front garden was barely three feet wide but the lavender borders were trimmed and there was not a weed in sight.

Approaching the cottage, Tweed noted there was an end window facing west where he had walked. Butler raised the highly polished brass knocker shaped like a dolphin and rapped it twice. A nameboard on the picket gate carried the legend
Dolphin Cottage
.

A tall sharp-faced woman opened the door. Her nose was prominent, she was long-jawed, her eyes alert, her mass of hair grey neatly brushed. Butler spoke to her for a moment, then gestured for Tweed and Paula to enter. Mrs Larcombe led them into what she called 'the parlour', invited them to sit down and Butler made the introductions.

'What can I do for you, Mr Tweed?' she asked, seating herself in a chintz-covered armchair.

'I'm in insurance. No, I'm not trying to sell you any policy. I'm Chief Claims Investigator for my company. A holidaymaker called Burns disappeared here a few weeks ago. Last seen late at night walking that way.' He twisted in his chair, pointed west. 'We've had a claim on the basis presumed dead. Since no body has been found I'm puzzled.'

'Funny goings-on round here.' Her eyes glistened, bird-like. 'No one believes me. They think I'm seeing ghosts. I know what I saw and heard.' She sat more erect.

'Could you tell me a little more?' Tweed asked quietly.

'It would be a few weeks ago - about the time your Mr Burns disappeared. Can't fix it exactly. Yes, I can. About the time the Customs at Watchet practically took that Portuguese freighter apart. Didn't find anything except a lot of cork. The rumour was it was carrying drugs.'

'What did you see and hear?'

'Close to midnight it was. I don't sleep well. I was looking out of my bedroom window which faces the way you pointed. I saw a light flashing out at sea. Like someone signalling. Then another light flashing from the shore. There was a ship at sea, a fairish way out.'

'You had your bedroom light on?' Tweed enquired.

'No, I didn't. I'd got out of bed in the dark and put on my dressing gown. I know where all the furniture is. I had the window open. It was a sticky night.'

'This ship you saw - it had navigation lights? Which is how you came to see it?'

'No, it didn't. But my sight is very good. No glasses, as you see. I saw it as a vague silhouette. I thought that was funny. What you've just mentioned. No navigation lights.'

'And that was all?'

She stiffened. She wore an old-fashioned black dress with a lace collar pinned with a brooch. 'You don't believe

me?'

'Yes, I do. Because your night vision would be good -since you hadn't put a light on. Was there something else?'

'I went back to bed, leaving the window open for some air. I fell asleep quickly. Then I was wakened by a noise. I felt fuddled but I got up again. It was the engine noise of some vehicle approaching - from the same direction. I thought that funny. No cars drive over those pebbles. By the time I got to the window it was passing my gate. No lights. I ran to the front window because the noise stopped. I was worried - it sounded to have stopped by my front gate. I made a racket opening the front window-the thing sticks. A.S I looked out the engine started and the vehicle disappeared towards Porlock.'

'Without lights?' Tweed asked gently.

'No. As it passed the harbour the lights came on. The red ones at the back and dimmed headlights in front. Then it was gone.' She leaned forward, her eyes shrewd. 'Could it have been your Mr Burns?'

'Possibly,' said Tweed. 'No way of telling for sure. Could you describe what sort of vehicle it was? Even in the dark?'

'An odd-looking beast.' She frowned with concentration. 'High up off the ground. Behind the cab it was squarish. At a guess, canvas-covered.'

'Colour?'

'Couldn't tell.'

'White or cream?' Tweed suggested.

'Definitely not. It would have shown up more. A darkish colour. No idea who was driving - I was looking down on it, you see.'

Tweed stood up, took his glasses case out of his pocket, fumbled, dropped it on the dark floral-patterned carpet. The room was dim. He put his hand behind him, stopped Paula searching for it. He almost knocked over a vase of dried flowers. Mrs Larcombe stepped forward, took hold of the case, handed it to him.

'You'll be lost without this.'

Thank you. And thank you for giving us your time. Your help is greatly appreciated.'

'You do believe me then?' Mrs Larcombe asked as she stood up to see them out.

'Oh, yes, I believe you.'

'Well, I'm glad someone doesn't think I've lost my marbles . . .'

Paula waited until they were walking back to The Anchor before asking the question. 'What was that business about your glasses case? There was no need to take it out of your pocket."

'A final test on her eyesight. My case is dark-coloured. Even I couldn't see where it had dropped - it merged with the carpet. Mrs Larcombe has exceptional eyesight.'

'What do you think she saw then?"

'Some kind of covered jeep or four-wheel-drive vehicle which could negotiate that pebble ground easily. Now I'm phoning Colonel Barrymore. He's first on the list for some hard interrogation. His reaction to my calling him will be interesting.'

Inside his room at The Anchor Paula looked out of the window while Tweed made his call. She had a view down over the road which ended a short distance to the west, and the harbour with the dried-up channel where the sea would come flooding in.

Tweed's conversation with Barrymore was brief. He spoke tersely and concluded by saying, 'Then I will call you back within the hour.'

'He says he has to try and cancel an appointment,'Tweed told her. 'I think he's up to something. Let's have some coffee sent up and review what we've discovered. Butler is taking a well-earned rest . . .'

He called back exactly one hour later. This time the conversation was longer. Tweed's manner was even more abrupt. He closed by saying, 'Very well, if you insist. It will save me time.'

He looked grim as he replaced the receiver. 'I was right - he was up to something. He's phoned Robson and Kearns and invited them to join him at Quarme Manor. We'll be confronted by the three of them.'

'Including Kearns? But surely he must be distraught so soon after the death of his wife?'

'We'll see, won't we?'

38

Colonel Barrymore did not bother to receive them. When they arrived at Quarme Manor the door was unchained and opened by Mrs Atyeo. She ushered them into the hall and then indicated the door to the study.

'They'se waitin' for you in there.'

'Thank you,' Tweed said pleasantly. Followed by Paula, he opened the door without knocking. They were seated round a large oak table in the bay window. Barrymore, Kearns and Robson. The colonel had his back to the window with Robson at his left and Kearns on his right. Tweed instantly realized that the seating arrangement forced Paula and himself to face the light while the others had their back to it. An old tactic. Barrymore remained seated, launched his onslaught as soon as they were inside the room.

'I see you've brought that girl again. This time I won't have her taking notes. You sit there and there.'

'Paula Grey is my assistant,' Tweed rapped back. 'She will take notes of the entire interrogation.' He sat down and dropped his bomb. 'Now we are investigating four murders which may all have security implications.'

'Four? What on earth are you talking about?' Barrymore demanded in his most commanding voice.

'One, Ionides at the Antikhana during the war.' Tweed waited to see if anyone would correct him, say 'Gavalas'. Three blank faces stared back at him. Two, Andreas Gavalas on Siros when you made your commando raid. Three, ex-Chief Inspector Partridge here on Exmoor.' He paused.

Paula was watching Kearns. He sat very stiffly, motionless, and his face was drained of colour, chalk-white. Tweed turned to him.

'Four, your wife, Jill. My condolences.'

'She was knocked down by some hit-and-run bastard,' Barrymore protested. 'And that's pretty bad form to raise the subject - to call it murder is madness.'

Then why is Scotland Yard investigating it as a case of murder?'

'How do you know that?' Barrymore snapped.

'I have contacts. I'm Special Branch. You know that. You checked up on the phone with my chief, Walton.'

Robson, wearing a loose-fitting brown shirt, a plain brown tie, the knot slack below his throat, and an old check sports jacket, stirred. He turned to face Barrymore.

'You didn't tell me that.'

'Must have slipped my mind,' the colonel replied curtly.

Robson tugged at his straggly moustache, turned back to face Tweed. His pale blue eyes studied him for a moment.

'What makes you think Jill was murdered?'

'A cleaning woman inside one of the St James's Street clubs saw a Jaguar waiting by the kerb with its engine running. The moment Jill started to cross the street the man behind the wheel headed straight for her. Cold-blooded murder.'

Tweed waited again. Before leaving London he had changed his mind, had phoned Chief Inspector Jarvis in charge of the case. No description of the driver worth a damn. The silence inside the room became oppressive.

Paula was studying Kearns. He sat like a statue. Not a blink of an eyelid at Tweed's statement. Years of iron self-discipline as a CSM, she thought. Never show your emotions however tough the situation. She felt Tweed was treating him inconsiderately.

'Why have you come to see us?' Robson asked, leaning forward, gazing at Tweed as though deciding on a diagnosis.

'Because you're all suspects, of course . . .'

'How dare you!' Barrymore burst out. 'Are you accusing us? And what evidence have you to base that slanderous statement on? I want an answer.'