Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'Cheers! Paula! May I call you Paula? I'm Jean.'

  'Please do. I'm ready for this.'

  'Join the club.' She drank half the contents. 'I'm just back from France. Bordeaux, actually. I have a friend there. My uncle, who brought me up, lives in one of the houses at the back of Aldeburgh - he likes the seclusion of the place ...' She went on talking in her low husky voice, used a hand to throw her mane back over her shoulder. 'My parents were killed in a road smash when I was six. He took over. He's eighty now. My father - Uncle's brother — would have been eighty-two. I was born late. All hell is breaking loose in France. I was telling my uncle about it. He's still got all his marbles. Used to be a Brigadier. In Military Intelligence.' She smiled roguishly. 'Sorry, I'm rattling on about myself. You will be thinking I'm trying to manoeuvre you into interviewing me.'

  'Honestly, the thought hadn't crossed my mind. But you'd be a perfect subject.'

  'Not me, Paula.' The roguish smile again. 'When I came down from Oxford I trained to be a barrister, then never practised at the Bar. A perfect subject? Not for Woman's Eye. I like men too much - I think you'd find my life a bit too spicy.'

  'I do have a commission,' Paula explained. Tomorrow I interview Lord Dane Dawlish. I phoned him a few minutes ago. He sounded enthusiastic.'

  Jean gave Paula an odd appraising look, drank out of her half-empty glass, put it down with equal care. Paula kept silent: she felt sure she'd by chance pressed a button.

  'I was at a party at Grenville Grange when I met my French friend.' Jean said slowly. 'You'll have to watch Dawlish. You're attractive. He'll make a pass at you.'

  'That was your experience?'

  'You can say that again. Talk about having to fight off a wolf. Good luck. Put on plenty of clothes.'

  Paula was trying to keep her face expressionless while she watched a tall handsome man enter the bar. It was Victor Rosewater.

  All roads led to Aldeburgh...

  Chapter Twelve

  Grenville Grange was perched on a peninsula projecting into the river Aide several miles inland from Aldeburgh. Near Been Church, all the lights were on that evening as Lord Dane Dawlish sat in his study behind a Queen Anne desk talking to Joseph Brand.

  Dawlish was of medium height, a powerfully built man in his late fifties. He had a bull neck and a squarish head. Thick grey sideburns curled beside his ears and he was clean shaven. His nose and jowly jaw were pugnacious. His brown eyes had a challenging expression. He radiated physical energy and his manner was aggressive.

  'I didn't get where I have by being polite to people who stood in my way.' was one of his favourite maxims.

  'You checked out this Peter Wood who's joining us for the shoot tomorrow?' he demanded.

  'Phoned his London office. His secretary said her chief wasn't available, was away in Suffolk.'

  'So he could be pukka.'

  Brand pursed his thick lips. A small man, wide-shouldered, weighing sixteen stone, he regarded everyone as a potential enemy. One of his large hands drummed silently on his knee below the desk as he sat facing his boss. In his late forties, he had a pear-shaped head, terminating in a full chin below a wide thin mouth.

  'How much more information do we need?' Brand asked.

  'As much as we can get. He's a stranger who struck up an acquaintance with you in that pub. I like to know who's prowling under my roof. And a five hundred bet is throwing money around. His entrance fee?'

  'Stockbrokers make a lot of money.' Brand protested. 'Christ! I should know. They live off commissions.'

  'And off suckers like you who play the markets which I don't.'

  Caught on the raw, Brand forgot his position. The words were out of his mouth even as he knew he'd blundered.

  'At least I don't waste money on women right, left, and centre...'

  Dawlish drummed the hairy knuckles of his right hand on the desk slowly. He smiled, not a pleasant smile. His eyes stared straight at Brand's.

  'You've overlooked something. I get a lot back for my money. And I think you've overlooked who you're talking to. You can easily be replaced, Brand. Your sort come ten a penny.'

  'I'm tired, sir. I've been working since five in the morning...'

  'And what have you got to show for it?' Dawlish demanded brutally.

  'My informant at the Bruderiell reports a lot of new arrivals today. And this is November. One of them is Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent...'

  'Who this Peter Wood phoned me about. On the excuse of thanking me in advance for having him at my shoot. What he really called about was to ask if he could bring Newman. As I told you earlier ...'

  'Which is someone else I checked on for you,' Brand said hastily.

  'Don't bloody well interrupt me. A lot of people seem to be taking a sudden interest in me - and this is a critical time. In case you've forgotten.'

  'Could be a coincidence...'

  'I've survived by not believing in coincidences. On top of those people, a Paula Grey is coming to interview me. She sounded sexy on the phone. Could be a bonus for me there.' Dawlish added and grinned coarsely. 'Is the weapons consignment nearly ready?'

  'Half the delivery is ready. The balance will be at the collection point soon.'

  'And you're keeping a close eye on the met forecasts for the Bay of Biscay? The voyage to Arcachon can be a real bastard.'

  'I record them hourly.' Brand assured his boss, relieved that he seemed in a more amiable mood.

  'And the Cat will have completed its overhaul?'

  'I checked with the skipper today. The Cat will be in good shape.'

  'It had better be.'

  Dawlish stood up, walked to the large window behind his desk. He stood with his back to Brand, gazing out across the lawn sloping to the landing stage at the edge of the Aide. A moonlit night showed storm clouds scudding in from the east, from the North Sea.

  Silhouetted against the light from the room Dawlish stood so still on his thick legs he looked like a Buddha. Brand had never met another man who could remain motionless for long periods. Dawlish had no fear of hostile action from the grounds. For one thing they were patrolled by wolfhounds. For another the windows were made of bullet-proof glass. Brand risked disturbing his thoughts, wanting to demonstrate his thoroughness.

  'Another arrival in Aldeburgh - seen in the bar of the Brudenell - is Jean Burgoyne.'

  Dawlish's reaction was different from what Brand had expected. He swung round, his eyes glowing, his manner explosive.

  'What the bloody hell is she doing back here? All this happening when we're approaching what I told you was a critical time. The biggest delivery yet. Plus a wad of money for our friends in France.'

  'Burgoyne has an uncle in Aldeburgh.' Brand pointed out in a conciliatory tone. 'She does visit him occasionally...'

  'Bloody hell, have you lost the few marbles you've got left? Jean Burgoyne's uncle Brigadier was Military Intelligence. Goddamnit! Another coincidence - and with this other lot arriving ...'

  Dawlish strode swiftly to the luxurious cocktail cabinet concealed behind a floor-to ceiling bookcase, pressed a button which operated a sliding case, exposing the cabinet. He poured a large Scotch, drank the whole glass, and didn't offer anything to Brand.

  'The uncle is eighty ...' Brand ventured.

  'And a perfect conduit back to the Ministry of Defence. I'm getting the feeling I'm being crowded. Always before that feeling has meant trouble.' He handed the glass to Brand. 'Get me another. A large one. We're going to have to take precautions tomorrow. Arrange to have men ready to take up the chopper. Both men to be armed. I may want someone followed, maybe dealt with.'

  'That could be dangerous,' Brand warned, handing back the refilled glass. 'Another death after what happened to Karin Rosewater.'

  'To succeed in this world you have to take risks.'

  'One other thing I found out today. Someone else is staying at the Brudenell...'

  'Don't play with me, Brand. Who?'

  'Chief Inspector Buch
anan of the CID and his sidekick, Sergeant Warden.'

  'So, if we sense danger there may be a fatal accident during the shooting party. With the blame manipulated to one of the guests,' Dawlish concluded and drank the rest of his Scotch.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the bar at the Brudenell Jean Burgoyne had said she'd better get home. She gave Paula her address and a phone number before she left.

  'I've found our conversation frantically relaxing.' she said warmly. 'Please promise that we'll meet for another chat soon. There may be some problems I'd like to talk over with you. That's if you don't find me a crashing bore.' she added hastily.

  'Anything but.' Paula responded. 'I'm not sure how long I'll be here but I'll call you. We'll meet.'

  'I'm simply not after an interview.' Jean stressed anxiously. 'Please don't think that.'

  'I know. We'll meet.' Paula repeated.

  As soon as Jean had gone Victor Rosewater walked over to Paula. Again she thought he was a handsome-looking man and he was smartly dressed in a check sports jacket and well-creased grey slacks. But his face was drawn, his smile forced as she invited him to sit beside her. He put a glass of orange juice on the table.

  'I said I would come here.' he began, 'but the last person I expected to be lucky enough to meet was you.'

  'Why didn't you phone me? You've got some leave?'

  'I was going to call you from here. It was a rush catching the flight from Europe. And as I told you in Basle, I've a roving commission. I came here because this is where Karin died.'

  'You think that's a good idea?' she asked quietly.

  'No power on earth can stop me finding out who murdered her. The solution must be here. Why? How? Who?'

  His expression and tone were grim and determined. He smiled again, drank some orange juice as the wind hammered the windows as though trying to break through the glass. Rosewater put down his tumbler.

  'It must have been a night like this when her life was ended.'

  'Something like this,' she said, wondering what he was thinking.

  'Do you mind walking in the dark with this wind blowing?'

  He was gazing into the distance, staring past her, not aware of the other customers drinking and chattering. Revenge was the most potent of all driving forces, she thought as she watched him.

  'What do you want to do?' she asked eventually.

  'Please say no if you don't like the idea. But I want to go and see where it happened, under the conditions it happened. There may be something the police have overlooked. No one knew Karin like I did. She could have left a clue.'

  She was about to say there were clever men from Scotland Yard who had been all over the ground, when Newman walked in. He paused when he saw Paula was not alone. She beckoned him over.

  'Bob, this is Victor Rosewater.' She gave him a warning look. 'He was Karin's husband. Tweed and I met him. in Basle, as you know. Victor, this is Robert Newman.'

  'The foreign correspondent...'

  Rosewater stood up, shook hands. Newman's arrival seemed to help him. He had recovered his normal poise. Newman joined them, looked at Rosewater's glass, asked if he was drinking orange juice.

  'As a matter of fact, I am.'

  'You're teetotal?'

  'Good God, no!'

  'Then maybe something a little stronger would help on a cold night like this. How about a Scotch?'

  'Thank you, but no.' Rosewater looked embarrassed. 'I just don't think alcohol is a good idea, feeling as I do at the moment.'

  'Victor wanted to be shown where the tragedy happened.' Paula told Newman. 'He thinks he might just find something the police overlooked.'

  'You mean now?' Newman queried, a hint of surprise in his tone.

  'Yes,' Paula continued. 'Under the same conditions of weather there were that night. And I think the storm has blown itself out. I can't hear the wind.'

  'And it would be about this time, wouldn't it?' Rosewater asked, checking his watch.

  'Yes, it would.' Paula agreed. 'Within an hour or so, anyway.' She looked at Newman. 'I'm quite prepared to go out for a walk after I've wrapped up well.'

  'Then I'll come with you.' Newman decided.

  'That would be a great relief to me.' Rosewater said. 'The two of you coming with me - if it's not a great imposition, which I suppose it is.'

  'Nonsense.' Newman stood up. 'Let's get on with it. I'll get my things. Meet you both in the lobby a few minute from now...'

  Aldeburgh was dead. The streets were deserted as Paula, Newman and Rosewater left the Brudenell by the entrance away from the front. They left the town behind when they entered the public car park. The wind had dropped as quickly as it had risen. Paula had a creepy feeling as her feet crunched the pebbled ground of the car park.

  It was moonlit and she could remember the exact spot where she'd parked her car when she'd arrived with Karin. The car Butler had later driven back to London for her after Newman had taken her home in his Mercedes. They walked out of the car park on the gravel road leading to Slaughden Sailing Club in the distance. As they passed the old barn-like structure with a sign reading Boat Storage a cloud blotted out the moon and it was pitch dark.

  'Which way now?' asked Rosewater, walking alongside Paula.

  'A bit further along this awful road and then we turn down a footpath leading across the marshes.'

  She had switched on her flashlight at the same moment as Rosewater turned on a more powerful beam. Behind them Newman walked slowly, glancing all round, his own flashlight switched on. Paula turned off the road, led the way down the steep bank and followed the footpath over the marshes below the gravel road. Rosewater caught her up, slowed down when he realized his long legs were making it difficult for her to keep pace.

  'How long to get there?' he asked.

  'About ten minutes from here ...'

  Despite the lack of wind it was very cold. Paula was muffled in a fur-lined coat, its hood pulled over her head. On her feet she wore gumboots. The two men were also clad in gumboots as they squelched over the soggy ground.

  They came to the point where the footpath forked - one fork leading back up to the road, the other up to the dyke. Paula slipped on a patch of mud, nearly fell. Rosewater grabbed her waist, kept her erect, hauled her up on the dyke. Behind them Newman paused: his acute hearing had caught the sound of the engine of a distant vehicle which seemed to be growing louder although still some distance away. Sound carried a long way in the menacing silence which hung over the marshes. He could still hear the surge of the sea.

  Rosewater trod along the narrow path atop the dyke, the marshes below him on the right, the anchorage beyond a mess of grassy creeks to his left. Paula was following close behind him and Newman brought up the rear, wishing he'd brought a weapon. He could still hear the sound of the vehicle approaching across the marshes.

  Paula was trembling - and not with the cold. The nearer she approached the location where Karin had been found the worse she felt. The dark didn't help. She couldn't even see the distant copse of firs where she had sheltered while Karin was being strangled.

  'Stop, Victor.' she called out.

  She stood still, made herself play the flashlight down the side of the dyke, along a small creek filled with stagnant water. She froze. By the light of her beam she saw the small craft, rotting, the staves showing like the bowed ribs of a disturbed skeleton. It was just as she had seen it with Karin's corpse laid out inside it. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to speak.

  'She was found inside that wreck of a boat...'

  Rosewater flashed his own beam on the craft, ran, slithered down the grassy bank. Crouching down, he examined its interior. Then, laying the lighted flash on a grassy tuft, he grasped hold of the craft, heaved it over upside down with manic energy, hauling it on to the grassy tufts. Paula slipped a hand over her mouth to stop crying out. Newman's hand gently held her arm.

  'Let him get it out of his system,' he whispered.

  Rosewater had picked up the f
lashlight again, was now feverishly searching the grass, the muddy clefts, feeling the ground with his free hand. The moving hand stopped suddenly. Paula stiffened. Rosewater moved the beam very slowly over a patch of grass. Moments earlier he had been acting like a man in a frenzy. Now he was moving his hand slowly and systematically. The hand stopped again, the fingers closed over something. He opened his palm, shone his flashlight on an object, tucked the torch under his arm and used his gloved hand to rub it, to clean it.

  He scrambled back up the bank, his bare hand clenched tightly. Facing Paula, he opened the hand, shone the beam on it. She stared at the gold ring which bore an insignia. Picking it off his palm, she showed it to Newman who glanced at it, then at Rosewater.

  'Karin's?'

  'No. Look at the size of the diameter. Karin had a small hand, slim fingers. Recognize the symbol on the signet?'

  'The Cross of Lorraine. French. De Gaulle's symbol for the Free French during World War II'

  'And because of the size,' Rosewater pointed out, 'it was probably dropped by the murderer. Find the owner and we've found the strangler...'

  'Put it in your pocket! Quickly!' Newman ordered.

  The sound of the engine was suddenly much louder as a vehicle approached rapidly across the marshes. Newman was about to urge them both down the far side of the bank away from the marshes when a blinding glare of light silhouetted the three figures perched on the dyke.