Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'That was smart,' Newman commented. 'Getting him to switch off his lights. That way he didn't get our registration number.'

  'Which was the idea, chum. Care to guess what he is transporting at this hour?'

  'Don't like guessing games.'

  'You'd lose, anyway. Loads of sacks crammed with Balaclava helmets. Just that. From the middle to the cab they were piled up to the ceiling. I estimated there were hundreds, could be thousands. Told me a cock-and-bull story -they're for a Christmas bash. And he lied about his destination. Said it was Lowestoft. Maybe we should find out just where he is going?'

  Tor once I agree with you. The next turn-off is the crossroads at Snape. A tenner to a fiver he takes the right turning along the A1094 to Aldeburgh.'

  'No takers.' Marler looked thoughtful. 'Yes, the number of Balaclavas aboard that truck must run into thousands. Some fancy dress party ...'

  Well ahead of the truck, at the lonely crossroads Newman swung the Volvo on to a wide area of grass, drew in by a hedge, switched off lights, engine, waited. Marler put out his cigarette, lowered his window a fraction so he could hear.

  In the silence of the dark which seemed to press down on them they heard the truck coming a long way off. Marler checked his watch by the illuminated hands. It was 1.30 a.m. A funny time to be making a delivery.

  They sat very still as the truck came closer. Reaching the crossroads, headlights dipped, the driver didn't hesitate. He turned on to the A1094. But he had turned left - away from Aldeburgh. Newman switched on lights, started the engine, followed, his lights dimmed.

  'I should have agreed that bet.' Marler said.

  Once through the small village of Snape, Newman drove with only his sidelights on. The red lights of the truck were sufficient guide, and their short wait at the crossroads had brought back his night vision. The truck turned right on the A12, increased speed, proceeding north. There was no other traffic at all on the road.

  'Looks as though maybe Drunky was telling the truth when he said Lowestoft.' Marler observed. 'But I'd have sworn he was lying.'

  'And with things like that you have been known to be right.'

  'Thanks for the unreserved vote of confidence.'

  Marler found the steady drive along the main highway hypnotic as Newman drove on and on. The occasional car was appearing now, two blazing eyes rushing towards them. Newman felt it safer to switch on his own headlights dimmed. The cars rushing past them had no such consideration. Several times Newman reacted.

  'Dip your headlights, you swine .. .'

  The truck was moving at high speed, eating up the miles. Newman pressed his own foot down to keep up, but maintained a decent distance between the two vehicles so the truck driver wouldn't suspect he was being followed. Marler checked his watch again.

  'Lord knows what time we'll arrive at the Brudenell - or whether they'll let us in at this hour.'

  'I coaxed a front door key out of the girl when I registered before we set out for the factory.'

  'I'm surprised you were able to charm her to that extent.'

  'We'd stayed there recently. She now regards us as trustworthy types.'

  'Oh, very trustworthy. Breaking into private property.'

  He was about to light another king-size when he paused. The truck was slowing down. Still a good distance from Lowestoft. And in the middle of nowhere. Newman also reduced speed. The truck's right-hand indicator light was flashing, warning it -was about to turn off the highway. Newman slowed even more, glanced in his rear-view mirror. Nothing behind him for miles. The truck turned down a side road leading east towards the sea.

  Newman pulled in to the side. His face was like stone as he leaned forward, staring at the signpost pointing to the truck's destination. Just one word.

  Dunwich.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The following day at the Brudenell, Paula was restless and impatient. She felt she had to keep her word to Tweed - not to stray until she had contacted Newman, Easier said than done. The receptionist had told her they were staying at the hotel, had discreetly given her their room numbers. After all, she had seen them together during their recent visit: Newman and Marler.

  Paula took the elevator to both rooms. And met the same message hanging from the door handles of both rooms. Please Do Not Disturb. Frustrated, she went to her own room, put on her suede coat and a cashmere scarf. It was a raw, bitter day outside but she felt trapped indoors. The first person she encountered when she stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor was Lieutenant Berthier, masquerading as James Sanders, dark-haired and complete with tinted glasses. He wore a windcheater, heavy grey slacks, and a polo-necked sweater. His feet were shod in trainers.

  'Hello, Mr Sanders.' she said quickly. 'Making any contacts you might sell marine parts to?'

  'The weather doesn't help - most people are keeping their heads down. You're going for a walk? I'm after a bite of fresh air myself. Along the promenade?'

  That will be bracing.'

  She stepped out of the door he opened for her leading direct to the promenade. Berthier might let something slip and it was something to do until Newman decided to rise and shine. She almost made a reference to his use of the word 'bite', certain he had meant 'bit', but the first word was perfect for the weather. She decided not to say anything - he might think she'd spotted an error in his English.

  'Later I could drive you somewhere nice for lunch.' he suggested.

  'That's generous of you, but I have to stay near the hotel for a phone message.' she lied easily.

  Berthier walked on the seaward side, protecting her from the storm which was blowing up. Mountainous waves heaved their bulk against the front, splashing spume on to the promenade. Paula noticed several of the ancient terrace houses had shutters closed over their basement windows. In some cases the windows had been blocked up. When the North Sea really raged it must inundate the promenade, lapping against the basements. She walked leaning into the force of the wind. Berthier took her arm.

  'Don't want you blown over.'

  'Why don't you try to contact Lord Dane Dawlish?'

  She felt his grip on her arm tighten for a second when she'd asked the question. He relaxed his hold quickly.

  'Why should I get in touch with him?' he asked.

  'I'd have thought your research would have turned up the fact he's a likely prospect. He has a huge catamaran called the Steel Vulture. He might be a good customer.'

  'I'll think about it.'

  'Do more than that.' she pressed him. 'He lives not far away. At Iken.'

  'Where's that?'

  All the wrong answers, she thought. In his role as a salesman she felt sure his research would be meticulous. He'd hardly have missed Dawlish.

  'Up the River Aide on the way to Snape Maltings. You know the strange course the river follows.' she prodded.

  'I'm a Yellow Pages man myself. Let's call in at the Cross Keys for some coffee. It's the nicest pub in the town.'

  'Good idea.'

  She answered automatically. Once she had liked Aldeburgh as a comfortable refuge away from the world. Now her main image of the place was a night of horror when masked men with rifles, hardly human, had pursued Karin and herself like a pack of wolves hunting their prey. She recalled what they - one of them - had done to Karin. Stop it! she told herself.

  'We're nearly there.'

  Berthier checked his watch as he led her away from the promenade into the garden leading to the rear entrance.

  Paula was relieved to get away from the front. She had been lucky: no ruinous salt water had splashed on her precious suede coat.

  'This table suit you?' Berthier suggested. 'It's near the serving counter. Just coffee?'

  He ushered her to a chair, went over to the counter to give his order. It was less cold in the Cross Keys but Paula kept her coat on. She had just noticed who was sitting at the large table close to hers.

  Five tough-looking men wearing pea-jackets. Half-facing her was the wide-shouldered
heavy-set Brand. She looked away, saw the waitress behind the counter staring at him. Brand turned, stared back at the girl. She took a deep breath, spoke sharply.

  'I thought I told you not to come back.'

  'It's all right, he's with me...'

  Lord Dawlish appeared round a corner from the room at the front. Hatless, he was clad in a British warm, the collar turned up. He joined the five men, sitting in a chair which Paula guessed had been kept for him. She was beginning to worry: the atmosphere had become menacing.

  No one was speaking at the table occupied by Dawlish. The seamen-types were watching her. She tilted her chin defiantly, looked up at the low oak-beamed ceiling, which seemed to press down on her. Dark oak. The tables, uncovered, were made of the same dark oak. She remembered the pub on a previous trip as a comfortable welcoming place. It was the occupants who had changed the atmosphere.

  Berthier returned to her table, the waitress served the coffee. She looked at Berthier who sat facing her. He was gazing straight at her, saying nothing, eyes invisible behind the tinted lenses. He wasn't helping at all; she thought as she sipped the excellent coffee. He just kept looking at her, damn him.

  Then she remembered he'd checked his watch before they'd entered the place. Was this a prearranged rendezvous? Before going up to her room at the Brudenell to fetch her coat she'd called out to the receptionist that she was going for a walk. Berthier could have been within earshot.

  'Not the weather for a trip on the Cat,' Dawlish called out to her. 'You haven't forgotten my offer, my dear?'

  One of the men at his table sniggered. She placed her cup carefully back in the saucer, her expression frozen. She stared at Dawlish.

  'I may have the time, I may not,' she said abruptly.

  Dawlish tossed back half the double Scotch he'd ordered. He held on to the glass as he spoke in a mocking tone.

  'It would be a unique experience. A day - and a night -aboard the Cat.'

  One of the men gave a braying laugh, cut it short when Dawlish glanced at him. Paula was convinced she was being subjected to calculated pressure. To run her out of Aldeburgh? Berthier, immobile as a statue, continued to stare at her from behind his bloody glasses. A man walked slowly into the pub from the rear entrance.

  Tall, so tall his hatless head almost touched the beams, he wore a trench coat, which showed damp patches. He must have walked along the promenade from the Brudenell. He wore no gloves on his large hands.

  Victor Rosewater paused, looked at Paula, Berthier, and then at the nearby table, his strong face showing no particular expression. But now there was complete silence as he remained standing there.

  'Paula, you look as though you've had enough of this place. Care to come for a stroll?'

  'Who asked you to interfere ...' Brand began.

  Rosewater turned his gaze on the heavy-set man. He said nothing and Brand subsided in mid-sentence. No one seemed anxious to argue any more, to mix it with the newcomer.

  'Yes, Victor,' Paula said quickly, standing up. 'I have had enough of it. I'd welcome a stroll.' She looked at Berthier. 'Thank you for the coffee ...'

  Rosewater escorted her through the pub to the front exit on to the street away from the front. They began walking back along narrow streets parallel to the front and lined with quaint houses.

  'This way,' Rosewater remarked, 'you won't get that lovely suede coat splashed by salt water. As you can see from my trench coat the waves are now crashing over on to the prom.'

  'Thank you.'

  And he was showing consideration which never entered the head of Berthier, she thought. She looked up at him curiously.

  'How did you know I just wanted to get to hell out of that place?'

  He smiled. 'I'm a bit sensitive to atmospheres. Seemed you were uncomfortable. That the reason could have been the people in the place. A rum bunch, I thought. And the chap you were with didn't seem to be helping all that much.'

  'He says that he's a salesman of marine spare parts - that his name is James Sanders.'

  She felt it might be important to put Rosewater on his guard against Berthier. She'd thought about it for a split second before saying anything. Rosewater was on to it instantly.

  'Says? You sound as though you don't believe his name or his way of earning a living.'

  Rosewater had slowed down. Paula had long legs but he had much longer: he had realized she was hurrying to keep up. Not only did he seem to have all his marbles: he was considerate in little ways.

  'I don't.' she replied. 'I suspect he's some kind of con man. I could be completely wrong.'

  Despite the rapport between them, Paula had no intention of revealing information which Tweed would regard as highly confidential. They walked in silence for a minute and neither seemed to feel compelled to talk. Rosewater took hold of her elbow, guided her down a narrow thoroughfare into the High Street.

  'Where are we going?' she asked.

  'You can get quite a good lunch at a place called the Captain's Table. If s quiet - at this time of the year - the service is good, the food quite edible.'

  'Sounds a marvellous idea...'

  Anything to get away from the atmosphere which had hung like a dark cloud over the Cross Keys. Somehow she equated it with the dreadful night when Karin had died. Why? She wasn't sure.

  The Captain's Table was a small restaurant, an oblong room with just a few tables beautifully laid for lunch. Paula thought it was more like a room in someone's home than a restaurant. A distinguished-looking man welcomed them, escorted them to a window table overlooking the High Street, handed them menus and left them alone.

  'That man in a British warm,' Rosewater began, 'isn't he Lord Dawlish? I've seen his pictures in the magazines.'

  'Yes. Lord Dane Dawlish. Millionaire. Supermarket and armaments king.'

  'He was talking to you when I came in. Said something about a cat. You know him?'

  'Yes...' She explained how she had interviewed Dawlish, how he had shown her the extraordinary diorama, that the Cat was a catamaran, a big job. She left out any reference to the presence of Newman and Marler at the shoot, to the fact the Dawlish had come on strong with her.

  'And those men with him.,' Rosewater went on as he closed the menu, 'a bunch of roughnecks if ever I saw one. Who are they?'

  'I recognized two of them from my visit to Grenville Grange. They're members of Dawlish's staff.'

  'Crewmen from the Steel Vulture?' Rosewater suggested. 'Incidentally, I'm having the roast lamb. I had it the other day and it was good.'

  'I'm having the same.' She paused, smiled. 'How come you turned up at the Cross Keys at just the right moment?'

  'I followed you and that chap from the hotel,' he said frankly. 'I didn't too much like the look of him. I'd seen him the night before in the bar. Why does he wear those dark glasses all the time?'

  'He says he has weak eyes, that daylight hurts them. I think that was very sweet of you - to act as my protector. And your mind must still be full of Karin,' she said gently. 'Is that why you're still here? In the hope of finding a clue as to who did it?'

  'Something like that.' he said in his reserved manner. He gave Paula the impression of a man under iron self-control. Almost superhuman endurance. Like a bloodhound, she thought, following the scent.

  'These interviews you do for women's magazines.' he said after their meal had been served. 'Is it a sideline? Is your main work with Tweed's company?'

  'Yes, Tweed is my boss. I'm his personal assistant -I do a lot of the confidential research for insurance cases.' she chattered on blithely. 'That's my main line of work. It's confidential, so I can't talk about it much.'

  After a satisfying meal washed down with a bottle of Chablis - Rosewater found out she didn't like red wine - he escorted her back to the hotel. There was no rain but an army of low clouds like grey smoke was scudding inland, seeming to skim the rooftops. The wind had increased in force, hurtling down the High Street like air through a wind tunnel. Paula felt she might be swept off
her feet. As though guessing her state of anxiety, Rosewater slipped a firm arm round her waist.

  'We don't want you blown out to sea.' he joked. 'And the met forecast is for worse to come. Gales up to eighty miles an hour tonight...'

  He still had his arm round her waist as they went inside the hotel, climbed the stairs, ran smack into Newman and Marler in the hall. Rosewater released her, said he'd enjoyed her company, and vanished inside the elevator.

  'So you haven't been lonely.' Newman observed, his expression grim.

  'You object?' Paula flared up, mistaking the reason for his expression.

  'No. We have something to tell you. Dunwich ...'

  *

  Major Lamy left the British Airways aircraft which had flown him from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris to Heathrow.

  He had checked that the troops were in place in Lyons. From there he had flown to Paris by Air Inter. Waiting for his flight to London, he had phoned an obscure British car hire firm, ordered a Rover in the name of William Prendergast. The forged passport in the same name was the one he presented to Passport Control. With a strong following tail wind the flight had taken only forty-five minutes.

  Carrying the small case he had taken aboard the plane, Lamy left Passport Control behind and walked towards the Customs exit. He wore a British business suit under a Burberry raincoat and his shoes were also British. He was the archetype of an Englishman back from abroad.