The Janus Man tac-4

by Colin Forbes

  `You had quite a chat with her then?'

  `She seemed glad to have someone from the outside world she could talk to. You're going to see her now?'

  `I'm driving out in a few minutes. I suppose all four sector chiefs are turning up for tomorrow's meeting?'

  `I have passed the instruction. The girl in Bern said she might have trouble contacting Guy Dalby. I told her he had to come hell or high water. How did it go with Dr Generoso?'

  `Disturbing,' Tweed replied, and left it at that.

  It was early evening as Tweed drove his Ford Cortina (secondhand) into the outskirts of King's Lynn and turned left on to the A17 away from the town. He was heading west now, west for the lonely flatlands of the Wash.

  Tweed liked driving on his own. It gave him a chance to think, to sift all the information which had been fed into his brain during his recent trip to Germany. He even whistled a little tune as he drove on and on with very little traffic about.

  He had a photographic memory for routes. He only had to drive somewhere once and, no matter how remote his destination, how devious the route, he could always remember where and when to turn. He turned now, right off the main highway to Boston and on to a deserted country road.

  The road was elevated above the surrounding countryside and he could see for miles, a scene of desolate solitude. Hugh Grey's farmhouse was located some distance from the village of Gedney Drove End, about a third of a mile from the vast open waters of the Wash.

  He passed through a sleepy hamlet with a church standing apart from the few houses, an old church with a towered entrance gate and a general air of neglect. Then he saw the dyke, a high bank the colour of deep purple in the evening light. Below him on his left lay Gedney Marsh. Only the dyke held back the inundation of the sea. He was reminded of the countryside he had looked out on travelling with Newman on the train from Lubeck to Travemunde. He pulled up outside the farmhouse, a single-storey, L-shaped building with a tiled roof.

  As he pushed the front gate he heard through the open windows music from a record player. Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. He pulled at the bell and looked round. The garden was a mess, the beds full of weeds, the lawn uncut for several weeks. He pulled at the bell again, waited for maybe fifteen seconds and the heavy wooden door opened. Paula Grey, dressed in spotless cream-coloured slacks and a pleated blue blouse with a mandarin collar, stood staring at him.

  `You're earlier than I expected. Sorry, that sounds awful – do come in. Coffee? Or something stronger?'

  `Coffee would do nicely. How are you?' he asked as she led him into an oblong-shaped sitting room furnished with chintz arm chairs, two settees and chintz curtains.

  `Very glad of your company…'

  She kissed him on the cheek and plumped up cushions in an armchair. The place was typical Hugh Grey, Tweed thought as she sat him down. 'My little place in the country,' as he referred to it. All chintz and sporting prints on the walls.

  `I'll get the coffee. Won't be a sec. I'll turn off Stravinsky…'

  'I like it…'

  `Turn it down a bit, then.'

  She did so, walked across to a desk, picked up a leather- bound notebook and slipped it into a drawer, turned the key quickly and shoved it into her pocket with her back to him. She smiled and disappeared behind a door beyond which Tweed had a brief glimpse of a modern kitchen.

  He got out of the chair, crossed the room quietly and, as he had thought, the lock on the drawer had not closed properly. He slid it open, took out the notebook and skipped through the pages. A diary with entries here and there in neat handwriting. Her pen was still on the desk top.

  H. says he's going abroad… Portman followed him to Heathrow. Boarded plane for Frankfurt…' Returned unexpectedly today… Portman watched Chelsea fiat all night… still no sign of other woman… paid Portman retainer and expenses in cash… H. says he is going abroad again…'

  Tweed closed the diary. Paula might return at any moment. He put the diary back in the drawer, almost closed it, then took a ten-penny coin from his pocket. He fiddled with the coin, closed the drawer the last quarter-inch as the lock snapped up and was in position. When she returned with the tray he was sitting in the arm chair, gazing out of the rear windows over fields of ripening wheat towards the great barrier of the dyke.

  `I'm so glad you've come to see me,' Paula said as she came in with a tray. She paused. 'Oh, it's not bad news…'

  `Hugh is in fine fettle,' Tweed said quickly. 'I thought that Monica made that clear when she called you.'

  `She was a bit vague, but I know with the sort of insurance you handle security is paramount. Cream?'

  `I think I'll indulge – just for once. No sugar. That would be overdoing it. Hugh will be back in London tomorrow – maybe you've heard?'

  `No. He's so discreet. Never talks about his work.'

  Paula was about five foot nine, slim, a good figure, a brunette with her raven black hair shaped to her neck. An attractive girl of twenty-nine, she was exactly ten years junior to her husband. She had a long face, excellent bone structure and an air of independence. She crossed a very good pair of legs.

  `So I should see something of my wandering husband? Or is it another quick visit?'

  `I'm going to give him a week's leave. He doesn't know that yet. You can call him at the office after midday tomorrow. He has to attend a policy meeting earlier.'

  `That will be nice. His week's leave. Just so long as he doesn't want to ask half England to join us for dinner. He's incredibly sociable. Never happy unless he's surrounded with friends. Most of whom I do not like.'

  `Friends from the old days?' Tweed suggested as he drank her excellent coffee. She perched on the edge of her hard- backed chair, her lively grey eyes watching him. She moved agilely but with grace. Tweed felt sure she was an expert horsewoman. Very sophisticated but unspoilt, and very quick on the uptake. He'd have to watch his step.

  `That's right, Tweed,' she replied, talking to him like an old friend. 'The usual problem of a second wife, I suppose – and probably mainly my fault. Tell me – if you can – what is Hugh's new job since you promoted him six months ago? Even a hint would help.'

  `It's a bit confidential…' Tweed paused. 'He now has a high executive position and is responsible for some pretty big insurance policies. Mostly with individuals – some of them famous names you'd know at once if I could identify them, which I can't…'

  `Insurance against kidnapping?'

  `Something like that. He's also involved in delicate negotiations under certain circumstances…'

  `With kidnap gangs when someone has been snatched? Isn't it a trifle dangerous?'

  I didn't say that.' Tweed smiled to take the sting out of the reply. 'We have a lot of experience and Hugh is one of my best men.'

  `He's very ambitious, you know…'

  `And he must learn to walk before he can run. Something is bothering you, Paula.'

  `Not really.' She clasped her shapely hands and pushed them towards him. 'I'm a very lucky girl, really. I live in the country, which I love.'

  `And how is the pottery business doing?'

  `Making pots of money.' She grinned wickedly. 'Pardon the pun. I'm taking on more staff. Does Hugh have to work late a lot – when he's over here, I mean?'

  `At times, when the pressure is on, we all have to.' Tweed found he was enjoying fencing with Paula. I know what's at the back of your bright little mind, he thought. Her next words confirmed his perception.

  `Do you have many meetings with him at his flat in Cheyne Walk? What he will call his pied a terre.'

  `It's a good place to discuss something confidential – after office hours. The cleaners can make it tricky at Park Crescent.'

  `Stay for dinner, Tweed. I'm a good cook. I've got a marvellous bottle of Chablis,' she coaxed. Her eyes were a challenge.

  `I'd love to, but I have to get back.' He looked at the piano in a corner. 'Hugh plays that?'

  `We both do…'

  `Who is his favourite
composer?'

  `Grieg. Every time. Would you like to see the house? Come on. Then you can think again about my invitation to dinner…'

  The kitchen was furnished in the new style Tweed found so tedious. Rustic. Pinewood cupboards and working surfaces. She had it well-organized. He stood staring at a row of knives behind a leather belt attached to the wall. No sign of anything that could be called a chef's knife. The type of knife used to slash Helena Andersen and Iris Hansen to parcels of meat at Travemunde.

  He heard her open the fridge behind him. When he turned round she was uncorking a bottle of Chablis. She poured two glasses, handed him one. 'I feel lonely tonight. You'll drink a glass with me. I never drink alone. Here's to success in solving your latest problem.'

  They clinked glasses and he watched her over the rim. She was staring straight back at him, then she put down her glass.

  `Why did you come all this way out to see me?'

  `We have a place at Wisbech we use for meetings. Since I was going to be in the district, I thought I'd call in on you,' he lied.

  `I see. Show you the rest of the house…'

  There were three more rooms. The main one was equipped with a double bed. Paula peered through the rear window looking out towards the dyke. Night was falling, a dark shadow like a wave crawling in over the flatlands between the dyke and the farmhouse.

  `It can be creepy out here in winter,' she remarked. 'When the fog comes rolling in from the Wash.' There was a sombre note in her voice, but only briefly. 'Let's continue the tour.'

  There was Paula's workroom and the third bedroom had been turned into a study for Hugh. A large and very modern safe stood in one corner. Paula indicated it with her glass.

  `He keeps all his policies and papers locked away in that. He is very careful about never leaving anything on view. I have to keep out of here when he's working. Now, the dining-room – and that's it. Our castle…'

  `We can seat eight,' she explained. 'How is Harry Masterson?' she asked suddenly.

  She had this habit of throwing a question, as though hoping to catch him off balance. Why the interest in Masterson, Tweed was wondering.

  `Full of energy as always. Never lets anything get on top of him…'

  `Harry's great fun. When we had them all to dinner a couple of years ago – that was when Hugh and I were still living together before we married – Harry was the life and soul of the party. He's a riot.'

  `When was that party?'

  `God! Now I've put my foot in it. You weren't invited. I played hell with Hugh but he said you were up to your eyes and couldn't get away…'

  `Par for the course,' Tweed said easily. 'Who else came?'

  `Oh, besides Harry there was Guy Dalby and Erich Lindemann. Can't say I was too keen on Lindemann. Bit of a dry stick – and he seemed to have something on his mind. Polite enough but didn't say a lot. Guy was OK. Especially after he had three cognacs with coffee.' She stopped, put her hand over her lips. 'I'm talking too much. I do. But I thought, my God, if he's stopped by the police driving home. Oh, you asked when was the party. July 14. Hugh's birthday. Now, must you go?'

  `I'm afraid so. On the understanding I can come back…'

  `Any time. Get Monica to phone first – I might be at the pottery. I stay there half the night when I lose track of time. It's pitch-black,' she said as she opened the front door. `Do you mind driving in the dark?'

  `As a matter of fact, I find it restful. Take care of yourself. And Hugh will be back soon.'

  He kissed her on the cheek and she kissed him back. As he drove off she stood in the light of the doorway, waving.

  Tweed drove back a different route, continuing on along the road which would eventually take him back to King's Lynn. His purpose in visiting Paula had been to get a good look at Grey's home. You could tell more from a man's surroundings than you could from talking to the man in question.

  And Hugh Grey was one of the four men in question he thought grimly. His impression was of a comfortable home which had a lived-in feeling. No cold formality. Magazines scattered idly about the sitting-room. Stacks of paperbacks on the bedside tables in the main bedroom. His headlights, which stretched a long distance, picked out a signpost by the roadside. He pulled up.

  Footpath. The sign pointed along a narrow track leading towards the dyke. He was about a quarter of a mile from Grey's farmhouse. He drove off again and didn't stop until he was inside the car park at the rear of The Duke's Head Hotel. Carrying his case, he walked down the narrow lane to the side entrance, booked a double room and dumped his case.

  Returning down the single flight of stairs to reception he made arrangements for a late dinner, then went back to his room. From the directory he found the number of the local police station. His call was brief and they explained to him the easiest way on foot to the station.

  Leaving the hotel, he walked back through the car park. Ten minutes later he went inside the police station on the corner of St James' Street and St James' Road. Inspector Cresswell was waiting for him inside his office. He offered a chair and coffee, which Tweed accepted gratefully.

  Cresswell was a short, sturdy man of about fifty with dark hair and a calm manner, the type of policeman who took everything in his stride, who was surprised by none of the vagaries of human nature he encountered. Tweed showed him his fake Special Branch folder.

  `You should be in London,' he remarked. 'We need more people like you there.'

  `It's been offered.' Cresswell shook his squarish head. 'I've refused three times. Of course, it would mean promotion, a lot more money. But I'm a Norfolk man. I know the folk here. I'm happy. Why risk changing things?'

  `Very wise, I'm sure. I'm investigating a major case. I can't, unfortunately, give you the details…'

  `That's all right, sir. How can I help?'

  `I need to know whether there have been any random murders of girls during the past few years on your patch. Specifically, the murder, followed by rape, of blonde girls. The victim would have been brutally savaged with a knife – butchered horribly.'

  Cresswell leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and pursed his lips. Tweed waited patiently. They didn't hurry in this part of the world, which was probably a more sensible way of going about things.

  `There have been more of these murders, if I may ask?' he enquired in his deliberate manner.

  `Yes. From what you say you can tell me something?'

  `A girl called Carole Langley. A little over two years ago. She was foolish but she didn't deserve such a ghastly end. She was walking home from a party – out near the Wash. Had a quarrel with the boy friend who drove her there. So she hoofed it. That was her fatal mistake. Her body was found by a patrol car sent out in the middle of the night – after a call from her parents worried that she hadn't got home. I was on duty myself that night, just like tonight. I went out with the car. I'll never forget what I saw by the light of my torch. Butchered was the word you used. Carole Langley was slashed to pieces, then raped.'

  `You apprehended the killer?'

  `No. It's still on file. Don't think we'll ever solve that case – not unless we get a repeat performance, which God forbid.'

  `And she was a blonde?'

  `Yes, she was. A very attractive girl. She came to a police dance once. Not the sort you'd forget. Lively personality. A hideous waste…'

  `Any suspects?'

  `To start with, yes. The boy friend was immediately at the top of the list. But a dozen witnesses placed him at the house where the party had taken place until six in the morning. We hauled them in for drugs – marijuana. That was why Carole left.' Cresswell smiled drily and mimicked Cockney. 'And they say virtue is rewarded. There ain't no justice.'

  `What do you think?' Tweed probed.

  `Could have been someone from miles away. The A17 from Boston runs close by. A commercial traveller, as they used to call them. Anyone.'

  `Can you look up the exact date?'

  `Don't have to. July 14. Two years back as I said.
'

  `You have a good memory…'

  `Bastille Day. I'm a history buff. Read nothing else.' Cresswell's eyes studied Tweed shrewdly. 'You come up to Norfolk out of the blue. Ask me a lot of questions. And the type of murder I have on my books sounds similar to something you're investigating. Have you found anything up here?'

  `What time did the Langley killing take place?'

  `Between two and four a.m. – that was as close as the quack could place it. He's probably right – it fits in with when she left the party and when the parents phoned us.'

  `Thank you for your help.' Tweed stood up and put on his Burberry. 'If you don't mind, I haven't eaten for hours and they're keeping dinner for me at The Duke's Head.'

  `Nice hotel.' Cresswell rose to accompany his visitor to the door. 'You didn't answer my question. Have you found anything up here?'

  `I regret to say, no. Not a clue…'

  Tweed arranged for a call at 5.30 a.m. By six o'clock he was on the road, driving south-west away from the flatlands and into rolling, hilly country with woodlands. As he sat behind the wheel he saw nothing except the road ahead. His expression was grim. He was facing a situation far worse than he had ever anticipated, far worse than he had encountered since he had first entered the service. A bloody nightmare.

  Eighteen

  It was 8 a.m. exactly when Tweed walked into his office at Park Crescent. Monica looked up from her desk in surprise as he took off his raincoat, hung it up and walked quickly behind his own desk.

  `You're early. I didn't expect you until just before nine.. `Have any of the others arrived for the meeting?'

  `Not yet. I've asked George to tell me on the quiet as each of them clock in. How is Paula?'

  `In a very strange mood. Something's worrying that girl. I wish I knew what it was…'

  He told her briefly about his visit to the farmhouse, his later meeting with Inspector Cresswell at the King's Lynn police station. She sat very still, taking in every word.

  `You do see what it means,' he ended. 'Taken in conjunction with what has been happening way out at Travemunde?'