by Colin Forbes
She also had no firm reason to think she was being followed, but Klein had earlier trained her to be careful. And during her train trip to Le Havre she thought she'd seen the same small man with the funny beaked nose twice. Once aboard the express, the second time when she was photographing the harbour.
She left The Ritz by the side entrance leading into the Place Vendome, pausing on the sidewalk of the eight-sided square to glance round. By the kerb, a short distance from the entrance, a motor-cycle was parked. A small man wearing crash helmet and goggles bent over the machine, fiddling with something.
She frowned. He seemed vaguely familiar. She walked quickly out of the Place, crossed the rue St Honore, continued down the rue Castiglione and turned right on the rue de Rivoli, the Fifth Avenue of Paris. Slowing down, she strolled along the wide pavement, stopping briefly to glance in a shop window, checking her watch.
Behind her The Parrot swore. He had almost missed her coming out. He was used to recognizing her by that long auburn sheen of hair. And she was dressed differently. A blue two-piece suit he hadn't seen before.
The Parrot was almost exhausted. Flu had struck down half the staff at the rue des Saussaies. He'd had to work without sleep for longer than he cared to recall. Lasalle himself, who cared for his men, had come to the Place Vendome to apologize, to ask him whether he could carry on a while longer.
'Of course,' The Parrot had replied, cursing himself the moment he had said the words.
He pushed the machine across the rue St Honore, straddled it in the quieter side street and kicked the starter. At least the scarf on the girl's head showed up. He cruised slowly, turned into the rue de Rivoli. Out shopping, it seemed. Still, he'd be relieved at lunchtime.
He was also worried about following her to Le Havre yesterday. His reflexes had not been too sharp and twice he'd wondered if she'd spotted him. The traffic was heavy and he kept in close to the kerb. Once she looked back after looking in a shop window. He pulled up behind a parked car and she went on, nearing the Place de la Concorde.
The traffic roared past him like an armoured division -the lights were green at the entrance to the vast square of Concorde. The Parrot blinked, his eyes twitching with fatigue. She was walking faster now. Afterwards he cursed himself for not being alerted by her increase in pace.
The lights were still green when she suddenly crossed the pavement, dived inside a parked car, slammed the door shut. Volvo. He tried to turn into the next lane but there was no gap. Couldn't see the registration plate. The lights turned amber. Good…
The Volvo shot forward, swung left into Concorde. And the lights turned red as The Parrot spurted forward. He braked. ' Merde! ' He'd lost the bitch. And it had looked to him like a deliberate manoeuvre. He hadn't even seen the driver of the Volvo. ' Merde! '
Klein roared round the Place de la Concorde in the thunder of traffic, swung up the Champs Elysees. In the distance perched the massive hulk of the Arc de Triomphe. The sun shone brightly, which added to the drivers' zest for speed.
'Any chance you were followed?'
'It's just possible,' said Lara and described the events at Le Havre, outside The Ritz, and the precautions she had taken wearing a different outfit.
'Probably that lively imagination of yours,' Klein replied jocularly. He was in a good mood. Driving at speed, and an attractive girl by his side. Pity she had to play the ultimate role when the time came. Couldn't be helped – a key part in his plan.
He drove on to La Defense, the high-rise complex where a lot of multi-nationals had their headquarters. Pulling in by the kerb, he fed coins into the meter – no point in the police getting to know him. Top criminals had been known to go down neglecting the tiniest detail. He leant back behind the wheel.
'Le Havre? What do you think?'
She was peering up out of the window. They were hemmed in by the towers of concrete and glass. It reminded her of films she'd seen of New York.
'Le Havre didn't look right,' she replied. 'Sorry to be so negative – after Marseilles. But the objections are the same. French security is tough. No obvious and easy escape route inland. Here are the pictures I took – plus a chart I bought from a ship's chandler.'
She handed him a thick envelope. Klein, in his turn, gave her a slim envelope. 'Another thousand pounds – in francs – to keep you going for a few days. Don't go and spend the lot at Valentino.'
'Where do I try next?'
'I'll want you to stay in Paris a bit longer. Another week at least. I've extended your reservation at The Ritz.'
'And how do I fill in my time?'
There it was, Klein thought. His universal problem -keeping the whole team occupied. The men in Holland were kept busy training – out in the wilds of the northern coast. Lara was getting impatient.
'Sometime during the week, check Cherbourg. It's quite a port. You can get there by train, of course. Let a few days pass, then make the trip. Now, wait here for a few minutes. I have to pay a call on someone.'
'I still haven't any idea of what I'm going to be asked to do later,' she reminded him.
'None of the others have either. Security. Worth the boredom, isn't it? A quarter of a million pounds? See you.'
Lara sat thinking as he disappeared down a walk between the buildings. Why was she doing this? She held the envelope in her hand. Another thousand pounds. Handed out like confetti.
It was her bitch of a step-mother, she decided. She wanted to show her what she could accomplish on her own. Life had been absolute hell since Lady Windermere arrived in her life. She'd done everything possible to drive her out of Eaton Square – so she could get a stronger grip on her new rich husband. In the end Lara had walked out in a flaming temper. Later she'd called her father and said she wanted to explore the world a bit. He'd approved of her wishing to make her own way.
And it was her sense of adventure. She knew the enterprise she'd undertaken was dangerous. Plus the fact that at first I couldn't keep my bloody hands off Klein, she thought. To take her mind off thoughts which didn't please her, she explored the back seat of the Volvo. Maybe find a clue as to what Klein was up to. Under a pile of newspapers she found a white pastry-cook's box. Some firm in Dinant, Belgium. The box had been opened. She lifted the lid.
Conques! Hard gingerbread baked in moulds which were often little masterpieces of woodcarvings. Shaped into cows, small houses, churches, other animals. She chose two of the little houses, closed the lid and replaced the box carefully. Klein wouldn't miss two – he'd already had a good go at the box.
Extracting a packet of large Kleenex tissues from her tote bag, she wrapped each couque and slipped them inside the bag. It was half an hour before Klein returned along the deserted walk. He climbed inside, closed the door, wrapped an arm round her, pulled her towards him and they kissed passionately. She was lost again. Almost.
It was the previous evening when Newman drove the Cortina up the narrow side road to Cockley Ford. Beside him Butler sat in his denims and windcheater, which made his frame look very bulky. Nield followed behind in the Mercedes.
As he passed the gated entrance to a field Newman slowed, waved a hand out of the window, drove on. In his rear-view mirror he saw Nield turn off the road, park the car at the entrance. Driving on, he used one hand to pull up higher the zip on his windcheater, to pat the pocket which held a walkie-talkie.
'Gate's closed,' Butler said in his laconic way.
'Tweed told us about that. And it's some electronic control system.'
'Not to worry.' Butler was taking a leather pouch out of his pocket as the car slowed, stopped. 'I've brought along a gadget which ought to fix it…'
Newman stared round as Butler walked to the gate, examined it, then checked the fence on either side. Inside two minutes he was pushing the gate wide open, walking back to the Cortina.
'I neutralized the alarm system, too. Funny business at the entrance to a village. You'd think it was Fort Knox.'
'Don't forget Tweed called himself Sneed wh
en he was here,' Newman warned.
It was still daylight, a bright sunny evening as Newman drove round a bend lined with tall rhododendron bushes, saw The Bluebell on his left and pulled up in front of the pub after turning the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees.
'Set for a fast getaway,' he remarked as he turned off the engine, climbed out, locked the car and walked with Butler to the entrance.
Inside the large old-fashioned room there were four people. A long-jawed countryman sitting at a table drinking from a spirits glass; an unpleasant-looking woman with grey hair tied in a bun at the back who was knitting; an oddly faced youth, and the barman,
Ned Grimes, Mrs Sporne – postmistress – and Simple Eric, he guessed from Tweed's descriptions. Followed by Butler he marched aggressively up to the bar. A chair scraped on the wooden floor behind him and he glanced over his shoulder as he leaned his elbows on the counter. Grimes was standing now.
"Ow did you two get in 'ere?' Grimes rasped.
'Drove in, of course,' Newman snapped, turning back to the barman. Two small Scotches. Water. No ice.'
'You can't 'ave.' The broad-shouldered Grimes moved closer to Newman, his thin lips working. 'You can't 'ave,' he repeated. 'Gate's closed.'
'I said two Scotches, please,' Newman addressed the barman again. 'Shake a leg there. We haven't got all night.' He turned round, perched both elbow tips on the counter and stared at Grimes. 'Calling me a liar, mate? Who the hell are you?'
'Ned Grimes. Not that it's any of your business…'
'It is when you start talking stupid. Your ruddy gate is wide open. Why shouldn't it be? This a village or some kind of private club you're running?'
'Better watch it, chum,' Butler suggested mildly. 'My pal has a short fuse.'
'All right, all right…' Grimes backed away several paces. 'Just interested to know 'ow you found this place. Folk don't come here much.'
Newman was paying the barman. He handed Butler his glass, picked up his own, raised it in a brief salute. 'Down the hatch.' He turned his full attention on Grimes who was hovering between his own table and Simple Eric's.
'A friend of ours, chap with horn-rim glasses called Sneed, told us about this place. Satisfied now?'
'Sneed? That was the chap with a German car. Posh job. That was days and days ago.'
'What's that got to do with anything?' Newman demanded.
'You isn't sayin' you're lookin' for this Sneed 'ere? And you be Army men – some special unit I forgot the name of. That's who you are, ain't it?'
Newman stood up slowly from the bar, hands hanging loosely by his side. He whipped up one hand, pointed his index finger at Grimes like the barrel of a pistol.
'Anyone ever tell you you ask too many questions? And you may like to know – since you seem to want to know a lot – that one of my ancestors was Sir John Leinster. Sneed told me his tomb is in the churchyard. That's what I've come to see. Any more questions?'
Grimes stood quite still. Newman could see the indecision in his bony face. That was when the youth suddenly let out a whoop. 'Any more bodies? Any more bodies tonight?'
' Shut your face.' Grimes spaced out the words, then went up close to Eric and whispered something. He raised his voice. 'And do it now! '
'Harry,' Newman decided, 'time to go and look at that church.'
As he marched towards the exit he glanced at the grey-haired woman who was eyeing him savagely. She was knitting a Fair Isle pullover and the colours were hideous. 'Knitting for a baby elephant?' he asked amiably. The needles began click-clacking at a furious rate, her expression became venomous. Simple Eric had run out of the pub and when they emerged into the fresh air he had disappeared -in the direction of the cottages, Newman guessed.
Marching in step with Butler, Newman took the lead when they crossed a footbridge alongside a ford through a small stream. He heard Grimes' Gucci boots clumping across the planks behind them but didn't look back. They passed several cottages but there was no one about. More like a deserted village.
The church perched on its eminence was close when a tall man came out of the last cottage. Behind him Simple Eric was jumping up and down, flapping his arms as though he was an aircraft. The tall man hurried to catch up. Under his black wide-brimmed hat a hawk-like nose protruded and a pince-nez was perched on it. He wore some kind of dark cloak and reminded Newman of a bloody great crow.
'One moment, sir,' he called out as he caught up, walking alongside Butler, 'I am Dr Portch. I gather there was a misunderstanding at The Bluebell. You must realize, sir, the villagers are simple souls. May I ask where you are going?'
'Here.' Newman opened the right-hand side of the double gate at the entrance. He veered off the mossy path, making for the back of the church, glancing down. In daylight he could see very clearly the deep ruts impressed in the grass Tweed had seen. A wide tyre span, indicating a heavy vehicle. The grooves wound their way round the back of the church, ending at the entrance to the mausoleum erected to Sir John Leinster.
'A distant ancestor of mine, Sir John Leinster,' Newman remarked, his hands on the closed gates leading to the large stone building. The new padlock Tweed had spoken of had been replaced by a heavy ancient version.
'Oh, really?' Dr Portch commented in his bland voice. 'I find that strange. So far as I know he left no issue.'
'My family tree – drawn up by a professional genealogist – says different.'
Some of the moss down the centre of the steps leading to the tomb was shrivelled and brown. It gave the impression it had been disturbed, then replaced. Newman turned suddenly and stared at Dr Portch. Grimes stood behind him.
'Have you seen all you want to, sir?' Portch was smiling but the smile did not reach the glazed eyes. He adjusted the cloak and shuffled his feet.
'They be friends of that stranger who came here. Sneed,' said Grimes.
'Dr Portch,' Newman remarked. 'A most unusual name. I seem to have come across it before. Not recently. In the newspapers could it have been?'
The glazed eyes became opaque. Portch stood motionless. Newman lit a cigarette and waited. In no hurry. Then Portch smiled again, clasped his hands in front of him. Like a priest. 'I hope you've enjoyed your visit to our little community.'
Time of my life. Harry, getting dark. Time to push off.'
He walked off without a backward glance at a brisk pace. He kept it up, Butler alongside, until they had reached the car. Unlocking it, he got behind the wheel, fastened his seat-belt, started the car as Butler fixed his own belt, drove off round the curve and through the open gate.
'Gave him a bit of a turn,' Butler remarked.
'Which was the idea.'
Glancing in the wing mirror, he saw the road behind was empty as he pulled up alongside Nield waiting in the Mercedes. He opened the window and called out.
'Pete, drive after us until we hit the highway. Then find a place where you can watch the exit from this side road. If a car comes from Cockley Ford, follow it…' He gave a description of Dr Portch and drove on.
**
Nield had opened a gate leading off the highway, backed the Mercedes into a field, and ten minutes later saw the lights of a car coming from Cockley Ford. He'd spent his time in checking his map of Norfolk and now all the routes from this area were impressed on his mind.
The Vauxhall emerged on to the highway, turned right and moved at speed north along the highway. 'You're headed for Swaffham, matey,' Nield said to himself, keeping well back as he followed. At this speed he guessed the Vauxhall would be keeping on the main highway for some distance. He was right.
At Swaffham the Vauxhall stopped, a man got out, leaving the motor running, went into a pub. Nield nodded to himself. Dr Portch. Fitted the description perfectly. Portch came out carrying a squat bottle, climbed back into his car, took a swig. 'Brandy, I'll bet,' Nield whispered. 'You're all shook up, you are. Could be interesting, this. ..'
Portch followed the highway through the night to Faken-ham. Here he turned on to t
he B1355. A sports car flashed past Nield, inserted itself between the Mercedes and the Vauxhall. Useful camouflage. The three cars whipped along the winding road, turned west on to the A149. The coast road.
Nield recognized the road from their journey along it from Blakeney that morning. He had an excellent memory for any route when he'd passed over it once. 'You're heading for Brancaster, my friend,' he thought. 'Yes, this could be interesting, very interesting indeed.'
The outskirts of Brancaster was a line of isolated cottages separated from each other by hedges. The sports car overtook as Portch turned into a drive. Nield went on past the drive, found a grass verge, parked, walked back.
He had trouble reading the lopsided sign outside the cottage where Portch had parked. The cottage looked tumbledown, the garden was knee-high in uncut lawn, the paved path a mass of weeds between the stones. He had to use a torch to make out the lettering. Crag Cove.
Lights were on in the front room behind drawn curtains. He walked along the highway past two cottages and went up to the front door of the third. Knocking on the door, he stood well back in case it was a woman who lived alone. It wasn't. The door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a rumpled pullover and uncreased slacks.
'Very sorry to bother you at this time of night,' Nield began, 'but I'm lost. I have to deliver an urgent package to an address in Brancaster. Trouble is the address is smeared. Looks like Crag Cove but I can't read the name.'
'Oh, him.' The man's tone was indifferent, almost hostile. 'Keeps himself to himself, he does. Crag Cove? Three doors up to your left at the end of my path. Seaman type called Caleb Fox. Got it?'
'Yes, indeed, I have got it,' said Nield. 'You have been most helpful.'
22
The marksman known as 'The Monk' drove just inside the speed limit as they headed through the night towards Rheims. Klein sat beside him, still smarting under Marler's insistence that he would drive.
But Marler had the reputation of being the finest killer with a rifle in Western Europe. He was 'credited' with the shooting of Oskar Graf von Krull, the German banker who had helped finance an army of private informants to track down Baader-Meinhof.