by Colin Forbes
'Pete is still following us if that's what you're wondering,' she remarked. 'I saw his lights a moment ago behind us.'
'I was wondering about the name of Robson's bungalow. Endpoint.'
'Rather obvious. The lane comes to a full stop below where his bungalow is perched.'
'I noticed that. Something else came back to me. One of those notes Harry Masterson sent back from Athens -wrapped up as a clue only I would understand, he thought. Endstation. Close to Endpoint, wouldn't you say?'
'My God! It never occurred to me. Was Harry pointing a finger at Robson?'
'Who knows? It's early days yet.'
'It's getting late nights. Where are we off to now?'
'To pay a call on the third member of the party which raided Siros all those years ago. CSM Kearns. If we can ever find his place in the dark. I've marked where I think it is on that map. Navigate, girl.'
'Maybe he won't welcome a surprise visit at this hour…'
'So, maybe we catch him off guard. It's odd the way the three of them live so close together.'
'Perhaps they've remained close friends even after all these years.'
'And you don't sound any more convinced than I am…'
It was a difficult drive even when the moon rose, casting a weird light over the landscape. The light became weirder as a mist began creeping down from high up the moor. Behind the phosphorescent glow Paula could still see the ridge crests sweeping across Exmoor like giant waves.
They met no other traffic. They passed no villages. For miles on their way towards Simonsbath they saw not even one isolated dwelling. They were alone in the desolate wilderness as Tweed descended a long curving road, lights undimmed to warn any vehicle approaching from the opposite direction.
'What on earth is that?' Paula asked suddenly.
Lights suddenly appeared further down the slope, lights close together on their right-hand side. Tweed frowned, slowed to a crawl. They were still several miles from Simonsbath from his memory of the map. Woods now lined either side, and the lights gleamed between the tree trunks, flashing on and off as the trunks momentarily obscured them. He stopped the car and stared through the windscreen.
'It's a small estate of modern bungalows. They're crammed pretty close together. Must have been built during the past ten or fifteen years.'
'And I think we may have pulled up just outside CSM Kearns' house,' Paula commented.
To their left inside a gap in the trees stood an old stone two-storey house perched higher up the slope. Surrounded by a high stone wall, there were two six-feet-high solid wooden gates. Tweed reached for his flashlight in the glove compartment, asked Paula to lower her window, switched on the light. A large metal plate carried the name. Wood-side House. 'This is his place,' he agreed.
He continued to move the light over the solid wooden gates. On the roadside was a grille covering each slab of wood. Reaching over to the rear seat, he grasped a heavy wooden walking stick he had purchased in Dunster. He was never sure afterwards what had made him do this.
'Let's investigate,' he said, switched off the engine and extracted the ignition key.
He locked the car before walking round it to join Paula who stood staring at the gates. Carrying the stick in his right hand, the light in his left, he swivelled the beam to the side of the right-hand gate and saw a bell-push. He pressed firmly with his thumb and they waited.
In the distance beyond the wall there was the sound of a door being opened, a door which creaked loudly in the heavy silence of the mist-bound night. Footsteps approached with a brisk tread across what sounded like a cobbled yard. Suddenly a ferocious snarl murdered the night, followed by barking.
'My God, what's that?' Paula asked.
'Guard dog.'
'Sounds as though it's short of food – and thinks we'd make a good dinner.'
'Who is it?'
A cultured voice. Terse. Commanding. Talking at them through a small window flap opened in the right-hand gate.
'My name is Tweed. Are you Mr Kearns?'
'Yes. What do you want?'
'Special Branch. I want a talk with you. Now.'
'You have identification?'
'Of course. Wait a minute.' The unseen animal was growling, its claws pawing at the inside of the gate. It couldn't wait to get out. Paula shivered. Tweed produced his card, held it up to the spyhole, shone his torch on it.
'Stand quite still when I open the gate. Move and you'll be torn to pieces.'
'Charming,' Paula mumbled under her breath.
The flap slammed shut. A sound of bolts being withdrawn, the turn of a key and the right-hand gate swung inward. They were still faced with the heavy iron grille. Tactfully, Tweed switched off his light. Also, he wanted to regain his night vision. He felt Paula tense beside him.
The tall figure of a man stood inserting a key into the grille with his left hand. His right gripped a chain holding a huge dog. The creature became excited again, baying and snarling, lunging forward.
'Quiet, Wolf,' the crisp voice commanded. 'Come in. He's harmless …'
'You could have fooled me,' Tweed rapped back.
'And who is this girl? Not also Special Branch? She can wait in the car.'
'She can come in with me, for God's sake. She's not waiting by herself out here in the middle of nowhere. And she is Special Branch. My assistant, Paula Grey…'
As this exchange took place Kearns was closing the grille and the gate, relocking everything. Tweed wandered up the slope paved with stone flags towards the house. Over a hundred years old if it was a day. Paula kept pace, anxious to distance herself from Wolf, which she had now identified as an Alsatian.
'Wait here,' Tweed said as they reached the steps up to the front door. 'Back in a moment.'
He walked swiftly in his rubber-soled shoes round the left side of the stone hulk. At the entrance to a wide passage a horse had recently relieved itself on the stones. Rounding the corner, he was confronted with a stable door, the upper flap open. A horse's head regarded him, poked itself further over the flap and whinnied softly. Tweed held out a hand, stroked its neck. Its smooth hair was wet. It had been ridden hard. And not long ago.
'Leave him alone. What are you poking round here for?'
Kearns' voice was harsh, demanding. He moved as quietly as Tweed. Turning, Tweed smiled apologetically, made a dismissive gesture.
'I'm fond of horses,' he lied. 'That's a very fine animal…'
'Come back to the proper entrance.' The Alsatian, snarling like a mad dog, lunged for Tweed, who instinctively raised his walking stick. Held by an expanding lead, it almost reached Tweed and Kearns hauled him back. 'Prowl round here and Wolf will have your guts for garters.' Kearns made the statement in a calm tone.
Tweed followed Kearns at a distance. He switched on the flashlight as though picking his way. To the side of the paved area rough uncut grass and weeds cluttered the earth up to the base of the wall. His beam reflected off something metallic. Pausing, he prodded carefully with the stick. There was a grinding clash of metal. Two sabre-like blades, saw-toothed, sliced across the lower end'of his stick. Kearns swung round.
'What the hell do you think you're playing at?'
'You tell me.'
'You just released a trap. We keep chickens and we're plagued with vermin – foxes and such like off the moor. That could have amputated your leg.'
'Let's go inside then. As you suggested…'
Inside, a bleak square hall was dimly lit with a forty-watt bulb. The woodblock floor was highly polished, doors led off the hall and a wide oak staircase climbed to a landing before turning to the next flight. From a door at the rear a blonde woman in her thirties appeared smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.
She had a good figure, wore a powder-blue blouse with a high neck and a classic pleated cream skirt. She watched Tweed with a speculative eye, ignoring Paula. Kearns' mouth tightened.
'My wife, Jill. We have gatecrashers.'
'Would you like some
refreshment?' she enquired, still eyeing Tweed. 'Coffee? Maybe something to drink…'
Her voice was soft, husky, but Kearns answered for her.
'Not necessary. They won't be staying long. Better come into the mess,' he told Tweed.
'He means the dining room,' Jill explained. She stroked her shoulder-length hair with one hand.
'In here,' Kearns went on. 'Sit down. Both of you.'
The rectangular-shaped dining room was oak-panelled, had an oak dining table and was illuminated by another forty-watt bulb inside an old-fashioned shade suspended high above the table. An atmosphere of spartan gloom pervaded the room. Tweed and Paula sat on chairs at the table while Kearns took up a standing position.
'First, I'd like to see your identification again,' he demanded.
Tweed handed him the card and studied their host while he examined the document. Kearns was over six feet tall, a lean and rangy man with a clean-shaven face and strong bone structure. He stood very erect in front of the fireplace which was laid with logs but unlit. Paula suppressed a shiver. It was chilly.
Kearns was in his sixties but he had worn well. His hair was still dark, his complexion was deeply tanned. He carried himself with an air of complete self-assurance and his eyes were like two brown marbles. Never off parade, Tweed thought drily.
He was clad in a pair of dark slacks, sharply creased, and a navy blue polo-necked cashmere sweater. There were traces of dried mud on his dark brown shoes, the only flaw in his otherwise impeccable appearance. He dropped the card on to the table so Tweed had to reach forward to retrieve it.
'Get to the point,' Kearns said.
'I'm investigating an unsolved murder which took place over forty years ago in the Middle East.'
'Oh, that macabre Ionides killing in Cairo. Can't help you. Why bring that up now?'
'Because it may be linked with the recent murder of one of our people. In Greece. At Cape Sounion. Know it?'
'No.'
Kearns stood with his feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his erect back. He glanced at Paula who was taking notes in her book on the table. She had kept her expression blank during Kearns' reply. This was the first reference to Ionides.
'There, are two of you,' Kearns decided. 'Bad tactics to be outnumbered. I also need a witness…' He walked quickly to the closed door, opened it, called out. 'Jill, come and join us. Just sit and listen with that remarkable memory of yours. Sit there.' He made brief introductions.
As he returned to his position in front of the fireplace Jill Kearns, still smoking, carrying a porcelain ash tray, sat at the head of the table. She studied Paula, who stared straight back. Hackles rising, Tweed noted.
'Don't see how a recent murder could be linked with the Ionides business,' Kearns resumed.
Tell me about Ionides. You used the word 'macabre'.'
'Not much to tell. We had just returned from a mission…'
'We?'
'Three-man commando raid on a Greek island. Antikhana – name of the building in Cairo where Ionides was slaughtered one night – was our official HQ. No one in the place knew what we were really employed for. Propaganda was supposed to be our job. Not even the CO of the building – Colonel Grogan – had a clue about us.'
'Tell me more about Ionides.'
'Some Greek who was working on propaganda – printing leaflets to send to the Resistance crowd. Two nights after we got back Ionides was apparently working late, alone in the building – a habit of his. Late one evening someone cut him to pieces. Blood all over the walls. He must have fought for his life – the room was a wreck. Ionides was slashed everywhere. Head pretty near severed from the body. Some maniac must have got in -and out. The Special Investigation Branch – equivalent of your crowd in the Army – never did solve it.'
'Did you ever meet a Harry Masterson?'
'Bluffed his way in here. Bit of a buffoon. Sent him packing.'
'You look very suntanned,' Tweed remarked, switching the topic without warning.
'I should do. Just back from windsurfing in Spain.'
'Your wife kept out of the sun from her appearance…'
'Didn't come with me. She hates the heat, loves the cold. Is this part of the interrogation? I haven't all night.'
'I have. And we're talking about murder. Maybe three murders. Where had you come back from just before the Ionides killing?'
'I told you. A three-man raid on a Greek island. Siros…'
'And the names of the other two men?' Tweed interjected quickly.
The CO, Colonel Barrymore. A Captain Robson, medical officer.'
'And after all these years the three of you all live in the same area. Exmoor. I find that very curious – even strange.'
'Nothing to it. Barrymore and I stayed on in the Army after the war. Same unit. Robson got his demob soon after hostilities ended. Set up in practice as a doctor here. We kept in touch. When Barrymore and I left the Army we weren't sure where to settle. Robson offered to find us property round here. He knew the ropes. Barrymore and I told him what we could afford. Is that all?'
'Not quite. A Greek came with you on the Siros raid.'
'Oh, Gavalas.' Kearns shifted his stance, showed signs of growing boredom, even impatience. 'He was supposed to put us in touch with the Resistance group we landed to meet. Knew them, so he said. I had my doubts. There was a moment when we thought Jerry was near us in force. We scattered. When we met up Gavalas was missing. We found him in a gulch. Obviously he'd hidden there. He was dead. Knifed in the back. Commando knife, too. The colonel sorted that out. Checked that Robson and I had our knives. Showed us his own. Stickler for detail, the colonel. Not that we thought any of us had touched the Greek. Why should we?'
'For a hundred thousand pounds of diamonds that went missing.'
'Obviously taken by the assassin. Siros was crawling with odd characters. Fortunes of war.'
'Misfortunes in this case,' Tweed pointed out. 'For Gavalas. You ride much, Mr Kearns?'
'All of us do. One reason for living on Exmoor. And now…'
'Who is 'all'?' enquired Paula.
Kearns turned his head as though he'd forgotten her presence and wasn't too pleased about her intervention. He stared at her coldly.
'The colonel and Dr Robson. As I was about to say before you interrupted, is that all?' He stared now at Tweed, looked pointedly at his watch.
'One more question. What odd characters? You just said Siros was crawling with them.'
'Republican Greeks, left-wing Greeks, Royalist Greeks, monks from the monastery. And the German occupation troops. Now…' He marched round the table to the door, opened it and went into the hall.
Jill Kearns, who had lit a fresh cigarette, leant across the table to Tweed. 'Are you staying somewhere near?' she whispered.
'Luttrell Arms, Dunster. You can get me there if something's bothering you,' Tweed replied in a low tone. He raised his voice. 'I think we may soon outstay our welcome, Paula.'
In the hall Kearns stood by the open front door. Somewhere close at hand Paula heard Wolf snuffling, growling, scratching at a door. Kearns had handed the dog's chain to Jill when they entered the place.
'Goodbye,' said Kearns stiffly.
'Just before we go,' Tweed persisted amiably, 'please give me your impressions of Colonel Barrymore and Captain Robson.'
Kearns' thin mouth tightened. The colonel is a first-rate commander. Can smell trouble a mile off.' He gazed straight at Tweed for a moment. 'Knows at once how to deal with it. No hesitation. Captain Robson was not a regular. More inclined to circle round trouble. Very determined in an emergency.'
'And that estate of new houses just down the road. Seems out of place.'
'Why? Occupied by businessmen, I gather. Probably commute to Taunton or Bristol. Like the country life. How would I know? I'll let you out now…'
Tweed and Paula prepared to follow him down the slope. Just before he stepped out Tweed glanced back. Jill Kearns stood watching him, holding her cigarette holder.
She nodded at him.
'Goodnight,' said Tweed. 'Sorry to disturb you at this hour.'
'Any disturbance is welcome out in this Godforsaken wilderness.'
Kearns had both the wooden gate and the grille open when they reached him. He stood aside, said not another word as they walked out. The grille slammed shut behind them, followed by the main gate. Standing on the grass verge Tweed heard brisk footsteps retreating back towards the house.
'Well!' Paula blew breath between her teeth. 'That was really something. Imagine living with him.'
They climbed back into the car which was chilly inside. Tweed switched on the heater and tapped his fingers on the wheel before starting the engine. He was gazing at the glow of the estate lights in the mist.
'What was your impression?' Tweed asked as he fired the engine.
'A born CSM. Should still be in the Army, bawling contemptuous commands to his troops. Very self-contained. Could settle anywhere. A bloody iceberg.'
'And his attractive wife, Jill?'
'A manhunter. After more trophies to add to her collection.'
That's pretty catty. Not your usual style…'
'I saw the way she watched you while you grilled Kearns.'
'She's a good few years younger than him – and it must get very lonely in that hideous old pile.'
'She's getting to you already.' Paula glanced at Tweed as he let the car cruise downhill. 'You devil, you're teasing me. I agree it can't be much fun married to the perfect CSM.'
'I thought Tie did that rather well – put on a clever performance. Just stopped short of caricature.'
'Tweed, what are you driving at?'
'Mr Kearns is a great deal more devious than you give him credit for. He was presenting a mask to us.'
'Talking about masks, I wonder about that peculiar little colony of bungalows,' she observed. 'They don't look real. Let's take a closer look. You know, they all look simply too good to be true to me.'
He slowed down even more as they passed the entrance to the estate and Paula counted six bungalows, three on each side of the cul-de-sac. All the dwellings had curtains drawn, lights on behind them. AH had the usual status symbols of the upwardly mobile young and ambitious executives. Coach lanterns flanking each porch; more lanterns at the entrance gates to the drives; urn-shaped pots with evergreen shrubs like small exclamation marks.