by Colin Forbes
'How could you know it was Anton?' Tweed pressed.
'Sarris showed me several photos of him.' Partridge looked surprised. 'Thought you'd be ahead of me there.'
'You remember how I used to be.' Tweed waved a dismissive hand. 'A stickler for precise facts. You've seen Anton, then? Here?'
'Riding across Exmoor. Doone Valley area. Using a monocular glass to study Barrymore's place, Quarme Manor. Then on to Dr Robson's bungalow. Same routine there. Later across country to Kearns' place. He knows where those three live.'
'And you know where this Anton is based?'
'No, dammit. And not for want ot irying.'
'I'd like his description – unless you have one of those photos.'
'Sarris wouldn't release any.' He closed his eyes, sucked at his pipe. 'Late thirties. Hair black as sin. Small moustache, same colour. Nose of a hawk – like Petros. About five feet six. Nasty piece of work would be my guess. First-rate horseman,'
'And how do you know that?' Tweed went on.
'Followed him. Saw him riding by chance when I was on the moor. Kept well out of sight but one day he caught me. A cunning type. I rode round a big crag arid there he was – waiting for me. Asked in a sneering way why I was following him. He speaks perfect English. Sarris told me he'd spent time at a riding school while in Germany. Somewhere in Bavaria. Close to the main railway line between Munich and Lindau on Lake Konstanz – facing Switzerland.'
'What on earth would this Anton be doing prowling round Exmoor?'
'Obviously sent by Petros to locate the three men who took part in that commando raid on Siros. Petros is still seeking vengeance on the man who killed his sons, Stephen and Andreas, all those years ago.'
'And you're doing the same thing, in a way. Still trying to identify the murderer. It's folly, Sam…'
'It gives me an interest in my retirement.'
'But it must be costing you a fortune,' Tweed protested. 'Can you afford all this?'
Partridge grinned, sucked noisily at his pipe. 'If I just had my pension, no. That keeps myself and my wife comfortable. We're modest in our life style. You see, an uncle of mine left me a large legacy. Came out of the blue. That finances my hunt. I never could forget that unsolved murder at Antikhana. Haunted me, you might say…'
He stopped speaking. Paula had recrossed her legs. She reached down to stroke an itch above her ankle. The bracelet which had remained concealed under the cuff of her cream pleated blouse slid down her wrist. She glanced up. Partridge was gazing fixedly at her wrist, his expression frozen. He realized she was watching him and smiled, looked away.
'I'd forget the whole business, Sam,' Tweed advised.
'I really came to your room to give you this.' Partridge produced a sealed manila envelope from his breast pocket, handed it to Tweed. 'In case I don't wake up one morning that's for you. Inside is the address and key of a safety deposit box. Nearly opposite Harrods in London. Not to be opened while I'm still alive and kicking. Agreed?'
'If you insist…'
'I do.' He checked his pipe, which had gone out again, tucked it in a pocket and stood up. This time I really am off to bed. Sorry to intrude. But it's been good talking with you -like the old days at the Yard.'
'Just before you go, Sam.' Tweed held up the envelope. 'Give me some idea of what I'd find if I ever visited that safety deposit.' Partridge hesitated, Tweed pressed. 'We worked together once – with Homicide. I'm entitled to an answer.'
'I've been building up a dossier on those three men. All the details are in a notebook inside the safety deposit. I'd like to leave it there.'
'Fair enough…'
Pete Nield had been fingering his dark moustache, studying the ex-detective. Now he spoke, his index finger pointed to stress what he said.
'Mr Partridge. On the ridge behind Quarme Manor you said you had used the telescopic sight on your rifle to look at Tweed – which is how you identified him. You also said your rifle was unloaded. Then you told us about following this Anton Gavalas over the moor. Was the Greek armed?'
Partridge turned to face Nield and frowned. 'Yes. He carried a rifle in a scabbard. I saw it clearly through my telescopic sight.. .'
'And your rifle was loaded then – because you felt the Greek was dangerous?'
'As a matter of fact, yes…'
'Are you still telling me that the rifle you aimed at Tweed was unloaded – knowing you might bump into that Greek again riding the moor?'
'I had the safety catch on.' Partridge paused. 'But you are right. It was loaded. I just thought it embarrassing to let Tweed know…'
'It's all right, Sam,' Tweed intervened. 'It's been a long day for you. Better get off to bed now. See you in the morning.'
'Goodnight everyone.'
On this note Partridge left the room. Nield followed him and locked the door. Returning to his chair he sat down and poured fresh coffee which he handed round.
'He's a nice man,' Paula remarked. 'I think he's under great stress.'
'He's also a liar,' Nield told her quietly. 'He lied about his rifle being unloaded when he aimed it at Tweed. Who knows what might have happened if you hadn't flashed your torch, distracted him?'
'Surely you can't suspect Partridge?' Paula said with a note of disbelief.
Nield grinned at her. 'I suspect everyone. Guilty until proven innocent. That's why Tweed employs me. And don't forget by his own admission he was in Cairo when lonides -Stephen Gavalas- was slashed to pieces.'
'If he was involved he'd never have admitted that,' she objected.
'He's clever enough to know Tweed would find out sooner or later. Maybe he's under stress because we have arrived on the scene.'
'I will say that was smart of you to dig out the fact his rifle was loaded.'
'Simple logic. He could have carried night glasses if he just wanted to see what was going on. But no, he has a rifle.'
Paula turned to look at Tweed who had listened to this exchange in silence. He sat with his head rested against the wall, eyes half-closed, miles away. She leaned forward, patted his hand. His eyes snapped fully open.
'A penny for your thoughts. A pound if you push me. And you look worried.'
'I am. About Sam. He's a man with an obsession. The most dangerous state of mind for a detective – or a spy. Fogs the judgement. That's not all.'
'So, tell me…'
'All this business about a Greek vendetta. I don't like that one little bit. That old hawk, Petros – he could have brainwashed his whole family into thinking they have one mission in life. To locate and revenge themselves on the man who did kill Andreas and Stephen – if it was the same man. And if Sam is right, Petros has harnessed the second generation to his obsession. Hence the arrival of Anton on Exmoor. I sense the kind of man Petros is. He reeks of ferocity and blood.'
'You don't normally use such melodramatic language,' Paula remarked.
'This isn't a normal situation. Not by a long shot. Literally. Someone did take a pot shot at me in the Mercedes a few hours ago. If we're not careful there could be more killings…'
'Which reminds me,' Nield suggested. 'In the morning I'll take the Merc to a garage in Minehead, get those windows replaced. I'll tell the mechanic it must have been a wild shot by someone out for sport on the moor.'
There's a couple of other things, Tweed,' Paula continued. 'I wonder if you noticed Partridge's expression when my bracelet slipped from under my cuff? He stared at the Greek key symbol like a man transfixed.'
'Probably looking at your legs,' Nield joked. 'Enough to transfix any full-blooded male…'
'Oh, shut up! The other thing was when we met those three men. Barrymore, Kearns and Robson – all with dark suntans.'
'I did notice,' Tweed agreed. 'And they went to some length to explain where they'd been. Even Barrymore, who wasn't exactly voluble. Interesting that all three said they'd been away to places difficult to check – Morocco and the Caribbean…'
'Which, as I said earlier, means one of them could h
ave just returned from Greece where Harry Masterson died.'
'Exactly. And the timing of their absence coincides with when Masterson was killed. Pure speculation, of course.'
'But odd that they should all be away at the same time,' she persisted.
'Now you're reaching,' Nield intervened. The month of May – the time when people who are free to go on holiday do. They avoid the crowds.'
'And that's not all,' said Tweed.
'It's enough for me tonight.' Paula stifled a yawn. 'But do tell me what else there is.'
'When we can I want to check Sam's story about Anton Gavalas.'
'How on earth are we going to do that?' she asked, standing up and clearing the coffee cups, arranging them neatly on a tray.
'When we can we visit Watchet. I ask the harbourmaster. Was there a ship which berthed from Portugal? I carry more clout than Sam, who is now retired. Did he see a man answering the description of Anton coming ashore?'
'Sleep well.' Paula bent down, kissed him on the cheek. 'Forget everything.'
'I'll try.' Tweed smiled grimly. 'I'm expecting developments. Maybe rather unpleasant ones.'
15
The following morning Paula was walking down the old oak staircase when Nield caught up with her. Both had breakfasted with Tweed. Paula had gone to her room to fetch her outdoor clothes, leaving Tweed to linger over his coffee in the dining room.
'I'm off to Minehead to fix the Mercedes,' Nield told her. 'You look thoughtful.'
'It's Tweed. He's worried. He enquired for Partridge before we had breakfast. The manager told him Partridge had early breakfast and had gone off to the stables. He's going to ride over Exmoor again. Tweed wishes he'd leave it alone – or cooperate with us.'
'Independent chap, our Mr Partridge. And, like Tweed said, he's obsessed with a forty-year-old murder. You can't reason with an obsession.'
'I suppose you're right…'
She half-opened the door to the dining room, then stopped, paused, and closed it again quietly. Checking the belt of her raincoat, she glanced up at Nield from under her thick eyebrows.
'She doesn't waste much time. I thought she was a manhunter.'
'Who?'
'You'll never guess who's sitting at Tweed's table. Jill, Reams' ravishing blonde wife. She asked Tweed where he was staying just before we left Woodside House.'
'Tweed will handle her, maybe extract some information.'
'You could be right.' She hesitated. 'Do you mind if I come with you to Minehead, Pete? I can leave a note tor Tweed.'
'I'd welcome the company…'
Tweed had been sitting quietly, sipping his coffee, sorting out in his mind what he had learned, when Jill Kearns walked into the dining room. Slipping off her suede gloves and her camelhair coat, she'd perched in the chair opposite him.
'I hope I'm not too early for you. Stuart – my husband – went off riding on the moor so it seemed an ideal opportunity to pop over and see you.'
She wore a tight-fitting powder-blue sweater which showed off her well-rounded breasts and had a polo-necked collar. Using both elegant hands she threw her shoulder-length hair over her shoulders, inserted a cigarette in the ivory holder, pausing before she lit it.
'Do you mind? My smoking while you breakfast?'
'Not at all. I'm only drinking coffee.'
'And there's no one else about, so it's an ideal chance for us to get to know each other better.'
'As you say…'
Tweed smiled to encourage her. She had excellent bone structure, a well-shaped nose, a full-lipped mouth painted with bright red lipstick. Her eyes were a startling blue beneath blonde arched eyebrows. She radiated animation and he guessed her age at something over thirty. About half Reams' age. And very sexy.
'Let me tell you something about myself,' she began in the soft, husky voice he remembered well from the previous evening. 'My father was a squadron leader with the RAF in the Mid-East during the war. Stayed on afterwards as an adviser to the Egyptian Government. I was actually born in Cairo.' She cocked her head on one side, staring straight at him. 'Is this all a frightful bore? It must be…'
'On the contrary, I'm always interested in the background of a beautiful woman.' She inclined her head, smiled impishly as she acknowledged the compliment. 'Please go on.'
'My mother was Clementine Hamilton. Born in Dublin
'That name rings a bell.' He waited.
'My brother, David Hamilton, is a Member of Parliament. I was born late. My mother was forty.'
'Was? You mean…'
'Both my mother and father are dead. A car crash. They were in a pile-up on the M25…'She hurried on as Tweed began to say something. 'It's all right. It was quite a few years ago. Then I married Stuart – or he married me might be more accurate. His first wife died in a swimming accident. You'll have noticed the difference in age between my husband and myself. I found the younger men callow, quite boring. I didn't know Stuart at all well. He's very handsome – but looks aren't everything.'
'I suppose not,' Tweed commented cautiously.
She reached across the table with her right hand and placed it over his. Her hand was warm, the fingers supple as they entwined Tweed's.
'I need an ally, a confidant, someone I can trust…'
'I'm afraid I might not fit the role,' he began.
'Someone right outside this tight social circle on Exmoor. Wait,' she urged as he opened his mouth. 'Please, let me finish. I am becoming frightened. Something is wrong. Help me. Please.'
She released his hand but her eyes held his. Blue? More like lapis lazuli. For a moment Tweed was aware of himself standing mentally away from the table, observing his own reactions. The woman was getting to him, exercising all her charm, exerting an almost hypnotic effect.
He drank more coffee, gazed at the base of the inside of the cup. His brain began to tick over again. He chose his words carefully.
'What are you frightened of?'
'The atmosphere. As though something awful is about to happen.' She stubbed her cigarette, fitted a fresh one into the holder, lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. Tweed reached across to the next table, put a clean cup and saucer in front of her, poured coffee from the pot. She said, 'No, thank you,' when he offered cream and drank half the cup of steaming black coffee. 'Thank you, Tweed. I needed that.' He sensed they were already on intimate terms as he asked the question.
'I'm afraid I don't understand yet – what atmosphere?'
'The moor, for one thing. Being shut up in Woodside at night – cut off from the world by high walls. Like being in prison. My only companion. Wolf, my dog.'
'And for another thing, Mrs Reams?'
'Jill. Please call me Jill. Then there are Stuart's strange friends. Dr Robson and that Colonel Barrymore. Do you know they were in the same Army unit all those years ago? Now they still seem to be in the unit. They meet twice every week. Once here for dinner. On Saturdays. Then for lunch at The Royal Oak in Winsford each Wednesday.'
Today is Wednesday…'
'I know. Which is why Stuart won't be back until late this afternoon at the earliest. So I'm safe. Driving over here in the hope of seeing you. And, Tweed…' She leaned close to him and he caught the faintest whiff of perfume. Something expensive. His mind felt dazed. They'll all be at The Royal Oak,' she went on in her soft, soothing voice. 'And the weird thing is the colonel -Barrymore – still acts as though he's in command of them. He's creepy. The way he looks at my legs sometimes. I know what he's thinking.'
'Listen to me,' Tweed began briskly. 'Nothing you've said so far explains why you think something awful – that was the word you used – is going to happen.'
'They've all become so guarded – they seem to have closed ranks against some terrible force they fear is coming. Stuart has those dangerous mantraps concealed all round the house…'
'Mantraps?'
'Oh, yes.' She held the holder by the tip and waved it with an elegant gesture. 'He says they're to keep out vermin. I don't beli
eve a word of it. The high walls would do that. Those gates are always kept closed. Stuart stays up half the night, pacing in his study, i can hear him as I lie awake. Now, do you see why I need a friend, an ally?'
'Why choose me? You have your brother David…'
'We're not close. He's very busy. I once tried to talk with him and he said it was all imaginings – that I should have married a younger man. We had a bit of a row after that.'
'I still say why me?'
'You're Special Branch.' She paused, her lips parted in a warm smile. 'It's more than that. The moment I saw you I felt that I could trust you. Are you going to turn me down flat?'
'I didn't say that. Can't you get away from Exmoor for a while? Spend a little time with a friend. Say in London?'
'Stuart wouldn't stand for it. He expects me to stay at Woodside. I'm his wife…'
'So talk to him about it – as you have to me…'
She shook her head. Her mass of blonde hair swirled in waves. Tweed wondered what it would be like to run his hand through that jungle of blondeness… His mouth tightened. Madness. 'I want you to remember one thing, Tweed. Never get mixed up with any woman connected with a case you're working on. That is the road to certain disaster. His mentor when he'd first joined the Yard.
'I can't,' she said vehemently. 'He's closed up inside himself. He always was too self-contained. I realized that after we were married. Too late. Can I come to you if things get worse?'
'If I'm still in Somerset. Why are these three men living so close together? Your husband, Robson and Barrymore.'
'Robson is a doctor. He came out of the Army at the end of the war. They kept in touch. When Stuart and Barrymore retired from the Service Robson helped them find homes. I didn't know any of this until after I was married. I never did like such a peculiar set-up. I'd better go now.'
Tweed stood up promptly, checked his watch. 'Actually, I have an appointment. I can't promise you anything…'
She slipped on her coat, left it open, stretching her breasts as she threw back her golden hair over the collar. Walking quickly round the table, she hugged him with both arms, pressed her body close to his and kissed him.