by Colin Forbes
He was replacing the body in its original position, folding the canvas back, when the distant sound of a siren came closer. The inspector glanced up. 'Ambulance almost here. Now, Doctor, how long ago?'
'As I said, I can only guess. The Taunton pathologist will be able to give a more accurate diagnosis. During the past two hours I would say. Now, I'd better leave this to you…'
He was walking back to The Royal Oak to wash his hands when Colonel Barrymore appeared, strolling towards the crowd, which parted to let him pass through. He levered himself aboard the Land Rover, thrust both hands in his pockets, stared down while Farthing again exposed the face. Ambulance men carrying a stretcher paused behind the vehicle. Tweed stared hard as Barrymore glanced at Partridge's face.
'Must be the work of a lunatic,' he commented sardonically.'No, I've never seen him.'
Leaping down from the Land Rover, he strolled back to The Royal Oak, presumably to finish his lunch. 'Coldblooded bastard,' Paula hissed.
'He will have seen a lot of war casualties,' Tweed reminded her.
As they loaded the pathetic canvas bundle aboard a stretcher and carried it to the ambulance Paula stared round. The crowd was dispersing; some heading for The Royal Oak before closing time, others trudging to their homes, while a few men and women stood, unsure what to do next now the show was over.
The quiet country village seemed to have taken on a macabre atmosphere. She looked up towards the overcast sky, a threatening gloomy pall; towards the moor where the mist was slowly retreating, exposing the sweep of the grim brown ridges. Somewhere up there a frightful murder had taken place. She hated the moor now and turned to Tweed.
'What do we do next? Did you notice anything about the way those three men reacted to looking at poor Partridge?'
'I noticed the absence of something.'
'Don't start talking to me in riddles.' She played with the bracelet composed of Greek key symbols. 'The murder of Partridge is reminiscent of what we heard about that other horrific murder of the Greek in Cairo during the war.'
'Which reminds me of something I should tell Farthing…'
He caught up with the inspector who was just about to climb into his car. Farthing looked at him with an impatient expression.
'Bringing those three chaps out of The Royal Oak didn't get us far. What was all that about?'
'They're all locals. I thought they might have seen Partridge. But there's something else you ought to do. Have you a notebook? Good. Note this down.' He gave Partridge's description of Anton Gavalas, spelt his name. 'I should put out an all points for him. Partridge told me he saw him riding all over Exmoor. And there was one occasion when the Greek confronted him, accused Partridge of following him.'
'We'll check…' Farthing held a microphone from the radio car in his hand and studied the description he'd noted down.
'I'll be at The Luttrell Arms in Dunster if the CID man put in charge of the case from Taunton wants to talk with me.'
'Roger…'
Farthing was issuing an all points bulletin for Gavalas as Tweed and Paula walked back to the Mercedes. Nield strolled out of The Royal Oak towards the Cortina.
Tweed drove back at speed to Dunster, overtaking the ambulance, his expression grim. Paula glanced at him, laid a gentle hand on his arm. He showed no emotion but she sensed he was concealing a feeling of deep shock.
'You're upset, aren't you?'
'I worked with Sam at the Yard once. He was a good friend and my mentor. I learned a lot from him. Facts, he used to say, concentrate on facts. Then the solution will come sooner or later. He was generous with professional advice. Not always the case. Now I have to hunt down the man – or men – who killed Sam and Harry Masterson. Whatever it takes.'
She was disturbed. She had never heard him express himself with such vehemence; almost as though he were prepared to throw away the rule book. 'I have a feeling this is important.' She dangled her bracelet. 'Harry wouldn't have sent this Greek key bracelet unless it pointed to something. I wish we knew what it means.'
It began to rain. Tweed turned on the windscreen wipers. The moor was lost in a veil of fine drizzle, disappearing like a monster retreating to its lair, Paula thought. A beastly day – in every way. Wet, chilly, a nightmare day. Tweed made the remark as they reached Dunster.
He turned into the High Street, the cobbled areas like sweating stones. No one about; people were huddled indoors. He swung the Mercedes into one of the parking spaces opposite the hotel.
'You could be right,' he muttered. 'Maybe the answer lies not here but in Greece. Let's hope Newman and Marler get lucky.'
PART TWO
Devil's Valley
16
11 a.m. 104°F. 40°C.
The heat scorched them like a burning glass. The cloudless sky above the ferry was a molten blue. Newman lifted his hand, wiped his forehead. He was dripping with sweat. His shirt was sodden. The car ferry bound for Siros edged away from its berth at Piraeus, turned slowly through ninety degrees, headed out into the gulf.
Newman stood at the bow of the vessel, elevated above the car deck and below the bridge. The ferry to Siros was small compared with the giant five-deckers which plied between Piraeus and Crete and Rhodes. Below the bridge and stretching to the stern, trucks and cars were parked three abreast, filling the ferry which was open to the sky.
Nick had had to back the Mercedes on to the ferry up the ramp so, like the other vehicles, he faced the ramp for ultimate disembarkation at Siros. Marler, wearing an open-necked shirt loose outside his khaki drill trousers, appeared alongside Newman and grinned.
'Enjoying the weather, old chap? A super day for the trip.'
'If you say so, and not so much of the old chap.'
'Just an expression, old boy. Don't mind me…'
'I won't.'
Marler, damn him, looked as cool as a cucumber. Resting his hands on the rail, Marler stared ahead at the millpond sea where the sun reflected like wavelets of mercury. Newman had earlier rested his own hands briefly on that rail. Very briefly. Like touching a red-hot iron.
'What's the object of our trip to Siros?' Marler enquired. 'That is, assuming I'm permitted to be put in the picture.'
'No need for sarcasm,' Newman growled.
'Irony, not sarcasm. Big difference. Why the change of plan at a moment's notice? Sort of thing Tweed would do. We were going to check out Cape Sounion where Harry Masterson took his dive.'
'You have such a subtle turn of phrase, Marler. The enemy – whoever they may be – would expect us to follow Masterson's trail. Instead we're going to Siros-where over forty years ago a man called Gavalas was murdered during a commando raid. I want to see the place where it happened.'
'You think there's a link with Masterson's death?'
'Tweed said it was a possibility. And that commando raid came up in conversation when Harry visited that chap at the MOD.'
'And how on earth are we going to find the spot where Gavalas was killed on Siros?'
'Nick. He knows the island well, has friends there. But we'll have to watch ourselves every step of the way…'
'Which is why, I suppose, you had Nick kit us up?'
'That's why,' Newman agreed. He tilted his wide-brimmed straw hat to shield his eyes. Marler, who seemed impervious to the torrid heat, was hatless, his fair hair gleaming in the sunlight. 'Watch it,' Newman warned, 'Nick's coming.'
'It's very hot,' Nick complained as he hauled himself up the companionway leading from the car deck and stood mopping his neck with a large handkerchief which was already limp with moisture. 'You can get a drink inside. The only way to avoid dehydration. I came up for a breath of air. There isn't any.'
'Join us,' Newman suggested.
'No.' Nick shook his head. 'I'll get a bottle of orange juice, take it back. I'd better stay with the Merc. You know why…'
Ten minutes later Newman stood alone on the bow deck, a fresh bottle of orange juice in his hand. Four more unopened bottles stood on a nearby
seat. He'd have drunk gallons of the stuff by the time they reached Siros, two hours' sailing time away. You know why… He recalled Nick's words.
It was Newman's idea that they travel to Siros armed. He had not forgotten the bullet fired at them at the port of Zea. And Siros, he suspected, was a sensitive area for someone. He felt confident they had slipped the leash by boarding the ferry at the last moment, but he was not a man to take unnecessary chances.
Hence the guns and ammo Nick had obtained from God knew where. A sniperscope rifle for Marler, one of Europe's top marksmen; a Lee Enfield. 303 rifle for himself; a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 revolver for Nick. And all concealed, carefully taped to the underside of the chassis of the Mercedes. Which was why Nick was staying down on the car deck. To keep an eye on the car and its hidden cargo.
An hour later the ferry was moving at speed across the surface of the incredible sapphire blue of the Mediterranean. It almost hurt Newman's eyes to stare at it as he maintained his vigil, thinking, planning his moves when they landed. Over to the port side he made out the tip of Cape Sounion where Masterson had died. He raised the field glasses looped round his neck and focused them.
Perched at its summit the near-intact temple of Poseidon, guardian of the sea, came up in the lenses. A vision of perfection. Newman sighed, dropped the glasses, looked ahead. He'd liked Masterson.
Passing the Cape, the ferry headed south-east direct for the Cyclades group of islands. Siros was the closest of the group but was still out of sight. Peace, perfect peace, Newman thought as the ferry ploughed on through a shimmering heat haze. Probably their tour of Siros would also be peaceful, quite uneventful.
Deep in the heart of Devil's Valley, not twenty miles north of Cape Sounion, Petros Gavalas sat on the veranda of his headquarters farm. He had just put down the telephone. A summer hum of insects drifting above the grass was the only sound.
The farm was huddled under a looming limestone crag, almost hidden from the air, nestled in a wide defile between scrub-studded hills rising like cliffs. Shifting in his cane seat, Petros yelled his instruction hoarsely in Greek.
'Dimitrios! Christina! Get out here fast. And tell Constantine to be ready to take off in the helicopter. Come on! You should be here now, damn you!'
He waited until his two grandchildren stood before him. Christina, clad in tight-fitting denims and a flowered blouse, looked down at him, took a cigarette out of her mouth and ran a hand through her long dark hair.
'Was that Anton?' she enquired anxiously. 'He is on his way back from England?'
'No. And Anton can look after himself. He has a job to do. So have both of you.'
He studied the thin-faced Dimitrios, who often acted as his driver. Forty-four years old, he had Petros' dark eyes, his cruel mouth. With more training, another five years, Dimitrios might become as ruthless as Petros himself, although the old man doubted it. He twisted his hawk-nosed profile, stared hard at Christina.
That Englishman, Marler, you got information from. Did you sleep with him, you whore?'
'Of course not,' she lied smoothly, refusing to lose her temper with the old bastard. God, she thought, he's still living in 1947. The world has changed since then. But he'll never know it. Petros leaned towards her, reached out a gnarled hand to grasp her arm. to twist it. She was too quick for him: she stepped out of his reach.
'I told you once. That's enough,' she snapped. 'What job? Who phoned you?'
'Pavlos – from Piraeus.' Petros slumped in his chair with disgust. 'He had trouble getting through on the phone. Nothing works in this country any more. Since the colonels went…'
'Don't start that again,' she rapped back. 'What has happened?'
'Oh, nothing much.' He made a sarcastic gesture with his hands. 'Just that the two English – Newman and your Marler- are at this moment aboard a ferry bound for Siros. The chopper will get you to Siros ahead of them. The ferry left Piraeus at eleven this morning and arrives soon after one o'clock. It is now noon – so move your leaden feet. Christina, you will stay out of sight. If Dimitrios decides, you can meet your Marler and lure him into a trap.'
'He is not my Marler. You have said that twice. Say it a third time and I will not go…'
'You try to disobey me?' Petros heaved himself out of the chair, clenched his fist and moved towards her. 'I will beat you until you cannot move…'
'No more!' she shouted back. From the sheath attached to her belt she whipped out a long-bladed knife and waved it in front of her. 'Come one step nearer and I'll cut you open…'
Petros stood stunned. He couldn't believe what was happening. A woman was threatening him. Aware that Dimitrios was watching him closely, that he must not lose face to a mere female, he changed tactics. Slapping his thigh, he raised his large head, roared with laughter, then gestured at Dimitrios.
'You see! She is a true Gavalas. A real spitfire, my little Christina.' He turned back to her. 'Use that knife to cut open this Marler and I will buy you a beautiful dress from Kolonaki. Now, off you go! You are armed, Dimitrios?'
'Constantine has loaded shotguns and rifles aboard the chopper. He guessed it was an emergency…'
'Then what are you waiting for? If those two English go near where my son, Andreas, was killed in the war – you kill them.'
He stopped speaking as the sound of a helicopter's rotors starting up drowned all further conversation. He sank back into his chair as Dimitrios and Christina ran off round the side of the house. Stephen and Andreas, vengeance for your deaths will be mine, he said to himself. He felt great satisfaction.
He had four descendants – Dimitrios, Constantine, Christina and Anton. He believed all shared his obsession that the killers must be dealt with. He had dinned the idea into them since childhood and worried only about Christina. Women should not think – only obey.
Petros looked around the front of the farm while he waited to see the machine take off for Siros. It was a large building. The veranda ran thirty feet along the front. The once-white walls were grey with dirt. In places they sagged, were held up by huge beams of wood which served as props. Many tiles on the roof were broken. Petros never spent money on repairs unless he simply had to.
This meanness had helped make him rich. Money in the bank. That was power. And he owned a second farm way up north in Macedonia. A farm which boasted many scores of head of cattle. They provided the milk the tourists loved. And for making the cheese the tourists staying at the great hotels also loved. Goat's milk, which Petros preferred, was not liked by the visitors bloated with money.
The Sikorsky was airborne, flew along the front of the farm as it gained height. The pilot, Constantine, waved. Petros waved back. They would do the job. And the sight of the Sikorsky made him feel good. War surplus bought by another farmer at a knock-down price.
Petros had coveted the Sikorsky. One night during a heatwave summer he had led his grandsons to the farmer's fields. They had used flaming torches to set fire to his crops. He had been ruined. Only then had Petros approached him with an offer for the Sikorsky – an offer which would not have bought a second-hand car. Desperate for money, the farmer had sold him the machine. I'm a good businessman, Petros told himself. Now I wait, see what happens on Siros.
Aboard the ferry Nick sat behind the wheel of the Mercedes and started up his engine. They were coming in to Siros, the ramp would soon be lowered. Newman stood on the bow deck as the ferry began turning slowly through a half-circle, ready to berth stern first. Alongside him stood Marler, lighting one of his king-size cigarettes.
'Pretty-looking place,' he drawled.
Newman was carefully scanning the waterfront with his glasses, searching for any sign of a reception committee. The island was mountainous, one limestone giant rearing in the distance. Mount Ida, he assumed. The lower slopes were arid, studded with more scrub.
He blinked. The small port of Siros was crammed with stark white-walled two-storey houses. Huddled together and piled up the hill, they glared beneath the burning sun. The shallo
w-sloped red-tiled rooftops were stepped up the incline. He followed the route of several narrow walled roads which appeared to zigzag upwards. A rabbit warren.
The harbour was sickle-shaped, enclosed by two curving jetties. Inside the entrance a small fleet of fishing vessels and motorized caiques were moored. Along one jetty wall the golden strands of scores of fishing nets hung drying. The tavernas and shops lining the waterfront had a sleepy look.
'It's a working port,' Newman remarked, lowering his glasses. 'Not many tourists find their way here would be my guess. And I still wonder about that chopper which flew over us earlier.'
'Could have landed anywhere,' Marler replied offhandedly. 'I think we'd better join Nick…'
There was a bump as the stern touched shore by a stone causeway. The ramp was lowered, vehicles began moving off as Newman ran clown the companionway. then slowed his pace. It was like moving inside a red-hot oven.
'You take is easy in Greece, old boy.' Marler needled him, strolling down the steps.
'And you don't let on I speak Greek,' Newman warned. 'That way we may hear something interesting.'
'Sir!' As Newman looked over his shoulder Marler gave a mock salute.
Cocky bastard, Newman thought, then quenched his irritation. He had better watch himself in this inferno. Nick had driven the Mercedes off and was waiting on the waterfront. Small boys were dancing round the gleaming car, touching it and then jumping back as Nick shouted at them.
'Where to first?' Newman asked, climbing in beside Nick while Marler settled himself in a rear seat.
To meet my friend, Spyros. I sent him a radio message from Athens. He lives high up here in Siros…'
The car was moving, turning away from the waterfront into one of the narrow side streets. Almost immediately the street was climbing, twisting round narrow corners over the paved surface. On both sides they were hemmed in by the clean whitewashed walls as they ascended the labyrinth. Sweat started pouring down Newman's back. The tunnel-like streets, the blinding glare off the white walls – everything intensified the hellish heat despite the fact that Nick had opened all the windows.