The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  Tweed hardly noticed: he was thinking Kearns was getting careless about security. The inner heavy wooden slab doors had been open when they arrived; only the grille gates were closed. Where was the dog?

  There was a sudden ferocious snarl from behind a closed door as Kearns passed it. A heavy thud, as though the Alsatian had hurled its bulk against the far side. Kearns hammered a clenched fist against the door.

  'Shut it!' he growled.

  The first sign of tension – of emotion – he had shown. He took them into the same dining room with the oak table and the panelled walls. Again the lighting was dim. White-faced, Kearns sat at the opposite side, gestured for them to join him on the far side.

  'What is it now?' he demanded.

  'I know this is a grim time for you,' Tweed began, 'but we need as much information as we can get about your wife's murder. And memory has a habit of fading fast…'

  'You are convinced it was murder?' Kearns asked, his large hands clenched, the knuckles showing white. His brown marble-like eyes stared at Tweed.

  'Yes, I think it was. It's not much consolation – but since the Yard is also convinced they'll do their best to hunt down the killer. An ordinary hit-and-run driver who's probably never caught can cause even more anguish.' He looked round the room. The place looks well looked after. Have you got someone in to help?'

  'I've done it myself.' Kearns stiffened his back. 'I don't want any other woman inside the house now Jill's gone.'

  'I understand. Incidentally, at Quarme Manor I gathered you went for an early morning walk the day you left the Lyceum Hotel. So did Barrymore – on his own. Did you by chance see him while you were out?'

  'Strangely enough, no.'

  'Why "strangely"?'

  'Because,' Kearns explained, 'he always walks in St James's Park when we're in town. Which is where I went. No one else about at that hour. I didn't see any trace of him.'

  'One more question, then we'll leave you in peace. I called in on Dr Robson while I was on my way here. He had a four-wheel-drive vehicle parked by the side of his bungalow. It's got the word Renegade painted on the side opposite to the driver's seat. Said he'd borrowed it from you.'

  'That's right. But it isn't mine. I borrow it from a chap called Foster. Stockbroker type. Lives in the bungalow nearest the main road – on the left as you face the cul-de-sac. We do a lot of that on Exmoor – exchange things on loan. It saves money.'

  'How old would this Foster be?' asked Tweed.

  Kearns looked surprised at the question, but answered. 'I'd say about forty. Like most of them on that estate.'

  'And when did they all move into those bungalows?'

  'Fifteen years ago.'

  Tweed stood up. Thank you for bearing with me. You have some friends you can talk to? I know myself what it's like – stuck on your own in a house when your wife is gone.'

  Paula glanced quickly at him. She realized Tweed was recalling the time when his own wife had left him for a Greek shipping magnate.

  'Oh, yes. In Winsford,' Kearns replied. 'I'll survive. Let me show you out.'

  As they crossed the hall they heard the Alsatian. Now it was moaning and whining behind the closed door. Tweed thought that it sounded as if it were mourning the death of its mistress.

  It was dark as Kearns used his flashlight to guide them to the exit. He said 'Goodnight', locked the grille gates and walked slowly back to the house. Tweed and Paula returned to the car. He sank behind the wheel, took a packet out of the glove compartment and smoked one of his rare cigarettes. Paula kept silent for a few minutes before she spoke.

  'You're ruminating.'

  'A lot to think about. That four-wheel-drive vehicle, Renegade. First it seems to belong to Robson, then Kearns and now this man, Foster. The question is, who drove it along the coast near Porlock Weir about midnight? No way of telling.'

  'So we can't pursue that line of enquiry – assuming that it's worth pursuing.'

  'Then there's the weird psychological set-up between the three men – Robson, Barrymore and Kearns. That must be quite something.'

  'I'm not following you.'

  'Use your imagination. Three men take part in that commando raid on Siros all those years ago. Andreas Gavalas is murdered with a commando knife. One of them did it…'

  'But Barrymore checked their weapons after they found the body,'

  'So, the killer carried an extra knife, knowing what he was going to do in advance. A hundred thousand pounds' worth of diamonds – now worth a million – went missing.

  When Barrymore and Kearns leave the Army they settle on Exmoor, close to Robpon – who found accommodation for them. I don't think the three of them conspired to murder Andreas. Just one of them.'

  'I'm being dim – what about the psychological set-up?'

  'It's diabolical, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play. Nobody knows who did it. But two out of the three know they didn't. So two of them who are innocent must have wondered all these years which man was a murderer. That makes for almost unbearable tension.'

  'So why stay together?'

  That's the truly diabolical part. There's another factor locking them together – fear of Petros and the Gavalas clan coming to Exmoor for revenge. They're trying to protect one another.'

  'You're right,' Paula said slowly, 'it's a macabre relationship.'

  'Let's get moving.' Tweed shook himself alert. 'I want to take a quick look at that bungalow estate down the road.'

  He parked near the bottom of the hill with the engine still running. In the night they had a good view of the six bungalows with whitewashed walls, three on either side of the cul-de-sac. Curtains were closed. Behind them lights shone. The coach lamps in the porches were all lit. No sign of life.

  Each dwelling had a low wall, also whitewashed, bordering a trim lawn inside. All the gardens had the grass cut. No cars were parked either in the road or on a drive. All neatly tucked away inside the garages attached to the bungalows. On the roofs of five of them were the same conventional television masts. Only Seton-Charles had the complex structure with a satellite dish.

  'I tell you again,' Paula said, 'it doesn't look real. If robots walked out I'd hardly be surprised.'

  'Best get back to The Anchor…'

  He was releasing the brake after moving the gear into drive when she touched his arm. He put the brake back on and turned to her.

  'What is it?'

  This.' She was holding a small white stick she'd taken out of her handbag. 'Remember when we arrived at Reams' place – I pretended to be clumsy and dropped my handbag on the floor. I'd seen this on the woodblocks.'

  'What is it?'

  'I'm pretty sure it's French chalk. Let me test it.' She held the stick, rubbed it on the cuff of her cotton blouse. A white mark appeared. She brushed at it with her fingers and it vanished. Opening the glove flap, she balanced the makeshift shelf on her knee, rubbed the stick across it. The substance appeared as small grains of powder. She bent forward, sniffed at it. 'No smell.' Moistening her index finger, she dabbed it in the powder, tasted it. 'No taste. It is French chalk.'

  'I fail to see the significance.'

  'You know I make some of my dresses. I use it for marking. And there's another purpose it could be used for.'

  'Now you're keeping me dangling.'

  'Reams' complexion – normally ruddy when the suntan has worn offis white. We put it down to grief. I think he used this stick of French chalk to alter his complexion, to simulate grief. It must have dropped out of his pocket. I think he used it to touch up the effect just before he appeared at the door. There is a mirror in the hall. And I noticed traces of white powder on his jacket lapel.'

  'My God!' said Tweed. 'And Howard still thinks I'm wrong to introduce women into the Service.'

  40

  They arrived back at The Anchor and found Butler and Nield having a drink in the bar. Nield sat at the corner table with his head leant against the wall, his eyes half-closed. It was early for busines
s: they had the place to themselves.

  'Don't get up,' Paula said as Nield stirred. 'You look all in.'

  'Application to the job in hand.' Nield smiled. 'Your boss expects non-stop action,' he said as Tweed arrived with the drinks: mineral water for himself, a glass of white wine for Paula. 'I've been driving over those moors until they seem to start moving.'

  'Application!' Butler snorted and drank from his half-pint glass. That's what we're here for.' He lowered his voice, speaking to Tweed, who sat next to him. 'Barrymore left Quarme Manor soon after you'd gone. Drove into Minehead. Made a call from a public box. Funny thing to do – he ha* his phone at home.'

  'How long a call?'

  'Between one and two minutes. I was going to time it but found my watch had stopped. Then he drives straight back to Quarme Manor.'

  'Odd,' Tweed agreed. He looked round the table. 'Does anyone know whether Jill Kearns used to take that Alsatian when she went for her early morning walk on the moor?'

  'I do,' Nield said. 'The answer is yes. Came out in a chat I had with the barman over there. She was well-known for those walks. Always started at 6.30 a.m. on the dot. The dog always went with her. For protection as much as company, I imagine. A lonely place, the moor.'

  'That means the dog was pining for her,' Tweed remarked. 'And why am I worried about Mrs Larcombe down the road? Something she said. It will come back to me. What is it?'

  Paula plucked at his sleeve. 'Look outside.' He twisted round, gazed out of the window. Two men and two girls clad in denims and windcheaters were getting out of a Land Rover covered with a canvas roof. They walked off towards the harbour. 'You see,' she said, 'another of those vehicles.'

  Butler nodded. 'Four-wheel drives? They're pretty common – Pete and I have seen a number while we've driven around.'

  'And there,' said Tweed, 'goes another theory I had. Every time I think I've got somewhere it turns into a dead end.'

  'Like Porlock Weir,' Paula chimed in and sipped more wine.

  'One thing I'd like you to do,' Tweed said to Nield, 'is check on the inhabitants of that bungalow estate near Kearns' place. Any titbit you can pick up.'

  'First target the electoral register,' Nield replied. Then go on from there.'

  'Why the interest?' Paula asked.

  'Two remarks you made. That it didn't look real. And that you almost expected robots to emerge. Incidentally, the pathologist at Taunton told me Partridge was killed by someone who knew just where to insert the knife. Another thing. Pete,' he went on, 'I need to know whether Kearns still takes those night rides up to the summit of Dunkery Beacon…'

  'Certainly not at the moment. Only when there's enough moonlight to see his way. Tricky riding those moors at night even for a really experienced horseman.' He drank more beer. 'Well, that should keep my days filled.'

  'There's more for you.' Tweed smiled at Nield's expression. 'You'll cope. I'd like you sometime – in daylight – to get up to the top of Dunkery Beacon and poke around up there. With Butler's help you'll manage. Plus, of course, keeping an eye on the other two. I wouldn't want you to have time on your hands, to get bored.' He finished his mineral water and stood up. 'I fancy a breath of fresh air. Want to come, Paula?'

  'Lovely idea. Help to work up an appetite for dinner. That remark you made about the pathologist's comment again points the ringer at the commandos.'

  'Any news from Greece?' Tweed asked Butler as he donned his Burberry. 'You check regularly?'

  'As you requested. Not a word. Monica didn't seem worried. She said Newman only calls when he has something solid. Same with Marler.'

  'See you." Tweed nodded to the barman, opened the door, paused. 'Pretty blustery out there.' He took his old waterproof hat off a peg and rammed it over his head. Paula wrapped a scarf round hers.

  'Gale warnings round all coasts,' the barman called out.

  'Which means a sleepless night,' Tweed remarked to Paula. 'Our bedroom windows both face the front.'

  'Harry and Pete will be OK. Theirs face the back. I'm OK…''

  The wind hit them as they plodded west along the road and then over the track which was still moist from the morning tide. To their right they could hear the crash of the sea against the rocky shoal. Spume, caught by the wind, blew off the wave crests and they felt it on their faces as they walked against the nor'wester.

  'Are we staying here long?' Paula asked, her mouth close to his ear.

  'I haven't decided. We may push off back to London within a day or two. I've stirred up those three ex-commandos again. One of them may be nudged into making a wrong move. I'm stumped, Paula. And this doesn't seem the right place for any funny goings-on. That vehicle Mrs Larcombe saw would have to drive on through Porlock village even before it could turn up Porlock Hill. Too much risk of being seen.'

  That's not so. Harry told me about the toll road.'

  Told you what?'

  'A very lonely road which turns up the hill just outside Porlock Weir. Apparently it turns up and joins the main road to Culbone. Sheer drop on one side. Harry's point was, that is the direct route to Quarme Manor and End-point – even on to our Mr Kearns' place. You take the first left off the main road like we did during our last visit. No one would see you driving that route late at night.'

  'I've had enough of this,' said Tweed. 'We'll turn back.'

  The wind was hammering them, making it difficult to walk over the sliding pebbles. They reached the track and were hurrying towards The Anchor when Tweed grabbed Paula's arm.

  'Let me take a quick look at the harbourmaster's office. It has a notice behind the window.'

  He took out a pencil torch, went close up to the deserted building. He shone the beam on the cardboard clock with adjustable hands. High Tide 10.50 p.m. The sea was already surging inside the channel which fed the harbour.

  'I hope we decide to go back to London.' said Paula. 'If it's going on like this.'

  Arriving back in the bar, they hung up their raincoats and got rid of their headgear. Butler and Nield sat at the same table. Tweed offered drinks.

  'Not for me,' said Butler. 'I'll stick with this half pint -you may want to send me off somewhere.'

  'I'll have a second,' Nield decided. Tin not going anywhere. Except to bed after a good dinner.'

  'Harry," Tweed said as he sat down, after calling out the order to the barman, 'have you shown Masterson's photograph to the barman here?'

  'No. You told us to keep quiet about him – unless a lead turned up. It didn't.'

  Tweed pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, extracted the matt print inside. When the barman arrived with Nield's drink he tapped the print.

  'Recognize him? A friend of mine. Said he might stay here a few days. I owe him twenty pounds he lent me when I found I'd left my wallet behind. Can't trace him.'

  The barman took hold of the print, studied it with half-closed eyes. He pursed his lips. 'You couldn't add a pair of tinted glasses? And a yachting cap – one of those peaked efforts with gold braid.'

  Tweed took back the print, handed it to Paula. 'You're the artist.' She opened her handbag, delved inside, her hand came out holding a felt-tip pen. She frowned for a moment, then started working. She added tinted glasses and a yachting cap. Tweed was startled: it was just the type of gear Masterson would go for. He handed it again to the barman.

  'Yes, that's him. Came in here half a dozen times. Thought I knew him when you showed me it first time. Now I'm sure. Had a whizz of a girl with him. Long dark hair and eyes a man could drown in. Spoke good English, but she looked foreign.'

  'How long ago was this?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'Seems like months ago. A lot of weeks anyway. It's coming back to me. Engaging sort of guy. I remember him asking about the colonel. Did he come in here? I said now and again. Mostly in the evenings.' He handed back the print.

  'The colonel?' Tweed queried.

  'Yes. Colonel Barrymore. Lives over at Quarme Manor near the Doone Valley. Gloomy old place.'

 
'Thank you,' said Tweed, and gave him a pound coin. Paula crossed her legs. She swung one foot up and down. Studying the mud on her shoe, she asked the question. 'Does that mean we'll be staying?' 'I'll sleep on it.'

  The Oporto mounted a huge wave, the deck tilting at a steep angle. Even in the dark Anton, clinging to the rail, could see its foaming crest. Knowing what was coming, he tightened his grip. The freighter hovered on the crest, then plunged downwards into the chasm. All around him Anton could see giant walls of water which seemed about to overwhelm the vessel. The plunge continued, as though it was heading for the bottom of the ocean. It was pitching and tossing at the same time.

  The wind tore at his sodden windcheater, threatening to rip it off his body, howling in his ears. He had just returned from a perilous trip to the hold crammed with baled cork. Twice each day he checked the canvas-covered Stingers, tucked away by Gomez next to the bulkhead.

  Anton had taken the precaution of tucking a thread of cotton pulled from a shirt under one of the straps. If anyone fooled around with his precious cargo he would know. The cotton thread was still in position when he made his recent check. As the Oporto regained its equilibrium in the trough, Anton ran up to the bridge before it started climbing another mountain.

  He opened the door to the wheelhouse and the wind snatched it from his grasp. It took all his strength to pull the door shut. Behind his wheel, Gomez glanced round, his expression impassive as always despite the fury of the storm. Anton hung on to a side rail, ignoring the mate who understood no English.

  'Where are we?' he asked.

  'Just abreast of Ushant in France. To the east.' Gomez made a quick gesture to his right, then grabbed at the wheel.

  The freighter was heading downwards again, its bow flooded with teeming sea. Anton thanked God he was a good sailor. But the view from the bridge was terrifying. An army of tidal-size waves moved towards them from all directions.

  'Are we keeping to schedule?' he asked anxiously. 'I mean with this storm.'

  'We shall be heaving to off Porlock Weir two days from now. On schedule.' Gomez gave him an evil grin, showing the gold in his teeth. 'If we survive…'