by Colin Forbes
At other times Nield overtook all the vehicles, including the Cortina. Butler then slowed, allowed the camper and the Land-Rover to overtake him, dropping well back to the rear. They reversed positions several more times before they reached London.
Only then did both Butler and Nield drop back behind the Land-Rover. As they crossed the Albert Bridge it was very dark and late. Nield was trying to work out where he had seen the driver of the Land-Rover before.
`Because I know I've seen you, mate,' he said to himself. 'Something about the way you hold yourself.'
A little later they were driving along the Fulham Road, quickly turning off to the right and north. Butler slowed down as the Land-Rover pulled up behind the stationary camper. He ground his gears as he crawled past them, working on the psychology that no one following them would make so much noise. Nield pulled in to the kerb. They were in the middle of the curving Boltons, one of the most prestigious addresses in London.
Nield watched as the Land-Rover driver, still wearing his crash helmet, jumped out and walked up to the camper as the rear doors opened. By the illumination from a street lamp Nield saw a burly man hand over to the Land-Rover driver a stack of about half a dozen slim round cartons. Just the sort of containers to hold the tape reels which had recorded all the conversations in Sir Gerald Andover's house.
`So who lives there?' Nield asked himself.
The driver pushed open the wrought-iron gate, hurried along a path and up the stone steps to one of the magnificent mansions set back from the double curve of The Boltons. Dying for a cigarette, Nield waited patiently without reaching for the pack in his pocket.
The driver reappeared quickly. By now the camper had driven off. Climbing back up into the Land-Rover, he also left the area. Nield waited a little longer, then climbed out and strolled along to the mansion where the cartons had been delivered. No. 185. On the second pillar was a gleaming engraved plate. It carried the legend
MOONGLOW REFUGEE AID TRUST INTERNATIONAL.
He looked up as Butler appeared. Nield moved away from the entrance before he spoke.
`Moonglow. That's where a pile of cartons were delivered. My guess is they contained tape reels.'
`Then I'd better pay a call on them. Plenty of lights on inside the place. Better go back to your car. I'll let you know what happens..
Butler walked back to where he had parked his Cortina. Opening the rear door, he took out a grubby coat and a cap. Slipping on the coat over his windcheater, he donned the scruffy cap, pulling the peak down over his forehead. He picked up a large yellow canvas hold-all with a stack of newspapers protruding from the top. He slung the hold-all over his shoulder. It was a trick he had used before.
He walked back to No. 185, pushed open the gate, shuffled along the path – in case he was observed from inside. Climbing the steps, he pressed the bell and waited, one hand grasping the top of a newspaper. A porch lamp came on, there was the sound of three locks being unfastened: deadlocks, Butler noted. A chain was removed. When the door opened a tall and large middle-aged woman dressed in black and with a grim expression stared at him. She was holding a Walther aimed at his chest. He stepped back in apparent fear, speaking in a whining voice.
`No cause for alarm, lady. And guns make me nervy. If you shot me it'd be murder. I don't even carry a penknife…'
While he was rattling on he was looking at the lighted spacious hall behind her. At the back a curving staircase wound upwards. It was dimly lit. He could see a heavily built man walking slowly down the stairs. With a very deliberate tread. The vague figure reached the bottom and paused. The hall lights reflected off his gold pince-nez. The eyes behind the lenses were invisible, which was disconcerting.
`What do you want?' the woman with the gun demanded.
`Just delivering the local paper. It's free. Tells you what's goin' on round 'ere. New parkin' regulations. And a developer is tryin' to turn one of these 'ouses into a cheap 'otel. Wouldn't want that, would you?'
`What exactly is happening, Mrs Kramer?'
It was the man with the pince-nez who had spoken. His way of talking was strange – he pronounced each word with extreme precision and paused between each word he uttered. His voice was soft-spoken but every word had carried clearly to Butler. He found the voice as disconcerting as the way the man moved.
`Nothing, sir,' Mrs Kramer called back over her shoulder. 'Just a yobbo handing out free newspapers.'
`At this time of night?' the voiced continued. 'I really find that rather odd. Yes, very odd indeed.'
`I'm behind schedule, guy,' Butler whined, raising his voice. 'And in the mornin' I've got a different job.' `Send – him – packing – Mrs – Kramer.'
The word pauses were even more pronounced. Even more disturbing. And Butler was not a man easily unnerved by any situation.
`Go away!' snapped Mrs Kramer. 'And never call here again. We don't accept rubbish.'
The door was slammed in his face as Butler opened his mouth to say more. He stood there, listened to the three locks being turned, the chain replaced to its secure position. Then he shuffled back down the steps and along the path. A minute later he was relating his experience to Nield and they decided to drive straight to SIS headquarters at Park Crescent.
12
It was after eleven at night when Butler and Nield were let inside the headquarters of SIS in Park Crescent, close to Regent's Park. George, the ex-NCO, who acted as one of the guards, called out to them as they started up the staircase to Tweed's first-floor office.
`You'll find Monica still there, hard at it. She's having meals sent in. Doubt if she'll welcome you two…'
They opened the door and walked in. Monica, who was Tweed's faithful assistant, a woman of uncertain age, grey hair tied back in a bun, looked up from her desk. She had a collection of files spread out and her hand was reaching for the phone.
`Hello, Monica,' Nield said cheerfully, 'we've got a job for you. Stop you from getting bored.'
`Bored!' Monica expressed mock indignation. 'Tweed has given me enough work to last me a week. Building up profiles on Sir Gerald Andover, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Willie Fanshawe. My phone bill for calls to the Far East will be horrendous. I even managed to reach Philip Car- don, our agent in Hong Kong. He's flying home shortly. For your information I can do without your job.'
She liked Pete Nield. He often joked with her and she was secretly rather taken with his dark eyes and easy manner. Nield grinned and went on.
`Better make a note. Tweed will want the data on this. Ready? Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. 185 The Boltons. Everything you can dig up about them – and who runs the outfit.'
`Moonglow?' Monica crinkled her forehead, scribbled the full name on her pad. 'I've heard of them somewhere. The Boltons? High living for a charity organization.'
`We've driven a long way,' Butler intervened. 'A mug of tea would go down well for both of us.'
`Then you know where the kettle is. So make it yourself. I haven't got time to fuss over you. And while you are about it, I could do with a drink myself..
When they had left her alone Monica frowned again. She absent-mindedly sucked at the end of her pen.
`Moonglow,' she said to herself. 'I have heard of you – and something odd, but never proved. I'll dissect you down to the bone.'
Monica was not the only one working late. At No. 185 The Boltons Dr Wand sat in a room which served as a cinema. The lighting was very dim and no more could be seen of him than Butler had observed from the front door. Dr Wand preferred the dark.
He was not watching a film tonight. Mrs Kramer was feeding the tape reels into a machine and he was listening to conversations which had taken place at Prevent. His large head was tilted at a slight angle as he memorized what had been said.
At one stage Mrs Kramer glanced in his direction. Wand's gold pince-nez glinted in the low-power illumination provided by a wall light. He was smiling, a smile with pursed lips, a smile which had no human warmth. Even Mrs Krame
r, who knew him well, was frightened by the smile.
When the last tape had been played Wand rose slowly to his feet. He gave her the instructions in his slow, soft-spoken voice.
`Contact Vulcan immediately. I think from now on we must keep a very close eye indeed on the man called Tweed. Convey my thought to Vulcan at once. I am going to my study to check further details about Operation Long Reach.'
`I will make the call immediately, sir.'
`See that you do, please.'
Mrs Kramer hurried out of the room to the telephone. She had no idea of the identity of Vulcan – only his phone number. She also had no idea what Operation Long Reach meant. And she had learned it was unwise to ask Dr Wand any leading questions. People who made that mistake had disappeared.
At Passford House the following morning Tweed announced he was leaving immediately for London. In Room 2 Newman looked at Paula in surprise. They were so often taken off-guard by Tweed's lightning decisions.
`I shall drive myself back,' Tweed continued, 'in the Ford Escort. Paula wants to check Mrs Goshawk, who apparently has a house for sale in Brockenhurst – according to that estate agent, Barton. I want her protected, Bob. Could you drive her everywhere in your Mercedes?'
Will do. But what are you after? Have you any idea what is going on?'
`List the facts.' Tweed counted on his fingers. 'One, Harvey Boyd, who was about to join us as a trained agent, was possibly murdered on the River Lymington.'
`Murdered?' Newman queried. 'What do you base that on?'
`The fact that the right side of his head was sliced off so neatly needs explaining.' He looked at Paula. 'And I trust your exceptional eyesight. I'm convinced you did see something in the fog just before the so-called accident.'
`As a reporter I still regard that as an assumption,' Newman persisted.
`It is not an assumption,' Tweed said sharply, 'that on two occasions someone has tried to exterminate us. The mobile concrete mixer, then the chopper which dropped oil on the road in front of us. Somewhere along the line I said something, asked a question -with Andover, Burgoyne, or Fanshawe – which triggered off those lethal attacks. So we have stumbled on to something. That is fact two.'
`You can't include Andover – after what's happened to his daughter,' Paula protested once again.
`I'm not crossing Andover off my list before I've seen the profile Monica is preparing,' Tweed said firmly. 'At the back of my mind I once heard something odd about the daughter, Irene. Fact three,' he went on briskly, 'I'm sure there is something odd about that isolated village, Moor's Landing.'
`That is an assumption,' Newman objected.
`Oh, really?' Tweed's tone was hard now. 'When we have an estate agent who isn't interested in selling us any kind of property? And they're trying to drive out old Mrs Garnett from the last remaining cottage. Strange that Barton didn't say her cottage might become available if we could wait a bit longer.'
`It was a weird place,' Newman agreed.
`Finally, fact four – Irene had apparently been kidnapped. Yet Andover whispers to me that no ransom demand had been received. After about three months.'
`You see any pattern forming?' Paula asked.
`I'm completely in the dark,' Tweed admitted. 'I have in my hand a number of pieces of a jigsaw – none of which seem to fit. I need more pieces to build up a picture. And now,' he picked up his packed suitcase, must get off to London. Take great care.'
`We'll see you in London,' Paula assured him.
Tweed turned suddenly. 'I missed out facts five and six. The file Andover handed to me. And the letter from Gaston Delvaux, Belgian armaments genius – and a member of that think-tank, INCOMSIN. I may be in Brussels within the next twenty-four hours…'
April Lodge, the home of Mrs Goshawk, was a small detached Victorian house on the outskirts of Brockenhurst. Newman and Paula had agreed it would be better if she visited the house on her own. Having driven past it, Newman parked the Mercedes on a grass verge.
Bearing in mind Tweed's request for him to protect her, Newman followed her at a distance along the country lane and waited by a copse of firs. As Paula disappeared he checked his Smith amp; Wesson.
Paula walked up the straight drive. On either side was a spacious lawn, neatly trimmed and covered with a heavy coating of frost sparkling in the sun. The house corresponded with the old photograph she'd examined in Barton's office. She entered the porch, pressed a highly polished brass bell.
`Mrs Goshawk?' she asked.
The door, with a stained-glass window in the upper half, had been opened by a well-dressed woman in her fifties. From her coiffured brown hair Paula guessed she'd just returned from the hairdresser.
`Yes.' Mrs Goshawk smiled. 'I hope you're not selling something?'
'On the contrary, I'm hoping to buy this house.'
`But it's not for sale. What on earth made you think it was?'
`It is shown – with a photo – as being for sale at Barton's, the estate agent at Moor's Landing.'
`This is ridiculous.' Mrs Goshawk flushed. 'I'm sorry, that was rude. I meant ridiculous of that rather rough type, Barton. I decided not to move. He was informed over a year ago and said he'd take it off the market at once…'
`Back to Moor's Landing, I suggest,' Newman decided after hearing Paula's story. 'I thought there was something not right about that chap Barton.'
`Something's wrong about the whole place. What it is I just don't know. Maybe another word with Mrs Garnett is a good idea.'
`Let's wait till we get there. See what the situation is.'
Newman was soon driving back along the road to Beaulieu. It was a glorious sunny morning with a clear blue sky and again very cold. The trees were clotted with frost and Newman drove past Prevent and the other two houses at top speed along the empty winding road.
Paula was studying the map. To reach Moor's Landing by car they had to drive through Beaulieu, cross the river, then turn south down a country road which eventually led to a village called Exbury. The turn-off to Moor's Landing was several miles earlier. She gave Newman guidance and within three-quarters of an hour they were driving past the lane to the landing stage and into the village. Newman parked as soon as they reached the first cottage.
'That's funny,' Paula said as she stood by the car.
`What is?' asked Newman.
`The estate agent's board has disappeared.'
`You're right. Maybe it's taken down for painting. It was peeling badly, I noticed.'
`So did I. Which struck me as peculiar at the time. I would have thought it would have been spick and span to be in keeping with the model-village effect.'
She walked down to the fourth cottage on the right and pushed open the gate. Newman followed closely behind her after glancing down the street. Once more it had a strangely deserted look. Paula tugged at his arm.
`Net curtains at the windows. They weren't there when we called yesterday.'
She raised the brass knocker and hammered several times. A strange man in a smart business suit opened the door and stared at Paula. About twenty-eight, she estimated, clean shaven and with a pleasant smile. A strong waft of perfume met her. Not one of those, I hope, she was thinking. She spoke briskly.
`We've come to see Mr Barton, the estate agent.' `Mr who?'
`Barton, the estate agent. He had a board up outside.'
`I'm sorry, I don't understand. I live here. Martin's the name. You must have come to the wrong village. No estate agent has been at Moor's Landing since the converted cottages were sold, so far as I know.'
`We were here yesterday,' Paula insisted impatiently. And we met Mr Barton.'
`Indeed we did,' Newman's voice confirmed over her shoulder.
`He has an office in this front room,' Paula ploughed on. `Hardly any furniture, blank walls, one with a board of houses for sale. A trestle table and fold-up chairs.'
`This doesn't make any sense,' Martin replied, a trace of impatience in his voice now. 'This is my home.' He l
ooked at Newman. 'The lady is confused.'
`Then would it be too much, Mr Martin,' Paula pressed on, to let us just see the front room?'
`If it will convince you.' Martin shrugged. 'Walk right in. I'm sorry about the smell of perfume. My wife spilt a whole bottle on the table this morning..
Paula walked in, followed by Newman, who was holding an unlit cigarette. She stopped, stunned. She was looking at an expensively furnished living-room, mostly in the Scandinavian style. The walls were panelled in oak. She stared around helplessly. Newman wandered past her, dropping his cigarette close to a wall, bent down to retrieve it. Martin waved his hands.
`Satisfied? Try the village of Exbury. The roads round here are confusing.'
`Thank you, Mr Martin,' Paula said coldly.
She waited until they had reached the gate. She heard the cottage door close behind them.
`Am I going dotty?' she asked Newman. `It's the sort of experience you have in a dream.'
`No dream,' Newman said grimly. 'More like a nightmare. Let's have that word with Mrs Garnett. She knows what's happening round here – up to a point..
`What the devil's going on?' Paula asked. 'Just look at Mrs Garnett's front door. Bright purple. Yesterday the paint was peeling and it was no particular colour.'
`So we'll call on her.'
Paula marched up the path, touched the purple paint and it was bone dry. She pressed the bell and waited, stiffening herself. The door opened and another man dressed in a business suit stood regarding her. Not a day over thirty, she guessed. Dark-haired, he had a more distant manner.
`Yes, what is it?'
`I've called to see Mrs Garnett, please.'
`Well you certainly won't find her here.' A touch of an American accent. 'She left and went into some nursing home for old people, I understand. No idea where.'
`Left overnight, you mean?' Paula demanded.
`Good Lord, no. I've been here for quite a while.'
`I'm Porter,' Newman interjected. 'Could you tell us your name?'