Deadlock

by Colin Forbes

  The windscreen wipers were fighting a losing battle with the floods of water pouring out of the sky. Lakes snaked out on to the deserted highway from the grass verges. No sign of human habitation anywhere. No traffic had passed him for miles when he reached a narrow tarred road turning off to his right. As Paula Grey had told him on the phone, no signpost indicated where it led.

  He swung the wheel easily with the aid of the power-assisted steering. The 280E was a dream of a car to drive. Straight ahead stretched a lonely road just wide enough to take the large Mercedes. Tweed, using undipped headlights, peered through the cascade, hoping to God he wouldn't meet anything coming from the opposite direction.

  The wind had reached gale force, hammering the side of his car, threatening to blow its one-and-a-half tons of metal off the road. No drainage. Rivers of water flooded down each side, his wheels sent up great clouds of spray as he pressed his foot down.

  Tweed was worried the engine would become waterlogged, stopping the vehicle. His increase in speed was an attempt to counter the danger. He stiffened as he saw a flash of light in the distance. A car wax coming from the opposite direction, a car moving at high speed. He doused his headlights. Approaching a gated entrance to a field, he slowed and swung the Mercedes on to gravel, then waited as the projectile hurtled towards him, headlights still turned full on.

  'Dip your headlights, you swine,' he muttered to himself.

  It was a Porsche, a red Porsche. Tweed raised a hand to shield his eyes against the glare. As it passed him, the car slowed. He caught a glimpse of the driver and stared. A man in his fifties - with a thick thatch of white hair and prominent cheek-bones. Tweed blinked as the car continued on towards the highway. He couldn't believe it.

  Lee Foley. American. Ran the Continental International Detective Agency in New York - CIDA.

  Here? In the middle of Norfolk? Had his eyes deceived him? He'd had only a brief glance at the driver. He tightened his lips, recalled snatches of his conversation with Paula Grey on the phone. I was driving up this country road . . . I'm positive the driver of the car was Lee Foley . . . Hugh pointed him out to me once in a New York restaurant. . . said he was very bad news . . . He damned near drove me into the ditch with his bloody red Porsche . . .

  Tweed had felt sure Paula must be mistaken when she called him. He'd decided to drive up to see her, to reassure her after taking a look at the hamlet of Cockley Ford. No, he wasn't being honest with himself. He'd wanted to see Paula again.

  Rain pounded the roof of his car as he sat thinking of his encounter with Foley two years ago in Berne, Switzerland. The American had gunned down three men, had then escaped via Paris. No clear identification. No case to answer.

  He sighed, wondering whether he could manage a three-point turn to go back the way he'd come, decided the car was too big. He would have to drive on, keep to his original plan, have a look at Cockley Ford. Might be interesting . . .

  The heavy five-barred gate was open. It hung from a concrete post. Something about it made Tweed stop. He lowered the window, ignoring the rain, staring at the glass eye set into the post. He pressed a button, closing the window, and pressed another button which lowered the passenger seat window. Through the blurred downpour he saw a second glass eye in the opposite post.

  Photo-electric cells. Normally the gate was operated automatically with a remote control system. The cloudburst must have put the system out of action. He drove on round a curve, saw an old two-storey building standing back from the road, huddled in the forest. The Bluebell. The local tavern. Beyond it, on either side of the road, a single row of cottages ran away into the distance.

  Tweed swung the Mercedes through one hundred and eighty degrees, using the open space in front of the inn, then stopped, switching off the engine, taking out the ignition key. He was now pointed back the way he had come, an instinctive manoeuvre. He sat for several minutes, aware that the curtain over a lower window had moved, exposing lights inside. He was being watched.

  Alighting from the car, he locked it and walked to the inn's front door, which had an iron ring for a handle. He turned it, went inside to a large rectangular room, and stopped. Half a dozen country types sat drinking. Faces turned and stared at the newcomer. The barman stood with a cloth in his hands - stood as still as Tweed. It was like observing a frozen tableau.

  'Nasty night,' Tweed commented, taking off his hat and shaking rain on to the mat.

  'How did you get through the gate?'

  The question came from a broad-shouldered man sitting near the bar. He wore a navy blue pea-jacket with gleaming brass buttons and rumpled grey slacks. Despite their appearance, the clothes looked expensive and his leather boots could have been Gucci. In his late forties, Tweed •guessed, his face was weatherbeaten, his complexion ruddy, his jaw overlong, his eyes a cold blue. The accent was Norfolk, the tone unfriendly, demanding.

  'It was wide open. I drove straight through. This is Cockley Cley?'

  'No. Further up the 'ighway towards Swaffham. Turn off to the left.'

  Standing up, the man presented his back to Tweed, leaned on the bar and ordered a large Scotch. Tweed joined him, aware of an atmosphere of hostility he'd never before encountered in a Norfolk village. His stubborn streak surfaced. He waited patiently while Pea-Jacket was served. The barman had a blank expression, a head which was squarish, as though hewn from a chunk of wood.

  'I'll have a Scotch, too,' Tweed said pleasantly. 'And a drop of water, please . . .'

  The barman was looking over his shoulder. Tweed swung round and caught Pea-Jacket in the act of nodding his head. He turned back to the bar in time to see the barman reaching for an unopened bottle.

  'Not that one,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'll take it from the one used to serve our friend here.'

  His eyes scanned the rear wall of wood which had been stripped and re-varnished, destroying the aged atmosphere of the rest of the room. Knots of wood appeared to have been inserted at various points. He glanced down at the deep skirting board, which had not been subject to renovation. The barman pushed a glass across the counter and forgot about the water. He shook his head when Tweed tried to pay.

  'On the 'ouse. Then you'll be on your way, I s'pose. We'll be closing soon.'

  'At this hour! And I insist on paying.'

  Tweed pushed a pound coin over the counter. Again the barman looked at Pea-Jacket, who nodded for the second time. Tweed was clumsy with his change, dropping a ten-penny piece on the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, staring briefly at the defect in the old skirting board where it met the bar. It looked uncommonly like a bullet-hole. He straightened up, glanced over his shoulder and addressed Pea-Jacket.

  'Excuse my lack of manners. My name's Sneed . . .'

  'Ned Grimes,' said Pea-Jacket and then clamped his thin lips shut as though he'd replied too quickly.

  'Cheers!' Tweed leant against the bar, raised his glass, took a sip, his eyes on Grimes. 'I seem to have taken the wrong turning. Which place is this? There was no signpost at the turn-off.'

  'Cockley Ford,' Grimes said shortly. 'We have a bird sanctuary 'ere - and private zoo. That's why we needs the gate, you see. Public don't come 'ere.'

  'Really?' Tweed was at his most amiable as he glanced at the other four seated drinkers. They had hardly moved, hadn't said a word to each other since he entered. 'I'd have thought that people would be visiting a bird sanctuary . . .'

  'Private. Not for public.'

  'Not the village as well, I imagine?'

  He never did get a reply to his question. A vacant-faced youth stood up from a table by himself and giggled idiotically. Tweed noted on his left wrist he wore a Rolex with a gold expanding strap, the kind of timepiece which registered the moon phases and God knew what else.

  Grimes swung round in his chair but before he could react the youth spoke. In a sing-song tone which was chilling.

  'No one died. No one died tonight. No one was buried . . .'

  Grimes turned on the youth, who smiled fatu
ously. Jumping up, he grabbed him by the arm and propelled him to the door. The rain had stopped slashing at the windows, the storm had worked itself out. Grimes heaved the heavy door open, took the youth by the shoulders and hurled him into the night, slamming the door shut.

  'He be soft in the 'ead,' Grimes informed Tweed as he returned to his chair and took a large gulp of whisky. 'Simple Eric we calls 'im.'

  'Every village has one,' Tweed agreed.

  From outside the inn he heard the faint sound of a car crawling past The Bluebell, moving towards the cottages. He looked at a hard-faced woman, middle-aged and grey-haired with the hair tied back in an old-fashioned bun. She sat knitting, watching Tweed, the only sound inside the pub the click-clack of her needles. Les triocoteuses. Why was he reminded of the women who had sat by the guillotine during the French Revolution - watching the heads roll? An absurd thought. Grimes followed his gaze.

  'Mrs Sporne, postmistress,' he remarked.

  'Good evening to you,' Tweed addressed her.

  She dropped her eyes and started counting stitches, making no reply. Two of the male drinkers were now talking in whispers, their eyes on Tweed. Under the surface he sensed something deeper than the animosity he had felt when he first entered the pub. The rank smell of fear.

  He finished his drink, was about to leave, when something happened which caused the drinkers to freeze, staring at each other in horror. The distant chiming of a bell began tolling. A murderous look came over Grimes' face as the chiming continued. He hastily composed his expression when he saw Tweed watching him.

  'Can't be far away that church,' Tweed commented. 'I'm interested in churches.' He strolled towards the door as the mournful chimes continued their dirge, pausing by Grimes' chair. 'Oh, a couple of my friends may arrive at any moment. SAS men. They drove up with me from London in their own car. We lost each other in Thetford. I gave them the same instructions to find Cockley Cley -the other village. Turn right off the highway. Think I'll just take a look at your church before I go . . .'

  'I'm coming with you then. Least I can do - seein' as you're so interested.'

  It was pitch-black outside. Rain dripped from the branches of a fir tree which spread out towards the inn like huge hands. Tweed collected a large torch Newman had left in the car, a torch which might be described as a blunt instrument. He turned towards the darkened cottages.

  Grimes walked beside Tweed, his boots clumping on the tarred road. By the light of the torch beam Tweed crossed a small footbridge over a gushing stream where the road sloped into a ford. There were lights in the cottage windows behind drawn curtains. One was drawn aside as they passed. A man's face peered out and the curtain closed hurriedly. The road curved again as it climbed and Tweed saw the silhouette of the church raised on an eminence. He switched off the torch to gain night vision. A moment later he stopped.

  'Something's wrong?' Grimes demanded.

  'It's got a pepperpot bell-tower. I haven't seen one of those except on the coast. At Brancaster, places like that. Never so far inland.'

  'Just a church. Seen all you want?'

  Tweed didn't reply. He strode to the gate in the flintstone wall, pushed it open and walked along the moss-covered path leading up to the church. Also constructed of flintstone, he estimated it at hundreds of years old. The chimes were very loud. Grimes hurried after him.

  'Don't want to go in there. And those men comin' to look for you. Who be they?'

  'Special Air Service. Elite anti-terrorist troops. Very tough types. They're on leave,' he continued, elaborating the lie, 'on holiday, I mean.' He went inside.

  Tweed stared at Simple Eric, who was hauling on the bell-rope as the chimes echoed weirdly above, sweat pouring down his face. Reaching up to pull the rope, Eric's shirt cuff was rolled well up his forearm and Tweed saw his wrist-watch was definitely a Rolex. Suspended from the wooden ceiling in the circular bell-tower was a naked forty-watt bulb which cast menacing shadows. Grimes pushed rudely past Tweed and swore foully.

  '. . . idiot child. Go home!'

  'Toll for the dead. Toll for the dead. Toll for the . . .'

  Eric seemed in a trance as he chanted his chilling litany. He let go of the looped rope as Grimes seized him with his left hand, then struck him a savage blow to the face with his right. Eric blinked. His soiled shirt was drenched with sweat.

  'Take it easy,' Tweed advised.

  'Go home, I said!' Grimes roared in a frenzy. 'You want me to strap the hide off you?'

  Tweed glanced to his right, surveying the tiny church. Seven rows of worn wooden pews stretched on either side of the central aisle towards the altar. He stiffened. The altar was completely covered with a black velvet cloth. Grimes slammed the door shut as Eric ran outside and noticed Tweed's gaze at the altar.

  'Crazy loon,' he rasped. 'Best wait outside while I turns off lights. Wait by the gate.'

  Tweed left the church. Instead of heading back down the moss-covered path he wandered through the wet grass round the bell-tower to the back of the church. Before him stretched a graveyard hemmed in by the high flintstone wall. He had a trapped feeling but walked on. An old gated railing sealed off a huge mausoleum with steps leading down beyond the gate. He flashed on the torch. The

  padlock holding the chains on the gate was brand new. He wandered on. Headstones thrust up out of the grass, slanting at different angles. Six were standing erect, close together. He swung the torch beam, examined the engraved lettering on the stones.

  Edward Jarvis. Died April 1986. RIP. He swivelled the beam to the next one. Bertha Rout. Died April 1986 . . . Joel Couzens. Died April 1986 . . . Benjamin Sadler. Died April 1986 . . .

  Altogether there were six people who had died the same year, the same month. He had just examined the last headstone when Grimes ran up behind him. Tweed turned and the villager was panting for breath. When he spoke he was hardly coherent.

  'What the hell are you doing?'

  'Now, Ned, what have we here?'

  Round the end of the bell-tower a tall figure had appeared. Tweed swung the torch beam full on the newcomer. He had a hawk-like nose and a pince-nez was perched on its bridge. The eyes had an odd opaque look in the glare of the torch, were unblinking. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat, a long black overcoat. For a moment, before he doused the torch, Tweed thought he was a priest.

  'I am Dr Portch. I heard the bell. Then Eric ran past me in a panic. Has he had another epileptic fit? And perhaps you would introduce me to the stranger, Ned?'

  A soft, almost hypnotic tone of voice. Years of practising the bedside manner, Tweed assumed as Grimes replied.

  'Mr . . . Now I never was one for remembering names . . .'

  'Sneed,' said Tweed.

  'That's it. This is Mr Sneed, Doctor. He has two SOS men who come lookin' for 'im.'

  'SOS?'

  'He means SAS,' Tweed interjected. 'We share a common interest in bird-watching. I took the wrong turning -I was heading for Cockley Cley. I'm glad I had a chance to look at your ancient church. Most unusual in this part of the world.'

  'And you are also interested in headstones, Mr Sneed?'

  Tweed was trying to place the strange doctor's accent. He detected an undertone of Norfolk burr but it was overlaid with a quite different regional accent. The brown eyes behind the pince-nez stared coldly at Tweed, as though struggling to come to some decision.

  'I was curious to see that six people died in the same month,' Tweed replied. 'A heavy toll for one tiny village.'

  'Meningitis. Unfortunately I was away for a few days when the outbreak started. Then it was too late. A major tragedy. It started with Simple Eric - the only one to survive. A weak head but a strong body. So often the case in this world, Mr Sneed. Is that your Mercedes outside The Bluebell?'

  'Yes.' Tweed switched on the torch, swung the beam full on to the ancient mausoleum. That must go back a few years.'

  'Ah! Sir John Leinster's final resting place. The last of his line, sadly. He died forty years ago. Now, Mr
Sneed, I expect you'll be wanting to continue your journey. Ned, perhaps you'd be good enough to escort our visitor safely back to his car. Breckland, Mr Sneed, is a very lonely and dangerous place. So easy to get lost in the forest where feral cats roam.' Portch was almost purring like one of the wild cats he'd mentioned. He asked the question as Tweed was turning away.

  'Your two friends. If they turn up do we tell them you have proceeded to Cockley Cley?'

  'Yes, please. They're travelling in a large blue Peugeot,' Tweed said, keeping up the fiction.

  He almost tripped in a deep gulley. He kept walking, glancing down. Two deep wide ruts were embedded in the grass. At some time a heavy vehicle had been brought into the church yard. He opened the left-hand side of the double grille gate and walked briskly back towards his car, followed by Grimes who hurried to catch him up.

  They were passing a giant fir overhanging the road when Tweed glanced to his right. Almost concealed in the undergrowth below the fir was a red snout. The front end of a Porsche.

  'I'll be leavin' you here,' Grimes said. 'There's your nice car waitin' outside Bluebell . . .'

  He pushed open the garden gate of a cottage, hurried along the path. Tweed heard the slam of the front door and was on his own in the night. He recrossed the footbridge, walking at his normal pace, gripping the torch firmly.

  He had the key in his hand when he reached the Mercedes, pushed it in the lock and turned it. Somewhere behind him a thud of running feet came closer. He slid behind the wheel, slipped the key into the ignition, started the engine, turned on the headlights, pressed down the lever which locked all the doors.

  In the wing mirror he saw Simple Eric rushing towards the car. Grimes, close behind, grabbed the lad and began wielding a large strap, beating him about the body. Tweed put the gear into reverse, released the brake and backed the vehicle slowly towards the struggling figures. He saw Grimes pause, stare towards him as the car moved closer. Eric seized his chance, broke free and ran, disappearing behind the pub into the dark wall of the forest. Grimes jumped to one side, then grabbed the handle of the rear door, pulling at it furiously.