Cross of Fire (88 page)

The Alouette carrying Marler back to Paris was a grey dot in a grey sky as dusk fell and a sheet of flame spread
across the fields on either side where bales of hay soaked in
petrol had ignited.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

There is still the hunting down of Kalmar - identifying who Kalmar is.' Tweed said firmly.

It was twenty-five hours later and they were all assem
bled in Navarre's office at the Ministry of the Interior.
Navarre had just spoken.

'We are cleaning up the mess rapidly.' he had announced.
'As you'll have seen from this morning's newspaper head
lines, General Charles de Forge died tragically during an exercise when he insisted live ammunition should be used.
We'll never know who accidentally shot him during that
panic on route N20.'

'One of his own troops?' Marler suggested.

'That is the assumption.' Navarre had agreed. 'Then a large petrol tanker overturned, the petrol caught fire. As I said, a major tragedy.'

'Yes, indeed.' Lasalle said with a blank expression.

'The military exercise has been cancelled.' Navarre had
continued. 'All troops have returned to barracks. There will
be no reports of that mysterious graveyard Newman dis
covered in the Landes.'

'Just one of those things?' Newman had commented
cynically.

'De Forge had earlier reported all the deceased as desert
ers. There's no point in upsetting the relatives. A logical
outcome.' Navarre had remarked with typical Gallic realism.
'And the recordings for TV of the two witnesses, Martine
and Moshe Stein, will never be relayed. The cassettes have been destroyed. The old lady, Martine, seems satisfied now she has heard of the death of de Forge. Moshe Stein is philosophical.'

'And the smashing of the
Siegfried
organization is completed.' Kuhlmann commented. 'Which just about wraps it up.'

Which was the point at which Tweed had intervened.

'There is still the hunting down of Kalmar...'

'How would we know where to start?' Rosewater asked.
'We haven't a clue as to his identity.'

'I'm not so sure about that,' Tweed insisted. 'I made a
phone call to Jim Corcoran, chief of security at Heathrow.
He reported seeing Major Lamy arriving by direct flight
from Bordeaux.'

'With a lot on his conscience,' Navarre rapped out.

'Corcoran followed him,' Tweed went on, 'got the num
ber of the car he'd hired. I phoned the firm. Lamy was
driving to Aldeburgh.'

'I want to go back there,' Paula told him.

'Too dangerous,' Tweed contradicted her. 'I also phoned
Grenville Grange. Imagine who answered the call. Brand.
He also is back in the Aldeburgh area.'

'I have leave due.' Paula persisted. 'I'll go there in
my own time. I want to lay the ghost of what happened
there.'

'Not a good idea.' Newman snapped.

'So I don't want you coming with me. It's a personal
pilgrimage.'

'What about the trouble in the south of France?' enquired Tweed, changing the subject.

'Dubois was given two options.' Navarre explained. 'One,
he could disband his vicious racist movement,
Pour France.
Two, he could stand trial for high treason as a member of
the
Cerde Noir.
He was reminded we have that tape with
his voice on it. Guess which option he chose.'

'He copped out.' Newman replied. 'That louse with the soiled tie has no guts.'

'You are right. He has agreed to dissolve his party. He
will return to his old job of grocer in Provence, selling rotten
fruit at extortionate prices. Without leadership the racists
are impotent.'

'And we have to return to London.' Tweed said.

'Then I can visit Aldeburgh again.' Paula asserted.

It was late afternoon, a December afternoon, when Paula
stood by the window of her bedroom at the Brudenell Hotel
in Aldeburgh. Below her was the narrow Parade of the
front. A storm of grey clouds was flooding in from the north
east. Giant waves surged in, crashed against the sea wall,
hurled spray as high as her window. A little wilder than the
day when she had fled across the marshes with Karin but
the atmosphere was similar. Time to go for her walk before it was completely dark.

She checked the contents of her shoulder bag, tightened the belt of her raincoat, tied a scarf round her head and left
her room. Hardly anyone about downstairs. She smiled at the receptionist, ran down the stairs to the rear entrance, turned left and walked towards
the bleak marshes.

Crossing the deserted public car park, her feet crunched
the gravel of the road leading to the sea defences which
were still being reinforced. At that hour the site was dosed:
all the workmen had gone home. Passing the Slaughden
Boat Storage yard she turned down the steep grassy path on to the marshes.

The light was fading faster than she had anticipated. She
found herself thinking of Kalmar, the brute who had stran
gled poor Karin. It seemed ages ago. The ground was more
mushy than it had been the last time she had taken this
walk. She reached the point where the path forked - left
back up to the road, right up the steep path to the dyke
overlooking the yacht anchorage.

She took the right-hand fork, picked her way along the
narrow twisting footpath running along the ridge of the
dyke. The tide was coming in, funnelling its way up the
narrow channel parallel to the coast from the opening to the
sea almost twenty miles to the south. That was when she
heard the steady tread of footsteps coming up behind her at
speed.

Tweed parked his Ford Sierra in a slot by the wall of the
Brudenell. Jumping out, he locked the car, ran to the
entrance. Halfway up the stairs he stumbled, swore aloud.
As he hauled himself up the rest of the steps, clinging to the banister rail, the receptionist appeared.

'Is there something wrong, sir? Oh, it's you, Mr Tweed.'

'I've twisted my bloody ankle. Sorry. Is Miss Paula Grey in the hotel?'

'She just left. Went for a walk over the marshes ...'

'Not by herself, I hope?'

'Yes, no one was with her.'

Victor Rosewater appeared from the direction of the bar.
He stared as Tweed collapsed into a chair, stretched out his
right leg with the ankle turned at an awkward angle.

'Is there a problem?' he asked. 'Paula phoned me at my
town flat to say she was coming here. Would I like to keep
her company.'

'So why aren't you doing just that?'

'Because I didn't know she had arrived. I've been waiting
for her in the bar.'

'Isn't Robert Newman here?' Tweed asked the receptionist. He appeared agitated. 'He told me he was coming
here.'

'He arrived earlier, sir. He said he was driving over to
Grenville Grange.'

'Oh, no!' Tweed looked at Rosewater. 'He's convinced Kalmar
is back in Aldeburgh. He must have gone to Grenville Grange to tackle Brand. He'll find Brand isn't at the
Grange.'

'What gave Newman that idea?' Rosewater pressed.

'Because both Major Lamy and Brand are back in Aide-burgh. Now Paula has gone gallivanting off across those marshes. I'm really worried. By herself. She's in great dan
ger. And now all lean do is hobble a few feet.'

I'll go and find her.' Rosewater assured him. He lowered his voice. 'And I have my Service revolver with me.'

'Then why the hell are you wasting time?' Tweed looked at the receptionist. 'Can you say how long ago she left here?'

'A good fifteen minutes ago ...'

'I'll get after her now. You nurse your ankle.'

Rosewater had dashed down the stairs, clad in a trench
coat, and had disappeared before Tweed could reply.

'Is she really in danger?' the receptionist asked. 'I am
thinking of what happened on the marshes once before.'

'So am I. Pray God he's in time.'

Paula could hear the incoming water lapping across the
marshes below the dyke. It was coming in like a flood. Yachts moored to buoys were rocking under its impact,
their masts swaying back and forth. She turned as she heard the hurrying footsteps. It was Victor Rosewater.

Thank God it's you, Victor. I wondered who it might be.

I felt I had to come and take one last look at where Karin
died. A pilgrimage, as I said in Paris.'

Rosewater clenched his gloved hands together. He looked
out across the anchorage where a yacht swathed in blue
plastic for the winter was drifting in fast on the tide. It must
have broken loose from its buoy and was now drifting
through the reeds close to the dyke.

'Tweed has arrived at the Brudenell.' he told her. 'He's
worried sick that you're out here on your own.'

Paula had one hand inside her shoulder bag. She smiled at him.

'But that suits you, doesn't it Kalmar?'

'What the hell are you talking about?' Rosewater demanded roughly.

'Oh, I should have known much earlier. Remember the night when we paid a second visit here with Newman - at your suggestion. You said you thought maybe the police had overlooked a clue. As we passed the Slaughden Boat Yard on the road you, said: "Which
way now?" You made out you had no idea of the route here. Then when we came to where the path forks - one way back up to the road and the other less obvious path up to the dyke? I slipped. You were in the lead. You hoisted me
straight up on to the dyke.
I only realized what that meant recently. You knew where Karin's body had been found.'

'You, my dear, are a bit too clever for your own good. In
any case, I've been worried you might have seen me stran
gling that silly bitch from your treetop view.'
'Silly bitch? Karin was your wife ...' 'And getting very tiresome. Just like you ...'
'Jean Burgoyne was a friend of mine. You choked her,
you bastard. Choked her to death.'

'For a big, fat fee. That was a near run thing - at that
remote boathouse outside Arcachon. But I'd done the job and got clear before your lot turned up.'

'You cold-blooded bastard. God knows what else you have done.'

'Organized
Siegfried
in Germany for one thing. As an
Intelligence officer supposedly after IRA I had the contacts.
For another big fee. Now you're the only one left. Isn't it
ironic? You're going to die where your friend, Karin, did.
Might give you some comfort...'

He moved closer to her. She had half dragged out from her shoulder bag the Browning automatic when his right
hand grasped her wrist in a grip of steel, twisted it. The gun
dropped to the path. His gloved hands shot up to her neck, thumbs aimed at her windpipe.