The Greek Key (44 page)

Tweed said thank you but he wanted to get straight off. He put on his shabby Burberry, squeezed her shoulder and walked out with his briefcase. Monica stood up, went to the window to watch him walk round Park Crescent through the net curtains. She was frightened. Tweed was acting like a man obsessed with his problems.

He left the building. He paused on the front steps to button up the raincoat, glancing all round the Crescent in case there were hostile watchers. Then he headed for the taxi rank.

On the way he passed a newspaper seller with a poster propped against the garden railings. Tweed didn't even notice it - he was thinking about Monica. It read,
Reagan-Gorbachev Summit in Washington?

30

'I'm scared stiff. I need someone to confide in.' Jill Kearns laid a hand on Tweed's knee. It was two days later.

Tea at Brown's. Tweed looked round the room, admired the wooden wall panelling, the moulded ceiling. The atmosphere of the place created an air of intimacy. Especially when you were with a woman.

They sat at a table in an arched alcove at the end of the lounge. Behind them was a fireplace and they were isolated from the other guests taking tea. He twisted round in his deep armchair to look at Jill. She was worth the effort.

She had twirled her blonde hair into a single long plait looped over her shoulder. And she was dressed for London. A pair of tight-fitting leather trousers thrust into boots which displayed her well-shaped legs. She also wore a tunic of some black material splashed with vivid-coloured oriental flowers. Tweed drank some tea before replying.

'What exactly is worrying you?'

'Stuart, for one thing . . .'

'And for another?'

Tweed helped himself to a scrambled egg roll, bit off half of it. On the table in front of them stood a four-tier stand of some of the best food he'd ever enjoyed. The lowest tier had delicate little sandwiches with the crusts removed; on the second and third tiers were selections of bread and more sandwiches. Logically, the top tier held a variety of cakes, including some chocolate eclairs. You worked your way up.

'The company he keeps,' Jill replied, squeezing his leg. She used the other hand to eat and drink. The room was full of couples and quartets whose conversation muffled what Jill was saying. 'Those two men, Captain — Dr -Robson, and Colonel Barrymore. The colonel gives me the creeps.'

'Why?'

'He seems to mesmerize my husband and Robson. You'd think they were all still in the Army and Barrymore was their CO - the way he talks to them. Loathsome sarcastic bastard.'

'I take it you don't like him . . .'

'Don't make fun of me.' She looped her hand round his left hand he'd rested on the arm of the chair. 'You'll help me, won't you, Tweed? I wish I could get you on the telephone. Give me your number. It would be nice if we could have dinner. More cosy.'

All in a rush. She'll proposition me soon, Tweed thought. I wish to God I knew what she's really up to. He asked a question to throw her off balance.

'How do you know all this - how Barrymore talks to them? I thought they met by themselves for dinner once a week at The Luttrell Arms.'

'Sometimes they come over to our place and talk half the night in the study. I eavesdrop.'

'A bit naughty, that.' He smiled to take the sting out of the comment.

'You've got a lovely smile,I she said.

'You overheard something that frightened you,' he probed.

Outwardly impassive, Tweed wasn't feeling too comfortable. A woman had come in and sat down at a small table at the side of the room. She had folded her raincoat and parked it on The other chair. She was watching them briefly over the top of her glasses with a cynical expression. Paula. She hadn't, he knew, missed the fact that Jill was clasping his hand.

'Stuart is reinforcing the defences, as he put it. He's even laid some of those beastly steel-teethed traps outside the walls of our house. Barrymore advised that. They're all strengthening their security. Just as though they were expecting a raid.'

'Perhaps they are. By who?'

She hesitated, pushed two fingers under his shirt cuff. 'I've no idea. I feel like a prisoner.'

'You escaped for now. You're sitting here, in the middle of London. Not on Exmoor.' He poured more tea and she leaned over to hold the teapot lid in place, her breasts brushing his arm. 'You're confiding in me, as you put it, although I can't imagine why.'

She released her hand, flopped back in her armchair, her long leather-clad legs stretched out in front of her. Paula raised her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose, adjusted her beret and looked away. Tweed wished she'd stop sending signals.

'Because,' Jill said, 'you put the wind up all three when you came to see them. I heard Stuart talking to Barrymore on the phone after you'd left. He was agitated. He started to say 'This man Tweed is dangerous,' then he slammed the door of his study and I couldn't catch any more. If you can put the wind up those three you're the man for me, my ally.'

She remained flopped in the chair but still looked elegant as she spoke in a coaxing tone.

'What about dinner here tonight? Say eight o'clock. And you haven't given me your phone number yet.'

'Can't do that- give you a number. Security. What I can do is to have you called daily in case you've got a message for me . . .'

'And dinner?'

'I expect to be working till midnight. Dinner will be sandwiches at my desk. Sorry.'

'If you agreed to dinner . . .' She crossed her legs and watched him through her lashes. 'I might have more news to pass on to you.'

'I can't promise to be an ally,' he warned. 'And if you've really more to tell me, do it now.' He decided an eclair was pushing it and took another scrambled egg roll.

She took a pack of cigarettes from her large handbag, extracted a king-size cigarette when he shook his head, and Sit it with a gold-plated lighter. In the mellow light her beautiful bone structure stood out clearly. He was tempted to change his mind, to say he could make it for dinner. She's a devil, he was thinking. Blowing out a stream of smoke, she smiled.

'I can read your mind, Tweed. You're reconsidering your decision about dinner.'

There was an aura about her which drew him to her. In her thirties, he reflected. Not such a huge difference in their ages. He drank half a cup of strong tea to get a grip on himself.

'How long have you and Stuart been married?'

Ten long years. Oh, it was fun to start with. He's a good-looking bastard. I met him soon after he'd left the Army - at a party in Taunton. He had a sense of humour in those days. Then he became cold - and spent more time with Barrymore and Robson. That's when he started turning the house into the Tower of London - like the others. I could leave him any day now for the right man.'

'That might be traumatic . . .'

'No more traumatic than the way we live now. At nights he spends half his time riding over the moor up to Dunkery Beacon. He's not back by midnight.' She looked at him with a certain expression. 'So I make a point of pretending to be fast asleep when my lord and master rolls in.'

'Dunkery Beacon? That's the highest point on Exmoor. And it's pretty rough country. How does he manage in the dark?'

'He doesn't.' She leaned forward to straighten his tie. 'He only goes up there half the month - not before there's a half moon waxing. I spend my evenings watching the television rubbish. I lead the most exciting life.'

'At least he seems generous,' Tweed remarked. 'Your clothes, that lighter . . .'

'Paid for out of a big legacy my favourite uncle left me.'

Tweed checked his watch. 'Sorry, but I have to go . , .'

She sat up straight and her face was close to his. 'All right, I'll tell you. One night when the three of them were talking they left the study door open a bit. A few nights ago. I crept down the stairs. Do you want to know what I heard?'

'Up to you.'

'My reward for telling is you have dinner with me soon. Promise?'

'I'll think about it.'

The trouble was I only heard a bit. Then one of the treads on the staircase creaked. Barrymore came to the door and slammed it shut. I froze, still as a mouse.'

'Did he see you?' Tweed kept the anxiety out of his voice.

'I'm not sure. Before that happened Robson said they'd better watch out. He sensed that the Greek Key might arrive soon on Exmoor, that he'd heard Petros - I think that was the name - was looking for them . . .'

Tweed was getting anxious: it was after 7 p.m. and there was still no sign of Paula. Monica, who worked all hours, saw him check his watch,

'She'll be all right. Paula can look after herself.'

The phone rang, she picked it up, spoke briefly. She nodded towards Tweed's phone.

'It's Harry Butler. Says it's an emergency. Not like him . . .'

Tweed lifted the receiver. 'Hello, Harry, Where are you calling from?'

'From a public phone box in Minehead on the coast. We're staying at a tiny place called Porlock Weir, also on the coast. End of the road. Literally. It stops there, I decided we needed a new base. Not Dunster, not Taunton. Porlock Weir Is tucked away. Has a toy harbour for boats. The only way west is to walk along the rocky shore. I can hear the tide coming in at night. High tide around midnight. Got a pencil handy? Good, We're staying at The Anchor Hotel. I'm in Room Three, Pete has Room Two. Telephone number is 0643 862753. Got it?'

'Yes. Something's happened?'

'The ex-commando lot have disappeared. All three. Robson, Kearns and Barrymore. They've left Exmoor. . .'

'How do you know that?' Tweed felt a chill creeping up his spine.

'I took Barrymore and Robson's residences - because they're close together, Pete watched Kearns. We kept in contact with our car radios. Careful what we said. Not a sign of them, I decided to use bull-at-gate method.'

'What did you do next?'

'Called at each address after buying new outfits. Country stuff. Pete shaved off his moustache - after a lot of pressure from me. I wore a polo-necked sweater and a pair of tinted glasses. Not foolproof, but if one of them opened the door we'd know at least they were there.'

'And the result?'

'At Quarme Manor that old bat of a housekeeper, Mrs Atyeo, tells me the Colonel is not at home. Can't say when he'll be back. I chatted her up, but Set's skip that. So I drove on to Captain Robson at his posh bungalow. His sister - when I coax her - says her brother is away in London. Pete had a rougher time at CSM Kearns' place. No answer to the bell-push so he scrambles over the gate. The dog comes at him - ruddy Alsatian type. Pete coped, bashed the beast on the nose with the barrel of his gun. They don't like that - a hefty bonk on the nose. Pete prowled round the place. It was after dark. No lights. No one home. That's it. They've gone. To London maybe. Robson could have lied to his sister. We feel we should have seen one of them go.'

'Not necessarily. Harry, both of you stay on at The Anchor - and pick up any gossip on the three men. Call Monica if there's a fresh twist. In any case, call daily. Take care.'

Tweed sat staring into the distance after putting down the phone. Monica watched him as she removed the cassette which had recorded Butler's conversation.

'He said something which triggered off a memory,' Tweed told her after a few minutes. 'Can't put my finger on it. We'll play it back later, see if I can spot what it was.'

He walked over to the wall where three maps had been attached - maps carrying flags with names. A map of Exmoor. A map of the Greek area stretching from Athens to Cape Sounion. And a map of Athens which Monica had obtained.

On the Exmoor map flags with names located the homes of Barrymore, Robson and Kearns, the bungalow estate, Professor Seton-Charles' residence, The Royal Oak at Winsford and The Luttrell Arms - the two places where the trio met weekly for lunch or dinner. One flag pressed in close to Winsford carried the name Sam Partridge. Tweed picked up two more from a tray on a table and wrote Butler and Nield on each. He pressed these in over Porlock Weir.

The map of Greece carried fewer flags. One for Petros in Devil's Valley, another close by for Florakis. A third, perched at the edge of Cape Sounion, carried what amounted to an obituary. Harry Masterson.

The street plan of Athens was becoming crowded. At the corner of Syntagma Square where the Grande Bretagne was situated, three more names: Christina Gavalas, Newman, Marler. At the other end of Avenue Sofias a flag for Professor Seton-Charles at the Hilton. And, finally, at the police headquarters building on Alexandras, Peter Sarris and Kalos.