The Main Chance (14 page)

`French again,' she said. 'So what happened here?'

`Calouste was warned by his informer we were on our way,' Tweed said grimly. `Left behind one chap to clean up, the dead one outside.'

`He's going to be difficult to capture,' Paula mused.

`Or kill,' Tweed said. 'After what Buchanan told me about his track record, the bit known, in France and Austria, that would probably be the best solution. He's one of the most ruthless, cold-blooded villains I've ever encountered. In the meantime we search this place from top to bottom. It's obvious he left in an almighty rush, which means he could have left something behind.'

Newman and Tweed disappeared to search the upstairs while Butler and Marler checked the downstairs. Paula stayed in the kitchen. She emptied the food off the plates in the dustbin outside the back door, then closed the window and began a systematic search.

Under the cooker she found a screwed-up piece of paper. Still using the latex gloves, she cleaned a portion of the table and carefully spread out the sheet of paper. It was perforated down one side, which suggested it had been torn from a notebook. A single word had been written on it in black biro.

Sheebka
.

Sounds Turkish, she thought. She then went outside to pick up the napkins blown out of the open window. Half under the side hedge she spotted a large coloured sheet. She brought it in, spread it on the table. She was looking at a single page torn from an Ordnance Survey atlas. It was a section of the West Country with a black circle marked round the county of Cornwall. At that moment Tweed returned, followed by Newman, Marler and Butler.

`As I expected, not a thing in the whole house,' Tweed told her.

`You're wrong,' Paula contradicted. 'Look at these two items.'

They all gathered round the table to look at her finds. Tweed picked up the sheet from a notebook with his latex-gloved hands.

`Sheebka? Doesn't mean a thing. Cornwall circled could be significant. Devil of an area to search, but not now.'

`What, then — after this?' Paula wanted to know.

`It's a bust,' said Harry, who had joined them. 'How the hell did Calouste know we were coming?'

`Good question,'Tweed agreed. 'It confirms he has a spy who could be inside Hengistbury. Communicates with him by mobile phone. The only answer.'

`Who could it be, then?'

`No idea.'

`I told you I thought Snape, lurking at the edge of the wood, watched you leave. Can't be sure it was Snape,' Marler said.

`So how would he overhear where we were going,' Tweed asked, 'if he was prowling in the wood?'

`He couldn't,' Marler agreed. 'I'm going to give Newman a hand with cleaning up the mess outside. He's moving the corpse of that Frenchman, I'm cleaning blood off the walls he smeared when he slid down them.' `I was wondering about that,' Tweed commented. `Then we all go back to Hengistbury.'

Ten minutes later both men appeared. Newman explained he'd hidden the body under the side hedge, Marler reported the cottage wall was as good as new — 'That is,' he added, 'like it was when we arrived.'

Tweed had just settled himself in the passenger seat of the Merc with Marler behind the wheel, when he made his remark, staring at Heather Cottage.

`I wonder what happened here before we arrived on the scene …'

About two hours earlier Calouste was seated behind the wheel of his car, parked beyond Heather Cottage, but with a clear view of the road from Gladworth. He was expecting two of his French employees. He was also in a position to drive off if the wrong people arrived. He was not wearing his dark glasses.

A Renault appeared, pulled up in front of the cottage. A man got out. Calouste switched off his engine, which had been running ready for a speedy take-off. He walked back to the cottage. His feet, clad in soft-soled black shoes, moved quickly and he moved with a curious rolling gait. His lack of height was countered by the width of his powerful shoulders, his large nimble hands. He wore a dark trilby hat and an expensive dark suit. If seen by a local they would be sure he was a London businessman.

He had deliberately told his employees he would arrive later so he could check on their punctuality. He approached the two men on the grass as they unlocked the front door.

Despite his silent approach it was, of course, Jacques who swung round, a nasty-looking wide-bladed knife in his right hand.

`Jacques,' Calouste began, speaking in English, `Pierre has brought a motorcycle? Good. Then he can park it round the back of the cottage. Afterwards he makes breakfast swiftly for us. Bacon and eggs for me and for you, Jacques. For himself I assume he'll want the sausages in that greasy package he's hugging. Inside French wrappings, I see, which was very foolish of him. He must destroy the wrapping before we leave. We may not be here long.

The lean Pierre, with the evil elongated face, understood English but it was Calouste's technique to keep a man in his place by giving his orders through a third party.

`Very good, sir,' Jacques replied. He used French to repeat the orders to Pierre, adding, 'Get moving, you lazy lout. Motorcycle first out of the boot, parked round the back, then try and prepare a decent breakfast.'

As the two men entered, Calouste stepping inside first, Calouste reflected that Jacques was his prize catch. He owned a butcher's shop in Paris, was a butcher by profession.

Jacques was, in Calouste's opinion, a remarkably reliable personality. His shop was patronized by many of the upper-crust element in Parisian society. Normally servants would fetch what was required, but not infrequently the lady of the house would come herself. Certain ladies like to collect their own meat and flirt with him. He could be so amiable and humorous, and his brutal face could slip into a warm smile.

Jacques, habitually well dressed, had frequented bars and restaurants where he could listen to how the upper class spoke. Soon he was able to speak in the same way.

Once, a guest at a party of several senators and their wives, he had kept them all amused with the stories he related. At one party he had taken a risk, relying on the amount of alcohol that had been consumed.

`There's nothing I enjoy more than slicing up meat,' he had remarked with a grin. 'Whether it's animal or human meat.'

The men had burst into laughter. The women had smiled at the joke. Reluctantly.

Calouste, who had heard of him, was half-hidden away in a dubious bar at a table in an alcove when the key incident happened. Jacques was caught up in a quarrel with a man twice his size and height. His opponent had drenched him with insults, had then walked up to him with an automatic in his hand. He had used the flat of the weapon to slap Jacques a hard blow on the face. Jacques had swiftly produced a wide-bladed knife and rammed it into the ape's chest. As the fatally injured man staggered back, collapsed, everyone in the restaurant had run out. Calouste, wearing his dark glasses, had caught up with Jacques.

`If you work for me I will pay you fifty thousand dollars a year. If you agree to liquidate anyone who stands in my way I will pay you twenty thousand dollars per kill...'

That was how it had started, Calouste remembered as he gobbled down his breakfast.

His instinct told him it might be wise to move on soon. He had not had a word over Max's mobile and he was supposed to report regularly. Something must have happened. At that moment his own mobile buzzed.

`Yes?' snapped Calouste.

`Orion here. About half an hour ago Tweed and a large team drove off in the direction of Gladworth.'

`Why not an earlier warning?' Calouste raged.

`This was the first opportunity to call you' Reception was beginning to fade. 'Marshal Main has a second home at Sheebka.'

`Where?' Calouste scribbled the name on a sheet of his notebook.

`Sheebka. Why don't you listen?' There was a brief moment of clarity. `Seacove in Cornwall..

The phone had gone dead. Calouste didn't bother writing down Seacove. He tore out the sheet from the notebook, screwed it up, threw it on the table. He was so busy he didn't see the wind had blown the bit of paper onto the floor. Pierre, who had just come in, didn't see it either as his boot kicked it under the cooker.

Calouste picked up the Ordnance Survey atlas he had brought in. Turning to Cornwall, he circled it with his biro, tore out the sheet. It was the only sign of panic he had shown so far. He rushed into the front room to collect his packed bag. The wind which had blown up suddenly lifted the map sheet, floated it out of the window.

`Pierre is almost losing his breakfast since I told him to stay behind and clear up,' Jacques reported.

`We've all eaten only half our breakfast.'

`What shall I tell him,' Jacques persisted, 'if Tweed arrives before he's finished?'

`Tell him to motorcycle across the fields at the back, for God's sake. You and I leave now.'

Calouste was in such a hurry to get away he grabbed the Ordnance Survey atlas. He'd forgotten he'd torn out the map of Cornwall.

He ran across the front garden and up the road to where he'd parked his car. As he moved off Jacques was in his car behind him. They reached a roundabout with five possible routes. 'Which way now?' Calouste muttered to himself. Then he saw a signpost,
West Country
. Cornwall was somewhere down there. He swung the wheel along that route.

14

Tweed had a shock as he climbed out of the car now parked at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance of Hengistbury Manor. Standing at the top of the steps, arms folded, a smirking expression of triumph on his ugly face, was Chief Inspector Hammer. He couldn't wait until Tweed with Paula, Marler, and Newman close behind him reached the terrace.

`You can all go home now,' he gloated. 'I've solved the case. The murderer was Crystal Chance. Caught her red-handed.'

`Be more specific,' Tweed suggested.

`Come with me, then,' Hammer commanded.

He led them up the wide staircase, almost swaggering. They arrived at Crystal's apartment. The door was closed. Outside stood Sergeant Warden.

`I've left another junior officer inside with her,' Hammer announced.

'Junior officer?'
Tweed glanced at Warden, who raised his eyebrows. Warden was regarded as a highly experienced officer.

With a flourish Hammer opened the door, entered the apartment. They were in the bedroom. Crystal was seated on the bed, her green eyes glowing with fury as she combed her hair. Seated on a chair facing the bed was a uniformed policeman. Hammer turned to him.

`Well, Parrish, has she moved from the bed since I left? To go to the lavatory, for example — or should I say the loo in these exalted circles?'

`It's called the loo in most places these days,' Crystal snapped at him.

Not talking to you,' Hammer told her. 'Well, Parrish?'

`Since you left she has remained where she is now... sir,' he added after a pause.

`Then shove off. Join the others in searching. Although it's a waste of manpower after what I've discovered.'

`So what have you discovered?' Tweed enquired when Parrish had left the room.

With another flourish Hammer opened the double doors of a wardrobe equipped with old enamel ball- shaped handles.

`Stop!' Tweed ordered. 'Were you wearing gloves when you first opened those doors? You're not sure? Which means you didn't. So it will be useless checking for fingerprints. Yours will have smeared the original ones.'

`He wasn't wearing gloves all the time he was in here,' Crystal said viciously.

`No one was talking to you—' Hammer began, glaring at her.

`Concentrate,' Tweed ordered. 'After you'd opened these doors, what did you do next?'

`Bent down, removed that pile of stuff I've dropped on the left. Hey presto! Look at that.'

Tweed crouched down. He saw two collars of wire with savage-looking spikes protruding. They seemed to him to be replicas of the ghastly collar which had ripped Bella's throat open. Each was complete with a pair of wooden handles to jerk the wire tight. He looked to the left where a pile of blouses had presumably concealed the collars. The top blouse was badly torn and strips of it were attached to the wire of one collar.