By Stealth tac-9

  By Stealth

  ( Tweed and Co - 9 )

  Colin Forbes

  Colin Forbes

  By Stealth

  PROLOGUE

  Paula Grey didn't notice anything sinister. At first…'

  A November sea mist trailed damp fingers across her face. She stood at the edge of the Lymington marina on the south coast of Britain, facing the invisible Isle of Wight. She was quite alone at eight in the dark of the evening. The atmosphere was creepy as the mist became fog. The only sounds were the slithering lap of waves against the stone wall below her, the muffled chug-chug of the small powerboat carrying her close friend, Harvey Boyd, further away, out into the Solent, the sea.

  She calculated he was not yet a hundred yards from the marina, full of private yachts swathed in blue plastic for winter. The powerboat was moving into the main channel, no longer even a blur.

  They'd had an argument over their last drink at the Ship Inn. Paula had first wanted to stop him embarking on a dangerous voyage. She had then tried to persuade him to take her with him.

  `Not on your life,' Harvey had snapped.

  `But you've just said there's no risk.'

  'I don't know what's out there. A "ghost" ship? My pal, George, disappeared crossing to the island.'

  Boyd, well built, six feet tall, dark haired, clean shaven, ex-SAS, had shaken his head. Paula persisted.

  `You're contradicting yourself. No risk. Now you hint something strange is out there on the Solent.'

  `I'll be back in an hour or less. Meet you here. Then a slap-up meal with Tweed at Passford House…'

  Boyd was not only an ex-soldier of the elite force: he was an expert technician. He had erected sophisticated radar in the powerboat. So he should be all right, Paula tried to convince herself as she perched at the edge of the sea wall, pulling her windcheater closer at the neck, adjusting the scarf tied over her head. But she couldn't rid herself of some awful premonition.

  Her hands touched the night binoculars looped round her neck. It was almost high tide. Larger waves slapped the base of the wall, throwing up spray. Harvey would give me hell if he knew I was standing here all alone, she mused. Then she frowned.

  The swirling fog was creating nightmare shapes out over the water. She could have sworn she'd seen something large moving slowly. As the raw cold began penetrating her windcheater she raised the glasses with her gloved hands. She took off the right-hand glove to adjust the focus, heard a sound like padding footsteps behind her. Glancing round, she saw only fog. She listened. Her imagination running riot. She concentrated on focusing the binoculars.

  Clouds of fog shifted, assumed weird patterns. Nothing substantial. No other vessel would be out on a night like this. Somewhere in the distance a foghorn droned its mournful dirge. The lighthouse. She could still hear the gentle chug-chug of Harvey's powerboat, moving slowly, threading a course down the channel. Then she had the first real premonition of disaster.

  A muffled grinding, tearing noise. Like a steel hull bursting through wood – through the hull of a powerboat. A rending, crushing sound. She swung the glasses in the direction she thought the sound had come from, knowing the fog would distort the location of what sounded like a frightful collision. She forced herself to hold the glasses steady.

  `Oh, God! No! Not Harvey…'

  It took her seconds to realize the absence of something.

  The chug-chug of the powerboat's engine had vanished. She breathed heavily, taking in gasps of ice-cold air. A fearful silence descended, punctuated by the crash of even larger waves hitting the sea wall. She waited.

  It had seemed hours. But it was only fifteen minutes later – she had automatically checked her watch. Tweed's training jogged her even as she fought down the terror. It was only fifteen minutes later when the swift incoming tide carried a blurred shape along the wall below her. A body. She knew it was a corpse even though she couldn't see it clearly.

  Her booted feet carried her slowly back along the edge of the wall, keeping pace with the floating object. Paula moved like a robot. The tide was forcing the corpse up the channel against the wall. Then a new horror gripped her. The tide was starting to go out.

  But some quirk of the current continued to float the body shoreward. Beyond the end of the wall a cobbled ramp descended into the river – a ramp where craft were shoved into the water. If only the current continued to carry its hideous cargo a short distance further Paula was confident she could haul it ashore.

  She quickened her pace to reach the ramp first. Stuffing the binoculars into her windcheater pocket, she ran, bent down at the foot of the ramp. Waves broke, water slushed over her boots. The corpse floated over the ramp below the waterline. She grabbed, caught hold of an arm swathed in a familiar, now sodden, pea-jacket.

  It took all her strength to haul the waterlogged corpse out of the greedy sea which felt as though it was struggling to pull back its obscene catch. Despite the cold, sweat streamed down her as she heaved it clear up the ramp, then let go, fighting for breath.

  Exhausted, wet through, she fumbled for her pocket torch. She hesitated before she switched it on. 'You've got to do it,' she said out loud through gritted teeth. The torch beam shone down on the upturned face of Harvey Boyd, his black hair matted to his skull. His open eyes stared up at her sightlessly. His right ear and a layer of skin had been slashed from his head.

  She sucked in her breath, fought down a feeling of nausea. It was horrific. She spoke aloud again. 'Get to a phone at the Harbour Master's building. You've seen a dead body before.' She felt rooted to the spot, not wanting to leave him exposed to the fog and the cold. And she hoped to God she could reach Tweed at Passford House.

  `The body is being loaded aboard an ambulance outside. They're taking it to the mortuary at Southampton. We don't waste time round here,' said the Acting Harbour Master.

  A man called Walford, heavily built with a weather- beaten face, and stubborn jaw. Tweed studied him before he replied. Deputy Director of the SIS, Tweed was a man of medium build and height. Of uncertain age, he wore horn-rimmed glasses and was the man you passed in the street without noticing him, a trait he'd found useful in his profession. But there was a certain magnetism in his personality and Walford found his stare unsettling.

  `I'd like to take a look at that body now,' Tweed suggested.

  `What for? Who are you? You've no authority.'

  Walford's manner was aggressive. They stood in his starkly furnished office inside the big white building situated close to the ramp and the marina beyond. Tweed had taken Paula's phone call from his room in Passford House Hotel, a ten-minute drive outside Lymington.

  Her teeth had chattered during her brief call and she'd admitted she was wet through. Before leaving Passford House Tweed had thrown a towel over a hot radiator, had gone to her room with the key she had left with him, opening drawers swiftly while he collected fresh underclothes, a sweater and skirt, a lined trench coat. He had stuffed the warm towel inside a cool-bag to preserve the heat.

  Bob Newman, world-famous foreign correspondent, had turned up unexpectedly just before he left Passford House. It was Newman who had driven Tweed in his Mercedes 280E to the Harbour Master's building. He was outside now, checking where the tragedy had occurred.

  `I'd still appreciate a view of the body. I knew Harvey Boyd,' Tweed persisted mildly.

  `A friend? You can see it at the mortuary…'

  `I can order you to stop that ambulance. Even have it brought back here immediately over the radio.' Tweed was getting fed up with Walford. 'I'm Special Branch…'

  He produced the folder forged in the Engine Room basement at the London SIS headquarters. Walford took the folder, gazed at it, his surly mouth tight with frustration.

 
`Never seen one of your lot down here before…'

  `You're seeing one now. Hadn't you better get a move on and stop that ambulance?'

  `Miss Grey has already identified the body,' Walford said half under his breath as they went out into the icy fog. `A second identification never does any harm.'

  Inside the ambulance, at Walford's request, one of the attendants pulled back the sheet covering the corpse laid out on a stretcher. Tweed gazed down on the savaged head and face with a poker expression. Inwardly he was shocked.

  On leaving the SAS, Harvey Boyd had applied to join the SIS. He had passed all the severe training courses designed to break a man under pressure. Those had been physical endurance tests. Later he had sailed through the relentless psychological examinations. Now, about to serve his country again, he was going to end up on a cold mortuary slab, cut about by a pathologist.

  `That's Harvey Boyd,' Tweed said tersely. 'I may wish to choose my own pathologist. Warn Southampton. I do have that power…'

  He left the ambulance abruptly, leaving Walford to follow, went back inside the building. Paula opened a door and came in clad in the new clothes Tweed had brought, her wet things inside a plastic bag he'd given her. She rushed forward and hugged him as Newman entered a few steps ahead of Walford.

  `Tweed, you're so considerate,' she gasped out. 'I was like ice. That warm towel was heaven. And the change of clothes.'

  `You may be in a state of shock,' Tweed warned. 'A hot drink would help. No alcohol.'

  `Mr Walford provided me with one when I asked him. A mug of steaming cocoa.'

  With her back to the other two men, she lifted her head off his shoulder and Tweed caught the flash of humour in her grey-blue eyes. Only a man like Walford would serve cocoa and she hated the stuff.

  `We shouldn't really have the press in here at this stage,' Walford grumbled, eyeing Newman.

  `He's a close associate of mine,' Tweed said, and left it at that.

  No point in explaining that Newman had been fully vetted years before, that he'd worked closely with Tweed on a number of secret missions. The Harbour Master hadn't given up. He was holding a long form while he continued gazing at the foreign correspondent.

  He saw a man close to forty, five foot ten tall, clean shaven, athletic in movement, with light brown hair, alert eyes, and a face suggesting strength of character. Walford had seen photos of him in the newspapers above reports from trouble spots all over the world, but not for several years. Bob Newman had written a blockbuster international best-seller, Kruger: The Computer That Failed. It had made him a fortune and now he could do what he liked. Walford waved the form.

  `The police will want a statement about this episode from Miss Grey. I'll need some details myself..

  `The Chief Constable, Mark Stanstead, is a friend of mine,' Tweed interjected. 'She'll give her statement to him.'

  `Then,' Walford plodded on, 'there's the question of informing relatives..

  `He was a distant cousin of Sir Gerald Andover-his only relative,' Tweed informed him. 'He also happens to be someone I know. Lives way out in the New Forest. You know his address? Good. Tell us how to get there and we'll drive to Andover's place now.'

  `I'll tell you one thing, Mr Walford,' Paula said suddenly. 'Just before Harvey's – Mr Boyd's – engine stopped I saw the vague outline of a large vessel in the fog coming up the river. At least there was something…'

  `I suppose she's overwrought with her experience,' Walford began, staring at Tweed.

  `Then I'm overwrought, too. Let her finish,' Tweed snapped.

  `Some vague shape, anyway,' Paula went on. did see something.'

  `Nothing else was moving on the river tonight,' Walford insisted. 'You must have imagined it.'

  `Oh, really?' Paula was furious. 'You think Harvey Boyd pulled out the plug on his own boat and then sliced the side of his head off?'

  `He was a bloody fool to venture out in these weather conditions…'

  `He might have been a fool but he was a brave one,' she raged. 'He went out because a pal of his, George Stapleton, disappeared a month ago crossing to the Isle of Wight in his yacht. He just vanished. No trace of wreckage was ever found. Mind you, that was a month ago. Maybe you've got a short memory?'

  `No need to-'

  `And while we're on the subject, how many other vessels have disappeared in this area in the past year?'

  `I'm not a computer…'

  `So there have been other mysterious disappearances? I'd like to know how many. Please. You could check the records.'

  `I suppose I could…'

  `Then suppose you do just that. Now!' Tweed intervened.

  `Five altogether.' Walford sounded reluctant to admit the fact. 'If silly stories get bandied about a lot of the yachtsmen who use our marina might look for a different anchorage. Bad for business.'

  'Oh, Lord!' Newman spoke for the first time. 'Bad for the tourist trade. Here we go again – the old Jaws syndrome.'

  `There's no sharks round here,' Walford rasped.

  He reached for an old red leather-bound ledger from a shelf, began leafing through it. Newman looked grim.

  `There may be no sharks but there is the odd jellyfish.'

  `I'm looking up the register,' Walford growled. 'Not that I see this has anything to do with our experience tonight.'

  `Just give us the statistics in detail and we'll be the judge of that,' Tweed told him.

  `Mid-October,' Walford began, 'a George Stapleton took out his yacht bound for Wight in a heavy fog. Never reached Yarmouth. No wreckage ever found.' He turned back several pages. 'You should be dealing with the Harbour Master himself on a job like this.'

  `So where is he?' Paula demanded.

  `On holiday abroad. I'm by way of just standing in till he gets back. Here we are. Early February this year. Two youngsters sailed – separately – into the Solent with about a couple of weeks between them. Neither of them returned. No wreckage washed up.'

  `The weather at that time?' Tweed queried.

  `Heavy fog. The idiots…' He glanced up, saw Paula's expression, changed his description. 'Neither of those yachtsmen enquired here about conditions. And here is number five – including your Harvey Boyd. Middle-aged chap called Benton, friend of your Sir Gerald Andover.' He looked at Tweed. 'He went out in a small powerboat beginning of February. And before you ask – again in a dense fog. No sight or sound of him or his vessel since he sailed for the River Beaulieu.'

  `Five missing boats in a year?' Tweed emphasized the note of incredulity. 'Surly there's been an investigation? Questions asked?'

  `Comes in cycles.' Walford closed the ledger with a snap, his expression mulish. 'In previous years you get not a single accident for ages. More youngsters can afford a yacht these days.'

  `Benton wasn't a youngster,' Tweed pointed out.

  `And that reminds me. Shouldn't you phone Sir Gerald Andover, seeing as he's the only relative of this Boyd?'

  `You don't phone news like that when he's close enough to break the news to him face to face. You were going to show us how to get to his house. And I presume there'll be a search for any wreckage from Boyd's powerboat?'

  'Coastguard's already been informed.' A gleam of triumph in Walford's eyes. 'Of course they can't go out tonight. Fog's getting worse. And I've a map here I can mark so you'll find Andover. Not easy to locate in the Forest.'

  He spread out on the scrubbed wooden table an Ordnance Survey map he'd hauled off the same shelf after replacing the ledger. Holding a biro, he looked up in surprise as Paula stood beside him.

  `I'm a good navigator. On land, anyway,' she explained. `You drive back into Lymington, take the Brockenhurst road here…'

  His biro followed the route, which was complex, warning her where she could easily go wrong. She thanked him as he handed her the map.

  `The police…' he began as his visitors hurried to the door.

  `I told you I'd contact the Chief Constable,' Tweed reminded him. 'Thank you for your co-operatio
n.'

  Outside the large white building a spacious car park stretched away into the grey fog. Tweed had loaned his Ford Escort to Paula to drive Boyd into Lymington.

  Parked next to it was Newman's Mercedes. Walford had followed them, stood in the doorway.

  `Mr Tweed,' he called out, 'you said Special Branch – what was Boyd really up to?'

  `That's right,' Tweed responded ambiguously. 'Must go. I'm in a hurry to let Andover know what's happened.' He lowered his voice. 'Paula, you know how to get us there. Why not take my Escort. We'll keep on your tail.'

  She unlocked the door, slipped inside as Newman opened the driver's door of his Merc. and Tweed sat quickly beside him. In the distance they heard the siren of an approaching patrol car.

  `That's why you were in a hurry to get clear,' Newman remarked.

  Before Paula switched on the Escort's ignition she lowered her window. Despite the cold air she welcomed it to clear her mind. Near by she heard the screech of a seagull. The piercing cry, fog-muffled, sounded as mournful as the foghorn she'd heard at the end of the marina wall. A requiem for the dead.

  `One thing's certain,' Newman remarked as he followed Paula's tail lights towards the car-park exit, 'whatever the rest of the night holds for us it can't be as great a shock as Paula had back there at the marina.'

  It was a comment he was to regret making within the hour.

  PART ONE

  Kidnapped – No Ransom

  1

  To Paula's relief, the fog disappeared on the outskirts of Lymington. With the map open on the seat beside her, she drove at speed along the deserted A337 with desolate heath on either side. She welcomed being on her own: it gave her a chance to restore her normal resilience. Concentrating on driving pushed out of her mind the dreadful experience.

  Approaching Brockenhurst, she just caught sight of the right-hand turn-off to Beaulieu in time, flashed her indicator, swung on to a twisting country road which was the B3055, leading eventually to the first place of human habitation, Beaulieu.