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  'What do you know about Victor Warner's background?'

  'Reputed to be clever. Did a stint with Naval Intelligence, joined Medfords Security as a director when he came into civvy street. Spotted by the PM before the present one. Gave Warner a safe seat so he became an MP. Climbed the ladder quickly. When the Ministry of Security was formed Warner was the obvious choice to take over as Minister.'

  'Would I like him?'

  'Don't think so. Dominant personality. Knows he's the cat's whiskers. But very able.'

  'Why would he want another place way out here in the wilds?'

  'You probably would, after hours of sitting in Cabinet sessions listening to a lot of hot air. Warner, like half-a-dozen others, is tipped as the next Prime Minister.'

  They had reached the bottom of the plunging hill, continuing along a main road with fields stretching away on either side. Not a lot of traffic. Buchanan was signalling again to be ready to turn right. They swung round an ancient inn of brick which protruded dangerously into the road.

  'Abinger Hammer,' Tweed said. 'From here on I'm in no man's land. I think he's going up the Downs.'

  They followed Buchanan round a steep turn-off on to a narrow climbing road which rose very steeply, swinging round sharp bends. Buchanan was using his horn as he approached one. The angle increased. It was colder still. Paula noticed traces of frost on the green slopes. A signpost to Holmbury St Mary which they drove past. Still climbing and now they saw a black dense forest ahead, a mix of evergreens and stark trees, leafless and like huge bristle brooms. Buchanan slowed down, turned slowly up a short road, part of a triangle, with another angle leading back to the road they had left. Jumping out, he ran back.

  'So you know where you are, we are entering Black Wood.'

  'Looks so welcoming,' Paula remarked cynically.

  'Nothing about where we are going is welcoming,' Buchanan assured her. 'That "Road Closed" sign is to keep traffic away from the scene of the crime area, which is taped off.'

  Buchanan ran back to his car, jumped inside, drove straight ahead up the steepest hill they'd negotiated yet. The road narrowed to a simple lane and they continued climbing. They were inside the dense wood now. Steep banks rose vertically on either side and they crawled. There was only just enough clearance to get through. Paula gazed up to the top of the steep bank on her side, saw Black Wood leaning over them.

  'What if we meet something coming the other way?' she wondered.

  'We'll have to hope we can squeeze into one of the setbacks they've carved out at intervals.'

  'I feel like a rabbit in its burrow,' she remarked.

  'This is Carp Lane. I noticed the sign at the entrance. Can't be far now,' Tweed said hopefully.

  'Buchanan used the phrase "scene of the crime". Disturbing. We don't know a crime has been committed yet.'

  'Your imagination is running away with you. I'm sure he was referring to the police tapes they've put up wherever this abandoned car has been brought back to.'

  'If you say so . . .'

  The 'burrow' suddenly started dropping precipitously as they continued crawling. They emerged into daylight when Buchanan signalled a left turn. At a T-junction they turned left and began climbing again. At least we're out of that horrid wood, Paula thought. The rolling frosted slopes of a high down swept away. The frost was heavy now, the colour of creme-de-menthe. Then the parked Porsche came into view and police tape barred their way. Several policemen in uniform stared at them curiously. Buchanan stopped his car, jumped out, addressed a policeman.

  'Sergeant Abbott, if I remember. Sorry to put you to all this trouble.'

  'If it helps find her, sir . . .'

  Paula was the first to leave the car, followed by Tweed, as the policeman accompanied them. The Porsche, pointing homeward, was parked on the wrong side of the road, just this side of the bend. Paula, who had pulled on her latex gloves, walked to the car, peered inside.

  'Sergeant Abbott,' she asked, 'is this exactly how it was found? The ignition key is still in place. Was it turned on?'

  'No. It was exactly as you see it. You can get inside if you wish, even sit behind the wheel. The lab people have finished going over it thoroughly.'

  'Did they find anything?'

  'One or two red hairs were found against the back of the driver's seat. Compared with hair brought from her home in London they match. Nothing else in the way of fibres.'

  Paula opened the driver's door, eased her way behind the wheel. She felt strange grasping the wheel. The previous hands in this position had presumably been Linda Warner's. She looked out at Buchanan, Tweed and Abbott standing outside.

  'The only window down is the driver's. Is that the way you found it.'

  'It is, Madame,' Abbott told her.

  'She parked on the wrong side of the road. Any signs of another car coming up the hill which blocked her way?'

  'I know what you're thinking,' Abbott said with a smile.

  'That if it had been waiting there for a while it might have leaked oil. We checked. Not a drop.'

  'Would it be possible,' Paula suggested, 'for me to back the car a short way round the bend - the way she would be coming?'

  'No trouble. I'll stand at the bend and beckon you so there's no danger of another vehicle coming down and driving through the tape. Lunatics are everywhere.'

  Paula switched on the engine, kept a close eye on Buchanan, beckoning her. Slowly she backed round the sharp corner where a limestone crag protruded dangerously. Stopping the car she tried to imagine she was Mrs Warner, who would know the road. She drove forward, crawling, realized why the car had been found on the wrong side of the road — it was the only way she could see safely round the bend. Pulling up at the exact point where the Porsche had been found, she sat, thinking.

  'Something, someone stopped her.' She was talking to herself. 'She had her window down so she could hear if anything was coming.'

  'Then,' suggested Buchanan, standing outside the window, 'a man with a gun aimed it through the window, ordered her to get out. One theory.'

  'A man?' Paula queried. 'Or a woman.'

  'Abbott,' Buchanan called out as Paula slowly left the car, 'get this vehicle out of the way. I want to take my associates up to Carpford.' He looked grimly towards Paula. 'You're in for a shock.'

  'I don't like it,' Paula said to Tweed as they followed Buchanan beyond the bend and up another section of steep hill.

  'You think she's been kidnapped then?'

  'I just hope to God that's all it is . . .'

  They drove over a crest and Buchanan pulled in on to the verge. A plateau stretched out before them. In the middle was a large lake with a landing stage, a small yacht was moored and the light was fading as wisps of pale mist swirled in the distance.

  'This is Carpford?' Paula asked. 'It's really weird.'

  'Warned you were in for a shock. Look at the houses.'

  Well spaced out and near the edge of the silent lake was the oddest collection of dwellings Paula had ever seen. The nearest to where they stood was a distance back from the lake, perched on a small hill. It had a massive tower at one corner with a mosaic-decorated roof rising high above the three floors below. Attached to it were lower floors with tall narrow windows. At the far end was a smaller tower with a peaked roof.

  'What is it?' Paula said aloud. 'It's almost Italianate in architecture.'

  'Victor Warner's hideaway,' Buchanan told her. 'Called Garda. Place is like a fortress. He's the only occupant who had his place built to his specification. All the others are rented.'

  'Rented to who?' Tweed enquired.

  'The New Age Development Corp. The rents are paid to a dubious lawyer in London. He sends the money on to the Banque de Bruxelles et Liege, a small bank in Belgium.'

  'And it stays there?'

  'We don't think so. But what happens to the money we have no idea. You know how difficult it is to get information from a Belgian bank. Much tighter even than the Swiss.'

  'I mig
ht know someone who can track it,' Tweed remarked, staring round the lake.

  Near the edge of the lake stood a dwelling reminding Paula of a concrete blockhouse. Cubes of massive concrete were piled on top of each other with circular windows carved out of the concrete. Tweed pointed.

  'Who lives in that horror?'

  'Drew Franklin, the most highly paid gossip columnist in Britain. An awkward so-and-so. Told me the police always got it wrong, that he'd only answer questions with his lawyer present.'

  'And who has the pseudo-Cotswold cottage beyond?'

  'Mrs Agatha Gobble. Believe it or not, that's a shop selling antiques. She'll talk if you approach her in the right way. Gets going and you can't stop her.'

  'Gobble?' said Paula. 'You must be joking.'

  'No. That's her name. Trouble is she's a bit muddled in the upper storey.'

  'And,' Tweed persisted, 'what about that two-storey round wooden barn on the far side of the lake? First time I've seen a round barn.'

  'It is a house,' Buchanan assured him. 'Occupied by Peregrine Palfry . . .'

  'That's the name of Warner's assistant,' Paula interjected.

  'The very same. Haven't been able to find him at home. In London he's always away from the Ministry - or so I'm told.'

  'It's creepy,' Paula burst out. 'No one anywhere. A ghost village.'

  'Not quite,' Tweed told her. 'A few minutes ago, over at the edge of Black Wood in the distance, a tall thin man wearing a long black overcoat was watching us through field-glasses. He chose his vantage point well - his coat hardly showed up against the wood. He's gone now. Vanished suddenly.'

  'Let's go and talk to Mrs Gobble,' Paula said firmly. 'She might tell us something.'

  'I'll wait here with the cars,' Buchanan decided. 'The lady doesn't like me.'

  'What do you think of Carpford?' Tweed asked Paula as he strode off briskly.

  'It's not of this world. The atmosphere is frightening.'

  * * *

  The Cotswold-style house was more welcoming when they reached it. The windows were bubble glass so, peering in, Paula had trouble recognizing the array of small pieces of so-called antiques displayed behind the glass. She saw nothing she'd want to buy. When Tweed opened the door an ancient bell, hung above it on the inside, rattled away. A small plump woman in her sixties, a string of large blue beads round her neck, appeared behind the counter. Her mouth was clamped tightly before she spoke.

  'I'm just closing.'

  'Mrs Gobble?' Tweed said politely. 'A lady friend of mine recommended your shop to me. She said the way you presented your stock was a model of perfection.'

  'Very good of her, I'm sure.'

  'My name is Tweed. This is my assistant, Paula Grey. Here are my credentials.'

  Mrs Gobble examined the folder, stared at them in surprise. She looked taken aback, handed Tweed his folder.

  'Secret Service. Praise the Lord, someone is taking seriously what happened to poor Mrs Warner. I told the police she had been murdered. They pooh-poohed me.'

  'Tell us why you are convinced she was murdered. You saw something?'

  'I know up here.' Mrs Gobble tapped her wide forehead. 'The rays of vision from above are always right.'

  'You knew Mrs Warner then?'

  'A lovely lady. Gave the village class. More than I can say about the rest of them. They're all batty. Mrs Warner bought a small landscape. Best in the shop. No attempt to 'aggie over price.'

  Paula realized Mrs Gobble had been, up to this point, careful to 'talk proper', as she would probably put it. It was Tweed's manner of speech which had influenced her. She was wearing an apron decorated with strange symbols. Paula's reaction was to think of witchcraft.

  'Well,' Paula remarked, 'it's very peaceful and quiet round here.'

  'Until the motor-bikes arrive.' Mrs Gobble's mouth turned sour.

  'Motor-bikes?' Tweed's tone sharpened. 'When do they come?'

  'Every second day - or rather night - one zooms up 'ere at ten o'clock after dark. Makes me jump every time when it roars past and round the lake.'

  'Any idea where it's going to?'

  'Mr Margesson's place. Don't like 'im. 'E's strange. Big man with a beard, very unpleasant. Came in 'ere once, walked round, was going out without saying a word. I asked 'im why 'e'd come. Know what 'e said? "Just came to see what you're like." Then walked out.'

  'He lives where?' Tweed persisted.

  'Go over to the door. I'm switching out the light. Wait and I'll come over . . .'

  She walked to the wall and pressed an old-fashioned switch. Standing by the door, they were plunged into darkness. Mrs Gobble joined them. She locked the door and pointed. A crescent-shaped moon gave enough illumination to see across the lake. A heavy cloud bank had settled over the village.

  'See that funny round wooden 'ouse? Belongs to another unpleasant man, a Mr Palfry. To the left of 'is big tub, see the Georgian style 'ouse with a glare light?'

  'Yes. Quite clearly,' Tweed told her.

  'That's where the motor-cyclist delivers a big white envelope. He chats to Margesson for a moment, then 'e's off on 'is wretched bike back this way and off towards the main road.'

  'Sounds like a courier,' Tweed remarked.

  'Call 'im what you like, there's something funny about 'im. Told you 'e delivers a large white envelope to Margesson. At ten at night. I took some rubbish to the village bin one morning just after dawn it was. There in the bin was a large white envelope. 'Adn't been opened.'

  'You mean it was still sealed?' Paula asked.

  "That's it. No one 'bout so I kept it inside the bin and opened it. Nothing inside. I asks you. Why deliver an empty envelope?'

  'Someone probably forgot to put the contents inside,' Tweed said dismissively.

  'How would Margesson know that if 'e never opened it?' Mrs Gobble snapped. 'Stay where you are while I switch on the light.'

  She shuffled back to the wall, her carpet slippers making no sound. There was a whirring sound and electrically operated blinds closed over the windows. The light came on.

  'I 'ad Jem come up from Foxfold to fit the blinds. Don't like the idea I could be watched after dark. By the man in the long black coat, whoever 'e may be.'

  'What does he look like?' Tweed wondered.

  'No idea. Appears after dark. Saw 'im when the moon was getting big.'

  'Mrs Gobble,' Tweed began carefully, 'you saw a lot of detail right across the lake at ten o'clock in the night. You must have better eyesight than me.'

  'That's my little secret.' Mrs Gobble chuckled. 'Come behind this screen and see what I've got 'idden.'

  Close to the far window a three-sided tall screen stood, all its flaps opened. Looking behind it, they gazed at Mrs Gobble's 'treasure'. A high-powered telescope mounted on a tripod. Tweed bent down, peered through the lens. The glare light and Margesson's front door could be seen clearly. There was more to Mrs Gobble than he had realized.

  He straightened up and she lowered the blind she had briefly raised.

  'You have been very kind and helpful, Mrs Gobble. I think we will now go and pay Mr Margesson a visit. There are a number of lights on in his house.'

  ''Ave a care. That man has strange powers. And don't fall into Carp Lake. Keep to the footpath all the way.'

  'Has it carp in it?'

  'Never seen any. It's very deep, that lake. I'll switch off the light when you've both got to the door . . .'

  Tweed noticed she had three bolts as well as two Banham locks on the door as she opened it for them. They slipped outside and bitter cold hit them. The cloud was so low and dense it was like night. There was a heavy frost on the green round the lake.

  'I think it might be a mistake not to interview Margesson,' Tweed remarked as Paula pulled up her scarf, closed the top button of her coat. 'I get a funny feeling about him.'

  'I get a bloody funny feeling about the whole place,' Paula retorted.

  2

  Inside Tweed's office at Park Crescent Bob Newman sat r
eading the. day's issue of .the Daily Nation, London's big-selling 'serious' newspaper. While active as a foreign correspondent he had contributed major pieces to the paper - articles which had been syndicated to Der Spiegel in Germany, Le Monde in France and the New York Times. He looked up as Marler came into the office.

  In his thirties, Marler was of medium height, slim, agile, good-looking and the best marksman in Western Europe. He was always smartly dressed and today he was clad in a grey two-piece suit, and a crisp white shirt with a Chanel tie. After kissing Monica on one cheek he walked over to a corner, stood against the wall, took out a long cigarette, lit it and stared at Newman.