By Stealth tac-9 Page 7

`I'm on my way…'

  Paula waited until they were alone. Then she asked the question which had been puzzling her.

  `Why a pathologist? And a top one?'

  `Because,' Tweed explained, 'although I know very little about medical matters, it seemed to me it would need a very good surgeon to have amputated that arm so neatly. If I can find the bastard who performed that foul act I'll be close to who is behind all this.'

  Paula nodded as they prepared to leave. Tweed rarely used strong language: it showed the suppressed rage he was feeling at this brutal act. She didn't look back as they left the ravaged house. Pete Nield appeared out of nowhere, gave a little salute.

  `All clear. Not a single car has passed in either direction. Harry is en route to London and I buried the food in a gulley. What's the form now?'

  `We need to find out what's happened to Andover. First priority. No point in continuing your vigil here. So we get moving. Back to Passford House for starters…'

  The first thing they saw when they arrived back at the hotel car park was Newman's Mercedes parked in splendid isolation. The next thing they saw was Newman standing up from the far side, holding a polishing cloth.

  He strolled over, listened while Tweed gave him a resume of what had happened.

  Did you find out from Watford if either Burgoyne or Fanshawe own a boat?' he concluded.

  `Of course. I was a reporter at one time. I drove friend Walford to a pub, bought him a couple of Scotches. He became quite garrulous. The Brig., as he called him, has a luxury motor yacht based at a place called Buckler's Hard..

  `I know that,' Tweed told him.

  `Let me go on. Willie Fanshawe has a motor yacht too but his is berthed at Lymington. They all seem to be mad on the sea. Sir Gerald Andover has his own motor yacht, the Seahorse III-'

  `That's important,' Tweed interjected. 'Based where?'

  Lymington. Do let me finish. Andover has left these shores. Walford saw him aboard the Seahorse III sailing downriver and into the Solent early this morning. Just after daybreak.'

  `Wish we knew where he'd gone,' Tweed said half to himself.

  `I do,' Newman went on. 'He informed Walford he was cruising round the Isle of Wight and down to Devon for a few days. Odd thing, Walford said never before had Andover bothered to let him know where he was going. He described Andover as being very secretive about his sailing trips.'

  `Which means,' Tweed said grimly, 'that the one place he isn't going to is Devon. Now, he's being ultra- secretive. We have to track him down later.'

  `The coastguard?' Newman suggested.

  `No good. Andover is clever. My guess is by now he's well out at sea, whatever his ultimate destination is.'

  `So it's checkmate,' Paula commented. 'What do we do now? Go back to London?'

  `Not yet. I want to scour this part of the world. I feel sure there's something strange happening – on top of what we found at Andover's home.'

  Tweed stood staring across the frosted lawn which had a creme-de-menthe colour. Even at that hour the temperature was close to zero. Knowing him, the others kept quiet. Tweed's mind was racing, examining what they had uncovered, trying to see, dimly, some sort of pattern.

  `I've no idea what's going on,' he admitted eventually. `The alleged kidnapping of Irene is a sinister mystery. And the presence of three old China hands so close together is more than pure chance. Paula said something recently which was significant. The trouble is I can't recall what it was.' He straightened up. 'What we need is even more data-'

  `One other thing Walford told me which has just come back,' Newman interjected. 'He wasn't too accurate last night. This morning he told me the three boats which disappeared at the beginning of the year vanished somewhere near the mouth of the Beaulieu River. One of them was Benton. Wasn't that the chap who was a friend of Andover?'

  `Yes,' agreed Tweed. 'And what you've just told us links up with the account of the barman at the Ship Inn. We'll take a look at Buckler's Hard and Moor's Landing after an early lunch. Check the map for me, Paula. How close to the Solent is this model village the barman described?'

  He paced slowly back and forth while Paula studied the Ordnance Survey map she'd extracted from the Escort. Tweed was disturbed. The whole area seemed so peaceful and yet they'd discovered that severed arm in the house of a broken man.

  `Moor's Landing is about a mile from the Solent,' Paula reported.

  `So it's close to where those three boats vanished at the mouth of the Beaulieu River. Yes, I think it may well repay a visit…'

  With Paula navigating, they took the same route to reach Buckler's Hard they had followed the previous evening. Newman was driving them in the Mercedes with Paula beside him and Tweed alone in the back.

  Some distance behind them, on Tweed's instructions, Pete Nield followed them as though they were strangers. They were approaching the entrances to Prevent, Leopard's Leap, and The Last Haven when Tweed spoke for the first time.

  `Bob, I want you to slow down now. Crawl at twenty miles an hour.'

  `If I must,' Newman protested, 'but the Merc. will be rarin' to go.'

  `Why, if I may ask?' queried Paula.

  `You just did,' Tweed replied, and lapsed into silence.

  As they crawled past the entrances Tweed glanced sideways. Just an empty drive at Andover's place. In the morning he'd called the police anonymously about the break-in. The house was as invisible as before. The wrought-iron gates to Leopard's Leap were again open. And once more no sign of life.

  Paula stiffened as she saw the pile of bricks and the small concrete mixer on the grass verge. It reminded her of their experience the previous evening when they had almost been killed.

  Tweed glanced down the open gravel drive to Fanshawe's Swedish-style house. The net curtains across the windows gave it an even more uninhabited look. He waited a minute before he spoke again.

  `Could you pull in at the side of the road? I want a word with Pete and there's no one about..

  Nield, driving his Ford Sierra, appeared a few minutes later. Tweed was waiting for him outside the car and gestured for him to stop. Nield jumped out swiftly, leaving his engine running.

  `Trouble?'

  `Not yet.' Tweed smiled. 'Pete, a mile or two back a lane leads off to the left going back the way we've come. That's where Paula and I had our little encounter with the mobile concrete mixer. It's the only turn-off for miles. I'd like you to go back and drive down that lane to see what – if anything – is happening. I think you studied the map route to Buckler's Hard with Paula. Drive back here as fast as you can later and try to catch us up.'

  `All clear. And I'm carrying that route in my head. See you soon…'

  Before Tweed had closed the door of the Mercedes Nield had turned round over spare ground and was speeding back. Tweed settled himself again.

  `Are both of you armed? I should have checked earlier.'

  `I'm carrying my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson Special in a hip holster,' Newman replied as he drove on, accelerating.

  `And I have my Browning in my shoulder-bag,' Paula reassured Tweed. 'Pete has a Walther. Are you worried this could be a risky trip? This is the New Forest.'

  `And we were nearly murdered yesterday evening…'

  7

  They had left the Forest – and after that a flat area of barren heath – behind them when the vintage Bentley overtook Newman, travelling like a demon.

  Newman was driving down a curving hill at the approaches to the small town of Beaulieu with the river on their left. He was moving at a safe speed when the ancient open touring car, green in colour with running boards and gleaming old-fashioned headlamps, roared past at insane speed.

  Behind the wheel of the four-seater crouched the driver clad in an old crash helmet and huge goggles. Paula had only a glimpse but saw his bright scarf was wrapped round the lower half of his face, presumably to muffle him against the cold.

  `Crazy so-and-so,' Newman muttered.

  `We turn right in a moment,' Paula war
ned. 'Don't go on into Beaulieu. Oh, my God! Look at the idiot!' `I'm looking,' Newman observed nonchalantly. `And he's going to Bucklers Hard – if he ever makes it alive…'

  `Actually, he's an expert driver, even if a bit of a show-off,' Newman remarked.

  To turn up another steep hill leading to Buckler's Hard the driver of the Bentley had to swing through an angle of about a hundred and fifty degrees. He hardly slowed as he spun off the main road and then accelerated up the hill and out of sight.

  In the back of the car Tweed was taking no notice of this demonstration of macho driving. He was twisted round, staring through the rear window, then he switched his gaze to the side window as Newman swung round the same tortuous bend.

  `There's a chopper floating round behind us,' he told them. 'A private machine with no markings. Odd, that.'

  Newman drove on up the steep and winding hill. At the top he manoeuvred them round a series of bends along a lane with hedges on either side. Then they were on the level. The Bentley had disappeared despite the long straight stretch ahead.

  `Lord!' Paula commented. 'He must have moved.' `Souped-up engine,' Newman told her.

  `That chopper is flying on a course parallel to us now,' Tweed reported from the back.

  `You seem very intrigued by it,' Paula replied over her shoulder.

  `Give me the map,' Tweed said.

  A few minutes later, in lonely open country with fields spreading away, Newman reached a private road leading to Buckler's Hard. He was about to turn down it when Tweed called out again.

  `That chopper's landing well ahead of us. From the map I'd say it's coming down somewhere on the west bank – on the land owned by Lord Montagu.'

  `Just a chopper,' Newman said as he began turning left.

  `Should we be going down here?' Paula asked. 'I think this is probably only for use by people who own a boat.'

  `Then we own a boat,' Newman rapped back. Seahorse IV, if anyone wants to know. And in my rear-view mirror I see Pete Nield is catching us up. I wonder what glad tidings he brings?'

  Half-way down a steep descent the anchorage came into view. The sun was shining and the basin of blue water sparkled like diamonds. It was more like a small lake but towards the Solent the river ran out between tree- shrouded banks. To the north, where it came from Beaulieu, it curved in an S-bend. Newman stopped, turned off the engine. 'I'll wait for Pete…'

  Tweed, followed by Paula, got out of the car to stretch his legs. On the river deserted yachts and power cruisers, covered with blue plastic sheeting for winter, were moored to buoys. The view was scenic but there was no sign of activity. End of the season. Nield parked his Sierra behind the Mercedes, jumped out.

  Paula, who had been wandering about, looking down at the anchorage, began walking back to Tweed.

  `Come on, Pete,' she said crisply. 'I'm not a schoolgirl any more. Let me hear the grisly details.'

  `They are grisly. The concrete mixer is still there – jammed between two trees. So are the police who told me the road was closed. They'd erected a sheet round the vehicle but a breeze blew it up. The driver who tried to kill you is set solid in concrete. They're having to use pneumatic drills to remove his unwanted overcoat.'

  `Better him than you,' Newman commented. 'What next?'

  `Paula and I will borrow your Merc. You and Pete take the Sierra down and we'll follow. Try and hire a boat to take us downriver,' Tweed suggested.

  `We're on our way…'

  Tweed parked the Mercedes behind the river front and under the lee of a large yacht propped upright by heavy wooden staves on either side. It shielded the car from easy sighting.

  `Why are we hiding?' Paula asked.

  `A Mercedes would be noticed. I'm curious about that vintage Bentley which overtook us. And that chopper I saw landing close to the river. I smell danger.'

  `From what quarter?'

  `I've no idea. But we crawled past Andover's house. The thugs who broke in may have returned and seen us through the shrubbery.'

  `Won't the police be there after your phone call?' she queried. 'Although I didn't see a patrol car.'

  `They'll have been and gone hours ago. To them it will be just another break-in. Andover probably wasn't there to inform. They'd get their pet builder to board up the front door and leave it at that.'

  `Anyone else?'

  `We also crawled past both Burgoyne's and Fanshawe's residences. Either could have spotted us, decided to follow to see what we're up to. And someone is going to drastic lengths to stop us, as we know from last night.'

  `You're trying to smoke out whoever it is,' Paula stated.

  `I would like to know the identity of the enemy. There is one – I know that from reading Andover's file and Gaston Delvaux's letter to him from Liege.'

  `And you're not going to tell me anything about either?'

  `Not yet.'

  They had been walking down a dried mud track scattered with gravel as they talked. When they came round the corner of a clump of trees and undergrowth the track led on to a walk along the river's edge. Newman was hurrying towards them with another man in his midthirties.

  Tall and slim, the stranger walked with an athletic stride, was well built, clean shaven, and had an aquiline nose. He wore denims and trainers. Paula was relieved by his working clothes, his pea-jacket. She was clad in denims thrust inside knee-length gumboots and a padded windcheater.

  `He's good looking,' she whispered to Tweed, 'and he knows it.'

  `A piece of luck,' Newman called out as the two men came close. 'This is an old acquaintance of mine. Mordaunt, freelance journalist. He's agreed to take us for a spin on the river.'

  Tweed made introductions, using first names only, omitting to mention himself. Mordaunt made a beeline for Paula, holding out a large strong hand. His voice was upper crust.

  `I say the day is improving no end. Welcome to Buckler's Hard, Paula. I've just been putting my boat to bed. A small yacht. Spend as much time down here as I can during the spring-summer. Have a small pad in London. All my money, such as it is, goes on the boat. They're expensive things, boats.'

  `Can I have my hand back?' Paula asked with a dry smile.

  `Sorry. Didn't mean to offend. It's such a small, shapely hand. Can't really blame me. Now, for the river trip. I've got a large dinghy with an outboard I borrowed. No charge – glad to be of service. This way…'

  `Isn't there a more stable boat available?' Tweed enquired.

  `I'm afraid not. Not to worry. Water is as smooth as silk. Hardly a ripple. You'll enjoy it.'

  As he walked off with Newman Paula noticed his thick, dark hair was blow-dried. An odd mix of the matinee-idol type and a practical man of action. She glanced at Tweed, who was following reluctantly.

  `You did take your Dramamine back at the hotel,' she reminded him. 'And we're not going out to sea.'

  `Heaven forbid. Water always moves and anything on it moves even more. I suppose I shall survive.'

  `You can hold my hand,' Paula teased him. 'Lucky this Mordaunt being here.'

  `Or department of strange coincidence…'

  Tweed was following the others across a catwalk leading to the main landing stage. Behind him was a long single-storey building which was a combined shop full of tourist-memento rubbish together with the kiosk where tickets were sold for the catamaran cruise. Everything was shut until the next season in spring.

  Paula was suddenly aware Tweed had paused. He was staring to the north where, onshore, was a large collection of vessels of various sizes drawn up on land. He had caught sight of a man's figure disappearing behind the hull of a large yacht.

  `Something wrong?' Paula asked.

  `I thought I recognized someone up there. Forget it – don't mention it to the others.'

  Mordaunt had donned a sailor's peaked cap which he perched on his head at a rakish angle. He stood by a large dinghy inside which Newman and Nield had sat down near the stern. This compelled Tweed and Paula to occupy the seat near the prow, hardly his
favourite position for such an enterprise.

  `All aboard now?' Mordaunt called out in his confident manner. 'Ready for the Skylark cruise, everyone? But where to? Any preference.'

  `What I can do without,' Tweed whispered, 'is the hearty nautical touch.'

  `We'd like to visit Moor's Landing,' Newman told their host as Mordaunt released the mooring ropes, jumped aboard, and sat down by the tiller.

  `You won't be popular there,' Mordaunt warned. `They're a very standoffish lot. Don't mix with pleb types like us. Could even be a hostile reception.'

  `We'll risk it,' Newman said firmly.

  Mordaunt started the engine. Tweed gritted his teeth as the dinghy wobbled and was steered out into the main channel. There was no wind but it was cold as Siberia on the river. Tweed began to study his surroundings as they moved downriver.

  `Damn! I hope he didn't see me.'

  Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne stood behind the beached hull of the yacht, a pair of glasses looped round his neck. He was positioned in the boatyard and near by was a large lifting machine used to transport beached vessels into the water. The blonde Lee Holmes looked at him with a quirky smile. •

  `You hope who didn't see you?'

  `Tweed, I think. He stared towards me when he was on the catwalk. I'll just check..

  Burgoyne was wearing a leather jacket and cavalry twill trousers. The vintage Bentley was concealed inside a shed, his helmet and goggles on the driving seat. He shinned up a ladder perched against the hull, raised his glasses.

  The dinghy was moving away from the landing stage. He recognized Tweed crouched at the prow as he turned to say something to the girl next to him. Paula Grey. He climbed rapidly back down the ladder.

  `I was right. It is Tweed. And his female sidekick, Paula Grey. This is dangerous. They could ruin everything. We have to find out where they're headed for.'

  `How?'

  `Do I have to think up all the tactics? Take the small dinghy, follow them.'

  `They could recognize me,' she warned him.

  `Heavens above!' he snapped. 'Disguise yourself. You have those dark glasses. Put them on.'

  `Dark glasses now? In winter? I know the sun is shining. No, it was. They'll just draw attention to me.'