By Stealth tac-9 Read online

  They passed within a foot of the yacht with its mast a dim silhouette spearing up and vanishing inside the fog. Visibility dropped to zero as they rounded a sweeping bend. The freezing cold was penetrating Paula's windcheater. She turned away from Tweed to lick her lips, dry with fear. Then she leaned her head close to his.

  `That water slapping against the yacht's hull – something must have disturbed the water. It's like oil. I wonder if that girl in the dinghy we saw coming down is also on her way back?'

  `I expect so,' said Tweed in the same calm tone.

  `I'd have thought we'd have reached Buckler's Hard by now.'

  `We're nearly there. I remember coming round this steep curve. And the fog is thinning. We'll be safe on terra firma within minutes.'

  `Don't tempt fate…'

  Lee Holmes steered her small dinghy close to the shore by the boatyard. Brigadier Burgoyne appeared, wearing his driving helmet and goggles, scarf in one hand. As she stepped out he dragged the dinghy ashore up the slope to the hull of the large yacht.

  `You took your time,' he snapped. 'I think I can hear them coming back. We've got to be away before they arrive.'

  I haven't a lot to report…' she began.

  `Then save it until we're well on our way.'

  He ran to the shed. So they could leave quickly he had already opened the doors. She ran after him, pulling her sodden scarf off her head, shoving her misted-up glasses into her handbag. He had the engine going as she jumped in beside him. She was shutting the door of the Bentley when he drove off through the dark up the private road, his headlamps undimmed. On the outward journey Lee had remained hidden, huddled on the floor behind the front seats. Burgoyne rapped out his order.

  Now, get on with your report.'

  `No need to be so bossy. You're not dressing down one of your subalterns.'

  `You cut it too damned fine. Get on with the report.'

  `They all – except Mordaunt – got off at Moor's Landing and disappeared for ages. Tweed, Paula Grey, and two men I couldn't recognize – except one looked familiar through my glasses. It will come back to me who he is. When they returned Barton was with them, seemed to be in a rage, waving his hands about.'

  `How long do you reckon they were there?'

  It was dark now, which didn't stop Burgoyne racing along a straight stretch, headlamps blazing. He was anxious to reach the main road from Beaulieu to Brockenhurst before his targets appeared.

  `Exactly thirty minutes. I timed them.'

  `As long as that? They must have poked around a lot. I don't like it.'

  `Then,' Lee continued, brushing her long mane of blonde hair, saw the fog coming upriver so decided I'd better hare back. Tweed and his friends were leaving, anyway. I nearly lost my way coming back up that bloody river.'

  Did they see you?' Burgoyne snapped, indifferent to her problems.

  `I don't think so. I stayed well back from them.'

  `Thirty minutes at Moor's Landing,' Burgoyne repeated, jerking to a brief halt, then roaring round on to the main road. No, I don't like the sound of that at all. Tweed could ruin everything. He'll just have to be discouraged.'

  `How?'

  `I'll decide that,' he said grimly.

  The fog had dispersed by the time Mordaunt brought the dinghy alongside the landing stage at Buckler's Hard. Paula jumped on to it before Mordaunt could offer his hand. To ease the tension out of her legs she left the others behind, crossed the catwalk, turned left along the river path and past the closed shop.

  It was almost dark as she stood at the bottom of a wide gravel path leading uphill. On either side was a row of old terrace houses mounting steeply to the distant brow. They stood well back from a spacious grass verge. Mordaunt appeared beside her.

  `I'd regard it as a great pleasure – for me – if you'd have lunch with me in London. Here's my card. Leave a message on the answer-phone if I'm out.'

  `That's very kind of you. May I think about it?' `Think on…'

  Mordaunt refused to accept any payment from Newman, even for the fuel. Thanking him, Newman hurried after the others. Tweed seemed to be in great haste to get away from Buckler's Hard.

  `What's the rush?' Newman called over his shoulder as he drove the Mercedes uphill with Paula beside him. 'And Pete will be staying closer to us on the return trip in his Sierra. Doesn't want to lose us in the dark.'

  `Stop the car,' Tweed said as they reached the top and turned on to the country road towards Beaulieu. want to listen.'

  Newman signalled to Nield, stopped, switched off his engine. He looked at Tweed in his rear-view mirror. Tweed had lowered his window, sat with his head cocked to one side.

  I thought so. I can hear that chopper again. Just taken to the air, I would suggest. After picking up whoever was watching us from the west bank with binoculars.'

  `Does it matter?'

  I advise you to drive very carefully from now on.'

  9

  Newman was heeding Tweed's warning, driving slowly down the steep winding hill close to the approaches to Beaulieu. His headlights showed up a road sign.

  `Bunker's Hill,' said Paula, stifling a yawn. 'They got the name right.'

  Tweed didn't take in what she'd said. Sitting in the left-hand seat he had his window lowered a few inches as Newman negotiated the dangerous turn, moving up another hill along the B3054 away from Beaulieu. Tweed again had his head cocked sideways, listening.

  `Can't we shut that window?' pleaded Paula. 'Even with the heaters on it's freezing.'

  `No, we can't. I sense danger. Please keep quiet…'

  Paula sighed. Zipping her windcheater up to the collar, she closed her eyes, rested her head back, and went to sleep. Sitting next to Newman, the icy breeze played on her neck but she didn't notice it any more.

  Ahead, their lights illuminated the lonely, hedge-lined road. They hadn't seen another vehicle since leaving Buckler's Hard. November, Newman was thinking. All the tourists gone. A heavy frost was forming. From the back of the car a hand reached over, shook Paula by the shoulder. She opened her eyes, blinked.

  `What the hell is it now?'

  You must stay awake, alert,' Tweed called out. `Thanks a lot.' Wearily she picked up the map. 'Where are we now?'

  `We're approaching Hatchet Gate. It's just a handful of houses. If you remember, on the way out we passed that sheet of water by the roadside on our right – Hatchet Pond. Although it's quite large and more like a small lake.'

  `Why did you wake me up?' Paula asked, studying the map.

  `Because I can hear that chopper coming closer. It seems to be heading straight for us.'

  `Just a chopper,' Paula commented. 'Incidentally, I see from the map we could take the left fork by Hatchet Pond and go back to Passford House via Boldre. It's a more direct route.'

  `We'll try it then,' said Newman.

  `It takes us across Beaulieu Heath,' Paula went on. 'I do remember that on the outward trip. It's very level and looks like a blasted heath, to quote Shakespeare, I think. Easier driving.'

  That was when she heard what Tweed's acute ears had picked up. The steady egg-beater chug-chug of a helicopter. It sounded as though it was behind them and losing altitude rapidly. Worried, she woke up quickly. The chug-chug was a roar and now it sounded to be just above the roof of the car.

  `What the devil is he playing at?' Newman snapped. `I don't think he's playing,' Tweed warned.

  Newman rammed his foot down on the accelerator, swerved off the main road on to the left fork. As he did so the undercarriage of the chopper appeared just ahead of them. Paula stiffened. The damned thing was flying barely twenty feet above them.

  Newman had just completed his swerve, was straightening up to drive along the road across the desolate moorland which showed up in his headlights. He also saw the so-called pond alongside the road to his right, stretching away for some distance. He was still moving fast, trying to out-race the crazy pilot.

  `Brace yourselves…'

  It was the on
ly warning he had time to shout. Paula pressed her back into the seat, her feet against the front of the car. In the back Tweed took similar precautions, grabbing hold of the overhead handle. Newman braked furiously, bringing the Mercedes to a teeth-rattling emergency stop. He was jerked forward but held on to the wheel.

  The chopper had dropped a projectile which hit the road in front of them and burst. By the lakeside another lake had spread – covering a large area of the road surface from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlights a dense dark glutinous liquid gleamed with a sinister reflection.

  `Oil,' Newman said, releasing his seat-belt. 'If we'd hit that at the speed I was moving at we'd have ended up in Hatchet Pond. And we had heavy rain a few days back, so it's probably deep..

  Behind them Nield, who had been driving at a proper distance from them, slowed, stopped, leapt out of his car. He hoisted the Walther he was gripping with two hands to aim at the helicopter, then lowered it without firing. All the passengers in the Mercedes walked towards him.

  `No good,' Nield told them. 'It was out of range. You could have drowned.'

  `I'm sure that was the idea,' Tweed agreed mildly.

  `I'm going over to that house,' Newman said. 'Someone should inform the police about the mess in the road – or the wrong people could have a fatal accident…'

  He returned quickly, carrying an illuminated hurricane lamp. By his side walked an old stooped man with a bushy moustache, carrying another lamp.

  `We were lucky,' Newman called out. 'And Mr Harmer here is going to call the police when we've got these warning lamps in position.'

  `I'll take mine other side of the slick,' Harmer said.

  He walked on the grass verge, well clear of the seeping oil, placed his lamp on the far side of the oil lake. Newman had backed his car and placed his own lamp as the old boy returned.

  `Spillage from some oil truck, I suppose,' Newman remarked before the others could speak.

  `Come past my 'ouse like express trains,' grumbled Harmer. 'Where are you bound for? You won't get past that.'

  `Brockenhurst,' Newman said promptly.

  `Then you was goin' the wrong way. Road across moor leads to Boldre and Lymington. Back a bit more and then take this road through Forest. Now, I'd better get home, make that phone call to police. Drive carefully..

  Nobody said anything as Newman started up his engine, reversed a few feet, drove back the way they had come along the B3055. Tweed realized they were experiencing delayed shock: reaction had set in. He was the first to break the silence and avoided referring directly to the attack.

  `One advantage of this route is we can see who – if anyone – is at home in those houses we visited.'

  `I suppose that's the result of your idea that on the way out we crawled past,' Newman told him. 'The chopper.'

  `We don't know that,' Tweed replied. 'But the enemy has committed two tactical errors. First, the attempt to kill Paula and me with the concrete mixer. Now this fresh attempt on our lives. I find it rather satisfying.'

  `That's one way of looking at it,' Newman responded with heavy irony. 'What enemy?'

  `I've no idea. But at least we know there is one.'

  There was another spell of silence as they came close to The Last Haven, Fanshawe's residence. The Swedish- style house was a blaze of lights. Newman drove on slowly. Passing Leopard's Leap, Burgoyne's luxurious home, they saw a faint glimmer of lights beyond the shrubberies. Newman continued driving at low speed.

  They reached the entrance to Prevent. Tweed was expecting darkness.

  Instead he saw two patrol cars parked in the drive and behind the straggle of shrubbery the Victorian house was ablaze with lights.

  `Stop!' he called out. 'Something's happened…'

  A few hours earlier the same day two men in their twenties had anchored their small yacht offshore about midway between the mouths of the rivers Beaulieu and Lymington. It was a clear cold day on the Solent and before any sign of the freezing fog had appeared.

  George Day and Charlie Neal worked in a stockbroker's office in London. But both men lived for their fishing trips aboard the yacht. A strong breeze was blowing up as they sat with their fishing rods, saying little, staring across the water.

  `Time we started getting back to Lymington,' Charlie said reluctantly after checking his watch. 'And a fog was forecast for this evening.'

  `Not yet,' George protested, 'I think I've caught something big…'

  He began to reel in his line but his catch seemed to be carried towards the hull of the yacht by the current. George stopped reeling in, puzzled by the feel of what his hook was snagged in. He leaned forward. It was coming up from the stern, drifting along the side of their vessel. He waited, leaned further forward to get a closer view.

  `Oh, my God!' he gasped. 'Look!'

  `What is it?' Charlie chaffed him. 'Bit of driftwood? You and your big catch…'

  He stopped in mid-sentence as the floating body slid under where they peered over. Charlie was the first to react. He reached down, grabbed, found he was holding a handful of dark hair. George was helping him now.

  Leaning over together, they hauled the corpse aboard. White-faced, they stared at their catch as water ran over the deck. Charlie was the first to speak in a hoarse voice.

  `Jesus! It's a girl. And she's lost an arm. Dear God! There's a blood-soaked bandage coming loose. It's horrible.'

  `We'd better get straight back to the marina,' said Charlie. 'She can't be much over twenty, if that. Let's find something to cover her up. I can't stare at that while we're heading back. And I don't understand that bandage. Come on, let's get moving. This is something for the police. And you won't get me fishing here again.'

  10

  At the end of the drive leading to Prevent, Newman was stopped by a uniformed police sergeant holding up his hand. Tweed jumped out, followed by the others.

  `Who are you?' the policeman demanded.

  `I might ask you the same question.'

  `Might you, sir? I'm Sergeant McCann. You know the owner of this house?'

  `Yes. Sir Gerald Andover. My name is Tweed.' He gave the sergeant his card printed with General amp; Cumbria Assurance. 'I also know the Chief Constable, Mark Stanstead.'

  `Colonel Stanstead is inside. These people with you?'

  Tweed made introductions, including Nield. McCann was a typical country policeman, in his thirties with a weather-beaten face and shrewd eyes. He looked at Paula.

  `Been trying to trace you, Miss Grey. I'd like you to give me a statement about your discovery of the man you dragged out of the river last night. Harvey Boyd…'

  `She can do that inside,' Tweed interrupted. 'It is a trifle chilly out here. And may I ask what is going on?'

  `Better ask the Chief Constable that question, sir…'

  Two other uniformed policemen stood outside the front of the house as McCann led the way past the boarded-up front door. He continued along a path now familiar to Tweed round the side of the house, speaking over his shoulder.

  `We entered through the back door by picking the lock. In here, if you would. And, Miss Grey, perhaps we could stay in the kitchen while I take that statement.'

  Stanstead was examining the wreckage in Andover's study. Of medium height, well built, clean shaven, he had a thick thatch of brown hair and a ruddy complexion. He was in his forties, dressed in a blue business suit, with intelligent features. He moved quickly. A man, Newman thought as he was introduced, accustomed to swift obedience to his orders and with eyes which didn't miss a thing. After he had greeted Tweed in a warm manner, Tweed said: 'We were driving past, saw the lights, wondered what was up.'

  `Grim news, Tweed. Two men fishing in the Solent this afternoon hauled a girl's body out of the sea. Brigadier Burgoyne and Miss Holmes next door have identified it as Irene, Andover's daughter. Minus one arm. An odd business that. The arm had been bandaged – the bit that was left – near the elbow.'

  `Where is the body?'

  `I had it br
ought here in an ambulance for Andover to identify – recognized her myself. Trouble is there's no sign of Andover so I was compelled to call on his neighbours.'

  `And where is the body now?' Tweed persisted.

  `It will have reached the mortuary at Southampton.'

  Tweed took Stanstead aside. They held a whispered conversation. The Chief Constable nodded as though in agreement. He was making his way to the phone on Andover's desk when Tweed caught up with him, whispered again.

  `Wait till you get back. This whole place has been bugged. Come outside a moment…'

  It was only when they'd reached the kitchen that Tweed realized he'd overlooked something. Paula had just finished signing a sheet of paper. Sergeant McCann was folding the sheet to tuck it in his pocket with a look of satisfaction.

  `There, Miss Grey, that wasn't such an ordeal, was it?' `Pretty straightforward, thanks to you, Sergeant,' she said.

  Tweed gestured for her to follow Stanstead and himself into the garden. The freezing cold hit them and a heavy frost had formed on the spacious lawn.

  'Go back quickly,' Tweed urged Paula, 'and take Newman and Nield back to the car. No talking until you're outside. Entirely my fault, I'd forgotten the house was bugged – including the kitchen where you've just made your statement, I imagine.'

  'I'm on my way…'

  `What is this all about?' Stanstead asked as he walked on the lawn with Tweed.

  There seemed no point in further secrecy. Tweed explained about their previous visit when they had discovered the break-in and he had noticed the bugs. He left out any mention of the Gaston Delvaux letter he had found on the mantelpiece, the mobile concrete mixer which had almost killed them, and their visit to Buckler's Hard and Moor's Landing.

  `I'll get one of my experts in these matters to come and remove those damned bugs,' Stanstead decided.

  'I'd much rather you didn't,' Tweed said firmly. 'Leave them in place. We might later be able to turn the bugs back on whoever placed them there.'

  `You have your reasons?'

  `Yes. We can start now if you'll play along. I suggest we go back into the study and converse in normal tones. You'll get the idea from what I say.'