Cross of Fire (19 page)

'But while you were changing out of your wetsuits on

122

the beach.' Tweed recalled, 'you
said those killers in the dinghies were approaching the shore.'

'Too far away to recognize me. It was dusk, too. I'd turn up quite on my own.' she informed Newman. 'So I won't know either of you. And.' she pounded on, 'you are getting there at eleven. I'll phone Dawlish and make an appointment for midday.'

'If you can...'

'Men are vain. Successful men are very vain, love to get their names in quality magazines. Bet I pull it off.'

'Under those circumstances.' Tweed decided reluctantly, T suppose it might be a good idea. We're so short of time
the sooner we cross Dawlish off the list of suspects the better.'

I'd say he fits like a glove.' Marler observed. 'You quoted Lasalle a few minutes ago as saying someone was secretly
supplying nice General de Forge with arms. Dawlish has armaments factories. One of them could be in the woods
between Snape Maltings and Orford.'

'How do you know that?' Tweed asked sharply.

'Because, as I told you, I drove round up here. On my
way to Orford I passed a track leading up into the woods
off a lonely road. The area was fenced off with an eight-foot
high wire fence, electrified. Plates attached to the fence with
a friendly warning. "Keep Out! Danger!" Plus skull and
crossbones. The lot.'

'That's a long way from France - especially Bordeaux.'

Tweed blinked, gazed into the distance. Something he had heard Paula say on another occasion. What was it?
Maybe it would come back to him.

'You're looking for a French link?' Newman enquired.
'Could be one downstairs inside this hotel. When I was
approaching the elevator a youngish chap stubbed his toe
on a step. I distinctly heard him mutter
Merde!
under his
breath. He then asked me the way to the lounge in perfect
English.'

'Describe him.'

'Late twenties, early thirties. Clean shaven. Walks very erect. Struck me as a military type. Wearing dark glasses -
Lord knows why at this time of the year.' He glanced at
Paula with a dry smile. 'Some women would describe him as handsome.'

'I must visit the bar.' Paula said promptly. 'Bet he finds
his way there. After I call
Woman's Eye
for tomorrow.'

'I suppose we could have come to the right place.' Tweed
thought aloud.

'You don't know how right you are.' Marler needled him.
'Chief Inspector Buchanan and Sergeant Warden are staying
here. I had a brief encounter with Buchanan yesterday.'

'Why are they still here?'

'The Chief Constable has asked Buchanan to continue his
investigations into Karin Rosewater's murder. The whole of
Aldeburgh knows about him.'

'We can't let him get in the way.' Tweed stood up. 'The exact nature of de Forge's threat to Germany is vague - so even more menacing. We can't do much this evening. All of you have rooms I reserved for you from London. I want action tomorrow.'

'Where do we fit in?' asked the heavily-built Butler.

As usual, he had remained silent with his partner, Pete
Nield. But both men had memorized every single word said.

'I was coming to you.' Tweed replied. 'Are you armed as
I suggested?'

'Nice to know he can't tell.' the more extrovert Nield
remarked, fingering his moustache.

Both men were clad in clean denims and windcheaters.
Butler nodded, produced from his hip holster under his
windcheater a 7.65mm Walther automatic. Nield showed
his own Walther.

'Good.' Tweed approved. 'Because tomorrow I want you to follow Newman and Marler discreetly to this Grenville place. You are to act as guards, back-up in case of trouble.'

'We expect trouble from a man like Dawlish?' queried
Marler sceptically.

'Monica drew up a dossier on him while we were away.
I skipped through it before I drove out with Paula. He built
up his empire from nothing - and used some dubious
methods on the way. Exercise the utmost caution. Paula, see
if you can find out who Newman's Frenchman is. It is the
first whiff of the French we've had in Suffolk.'

Paula, wearing a Chanel-style blue suit with a white blouse and a pussy bow, walked into the bar as a tall slim girl with a mane of blonde hair turned, a glass of champagne in her
hand, and collided with her.

Paula jumped aside and the spilt champagne just missed her suit. Jean Burgoyne stared at the suit with horror. Paula smiled reassuringly.

'It is all right. It went on the floor.'

'My God! I'm so sorry. How simply dreadfully clumsy of me. Are you sure it isn't spoilt? That's Chanel, isn't it? You
look stunning.'

'You don't look so bad yourself. And this isn't an orig
inal, I'm sorry to say. I made it myself.'

Jean Burgoyne did look stunning in a light green form-
fitting sheath dress which displayed her excellent figure to
full advantage. Two slim straps supported it over her bare,
well-shaped shoulders. Her greenish eyes studied Paula, her wide mouth smiled.

'I'm Jean Burgoyne ...'

'I'm Paula Grey, a freelance journalist on
Woman's
Eye...'

Thinking quickly, Paula had decided it was best to stick
to the same story. In a small place like Aldeburgh you never
knew who knew who. She had instantly recognized the
glamorous blonde and hoped she was on her own.

'I buy every issue.' Jean told her. 'The least I can do is get you a glass of champagne. That is, if like me, you're on your own.'

'As it happens, I am. I wasn't looking forward to a
solitary evening...'

Paula took Jean Burgoyne's glass to a quiet corner table.
She was puzzled. What was Burgoyne doing in this part of the world? Another French link: de Forge's mistress in
Aldeburgh. And she was quite a girl, Paula thought. She moved gracefully and every man in the bar was watching
her.

As she brought more champagne to the table Paula
spotted the Frenchman with tinted glasses Newman had
identified. He ordered a drink and sat alone, erect in his
chair. He looked briefly at Burgoyne and then turned away. Burgoyne had sat next to Paula, raised her glass.

'Cheers! Paula! May I call you Paula? I'm Jean.'

'Please do. I'm ready for this.'

'Join the club.' She drank half the contents. 'I'm just back from France. Bordeaux, actually. I have a friend there. My uncle, who brought me up, lives in one of the houses at
the
back of Aldeburgh - he likes the seclusion of the place ...'
She went on talking in her low husky voice, used a hand to
throw her mane back over her shoulder. 'My parents were
killed in a road smash when I was six. He took over. He's
eighty now. My father - Uncle's brother — would have been
eighty-two. I was born late. All hell is breaking loose in
France. I was telling my uncle about it. He's still got all his
marbles. Used to be a Brigadier. In Military Intelligence.'
She smiled roguishly. 'Sorry, I'm rattling on about myself.
You will be thinking I'm trying to manoeuvre you into
interviewing me.'

'Honestly, the thought hadn't crossed my mind. But
you'd be a perfect subject.'

'Not me, Paula.' The roguish smile again. 'When I came
down from Oxford I trained to be a barrister, then never
practised at the Bar. A perfect subject? Not for
Woman's Eye.
I like men too much - I think you'd find my life a bit too
spicy.'

'I do have a commission,' Paula explained. Tomorrow I interview Lord Dane Dawlish. I phoned him a few minutes
ago. He sounded enthusiastic.'

Jean gave Paula an odd appraising look, drank out of her
half-empty glass, put it down with equal care. Paula kept
silent: she felt sure she'd by chance pressed a button.

'I was at a party at Grenville Grange when I met my French friend.' Jean said slowly. 'You'll have to watch
Dawlish. You're attractive. He'll make a pass at you.'

'That was your experience?'

'You can say that again. Talk about having to fight off a wolf. Good luck. Put on plenty of clothes.'

Paula was trying to keep her face expressionless while
she watched a tall handsome man enter the bar. It was
Victor Rosewater.

All roads led to Aldeburgh...

Chapter Twelve

Grenville Grange was perched on a peninsula projecting into
the river Aide several miles inland from Aldeburgh. Near Been Church, all the lights were on that evening as Lord Dane Dawlish sat in his study behind a Queen Anne desk
talking to Joseph Brand.

Dawlish was of medium height, a powerfully built man in his late fifties. He had a bull neck and a squarish head.
Thick grey sideburns curled beside his ears and he was clean shaven. His nose and jowly jaw were pugnacious. His brown
eyes had a challenging expression. He radiated physical
energy and his manner was aggressive.

'I didn't get where I have by being polite to people who
stood in my way.' was one of his favourite maxims.

'You checked out this Peter Wood who's joining us for
the shoot tomorrow?' he demanded.

'Phoned his London office. His secretary said her chief wasn't available, was away in Suffolk.'

'So he could be pukka.'

Brand pursed his thick lips. A small man, wide-shouldered, weighing sixteen stone, he regarded everyone as a potential enemy. One of his large hands drummed silently
on his knee below the desk as he sat facing his boss. In his late forties, he had a pear-shaped head, terminating in a full chin below a wide thin mouth.

'How much more information do we need?' Brand asked.

'As much as we can get. He's a stranger who struck up an acquaintance with you in that pub. I like to know who's prowling under my roof. And a five hundred bet is throwing money around. His entrance fee?'

'Stockbrokers make a lot of money.' Brand protested.
'Christ! I should know. They live off commissions.'

'And off suckers like you who play the markets which I
don't.'

Caught on the raw, Brand forgot his position. The words
were out of his mouth even as he knew he'd blundered.

'At least I don't waste money on women right, left, and
centre...'

Dawlish drummed the hairy knuckles of his right hand
on the desk slowly. He smiled, not a pleasant smile. His eyes
stared straight at Brand's.

'You've overlooked something. I get a lot back for my
money. And I think you've overlooked who you're talking to.
You can easily be replaced, Brand. Your sort come ten a penny.'