Cross of Fire (73 page)

'My intention too.' Tweed replied stiffly.

'Then why don't we combine our visit? What colours are
you sailing under this time?'

'Special Branch.'

'Then together we could possibly exert more pressure on
his Lordship. I'm sure you'll have no objection ...'

It was a grey weepy day. Inside Grenville Grange, Lord
Dawlish gazed out of the windows down over the lawn to the landing stage. Over the lawn where once - it seemed a
hundred years ago - he'd held his shooting party. His yacht,
Wavecrest V,
moored to the landing stage, rested motionless
in the still water. Rain streaks slashed the windows, speckled the turgid surface of the Aide.

Dawlish was in a blazing fury. He had recently returned from the
Steel Vulture,
still stationed off Dunwich, and he
could have strangled the skipper, Santos. Arriving on the bridge he'd asked the vital question.

'When can we sail? I want a straight answer. Now!'

'The loading -' the swarthy-faced Santos had spread his hands - 'it is still proceeding.'

'For God's sake, man, how long is it going to take?'

'Señor, it is a dangerous cargo we are loading. A very large cargo - the largest yet. You would wish us not to risk an accident which might damage vessel.'

I'm interested in results. Conditions are ideal. A calm
sea - and the met forecasts for the Bay of Biscay are good.
How long do you expect that to last?'

'My first consideration is the safety of your beautiful ship, Señor ...'

'It's not a cruise liner. Of course I'm concerned for its
safety.' Dawlish waved a thick forefinger under Santos'
nose. 'But I'm also seriously behind schedule. Put more men on the job, you cretin.'

'All available divers are working round the clock. Is that
right - round the ...'

'I don't give a damn for your fractured English. Give me
a straight answer,' Dawlish had stormed. 'When will we be ready to sail?'

'The night after this night we will be ready. You will see...'

'That's a deadline,' Dawlish had raged. 'And if not kept
maybe you'll be dead.'

He had attended to two more things before leaving.
Rushing to his cabin, he had coded a message. It was
phrased carefully.

Expected cargo will be delivered agreed destination within
seventy-two hours. My next signal will be the last, will give ETA.
Oiseau.

After taking it himself to the radio op. room he went on
deck aft of the bridge. The specially designed aircraft which could land on ground or water - equipped with floats it also
had a retractable undercarriage fitted with wheels - sat on the pad.

'I want to see you take off and land again on this vessel.' he had ordered the pilot.

Constructed as an adapted miniature version of the Harrier jump jet, the machine's jets began building up power. He watched it as the pilot lifted off vertically,
hovered above the vessel, then landed with pinpoint preci
sion on the pad. Satisfied with that at least, he had returned
to Grenville Grange. Only to find a message waiting for him
that Chief Inspector Buchanan of Homicide would be calling
later in the morning.

'What the hell could this flatfoot want?' he asked himself aloud as he stared across the lawn.

Dawlish had convinced himself they had given up investigating the murder of Karin Rosewater. Someone tapped nervously on the panelled door. Dawlish bawled out for the intruder on his thoughts to come in. A manservant entered.

'A Chief Inspector Buchanan and a Sergeant Warden
have arrived. They say they have an appointment.'

Dawlish told him to stay where he was. Opening up the
cocktail cabinet, he poured himself a stiff neat whisky. He
downed the drink in two long gulps, licked his thick lips,
closed the cabinet.

'Send the bastards in.'

Entering the room Buchanan noted that Dawlish favoured
an outfit of riding kit, which seemed bizarre at the end of
November. He even wore a hard hat as he stood with his
back to a large brick alcove fireplace where a log fire
crackled. In one hand he held a coiled riding whip. He used it to gesture.

'Kindly sit there.'

Buchanan smiled to himself as he sat on a couch facing the light from the window and Warden perched uncomfortably beside him. An old trick: stand in the shadow yourself and plant your visitors with the light on their faces.

Dawlish frowned as a third man entered, paused, looking
carefully round the room. He seemed to be examining every
piece of furniture - everything except the owner.

'Who the blazes are you?' Dawlish snapped. 'I was told
two men from Scotland Yard would be coming.'

'Special Branch.'

Tweed held up a card forged by the experts in the Engine Room at Park Crescent. He took his time putting the card back in his wallet before replying.

'Obviously the message was garbled. But it is important that I ask you some questions later. Chief Inspector Buchanan takes precedence.'

'I don't understand any of this. Sit down. There.'

The whip gestured towards the large couch where there was space for a third visitor. Tweed ignored the suggestion. Walking to a carver chair placed against the same wall as the fireplace, he sat down. It placed him sideways on to Dawlish, who had to turn round to observe him. Buchanan smiled to himself again, guessing the reason for Tweed's manoeuvre.

'I prefer a hard chair,' Tweed said neutrally. 'I now leave the floor to the Chief Inspector.'

'Who has not yet shown any
identification,' Dawlish snapped.

Buchanan saw his chance. Standing up, he strolled over
to Dawlish, showed him his identity card, remained where
he was, leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece, several inches
taller than his host. He produced a photograph.

'Do you recognize her?'

'No.'

'Come, Lord Dawlish? the photo is a trifle blurred and
you hardly glanced at it. I repeat, do you recognize this
lady?'

'Who is she?' Dawlish asked, studying the print handed
to him.

'You tell me. You seem to be having trouble answering the question. She is familiar then?'

'I've never seen her in my life. What is this about?'

Dawlish thrust the photo back at Buchanan. He glanced at Tweed who sat, knees together, hands clasped in his lap
as he watched Dawlish. His Lordship seemed unsure
whether to move away from the two men flanking him. He
threw the whip on to a table, tossed his hard hat after it,
thrust his large hands into the pockets of his jodhpurs.

'This,' Buchanan informed him in the same level tone, 'is about the brutal murder of Karin Rosewater on the marshes at Aldeburgh. Not so far from here.'

'So why come to me?'

'Because a witness to the murder of Rosewater, Paula
Grey, saw at least five heavily built men wearing Balaclavas, armed with rifles, pursuing them after following the two girls in a dinghy from Dunwich. You have divers aboard the
Steel Vulture,
I understand, Lord Dawlish.' Buchanan added conversationally.

'That's what my philanthropic project is all about - using divers to explore the sunken village overwhelmed by the sea years ago.'

'So, you admit you employ divers.' Buchanan made it
sound like an accusation. 'My problem is to find the mem
bers of the murderous gang who chased the two girls, one
of
whom was brutally strangled.'

'I still don't follow why you're bothering me.'

Dawlish's tone had become aggressive. Ostentatiously he
checked his Rolex watch.

'Because,' Buchanan continued in the same calm manner,
'I am having trouble locating men who could have formed that gang. You check your divers' background before you hire them?'

'Meticulously.' Dawlish found Tweed's unblinking stare irritating, turned to face him. 'What do you want to know?'

'In addition to your
philanthropic
activities you made your
fortune out of armament deals. You supply arms to France?'

'France has its own armaments industry,' Dawlish
barked.

'You haven't answered my question. Does your ship the
Steel Vulture
ever visit French ports?'

Dawlish rounded on Tweed. 'Look, I've had enough of
this. A man with my interests - which, incidentally, are
mainly supermarkets - needs some relaxation. That may
surprise you.' he said sarcastically. 'But I cruise all over the world in the
Vulture.'

'A dual-purpose vessel, then,' Tweed remarked.

Dawlish froze. His hard black eyes gazed at Tweed with vehemence. If looks could kill Tweed would have dropped
dead.

'What the hell do you mean by that?' he demanded.

'Did I touch a raw nerve?' Tweed enquired innocently. 'I referred to the fact that the
Vulture
is used to explore your sunken village. Also for jolly trips off to foreign parts.'

Buchanan intervened, handing his card to Dawlish.

'I'd like a complete list of your divers sent to me at the address on my card. I could, of course, investigate their backgrounds in other ways. Thank you for giving us some
of your valuable time, Lord Dawlish. I think that's all. For now at any rate. Tweed?'

Merely nodding, Tweed stood up and followed Buchanan
and Warden. They were leaving the room when Tweed paused, turned round in the doorway to address Dawlish.

'I've heard that Brand is always with you. A kind of
Siamese twins act. He's abroad on his hols?'

Dawlish aimed a stubby finger at Tweed's chest like a
gun.

'The front door is behind you.'

Chapter Forty-Seven

Running up the wide staircase, Dawlish went into a front bedroom and watched the two cars leaving together - the
Volvo in front - watched them until they vanished round a
curve in the drive. He walked down to his room overlooking
the lawn more slowly. Opening his cocktail cabinet, he
poured himself another neat double Scotch.

Settling his bulk in an armchair, he swallowed half the
Scotch, put the glass down on a table. He didn't give a damn
for the lofty Chief Inspector from the Yard. It was the enig
matic intruder from Special Branch which had shaken him.

First, his reference to France, to French ports. Second, his
ambiguous phrase 'dual purpose' about the
Steel Vulture.
And third, that last question about Brand. The way his eyes
had studied Dawlish's when he mentioned the name.

'May he rot in hell,' Dawlish said aloud.

He drank the rest of his Scotch in one quick gulp.