Deadlock (2 page)

The door opened and Howard, faultlessly dressed in a dark blue suit from Harrods, waltzed in, shooting snow-white cuffs. His chief was in the worst possible mood from Tweed's point of view, exuding an air of bonhomie. He eyed the suitcase standing by Tweed's desk.

'Off on our hols? Good show. Don't delay. We'll keep the home fires burning. Just forget all about us.'

Probably burn the place down, Tweed thought to himself. The second sentiment was more acceptable. Howard thrust his right hand in his trousers pocket and rattled loose change. Another irritating habit. He stooped to brush a speck of dust from his trouser leg as he continued.

'Going somewhere interesting? Barbados? The Seychelles?'

'Clacton,' Tweed said perversely. 'A breath of sea air.'

'No accounting for tastes.' Howard studied the manicured fingernails of his left hand. 'Well, I'd better be off. Just thought I'd pop in, wish you bon voyage and ail that. Even if it sounds like a trip round the pier. Clacton has one?'

'No idea.' Tweed sat down behind his desk and Monica frowned. She waited until Howard left the room before she shook her index finger at her boss.

'No more hanging about. Off you go. It isn't Clacton, is it?'

The phone rang before Tweed could reply. Monica lifted her own instrument quickly. After identifying herself she grimaced as she listened.

'He's just going off on holiday, I'm afraid . . .'

'Who is it?' Tweed demanded.

'Paula Grey - calling from Norfolk,' she reported, holding one hand over the mouthpiece. 'She sounds a bit fraught - but I can handle it. I'll tell her you've just left . . .'

'I'll take it,' Tweed said firmly and lifted his receiver. 'I am still here, Paula. How are you? It sounds as though something's bothering you.'

He listened, saying little, grunting, asking the occasional question. At one stage he opened a deep drawer, using his left hand to rifle through a collection of maps of the British Isles, hauled out one of East Anglia and unfolded it as Paula continued talking.

'Got it,' he said, his finger pressed on a section of the map. 'Are you still at your new home in Blakeney? Yes, I have the address in my head. You may see me in the next day or two. It is odd, I agree. One thing, Paula,' he concluded, 'don't go anywhere near Cockley Ford again. Not until I've seen you. Promise? Good girl . . .'

He replaced the receiver, folded up the map, pocketed it, stood up and went over to the stand where his Burberry hung on a hanger. Monica watched him suspiciously as he hastily slipped on the raincoat and picked up his suitcase.

'And what, may I ask,' she enquired, 'is odd?'

'You may ask. I may not tell you.' He changed the subject to soften his reply. 'Howard was just a bit too jaunty - the way he is when he's covering up a problem.'

'It's Cynthia, his wife. There's talk she's on the verge of leaving him . . .' She stopped, appalled, could have cut out her tongue. Tweed's own wife had walked away several years ago - to live with a wealthy Greek shipowner. Rumour had it they were shacked up together in a luxurious villa in South America.

Tweed's face was expressionless. Behind his glasses his eyes showed no reaction. The parting had come as a great shock to him - something he never referred to. Monica, a woman of uncertain age, a spinster who had worked with Tweed for years, began talking rapidly.

'It's office gossip. Probably nothing more. Some people have to have something to natter about in the canteen. About Paula. Something's happened. Suddenly you're in one hell of a rush to leave. Five minutes ago you were like a ship without a rudder.'

'Maybe I've found my rudder . . .'

'Blakeney is on the coast, you mean'?'

'A breath of sea air I said earlier. Very bracing - the wind off the North Sea . . .'

'You're not going anywhere near Wisbech, the interrogation centre, I hope?'

'Not a chance. Hold the fort while I'm away. Maybe a holiday is a good idea.'

'Paula might be a good idea for you - now she's on her own . . .'

'You're a wicked woman. I don't know why I employ you.'

On that note he left the room before she could think up a suitable retort.

Tweed sat behind the wheel of the 280E parked in the Crescent, studying the manual Newman, foreign correspondent and trusted confidante, had left with the car. Everything was automatic - you pressed buttons to open the sun-roof, the windows, to elevate the aerial for the radio, and it had a central locking system. Depress the small lever which locked the driver's door and all the other three doors were locked.

He drove out of London and headed for Bedfordshire. The rain continued to pour down steadily. He left the suburbs behind and moved into open country as evening approached. The sky was a low ceiling of slow-moving pewter cloud. He stopped in Woburn for a late tea at the Bedford Arms. When he drove on along the straight road which followed the endless stone wall enclosing Woburn Abbey estate it became almost like night.

On the seat beside him the map of East Anglia was open, his route outlined with a felt-tip pen. He had drawn a large circle round a section marked with one word.

Breckland.

2

He had left the village of Mundford behind. The turn-off from the A 1065 to Cockley Cley was on his left — several miles ahead. Curious, he thought as he gazed down his headlight beams, that there should be two villages so close with similar names. Cockley Cley - and Cockley Ford. To his right the black fir forests of Breckland loomed close to the highway. He reduced speed as the cloudburst increased in intensity.

The windscreen wipers were fighting a losing battle with the floods of water pouring out of the sky. Lakes snaked out on to the deserted highway from the grass verges. No sign of human habitation anywhere. No traffic had passed him for miles when he reached a narrow tarred road turning off to his right. As Paula Grey had told him on the phone, no signpost indicated where it led.

He swung the wheel easily with the aid of the power-assisted steering. The 280E was a dream of a car to drive. Straight ahead stretched a lonely road just wide enough to take the large Mercedes. Tweed, using undipped headlights, peered through the cascade, hoping to God he wouldn't meet anything coming from the opposite direction.

The wind had reached gale force, hammering the side of his car, threatening to blow its one-and-a-half tons of metal off the road. No drainage. Rivers of water flooded down each side, his wheels sent up great clouds of spray as he pressed his foot down.

Tweed was worried the engine would become waterlogged, stopping the vehicle. His increase in speed was an attempt to counter the danger. He stiffened as he saw a flash of light in the distance. A car wax coming from the opposite direction, a car moving at high speed. He doused his headlights. Approaching a gated entrance to a field, he slowed and swung the Mercedes on to gravel, then waited as the projectile hurtled towards him, headlights still turned full on.

'Dip your headlights, you swine,' he muttered to himself.

It was a Porsche, a red Porsche. Tweed raised a hand to shield his eyes against the glare. As it passed him, the car slowed. He caught a glimpse of the driver and stared. A man in his fifties - with a thick thatch of white hair and prominent cheek-bones. Tweed blinked as the car continued on towards the highway. He couldn't believe it.

Lee Foley. American. Ran the Continental International Detective Agency in New York - CIDA.

Here? In the middle of Norfolk? Had his eyes deceived him? He'd had only a brief glance at the driver. He tightened his lips, recalled snatches of his conversation with Paula Grey on the phone.
I was driving up this country road . . . I'm positive the driver of the car was Lee Foley . . . Hugh pointed him out to me once in a New York restaurant. . . said he was very bad news . . . He damned near drove me into the ditch with his bloody red Porsche . . .

Tweed had felt sure Paula must be mistaken when she called him. He'd decided to drive up to see her, to reassure her after taking a look at the hamlet of Cockley Ford. No, he wasn't being honest with himself. He'd wanted to see Paula again.

Rain pounded the roof of his car as he sat thinking of his encounter with Foley two years ago in Berne, Switzerland. The American had gunned down three men, had then escaped via Paris. No clear identification. No case to answer.

He sighed, wondering whether he could manage a three-point turn to go back the way he'd come, decided the car was too big. He would have to drive on, keep to his original plan, have a look at Cockley Ford. Might be interesting . . .

The heavy five-barred gate was open. It hung from a concrete post. Something about it made Tweed stop. He lowered the window, ignoring the rain, staring at the glass eye set into the post. He pressed a button, closing the window, and pressed another button which lowered the passenger seat window. Through the blurred downpour he saw a second glass eye in the opposite post.

Photo-electric cells. Normally the gate was operated automatically with a remote control system. The cloudburst must have put the system out of action. He drove on round a curve, saw an old two-storey building standing back from the road, huddled in the forest. The Bluebell. The local tavern. Beyond it, on either side of the road, a single row of cottages ran away into the distance.

Tweed swung the Mercedes through one hundred and eighty degrees, using the open space in front of the inn, then stopped, switching off the engine, taking out the ignition key. He was now pointed back the way he had come, an instinctive manoeuvre. He sat for several minutes, aware that the curtain over a lower window had moved, exposing lights inside. He was being watched.

Alighting from the car, he locked it and walked to the inn's front door, which had an iron ring for a handle. He turned it, went inside to a large rectangular room, and stopped. Half a dozen country types sat drinking. Faces turned and stared at the newcomer. The barman stood with a cloth in his hands - stood as still as Tweed. It was like observing a frozen tableau.

'Nasty night,' Tweed commented, taking off his hat and shaking rain on to the mat.

'How did you get through the gate?'

The question came from a broad-shouldered man sitting near the bar. He wore a navy blue pea-jacket with gleaming brass buttons and rumpled grey slacks. Despite their appearance, the clothes looked expensive and his leather boots could have been Gucci. In his late forties, Tweed •guessed, his face was weatherbeaten, his complexion ruddy, his jaw overlong, his eyes a cold blue. The accent was Norfolk, the tone unfriendly, demanding.

'It was wide open. I drove straight through. This is Cockley Cley?'

'No. Further up the 'ighway towards Swaffham. Turn off to the left.'

Standing up, the man presented his back to Tweed, leaned on the bar and ordered a large Scotch. Tweed joined him, aware of an atmosphere of hostility he'd never before encountered in a Norfolk village. His stubborn streak surfaced. He waited patiently while Pea-Jacket was served. The barman had a blank expression, a head which was squarish, as though hewn from a chunk of wood.

'I'll have a Scotch, too,' Tweed said pleasantly. 'And a drop of water, please . . .'

The barman was looking over his shoulder. Tweed swung round and caught Pea-Jacket in the act of nodding his head. He turned back to the bar in time to see the barman reaching for an unopened bottle.

'Not that one,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'll take it from the one used to serve our friend here.'

His eyes scanned the rear wall of wood which had been stripped and re-varnished, destroying the aged atmosphere of the rest of the room. Knots of wood appeared to have been inserted at various points. He glanced down at the deep skirting board, which had not been subject to renovation. The barman pushed a glass across the counter and forgot about the water. He shook his head when Tweed tried to pay.

'On the 'ouse. Then you'll be on your way, I s'pose. We'll be closing soon.'

'At this hour! And I insist on paying.'

Tweed pushed a pound coin over the counter. Again the barman looked at Pea-Jacket, who nodded for the second time. Tweed was clumsy with his change, dropping a ten-penny piece on the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, staring briefly at the defect in the old skirting board where it met the bar. It looked uncommonly like a bullet-hole. He straightened up, glanced over his shoulder and addressed Pea-Jacket.

'Excuse my lack of manners. My name's Sneed . . .'

'Ned Grimes,' said Pea-Jacket and then clamped his thin lips shut as though he'd replied too quickly.

'Cheers!' Tweed leant against the bar, raised his glass, took a sip, his eyes on Grimes. 'I seem to have taken the wrong turning. Which place is this? There was no signpost at the turn-off.'