Deadlock (24 page)

It was still daylight, a bright sunny evening as Newman drove round a bend lined with tall rhododendron bushes, saw The Bluebell on his left and pulled up in front of the pub after turning the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees.

'Set for a fast getaway,' he remarked as he turned off the engine, climbed out, locked the car and walked with Butler to the entrance.

Inside the large old-fashioned room there were four people. A long-jawed countryman sitting at a table drinking from a spirits glass; an unpleasant-looking woman with grey hair tied in a bun at the back who was knitting; an oddly faced youth, and the barman,

Ned Grimes, Mrs Sporne - postmistress - and Simple Eric, he guessed from Tweed's descriptions. Followed by Butler he marched aggressively up to the bar. A chair scraped on the wooden floor behind him and he glanced over his shoulder as he leaned his elbows on the counter. Grimes was standing now.

"Ow did you two get in 'ere?' Grimes rasped.

'Drove in, of course,' Newman snapped, turning back to the barman. Two small Scotches. Water. No ice.'

'You can't 'ave.' The broad-shouldered Grimes moved closer to Newman, his thin lips working. 'You can't 'ave,' he repeated. 'Gate's closed.'

'I said two Scotches, please,' Newman addressed the barman again. 'Shake a leg there. We haven't got all night.' He turned round, perched both elbow tips on the counter and stared at Grimes. 'Calling me a liar, mate? Who the hell are you?'

'Ned Grimes. Not that it's any of your business . . .'

'It is when you start talking stupid. Your ruddy gate is wide open. Why shouldn't it be? This a village or some kind of private club you're running?'

'Better watch it, chum,' Butler suggested mildly. 'My pal has a short fuse.'

'All right, all right . . .' Grimes backed away several paces. 'Just interested to know 'ow you found this place. Folk don't come here much.'

Newman was paying the barman. He handed Butler his glass, picked up his own, raised it in a brief salute. 'Down the hatch.' He turned his full attention on Grimes who was hovering between his own table and Simple Eric's.

'A friend of ours, chap with horn-rim glasses called Sneed, told us about this place. Satisfied now?'

'Sneed? That was the chap with a German car. Posh job. That was days and days ago.'

'What's that got to do with anything?' Newman demanded.

'You isn't sayin' you're lookin' for this Sneed 'ere? And you be Army men - some special unit I forgot the name of. That's who you are, ain't it?'

Newman stood up slowly from the bar, hands hanging loosely by his side. He whipped up one hand, pointed his index finger at Grimes like the barrel of a pistol.

'Anyone ever tell you you ask too many questions? And you may like to know - since you seem to want to know a lot - that one of my ancestors was Sir John Leinster. Sneed told me his tomb is in the churchyard. That's what I've come to see. Any more questions?'

Grimes stood quite still. Newman could see the indecision in his bony face. That was when the youth suddenly let out a whoop. 'Any more bodies? Any more bodies tonight?'

'
Shut your face
.' Grimes spaced out the words, then went up close to Eric and whispered something. He raised his voice. 'And do it
now!
'

'Harry,' Newman decided, 'time to go and look at that church.'

As he marched towards the exit he glanced at the grey-haired woman who was eyeing him savagely. She was knitting a Fair Isle pullover and the colours were hideous. 'Knitting for a baby elephant?' he asked amiably. The needles began click-clacking at a furious rate, her expression became venomous. Simple Eric had run out of the pub and when they emerged into the fresh air he had disappeared -in the direction of the cottages, Newman guessed.

Marching in step with Butler, Newman took the lead when they crossed a footbridge alongside a ford through a small stream. He heard Grimes' Gucci boots clumping across the planks behind them but didn't look back. They passed several cottages but there was no one about. More like a deserted village.

The church perched on its eminence was close when a tall man came out of the last cottage. Behind him Simple Eric was jumping up and down, flapping his arms as though he was an aircraft. The tall man hurried to catch up. Under his black wide-brimmed hat a hawk-like nose protruded and a pince-nez was perched on it. He wore some kind of dark cloak and reminded Newman of a bloody great crow.

'One moment, sir,' he called out as he caught up, walking alongside Butler, 'I am Dr Portch. I gather there was a misunderstanding at The Bluebell. You must realize, sir, the villagers are simple souls. May I ask where you are going?'

'Here.' Newman opened the right-hand side of the double gate at the entrance. He veered off the mossy path, making for the back of the church, glancing down. In daylight he could see very clearly the deep ruts impressed in the grass Tweed had seen. A wide tyre span, indicating a heavy vehicle. The grooves wound their way round the back of the church, ending at the entrance to the mausoleum erected to Sir John Leinster.

'A distant ancestor of mine, Sir John Leinster,' Newman remarked, his hands on the closed gates leading to the large stone building. The new padlock Tweed had spoken of had been replaced by a heavy ancient version.

'Oh, really?' Dr Portch commented in his bland voice. 'I find that strange. So far as I know he left no issue.'

'My family tree - drawn up by a professional genealogist - says different.'

Some of the moss down the centre of the steps leading to the tomb was shrivelled and brown. It gave the impression it had been disturbed, then replaced. Newman turned suddenly and stared at Dr Portch. Grimes stood behind him.

'Have you seen all you want to, sir?' Portch was smiling but the smile did not reach the glazed eyes. He adjusted the cloak and shuffled his feet.

'They be friends of that stranger who came here. Sneed,' said Grimes.

'Dr Portch,' Newman remarked. 'A most unusual name. I seem to have come across it before. Not recently. In the newspapers could it have been?'

The glazed eyes became opaque. Portch stood motionless. Newman lit a cigarette and waited. In no hurry. Then Portch smiled again, clasped his hands in front of him. Like a priest. 'I hope you've enjoyed your visit to our little community.'

Time of my life. Harry, getting dark. Time to push off.'

He walked off without a backward glance at a brisk pace. He kept it up, Butler alongside, until they had reached the car. Unlocking it, he got behind the wheel, fastened his seat-belt, started the car as Butler fixed his own belt, drove off round the curve and through the open gate.

'Gave him a bit of a turn,' Butler remarked.

'Which was the idea.'

Glancing in the wing mirror, he saw the road behind was empty as he pulled up alongside Nield waiting in the Mercedes. He opened the window and called out.

'Pete, drive after us until we hit the highway. Then find a place where you can watch the exit from this side road. If a car comes from Cockley Ford, follow it . . .' He gave a description of Dr Portch and drove on.

* *

*

Nield had opened a gate leading off the highway, backed the Mercedes into a field, and ten minutes later saw the lights of a car coming from Cockley Ford. He'd spent his time in checking his map of Norfolk and now all the routes from this area were impressed on his mind.

The Vauxhall emerged on to the highway, turned right and moved at speed north along the highway. 'You're headed for Swaffham, matey,' Nield said to himself, keeping well back as he followed. At this speed he guessed the Vauxhall would be keeping on the main highway for some distance. He was right.

At Swaffham the Vauxhall stopped, a man got out, leaving the motor running, went into a pub. Nield nodded to himself. Dr Portch. Fitted the description perfectly. Portch came out carrying a squat bottle, climbed back into his car, took a swig. 'Brandy, I'll bet,' Nield whispered. 'You're all shook up, you are. Could be interesting, this . . .'

Portch followed the highway through the night to Faken-ham. Here he turned on to the B1355. A sports car flashed past Nield, inserted itself between the Mercedes and the Vauxhall. Useful camouflage. The three cars whipped along the winding road, turned west on to the A149. The coast road.

Nield recognized the road from their journey along it from Blakeney that morning. He had an excellent memory for any route when he'd passed over it once. 'You're heading for Brancaster, my friend,' he thought. 'Yes, this could be interesting, very interesting indeed.'

The outskirts of Brancaster was a line of isolated cottages separated from each other by hedges. The sports car overtook as Portch turned into a drive. Nield went on past the drive, found a grass verge, parked, walked back.

He had trouble reading the lopsided sign outside the cottage where Portch had parked. The cottage looked tumbledown, the garden was knee-high in uncut lawn, the paved path a mass of weeds between the stones. He had to use a torch to make out the lettering.
Crag Cove
.

Lights were on in the front room behind drawn curtains. He walked along the highway past two cottages and went up to the front door of the third. Knocking on the door, he stood well back in case it was a woman who lived alone. It wasn't. The door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a rumpled pullover and uncreased slacks.

'Very sorry to bother you at this time of night,' Nield began, 'but I'm lost. I have to deliver an urgent package to an address in Brancaster. Trouble is the address is smeared. Looks like Crag Cove but I can't read the name.'

'Oh, him.' The man's tone was indifferent, almost hostile. 'Keeps himself to himself, he does. Crag Cove? Three doors up to your left at the end of my path. Seaman type called Caleb Fox. Got it?'

'Yes, indeed, I have got it,' said Nield. 'You have been most helpful.'

22

The marksman known as 'The Monk' drove just inside the speed limit as they headed through the night towards Rheims. Klein sat beside him, still smarting under Marler's insistence that he would drive.

But Marler had the reputation of being the finest killer with a rifle in Western Europe. He was 'credited' with the shooting of Oskar Graf von Krull, the German banker who had helped finance an army of private informants to track down Baader-Meinhof.

Another of his kills had been an Italian chief of police at the behest of the Mafia. And always he had an unbreakable alibi. He was officially in France every time he carried out a 'commission'. His fees were enormous but he guaranteed results.

Klein studied the Englishman as they approached Rheims. His researches into the Englishman's background had proved difficult. Plenty of rumours through underworld contacts but nothing concrete. Klein didn't know as much about him as he would have liked - but that was a tribute to the man's ability, and he was an independent-minded bastard.

Marler was in his thirties, a slim man of medium height, clean-shaven with a determined jaw. His smooth face was frequently creased in a half-smile which did not reach his brown eyes. His hair was flaxen-coloured, but seen from the back he had a small bald patch over his pink crown. Hence his nickname, The Monk.

He spoke with a public school accent, his voice light in tone. He always appeared calm and under complete self-control. He had proved himself a crack shot at Bisley - Klein knew that much. There had been talk of an embezzlement, which had shut out the world of business to him.

His father - now dead in a road accident - had been a famous racing driver. The nationality of his mother was obscure. He had a flair for speaking foreign languages -which was probably why he had settled in France. He seemed to have no permanent residence, flitting from one country to another.

'He is what they call a soldier of fortune,' a Corsican in Paris had told Klein. 'A man who will do anything for money. He has expensive tastes. He likes expensive women, I hear.'

Klein's careful preliminary investigation before approaching The Monk only told him Marler had a short-term lease on a good apartment in the upper-class Parisian district of Passy. Discreet enquiries revealed he spent very little time there.

The Corsican had provided Klein - for a fee - with a phone number. A girl had answered, had asked a lot of questions. He had been forced to give her his room number at the Georges Cinq. 'He may call you back,' the girl had said and rung off.

Later Marler had called him, instructing him to meet him at a grotty
pension
called the Bernadotte on the Left Bank. It had been a very clandestine meeting and Klein had choked at the requested fee. Five million francs.