Mordaunt's passport, the old type with a black cover engraved with the gilt seal, was lying close to his slumped leg. It was open at the page which gave the holder's details. Tweed, still crouched, facing the corpse, pointed to the passport.
'Air Bogle' he asked, without turning his head, 'who first suggested to you it was suicide?'
'Obvious, isn't it?'
'Is it? Who did you phone when you reported this tragedy?'
'London.'
'London covers a lot of people. Who in London did you call?'
'Well, I saw from his passport who he was. So I decided it was a diplomatic matter. I called the Ministry of Armaments.'
'Naturally,' Tweed agreed amiably, still not looking at Bogle which was beginning to disturb the policeman. 'Precisely who did you speak to?'
'Can't see that this is relevant. I spoke to the Minister, Gavin Thunder. Must admit I was a bit surprised when he answered the phone.'
'Yes, that was a bit odd. Almost as though he was expecting the call. And who first mentioned the word 'suicide'?'
'Well.' Bogle shuffled his feet. 'It was him – the Minister. Said something like 'Oh, my God. Jeremy has killed himself, poor devil. Keep this under wraps. No publicity. I'll send someone in authority down immediately.' Then he rang off.'
'And had you explained to the Minister what we see now?'
'There wasn't time. I've relayed to you the exact conversation I had with him before he slammed down the phone. I did tell him the body was inside an underground tunnel down here at Alfriston. Nothing more.' He looked away from Tweed, who was now staring at him. 'Hit the nail on the head, didn't he? Suicide.'
'When Miss Grey has just told you that Mordaunt was right-handed? Are you suggesting that a man using a heavy gun to kill himself holds the weapon in his right hand, then bends his arm across his face, somehow manages to aim the gun at the other side of his forehead, pulls the trigger, then transfers the weapon to his left hand?'
'The autopsy will settle the matter,' Bogle almost shouted.
'That reminds me. Any moment now an ambulance from London will arrive with Professor Charles Saafeld aboard to take the body to his laboratory. Our top pathologist, he will perform the autopsy. I phoned him before we came here.'
'Bloody hell!' Bogle stormed. 'I've called Eastbourne to send an ambulance. We do have pathologists from here…'
'Then perhaps,' Tweed suggested as he stood up, 'it would be an idea to get on your mobile and recall your ambulance. I see from the powder on the wall your scene-of-crime crew have already been here, checked the surroundings and probably taken their photographs.'
'Of course they have,' growled Bogle and stomped off, up the steps and out of sight.
'I think Saafeld and his ambulance have arrived,' Paula reported after a brief visit to the outside world. 'I'll show him the way.'
'If you would, please…'
An imposing figure appeared. For a man of his heavy bulk, Saafeld ran nimbly down the steps. His round, plumpish complexion had a pinkish tinge and he exuded an air of authority. He peered at Tweed over his half-moon glasses, nodded, took in the surroundings with swift glances.
'Hello, Paula,' he said quietly.
'This place is like a tomb.' She clutched the collar of her fur coat more closely. 'It's freezing.'
'A tomb,' Saafeld repeated. 'Complete with a body.' He looked back at a youngish man with a camera who had followed him. 'Reg. Take pictures quickly.' He bent down, hands covered with latex gloves, pressed a delicate ringer on Mordaunt's right hand. 'No rigor mortis yet, but we'd better hurry.'
'The local assistant chief constable swears it's suicide,' whispered Tweed, bending alongside the pathologist.
'Suicide, my hat. Just a first impression,' Saafeld warned. 'Don't like the way the fingers are holding the weapon. And if he was standing, back to the wall, he'd have toppled sideways when the bullet hit – not slithered down the wall. But it's early days.'
'Can I call you in the morning – this morning?'
'Try eight o'clock. I work through the night, as you know. I don't promise anything…'
Tweed borrowed Paula's flashlight. She followed him as he walked the full length of the tunnel. The floor was useless for give-away footprints. Emerging under the arch at the far end, he paused, took a deep breath. In the moonlight the view was entrancing. A wide stretch of grass, then a spired church, a gem. He swept the flashlight along a road immediately beyond the arch. Vague tracks of probably a dozen cars. Old houses stretched away to his left and right.
'He could have been brought here by car, tricked into entering the tunnel. It's as quiet as the grave.'
They retraced their journey through the eerie tunnel. Reg had taken his pictures, was putting the camera inside a case.
'Reg,' Saafeld called out. 'Bring the stretcher. We'll get him out now. It will be the devil of a job maneuvering him round and up those steps.' Tweed offered help. 'No, thanks – this is a two-man exercise. ..'
Tweed and Paula reached the small square to find Bogle waiting, standing by a car with an unpleasant sneer on his pinched face.
'I'm off. To write my report. A very full report covering all aspects of your intrusion.'
He jumped into the front passenger seat, snapped at the driver. The car took off, its tail lights receding swiftly. Tweed turned to speak to Sergeant Pole.
'You've been in this area a long time?'
'All my born days, sir.'
'Are there any important people round here? Maybe rich?'
'There's Lord Barford. Family's been here for generations.'
'Any more recent arrivals?'
'Well…' Pole considered carefully. 'There's a Mr Rondel, a foreigner. Arrived about two years ago. Very wealthy, I'd say. Travels abroad a lot. Had a big mansion built inside an old abandoned quarry up on the Downs. Place went up in no time. Imported German workers.'
'Can you describe this Rondel?'
'Only saw him once. Drove a red Bugatti along this street as though it was Le Mans. Only caught a glimpse of him. Blond hair, youngish. Has a helipad by the mansion. Arrives there by chopper.'
'Any idea where he flies to?'
'Girl who lives here worked as a stewardess once at Heathrow. Told me she'd seen him boarding a Gulfstream. Think that's what she called it. Private jet. Big job.'
'Any chance of our driving to his place from here? Now?'
'You could.' Pole sounded doubtful. 'When you meet the A27 after leaving Alfriston you turn left. If you're not careful you'll miss the turning to Eagle's Nest – that's what Rondel calls his palatial place. A short way along you come to a turning off left – just before you reach another one signposted Byway.'
'I remember that turning,' Paula interjected.
'One hell of a road… pardon me,' he said to Paula. 'Unmade, it twists and turns up over the Downs. Get to the top and the road levels out, then starts to go down. That's where Rondel's place is, way back to your left. Right inside the quarry.' He frowned as a car's headlights appeared, driving into the village, the lights on full beam. They flashed twice, then were doused. The car stopped, Bob Newman jumped out.
'Monica called me just as we'd finished dinner,' Newman explained as he drove along the A27 with Tweed beside him.
Behind them Paula was driving Tweed's car, thinking she should have been in front to guide them. Would Tweed spot the turn-off?
'Called me on my mobile,' Newman continued. I'd met Mark Wendover at Heathrow, parked him at the Ritz, took him for dinner to Santorini's.'
'Tell me later, we're coming to the turn-off. There are things you should know…'
