to success in solving your latest problem.'
They clinked glasses and he watched her over the rim. She was staring straight back at him, then she put down her glass.
`Why did you come all this way out to see me?'
`We have a place at Wisbech we use for meetings. Since I was going to be in the district, I thought I'd call in on you,' he lied.
`I see. Show you the rest of the house…'
There were three more rooms. The main one was equipped with a double bed. Paula peered through the rear window looking out towards the dyke. Night was falling, a dark shadow like a wave crawling in over the flatlands between the dyke and the farmhouse.
`It can be creepy out here in winter,' she remarked. 'When the fog comes rolling in from the Wash.' There was a sombre note in her voice, but only briefly. 'Let's continue the tour.'
There was Paula's workroom and the third bedroom had been turned into a study for Hugh. A large and very modern safe stood in one corner. Paula indicated it with her glass.
`He keeps all his policies and papers locked away in that. He is very careful about never leaving anything on view. I have to keep out of here when he's working. Now, the dining-room – and that's it. Our castle…'
`We can seat eight,' she explained. 'How is Harry Masterson?' she asked suddenly.
She had this habit of throwing a question, as though hoping to catch him off balance. Why the interest in Masterson, Tweed was wondering.
`Full of energy as always. Never lets anything get on top of him…'
`Harry's great fun. When we had them all to dinner a couple of years ago – that was when Hugh and I were still living together before we married – Harry was the life and soul of the party. He's a riot.'
`When was that party?'
`God! Now I've put my foot in it. You weren't invited. I played hell with Hugh but he said you were up to your eyes and couldn't get away…'
`Par for the course,' Tweed said easily. 'Who else came?'
`Oh, besides Harry there was Guy Dalby and Erich Lindemann. Can't say I was too keen on Lindemann. Bit of a dry stick – and he seemed to have something on his mind. Polite enough but didn't say a lot. Guy was OK. Especially after he had three cognacs with coffee.' She stopped, put her hand over her lips. 'I'm talking too much. I do. But I thought, my God, if he's stopped by the police driving home. Oh, you asked when was the party. July 14. Hugh's birthday. Now, must you go?'
`I'm afraid so. On the understanding I can come back…'
`Any time. Get Monica to phone first – I might be at the pottery. I stay there half the night when I lose track of time. It's pitch-black,' she said as she opened the front door. `Do you mind driving in the dark?'
`As a matter of fact, I find it restful. Take care of yourself. And Hugh will be back soon.'
He kissed her on the cheek and she kissed him back. As he drove off she stood in the light of the doorway, waving.
Tweed drove back a different route, continuing on along the road which would eventually take him back to King's Lynn. His purpose in visiting Paula had been to get a good look at Grey's home. You could tell more from a man's surroundings than you could from talking to the man in question.
And Hugh Grey was one of the four men in question he thought grimly. His impression was of a comfortable home which had a lived-in feeling. No cold formality. Magazines scattered idly about the sitting-room. Stacks of paperbacks on the bedside tables in the main bedroom. His headlights, which stretched a long distance, picked out a signpost by the roadside. He pulled up.
Footpath. The sign pointed along a narrow track leading towards the dyke. He was about a quarter of a mile from Grey's farmhouse. He drove off again and didn't stop until he was inside the car park at the rear of The Duke's Head Hotel. Carrying his case, he walked down the narrow lane to the side entrance, booked a double room and dumped his case.
Returning down the single flight of stairs to reception he made arrangements for a late dinner, then went back to his room. From the directory he found the number of the local police station. His call was brief and they explained to him the easiest way on foot to the station.
Leaving the hotel, he walked back through the car park. Ten minutes later he went inside the police station on the corner of St James' Street and St James' Road. Inspector Cresswell was waiting for him inside his office. He offered a chair and coffee, which Tweed accepted gratefully.
Cresswell was a short, sturdy man of about fifty with dark hair and a calm manner, the type of policeman who took everything in his stride, who was surprised by none of the vagaries of human nature he encountered. Tweed showed him his fake Special Branch folder.
`You should be in London,' he remarked. 'We need more people like you there.'
`It's been offered.' Cresswell shook his squarish head. 'I've refused three times. Of course, it would mean promotion, a lot more money. But I'm a Norfolk man. I know the folk here. I'm happy. Why risk changing things?'
`Very wise, I'm sure. I'm investigating a major case. I can't, unfortunately, give you the details…'
`That's all right, sir. How can I help?'
`I need to know whether there have been any random murders of girls during the past few years on your patch. Specifically, the murder, followed by rape, of blonde girls. The victim would have been brutally savaged with a knife – butchered horribly.'
Cresswell leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and pursed his lips. Tweed waited patiently. They didn't hurry in this part of the world, which was probably a more sensible way of going about things.
`There have been more of these murders, if I may ask?' he enquired in his deliberate manner.
`Yes. From what you say you can tell me something?'
`A girl called Carole Langley. A little over two years ago. She was foolish but she didn't deserve such a ghastly end. She was walking home from a party – out near the Wash. Had a quarrel with the boy friend who drove her there. So she hoofed it. That was her fatal mistake. Her body was found by a patrol car sent out in the middle of the night – after a call from her parents worried that she hadn't got home. I was on duty myself that night, just like tonight. I went out with the car. I'll never forget what I saw by the light of my torch. Butchered was the word you used. Carole Langley was slashed to pieces, then raped.'
`You apprehended the killer?'
`No. It's still on file. Don't think we'll ever solve that case – not unless we get a repeat performance, which God forbid.'
`And she was a blonde?'
`Yes, she was. A very attractive girl. She came to a police dance once. Not the sort you'd forget. Lively personality. A hideous waste…'
`Any suspects?'
`To start with, yes. The boy friend was immediately at the top of the list. But a dozen witnesses placed him at the house where the party had taken place until six in the morning. We hauled them in for drugs – marijuana. That was why Carole left.' Cresswell smiled drily and mimicked Cockney. 'And they say virtue is rewarded. There ain't no justice.'
`What do you think?' Tweed probed.
`Could have been someone from miles away. The A17 from Boston runs close by. A commercial traveller, as they used to call them. Anyone.'
`Can you look up the exact date?'
`Don't have to. July 14. Two years back as I said.'
`You have a good memory…'
`Bastille Day. I'm a history buff. Read nothing else.' Cresswell's eyes studied Tweed shrewdly. 'You come up to Norfolk out of the blue. Ask me a lot of questions. And the type of murder I have on my books sounds similar to something you're investigating. Have you found anything up here?'
`What time did the Langley killing take place?'
`Between two and four a.m. – that was as close as the quack could place it. He's probably right – it fits in with when she left the party and when the parents phoned us.'
