`Thank you for your help.' Tweed stood up and put on his Burberry. 'If you don't mind, I haven't eaten for hours and they're keeping dinner for me at The Duke's Head.'
`Nice hotel.' Cresswell rose to accompany his visitor to the door. 'You didn't answer my question. Have you found anything up here?'
`I regret to say, no. Not a clue…'
Tweed arranged for a call at 5.30 a.m. By six o'clock he was on the road, driving south-west away from the flatlands and into rolling, hilly country with woodlands. As he sat behind the wheel he saw nothing except the road ahead. His expression was grim. He was facing a situation far worse than he had ever anticipated, far worse than he had encountered since he had first entered the service. A bloody nightmare.
Eighteen
It was 8 a.m. exactly when Tweed walked into his office at Park Crescent. Monica looked up from her desk in surprise as he took off his raincoat, hung it up and walked quickly behind his own desk.
`You're early. I didn't expect you until just before nine.. `Have any of the others arrived for the meeting?'
`Not yet. I've asked George to tell me on the quiet as each of them clock in. How is Paula?'
`In a very strange mood. Something's worrying that girl. I wish I knew what it was…'
He told her briefly about his visit to the farmhouse, his later meeting with Inspector Cresswell at the King's Lynn police station. She sat very still, taking in every word.
`You do see what it means,' he ended. 'Taken in conjunction with what has been happening way out at Travemunde?'
`There can't be any connection between all these horrible murders. The one in Norfolk must be a coincidence…'
`How far can you stretch coincidence? All four of them – Lindemann, Grey, Masterson and Dalby – were at the meeting I held in Frankfurt six months ago. Later, when they had presumably gone to bed, a Dutch girl was hacked to pieces and raped. Two years ago, on the night of July 14, the same four were having dinner at Hugh Grey's farmhouse out near the Wash. I gather the party went on late…'
`How late?'
`I don't know. There was a limit to the questions I could put to Paula, but we'll have to find out. That same night – or in the early hours of the morning – this poor girl, Carole Langley, was cut to pieces and raped. Now the same thing has happened twice at Travemunde. And I'm in an impossible position – after my visit to Dr Generoso.'
'Why?'
`Do I have to spell it out in words of one syllable?' Tweed snapped. `To expose the odd man out I need to exert unrelenting pressure on all four, hoping I can make the rotten apple crack. But Generoso warned me that more pressure can cause a schizo to increase his activities – to commit more murders.'
`You sound irritable,' Monica commented. 'Have you had your breakfast?'
`Just coffee from the thermos you gave me – supplied by the hotel. They gave me sandwiches but I can't drive and eat…'
Monica reached for the phone, gave the doorman a brief order, replaced the receiver. 'They're getting fresh sandwiches from that place round the corner. You eat before you preside over that meeting…'
`There isn't time…'
`I'm postponing it until 9.15. You eat first.'
`That might be a good idea,' Tweed mused more calmly. 'If they have to wait twiddling their thumbs it will make them wonder what is happening.'
`Can I sum up?' Monica suggested. 'Stick to the facts – as you're always telling me. The facts are Ian Fergusson travelled to Hamburg to meet Ziggy Palewska. Only the four sector chiefs knew of his journey, his destination. So one of them must have informed the other side. That is a fact. All the rest is speculation. How could any of the sector chiefs reach Travemunde in time to commit those two murders? Why in heaven would they go there to do their grisly work – knowing you were in the area?'
`There could be a reason, which I don't want to reveal yet – in case I'm wrong. My theory is so bizarre. But coming back on the plane from Hamburg I studied a road map I bought at the airport. Any of them could have driven to Schleswig- Holstein. That means they'd have to be out of touch with their sector HQ.'
`Even Harry Masterson? All the way from Vienna?'
`Yes. The autobahns. There's one from Salzburg through Munich. And Harry drives like Jackie Cooper.'
`Why this concentration on driving? There are airlines…'
`People can be seen at airports. An unlucky chance meeting with someone who knows you. No, it would be by road…'
He waited as George brought in a wrapped packet of sandwiches and a pot of coffee on a tray. Monica produced plates, shoved ham sandwiches in front of him, a paper napkin, then poured the coffee. She wouldn't allow him to talk until he had eaten.
`That does feel a lot better,' he admitted.
`You're hopeless on an empty stomach. Now, just before you start the meeting, what are we going to do?'
`First, you check with all four European HQs – Frankfurt, Copenhagen, Bern and Vienna. Find out where each sector chief was during the past two weeks. After the meeting,' he went on briskly, 'I'm giving the four of them a week's leave.'
`Not for their health, I'm sure…'
`I want to visit them at their homes, see their surroundings. I've just done that with Hugh Grey's place – although I also need to see him at his flat in Cheyne Walk. The only way I can get a clue as to who it is hangs on the psychological approach.'
`Which means?'
`Using the data I learnt from Generoso, I need to find out what my four chosen disciples are really like. I've never actually seen them on their home ground. That was a mistake. We vet them, build up files – but I need to get to know them as human beings, get them talking. One of them just may let something slip.'
`Time for your meeting. Feel more up to it?'
`This is going to be a grim meeting – for me. The point is I must in no way give even a hint of my suspicions.' Tweed stood up, straightened his polka dot tie. 'Oh, yes, I can handle them. That happens to be my job.'
His tone was brisk, his manner almost jaunty. Monica smiled – the four men waiting in the conference room were going to be put through the wringer. Tweed rampant.
`Gentlemen,' Tweed opened from his chair at the head of the table, 'I am not satisfied with your performance. Your reports from the field are skimpy – give no idea of the atmosphere out there…'
`My report did,' Grey interjected, full of confidence, his moonlike face flushed pink. 'All quiet on the western front…'
`Please don't interrupt. Your turn will come.' Tweed stared at Grey for a moment and then continued, his manner businesslike. 'I have told you all before, atmosphere – what the Germans call fingertip feeling – is the key to what the Russians are up to. I expect you all to remedy your slackness at this meeting. You first, Guy.'
Dalby, head of the Mediterranean sector, the catlick of brown hair looped over his forehead – was it his trademark? Tweed wondered – opened a file. He spoke rapidly, his dark eyes darting round the table.
`My people are puzzled. All normal contacts – informants – have dried up. Some have vanished from their usual haunts. I have issued instructions for an all-out drive to find out where the opposition agents are. They, too, have vanished. Atmosphere? I have the impression we are looking at a smokescreen. I want to break through the fog, find out what is being prepared behind it. That is my report.'
`Forget the facts for a moment,' Tweed said. 'What do you sense is going on?'
`Preparations for some major operation. We must watch out, be on the alert.'
`Any ideas now – you said at the last meeting you'd try to work it out – why Fergusson was murdered.'
