`How can you be so sure of that?'
`Blighter walked in to reception and asked the girl. He said he was Special Branch.' Portman stared at Tweed, watching his reaction.
`Cheeky sod,' Tweed replied immediately, expressing just the right amount of indignation. 'Give me your impression of Hugh Grey.'
`Full of confidence. But then these insurance chaps have to be – peddling the sort of stuff they do. I wondered if he was mixed up in drug smuggling, if his girl, later his wife, suspected the same thing.'
'Why?'
`Frequent trips abroad. The way he sometimes knew I was on his tail, the way he ditched me, and the way he enquired about me here in Soho. The skill,' Portman repeated, 'that's what I don't understand. Plus the cheek of the devil. Doesn't sound like insurance to me at all.'
`Must have cost his wife a fortune hiring you. Two years is a long time.' Tweed was probing, searching for he wasn't sure what. Portman clasped his hands behind his head, a gesture which reminded Tweed of Guy Dalby.
`It was spasmodic,' he explained. 'Only when he was leaving to go somewhere from Norfolk. Often I lost him, as I mentioned. I used to race direct to Heathrow, hoping to catch him there, but often he never turned up at Terminal Two – or I missed him.'
`Ever follow him anywhere else? Maybe to somewhere inside this country?' Tweed asked casually.
`Never once. Always Heathrow – or I lost him.'
That meant Grey had spotted Portman, eluded him, whenever he was bound for Park Crescent – or his pied a terre at Cheyne Walk for that matter. Grey certainly knew his job. `How does Paula Grey pay you?' Tweed asked.
`Always in cash – no matter how large the fee. That's normal in such cases. Cheques can be traced. I gather she has her own business of some sort. In any case, a third of the population in Norfolk is part of the black economy…' He clapped a hand over his mouth. 'Now I've put my foot in it.' Portman frowned. `You're a very persuasive chap – you get people to let down their guard.'
`I'm not interested in things like that. Last question. What is Paula Grey's attitude now?'
`She's still worried about something. Can we leave it at that?'
`Why not?' Tweed rose to go. So far Portman was intrigued with the novelty of his visitor. Soon he might begin to wonder about Tweed. 'One thing,' Tweed said as Portman accompanied him to the door, 'I've never been here. This interview never took place.'
`Official Secrets Act?'
`Well…' Tweed smiled, `… at least I never read it to you.'
`Did you find out anything from Portman?' Monica asked, all eager-beaver as Tweed closed his office door.
`I'm not sure. Only the absence of something.'
`That's right, go all cryptic on me. It means you have a definite lead but you're not telling. Want me to hang up your Burberry?'
`No, thank you. I have to collect Diana in a minute from Newman's flat, then we drive down to Harry Masterson's. He is at his cottage?'
`Yes, I called him as you asked. Said you might want to phone him. He said he'd be there all day – he's painting one of his portraits. What are you doing?'
Tweed had collected a pair of dividers from a cupboard and was standing in front of the wall-map. He placed one point on Vienna, then measured the road distance to Lubeck. He repeated the exercise with Bern and Frankfurt, again measuring the road distances to Lubeck. Then he stood back from the map and placed the dividers on a table.
`Any one of them could have managed it by road,' he said.
'I don't understand.'
`After the second blonde girl, Iris Hansen, was murdered out on the beach at Travemunde, I called all the sector chiefs. None of them were at home. And no one knew where they had gone.'
`Normal procedure if their security is tight – and it's pretty tight with this new lot you chose.'
`As you say. I'd better get off…'
`You're suggesting one of them could be a maniac killer? That would be terrible for the department.'
It's not so good for the victims who were murdered,' Tweed replied and left the room.
`What a lovely cottage. The clematis is glorious.'
Diana walked with Tweed along the country lane to the gate of Harry Masterson's cottage near Apfield. Brilliant sunshine glowed out of a clear blue sky. In nearby trees birds chirrupped. Tweed had his hand on the gate, looking at the garden which was a mess, the lawn uncut, the rose beds full of weeds, when he realized she had stopped, was standing like a frozen statue.
He looked up. Masterson had appeared in the doorway, his bulky figure filling it. Tweed glanced at Diana. Her face seemed even whiter than usual.
`What's wrong?' he asked.
`From here it's just like my mother's cottage in Devon. She was only forty-two when she died. I suppose the similarity gave me a shock.' Her normal exuberance returned. 'Come on, Tweedy, we mustn't keep him waiting…'
Masterson, his thick black hair gleaming in the sunlight, came down the scruffy footpath to meet them. Dressed in a pair of cream slacks and an open-necked white shirt, he held a paintbrush in his right hand which he transferred to the other hand.
`Welcome to Paradise Cottage, Tweed. And who is this delightful vision you've brought with you? Now the day is perfect…'
He shook hands with her and Tweed made introductions. He had warned her before what he would say.
`This is Diana Chadwick, niece of an old friend of mine. She's in London on holiday.'
`Niece, eh?' Masterson dug Tweed gently in the ribs. 'You can do better than that, Tweed.' He looked at her and grinned.
`If we take him at his word there's hope for me yet. Come on in, both of you. Care for a drink? And where the devil is your car? You can't have walked here.'
`I parked it up the lane. I wasn't sure I was on the right road,' Tweed lied. He'd wanted to surprise his host. Masterson hustled them inside, grasping Diana by the arm. He doesn't waste time, Tweed thought ruefully. He glanced up at the cascade of purple-flowering clematis flowing down either side of the doorway as he entered. Masterson glanced back, missing nothing.
`Damned good stuff, that creeper. Doesn't need a thing doing to it. Just grows and grows, like Topsy did. Can't stand gardening…'
`So I observed,' Tweed replied drily.
`I'll show Diana the cottage,' Masterson rambled on buoyantly. 'You've seen the place, Tweed. Make yourself at home in the sitting-room. Help yourself to a drink. We'll be back soon…'
He winked at Tweed as Diana dropped her handbag on a settee in the cluttered living-room, the soft furniture covered with chintz designs. Cushions lay scattered at random, several on the floor.
Tweed waited until they had climbed the twisting, creaking steps of the staircase. He'd have good warning when they were coming back. His agile fingers picked up Diana's handbag, opened it, checked the contents quickly. No travellers' cheques, just a wad of folded banknotes. He counted them.? 250. Mostly in twenties. When he'd met her at Heathrow she'd excused herself while she went to the Midland Bank exchange. He returned the notes to the zip pocket exactly as he found them and replaced the handbag on the settee.
Thrusting both hands in the pockets of his sports jacket, he wandered over to the bookshelves. The selection surprised him. A number of works by Jung and Freud, thrillers by popular authors, a large collection of travel books about Eastern Europe – the latter working material, he presumed.
He bent down to study Masterson's record collection, all LPs. Again an odd range of taste. Stravinsky, Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert and some music to dance to, mostly tangos. The hi-fi deck incorporated into the bookcase at eye-level was expensive. Hearing them at the top of the staircase, he grabbed a travel book and was sitting in an arm chair when they reappeared deep in conversation, chattering and joking. Diana sat down on the settee next to her handbag. Masterson disappeared into the kitchen, Tweed heard the clunk of the fridge door and
