`Of course not. Looking for somewhere to eat?'
`No. I'm calling at the police station. I have to make an urgent call to the office.'
`Open all hours,' Inspector Cresswell said with a wry smile as Tweed sat opposite him. 'Last time you came I was on night duty. What can I do for you now?'
The short, dark-haired inspector didn't appear to have moved since Tweed last saw him. Except that this time he was smoking a briar pipe. It went with his stolid careful personality.
`Have you got any further with your enquiries into the murder of that girl Carole Langley?'
`You have a good memory for names. I expect it's your job. No fresh developments is the short answer. The file continues to gather dust. What about you?'
`Same answer. No fresh murders, thank God. By the way, when you were investigating the case when it was fresh, did you call on a friend of mine? A Hugh Grey at Hawkswood Farm. Gedney Drove End area – roughly.'
`I know the place.' Cresswell sucked noisily at his pipe. A wet smoker. 'As a matter of fact, I did. Called personally. Had a girl staying with him. They've married since. But you'll know all this.'
`Of course. Any joy?'
`Not a thing. They'd gone to bed early.' Cresswell chuckled but it was not a dirty laugh. 'They're inclined to do that in the early days. Neither of them had heard a sound. No cars passing their place in the early hours. Of course, if by then they were asleep…'
`So, no lead there.'
`Or anywhere else.' Cresswell watched Tweed over his pipe. `It's stretching things a bit, isn't it – to try and link up a murder in East Anglia with yours across the water?'
`It's stretching things a lot,' Tweed agreed as he stood up. `I'd better be getting on. Thought I'd just call in on you as I was in the area.'
`Very good of you. Maybe we'll see you again.'
`Always possible. Thank you. And goodbye. For now.' Tweed was relieved as he left the station and climbed behind the wheel. Despite his exuberant bonhomie, Grey had a careful discretion. Obviously he'd not said a word to Cresswell about the party, about the identity of his guests – and persuaded Paula to go along with him. That was important. A murder investigation leading to the heart of the SIS at Park Crescent would have been embarrassing, even dangerous.
I asked a passer-by,' Diana said, 'if there was a good place to eat here. She suggested The Duke's Head.'
`The Inspector told me the food was awful there,' Tweed lied. There was always the chance one of the staff would remember his last visit to Paula, something he wanted kept secret.
`There's a place at Woburn Abbey on the way back,' he said as he started the motor. 'And, if we can manage it, we'll pay a call on Master Guy Dalby this evening.' He frowned as he drove round the town, following the one- way system, which tripled the distance. 'I do wish I could remember what Paula said. It was a bit odd…'
Thirty-Two
Tweed had left Diana at Newman's flat for a few hours, driving on to Park Crescent. tie entered his office, closed the door and stood quite still. Monica sat behind her desk, her head stooped over a file. In Tweed's favourite arm chair Howard lounged, one leg propped on the arm.
`I've waited for you,' he said, which struck Tweed as the unnecessary remark of the year.
As always, Howard was faultlessly dressed. He wore a new navy pinstripe suit, inevitably Chester Barrie from Harrods. His spotless white shirt was bisected by his blue club tie. The cuffs were shot well clear of the sleeves. Gold chased cuff links shaped like slim barrels dangled from the cuffs. The black shoe at the end of his propped leg, which was swinging gently, gleamed as though made of glass.
`Is there a problem?' Tweed enquired as he sat behind his desk.
`Oh, nothing much. Just the fact that one of our four European sector chiefs has to be a rotten egg. Probably in the pocket of Moscow for years. A man you promoted, a man I brought into the Service originally.'
Tweed's expression showed nothing of his astonishment at this statement of co-responsibility. Monica's head shot up in sheer disbelief, then bent over the file again.
`Do you propose to return to Germany again?' Howard asked.
`Possibly. Depends on how things develop.'
`Come to ask you a favour, Tweed. To extract a promise from you.'
`What promise?'
`That when you return you take back-up.' Howard adjusted the plain navy blue display handkerchief in his breast pocket, swung his leg on to the floor and leaned forward. 'I suggest Harry Butler and Pete Nield. Both speak German. Both are good men to have in a tight corner.' He waved a large pink hand in a sweeping gesture. 'Don't care how you handle it. Take 'em with you. Send them on ahead. Up to you. As a favour to me,' he repeated. 'We're right in the shit on this one, aren't we?' He glanced towards Monica. 'Excuse my language.'
`I would say that sums it up, yes,' Tweed agreed, searching for a trap, finding none.
`Position is this. Correct me if I get it wrong. Fergusson went to Hamburg. I was taking a well-earned leave in France.' He smiled in a deprecating manner. 'Only five people knew Fergusson was going. Grey, Masterson, Lindemann, Dalby – and yourself. Fergusson gets the chop soon after arriving. One of our most experienced and cautious men. So they had to know he was coming. Which brings us back to the Frightful Four, one of them at any rate. Isn't that it?'
`That's it.'
`Of course, someone could have read the minute you recorded of the meeting…'
`Except that I deliberately made no mention of Fergusson's mission in it…'
`Highly irregular.' Howard smiled thinly. 'But the fact that you didn't proves someone's guilt up to the hilt. Pity is we've no idea who that someone is. And by the way, if you don't mind talking about it…' Howard sounded utterly weary and he paused, obviously expecting an objection from Tweed. He raised his thick eyebrows when none came and went on. 'I gather you've seen Masterson, Lindemann and Grey so far on home ground, so to speak. Any luck?'
`Too early to say.' Tweed noticed Howard's look of resignation, so he explained. 'When you visit three men in little more than twenty-four hours – in their homes, as you said – the mind takes in a vast number of impressions. It's only after thinking about it later, sorting wheat from chaff, that you know whether you heard – spotted – anything significant. I need longer,' he ended firmly.
`Fair do's.' Howard stood up, brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve, straightened his tie. He paused at the door before he opened it. 'And Butler and Nield will be in attendance?'
`Agreed.'
Monica waited until they were alone, then threw down her pencil with such force the point broke. She sat very erect, tucking in her blouse.
`All the years I've been here, I've never seen him like that.'
`He's worried.'
`Of course he's worried! He knows the PM wants to get shot of him. You refused to take over his job after the Procane business. When this thing breaks – when you find who it is – she'll boot him out..
She stopped talking when the door reopened, Howard came in again, closed the door. His manner was apologetic.
`When you find the weevil in the granary I suppose there's no way we can keep it from the press?'
`Let's see what happens,' Tweed replied in his most soothing manner.
`Leave it all to you. Let me know if I can help.'
`There!' Monica burst out when they were alone again. 'What did I tell you? He's sweating out his own position. And why did you agree to Butler and Nield joining you when you return to the continent?'
`Because I may genuinely need them. This thing is getting bigger all the time. And poor Bob Newman may be lost forever.' `If he's behind the Iron Curtain…'
`He's there, all right,' Tweed said grimly. 'I must go now and collect Diana. Time to beard the Dalby in his
