Ritz.'
'And how do I fill in my time?'
There it was, Klein thought. His universal problem -keeping the whole team occupied. The men in Holland were kept busy training – out in the wilds of the northern coast. Lara was getting impatient.
'Sometime during the week, check Cherbourg. It's quite a port. You can get there by train, of course. Let a few days pass, then make the trip. Now, wait here for a few minutes. I have to pay a call on someone.'
'I still haven't any idea of what I'm going to be asked to do later,' she reminded him.
'None of the others have either. Security. Worth the boredom, isn't it? A quarter of a million pounds? See you.'
Lara sat thinking as he disappeared down a walk between the buildings. Why was she doing this? She held the envelope in her hand. Another thousand pounds. Handed out like confetti.
It was her bitch of a step-mother, she decided. She wanted to show her what she could accomplish on her own. Life had been absolute hell since Lady Windermere arrived in her life. She'd done everything possible to drive her out of Eaton Square – so she could get a stronger grip on her new rich husband. In the end Lara had walked out in a flaming temper. Later she'd called her father and said she wanted to explore the world a bit. He'd approved of her wishing to make her own way.
And it was her sense of adventure. She knew the enterprise she'd undertaken was dangerous. Plus the fact that at first I couldn't keep my bloody hands off Klein, she thought. To take her mind off thoughts which didn't please her, she explored the back seat of the Volvo. Maybe find a clue as to what Klein was up to. Under a pile of newspapers she found a white pastry-cook's box. Some firm in Dinant, Belgium. The box had been opened. She lifted the lid.
Conques! Hard gingerbread baked in moulds which were often little masterpieces of woodcarvings. Shaped into cows, small houses, churches, other animals. She chose two of the little houses, closed the lid and replaced the box carefully. Klein wouldn't miss two – he'd already had a good go at the box.
Extracting a packet of large Kleenex tissues from her tote bag, she wrapped each couque and slipped them inside the bag. It was half an hour before Klein returned along the deserted walk. He climbed inside, closed the door, wrapped an arm round her, pulled her towards him and they kissed passionately. She was lost again. Almost.
It was the previous evening when Newman drove the Cortina up the narrow side road to Cockley Ford. Beside him Butler sat in his denims and windcheater, which made his frame look very bulky. Nield followed behind in the Mercedes.
As he passed the gated entrance to a field Newman slowed, waved a hand out of the window, drove on. In his rear-view mirror he saw Nield turn off the road, park the car at the entrance. Driving on, he used one hand to pull up higher the zip on his windcheater, to pat the pocket which held a walkie-talkie.
'Gate's closed,' Butler said in his laconic way.
'Tweed told us about that. And it's some electronic control system.'
'Not to worry.' Butler was taking a leather pouch out of his pocket as the car slowed, stopped. 'I've brought along a gadget which ought to fix it…'
Newman stared round as Butler walked to the gate, examined it, then checked the fence on either side. Inside two minutes he was pushing the gate wide open, walking back to the Cortina.
'I neutralized the alarm system, too. Funny business at the entrance to a village. You'd think it was Fort Knox.'
'Don't forget Tweed called himself Sneed when he was here,' Newman warned.
It was still daylight, a bright sunny evening as Newman drove round a bend lined with tall rhododendron bushes, saw The Bluebell on his left and pulled up in front of the pub after turning the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees.
'Set for a fast getaway,' he remarked as he turned off the engine, climbed out, locked the car and walked with Butler to the entrance.
Inside the large old-fashioned room there were four people. A long-jawed countryman sitting at a table drinking from a spirits glass; an unpleasant-looking woman with grey hair tied in a bun at the back who was knitting; an oddly faced youth, and the barman,
Ned Grimes, Mrs Sporne – postmistress – and Simple Eric, he guessed from Tweed's descriptions. Followed by Butler he marched aggressively up to the bar. A chair scraped on the wooden floor behind him and he glanced over his shoulder as he leaned his elbows on the counter. Grimes was standing now.
'Ow did you two get in 'ere?' Grimes rasped.
'Drove in, of course,' Newman snapped, turning back to the barman. Two small Scotches. Water. No ice.'
'You can't 'ave.' The broad-shouldered Grimes moved closer to Newman, his thin lips working. 'You can't 'ave,' he repeated. 'Gate's closed.'
'I said two Scotches, please,' Newman addressed the barman again. 'Shake a leg there. We haven't got all night.' He turned round, perched both elbow tips on the counter and stared at Grimes. 'Calling me a liar, mate? Who the hell are you?'
'Ned Grimes. Not that it's any of your business…'
'It is when you start talking stupid. Your ruddy gate is wide open. Why shouldn't it be? This a village or some kind of private club you're running?'
'Better watch it, chum,' Butler suggested mildly. 'My pal has a short fuse.'
'All right, all right…' Grimes backed away several paces. 'Just interested to know 'ow you found this place. Folk don't come here much.'
Newman was paying the barman. He handed Butler his glass, picked up his own, raised it in a brief salute. 'Down the hatch.' He turned his full attention on Grimes who was hovering between his own table and Simple Eric's.
'A friend of ours, chap with horn-rim glasses called Sneed, told us about this place. Satisfied now?'
'Sneed? That was the chap with a German car. Posh job. That was days and days ago.'
'What's that got to do with anything?' Newman demanded.
'You isn't sayin' you're lookin' for this Sneed 'ere? And you be Army men – some special unit I forgot the name of. That's who you are, ain't it?'
Newman stood up slowly from the bar, hands hanging loosely by his side. He whipped up one hand, pointed his index finger at Grimes like the barrel of a pistol.
'Anyone ever tell you you ask too many questions? And you may like to know – since you seem to want to know a lot – that one of my ancestors was Sir John Leinster. Sneed told me his tomb is in the churchyard. That's what I've come to see. Any more questions?'
Grimes stood quite still. Newman could see the indecision in his bony face. That was when the youth suddenly let out a whoop. 'Any more bodies? Any more bodies tonight?'
' Shut your face.' Grimes spaced out the words, then went up close to Eric and whispered something. He raised his voice. 'And do it now! '
'Harry,' Newman decided, 'time to go and look at that church.'
As he marched towards the exit he glanced at the grey-haired woman who was eyeing him savagely. She was knitting a Fair Isle pullover and the colours were hideous. 'Knitting for a baby elephant?' he asked amiably. The needles began click-clacking at a furious rate, her expression became venomous. Simple Eric had run out of the pub and when they emerged into the fresh air he had disappeared -in the direction of the cottages, Newman guessed.
Marching in step with Butler, Newman took the lead when they crossed a footbridge alongside a ford through a small stream. He heard Grimes' Gucci boots clumping across the planks behind them but didn't look back. They passed several cottages but there was no one about. More like a deserted village.
The church perched on its eminence was close when a tall man came out of the last cottage. Behind him Simple Eric was jumping up and down, flapping his arms as though he was an aircraft. The tall man hurried to catch up. Under his black wide-brimmed hat a hawk-like nose protruded and a pince-nez was perched on it. He wore some kind of dark cloak and reminded Newman of a bloody great crow.
'One moment, sir,' he called out as he caught up, walking alongside Butler, 'I am Dr Portch. I gather there
