was a misunderstanding at The Bluebell. You must realize, sir, the villagers are simple souls. May I ask where you are going?'
'Here.' Newman opened the right-hand side of the double gate at the entrance. He veered off the mossy path, making for the back of the church, glancing down. In daylight he could see very clearly the deep ruts impressed in the grass Tweed had seen. A wide tyre span, indicating a heavy vehicle. The grooves wound their way round the back of the church, ending at the entrance to the mausoleum erected to Sir John Leinster.
'A distant ancestor of mine, Sir John Leinster,' Newman remarked, his hands on the closed gates leading to the large stone building. The new padlock Tweed had spoken of had been replaced by a heavy ancient version.
'Oh, really?' Dr Portch commented in his bland voice. 'I find that strange. So far as I know he left no issue.'
'My family tree – drawn up by a professional genealogist – says different.'
Some of the moss down the centre of the steps leading to the tomb was shrivelled and brown. It gave the impression it had been disturbed, then replaced. Newman turned suddenly and stared at Dr Portch. Grimes stood behind him.
'Have you seen all you want to, sir?' Portch was smiling but the smile did not reach the glazed eyes. He adjusted the cloak and shuffled his feet.
'They be friends of that stranger who came here. Sneed,' said Grimes.
'Dr Portch,' Newman remarked. 'A most unusual name. I seem to have come across it before. Not recently. In the newspapers could it have been?'
The glazed eyes became opaque. Portch stood motionless. Newman lit a cigarette and waited. In no hurry. Then Portch smiled again, clasped his hands in front of him. Like a priest. 'I hope you've enjoyed your visit to our little community.'
Time of my life. Harry, getting dark. Time to push off.'
He walked off without a backward glance at a brisk pace. He kept it up, Butler alongside, until they had reached the car. Unlocking it, he got behind the wheel, fastened his seat-belt, started the car as Butler fixed his own belt, drove off round the curve and through the open gate.
'Gave him a bit of a turn,' Butler remarked.
'Which was the idea.'
Glancing in the wing mirror, he saw the road behind was empty as he pulled up alongside Nield waiting in the Mercedes. He opened the window and called out.
'Pete, drive after us until we hit the highway. Then find a place where you can watch the exit from this side road. If a car comes from Cockley Ford, follow it…' He gave a description of Dr Portch and drove on.
**
Nield had opened a gate leading off the highway, backed the Mercedes into a field, and ten minutes later saw the lights of a car coming from Cockley Ford. He'd spent his time in checking his map of Norfolk and now all the routes from this area were impressed on his mind.
The Vauxhall emerged on to the highway, turned right and moved at speed north along the highway. 'You're headed for Swaffham, matey,' Nield said to himself, keeping well back as he followed. At this speed he guessed the Vauxhall would be keeping on the main highway for some distance. He was right.
At Swaffham the Vauxhall stopped, a man got out, leaving the motor running, went into a pub. Nield nodded to himself. Dr Portch. Fitted the description perfectly. Portch came out carrying a squat bottle, climbed back into his car, took a swig. 'Brandy, I'll bet,' Nield whispered. 'You're all shook up, you are. Could be interesting, this. ..'
Portch followed the highway through the night to Faken-ham. Here he turned on to the B1355. A sports car flashed past Nield, inserted itself between the Mercedes and the Vauxhall. Useful camouflage. The three cars whipped along the winding road, turned west on to the A149. The coast road.
Nield recognized the road from their journey along it from Blakeney that morning. He had an excellent memory for any route when he'd passed over it once. 'You're heading for Brancaster, my friend,' he thought. 'Yes, this could be interesting, very interesting indeed.'
The outskirts of Brancaster was a line of isolated cottages separated from each other by hedges. The sports car overtook as Portch turned into a drive. Nield went on past the drive, found a grass verge, parked, walked back.
He had trouble reading the lopsided sign outside the cottage where Portch had parked. The cottage looked tumbledown, the garden was knee-high in uncut lawn, the paved path a mass of weeds between the stones. He had to use a torch to make out the lettering. Crag Cove.
Lights were on in the front room behind drawn curtains. He walked along the highway past two cottages and went up to the front door of the third. Knocking on the door, he stood well back in case it was a woman who lived alone. It wasn't. The door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a rumpled pullover and uncreased slacks.
'Very sorry to bother you at this time of night,' Nield began, 'but I'm lost. I have to deliver an urgent package to an address in Brancaster. Trouble is the address is smeared. Looks like Crag Cove but I can't read the name.'
'Oh, him.' The man's tone was indifferent, almost hostile. 'Keeps himself to himself, he does. Crag Cove? Three doors up to your left at the end of my path. Seaman type called Caleb Fox. Got it?'
'Yes, indeed, I have got it,' said Nield. 'You have been most helpful.'
22
The marksman known as 'The Monk' drove just inside the speed limit as they headed through the night towards Rheims. Klein sat beside him, still smarting under Marler's insistence that he would drive.
But Marler had the reputation of being the finest killer with a rifle in Western Europe. He was 'credited' with the shooting of Oskar Graf von Krull, the German banker who had helped finance an army of private informants to track down Baader-Meinhof.
Another of his kills had been an Italian chief of police at the behest of the Mafia. And always he had an unbreakable alibi. He was officially in France every time he carried out a 'commission'. His fees were enormous but he guaranteed results.
Klein studied the Englishman as they approached Rheims. His researches into the Englishman's background had proved difficult. Plenty of rumours through underworld contacts but nothing concrete. Klein didn't know as much about him as he would have liked – but that was a tribute to the man's ability, and he was an independent-minded bastard.
Marler was in his thirties, a slim man of medium height, clean-shaven with a determined jaw. His smooth face was frequently creased in a half-smile which did not reach his brown eyes. His hair was flaxen-coloured, but seen from the back he had a small bald patch over his pink crown. Hence his nickname, The Monk.
He spoke with a public school accent, his voice light in tone. He always appeared calm and under complete self-control. He had proved himself a crack shot at Bisley – Klein knew that much. There had been talk of an embezzlement, which had shut out the world of business to him.
His father – now dead in a road accident – had been a famous racing driver. The nationality of his mother was obscure. He had a flair for speaking foreign languages -which was probably why he had settled in France. He seemed to have no permanent residence, flitting from one country to another.
'He is what they call a soldier of fortune,' a Corsican in Paris had told Klein. 'A man who will do anything for money. He has expensive tastes. He likes expensive women, I hear.'
Klein's careful preliminary investigation before approaching The Monk only told him Marler had a short-term lease on a good apartment in the upper-class Parisian district of Passy. Discreet enquiries revealed he spent very little time there.
