'No, I didn't. We keep that quiet. I kept Newman away from the pathologist. That knife bothers me. Doesn't make sense.'
'The fact that he was drowned in the wine barrel first, then the knife was stuck in later? The lack of blood proves that.'
'Precisely. And it is an old British commando knife. The war museum has a specimen. I compared them. The knife in Giorgos is an exact replica. Macabre. Some kind of symbolic gesture?'
'Or something to put us off the real identity of the killer?'
'Could be. I just hope Newman doesn't go poking round in Devil's Valley. Petros Gavalas controls that area like some medieval baron.'
'And what about the number of accidents that have taken place in that area? Hikers and mountaineers who never come back?'
'I've never been able to pin anything on the old villain – but I'm certain his men tossed them over precipices. No one penetrates his territory and survives. He's the old school. Comes from Macedonia. They play rough up there. Yes, I do hope Newman gives that one a miss
…'
2 p.m. 90°F. 32°C. Newman was freshly shaved, showered, his brain was alert, he had eaten a large lunch in the hotel dining room with Marler and they had returned to his room with Nick who had arrived promptly.
'We're going into action,' Newman rapped out. 'We'll stir the pot, as Marler put it earlier. Not to make it simmer – I want it boiling over.'
'The weather is boiling over already,' Nick remarked as he mopped his forehead.
'We'll drive down towards Cape Sounion,' Newman went on. 'My bet is we'll be followed. That will confirm we are getting somewhere. We'll enquire at the main hotels in the coastal resorts to see if we can find where Masterson holed up. We'll ask openly about the Greek Key…'
'What is that?'asked Nick.'Sounds like a night club…'
'That is what we want to find out. And Christina will be in a rage after what happened. She may make a wrong move. Let's get to the car.' He picked up a large plastic bottle of mineral water and they left the room.
Nick ran ahead while Newman and Marler walked down the empty corridor. Newman never used elevators if they could be avoided, if a staircase were available: elevators could become traps.
'You know, Marler, I think we're missing something. Maybe something under our noses.'
'Why the doubts?'
'This mystery is full of twists, unexplained contradictions. Why was Christina aboard that yacht, Venus III, if she is supposed to hate its owner, her grandfather, Petros? Who is paying for that expensive apartment she has in Kolonaki? We must visit her there.' He corrected himself. 'I must visit her. She may tell me more than she told you.'
'I whetted your appetite,' Marler said cynically.
'What did Masterson find out that decided someone he had to be murdered? What was the link between him and Christina? Don't forget – they first met in London. Why did Masterson visit the Ministry of Defence to ask about that commando raid on Siros over forty years ago?'
'My head begins to spin…'
'I wish we had one man here who is a master when it comes to a manhunt, to untangling a complex web.'
'You mean…'
'Tweed. I miss Tweed…'.
9
A sea of grey unbroken cloud pressed down like a smothering blanket: not a hint of blue anywhere. A fine drizzle like a sea mist covered the desolate landscape, settled on the windscreen of the Mercedes 280E Tweed had borrowed from Newman. He drove slowly along the narrow country road elevated above the grim marshland on either side. Not a soul in sight. At two in the afternoon they had the dreary world to themselves.
'Are we going the right way?' Paula asked as she studied the ordnance survey map. 'I'm lost.' She glanced out of the window, settled in the front passenger seat beside Tweed.
'We're right in the middle of the Somerset Levels, the area Masterson noted down on a scrap of paper in the cigar box he sent from Athens,' Tweed remarked. 'This is where the sea used to flood in centuries ago. Now they cut peat. I want to get the atmosphere of this place.'
He stopped the car, but kept the engine running as he stared around at the bleakness. Paula, dressed in a windcheater and a blouse and pleated skirt, shivered.
'I find this place creepy. Look, there's some kind of a building over there under those willows.'
'One of the farms – the peat-cutting farms.'
Below the road there stretched a ditch full of stagnant water. Paula lowered her window and wrinkled her nose as an odour of decay drifted inside the car. She opened the door, stepped out to take a closer look.
The ditch was coated with an acidic green slime across its surface. Patches of black water showed here and there. In the distance stood the ramshackle building Tweed had called a farm. Its roof slanted at a crooked angle. Smoke curled up from a squat chimney. Another smell assailed her nostrils and again she crinkled them in disgust.
'That's the smell of peat. You can see this side of that farm where they're cutting it. And someone is coming…'
Tweed's grip on the wheel tightened as he stopped speaking. Paula turned again to look towards the collection of hovels he had called a farm. Two men were advancing towards them, one walking behind the other along a grassy path leading to where she stood.
Both wore stained old pea-jackets, grubby caps and muddy corduroy trousers stuffed into the tops of rubber boots. Each carried over his shoulder a long-handled implement. One was some kind of vicious-shaped hoe, the other a long spade more like an iron scoop. Both walked with steady intent, wide shoulders hunched, primitive faces staring at the intruders.
'Get in the car quick!' Tweed snapped. He had the car moving as she slammed the heavy door and then increased speed. Pauia let out her breath, a sigh of relief. Tweed started the windscreen wipers going.
'I didn't like the look of them at all,' Paula said. 'A couple of ugly customers,' Tweed agreed. 'The peat diggers are an enclosed community shut off from the outside world. I know this area well. Went to school at Blundell's near Tiverton. Hated every minute of it – like being in prison. During my spare time I used to cycle for miles – including round here. Pedalled like mad down this miserable road. Even then it frightened me.'
'Why cycle here then?' 'Kid stuff. Got a thrill out of scaring myself. You know something…' He glanced across the dank marshlands. 'This would be a good place to hide a body.' 'I'm glad you kept the engine running. There seem to be a lot of willows growing in this wilderness.'
'The other industry here. See those clumps growing by that ditch running away from the road? They're called withies. Shoots from pollarded willows. The osier-workers cut them and make wicker baskets to sell. Chairs, too. They can keep busy all the year round. When they've used up the withies and are waiting for next year's crop they dig up the peat. Goes way back over a couple of centuries. The Victorians were very keen on wickerwork.'
'And where are we?' She was studying the map again. 'I do hate to be lost.'
'Sign of a good navigator. Westonzoyland is probably the nearest point of civilization. We left the A372 and drove north. We're heading for the A39. We turn left on to that, head for Bridgwater and then west to Dunster via Watchet.' 'Got it. What was in that large package which arrived from Harry this morning with the Athens postmark?' 'Look in the glove compartment. Another mess of clues. And after glancing at them I haven't one. A clue. See what you make of it.'
She sifted the contents of the reinforced envelope with the address again written in Harry Masterson's distinctive hand. Pulling out something as Tweed switched on the headlights to warn any oncoming vehicle, she examined it and then unfastened a clip, wrapped it round her wrist, closed the clip.
'It's a girl's bracelet. Why would he send that?' she wondered.
