'Jolly comfortable back here. Nice to see how the other half lives.'
'Masterson came down to Exmoor with the Greek girl,
Christina. All three men involved in a raid over forty years ago on Siros, a German-occupied Greek island, are living on Exmoor. Harry Masterson, I'm sure, knew that. From Christina…'
'Assumption,' interjected Paula.
'Listen! Our main task is to interrogate all three men. And every word said by these men is important. One of them may let something slip. There was something very peculiar about that raid on Siros. Now, Paula, you were there when Barrymore gave his version.'
'Well, he was very suntanned,' she said slowly. 'So he could have just come back from Greece…'
'Now we're getting warmer. You see, Pete, this Colonel Barrymore has a terse way of speaking. Typical Army officer. But when Paula remarked on his suntan he became positively loquacious – explaining at some length how he'd been to the Caribbean. No specific mention of locales. It was the only time he really opened up.'
'You mean he was lying?' Pete asked.
'Paula, when we get back to London, will type out the transcript of each of the three men's statements – including their description of what happened on Siros. You can read them, decide for yourself.'
'You also asked his opinion of the other two men,' Paula recalled. 'I couldn't see the point.'
'In the end the whole thing may hang on the psychology of these three men. Would one of them be capable of murder? And did you notice,' he asked Paula, 'that when I mentioned a murder, Barrymore said, 'Which murder?' It sounded to me as though he was thinking of more than one murder. Who else could he be thinking of besides Andreas Gavalas who accompanied them on the Siros raid?'
'Harry Masterson?' suggested Nield.
'Or possibly a third murder over forty years ago – mentioned briefly to me at the Ministry of Defence. Back to your car, Pete. We must tackle our next member of the trio.'
'Who is that?' asked Paula as Pete left the Mercedes.
'Captain Oliver Robson. He lives the other side of Oare. I was given directions at that pub at Culbone. Robson calls there for a pint occasionally…'
11
After the gloomy Quarme Manor the modern L-shaped bungalow perched on the hillside in the dark looked to be out of another world. Which, Tweed reflected as he stopped the car, in fact it was. A wild leap from the fifteenth century into the twentieth.
The residence was a blaze of lights, standing at the top of a tarred drive above the lane. A wide stone-paved terrace ran the full width of the frontage. Ornamental lanterns were placed at intervals along a stone wall below the terrace, shedding light over the long slope of rough-cut grass to the hedge by the lane. The white-painted gate was open.
Tweed studied the large bungalow carefully. Curtains were drawn back but it was impossible to see inside the picture windows from below. Searchlight beams flooded the night from each corner, illuminating all approaches. He drove in through the entrance slowly, glancing to left and right.
'They'll know we're coming,' he commented.
'They'll hear the car, you mean?' Paula asked.
'No. In each of the gateposts there are photo-electric cells. As we drove through that invitingly open gateway we broke a beam. It will have set off an alarm inside the bungalow.'
'I suppose it's wise to take precautions – living in such an isolated position on the edge of the moor.'
'Including spy cameras projecting from under the eaves? Every possible kind of security measure has been installed. I begin to see something Colonel Barrymore and Captain Robson have in common. When I trudged round Quarme Manor before going up to the front entrance I noticed the high walls were topped with barbed wire. And a straight wire ran beneath it. Electrified, I'm sure. Remember all the security precautions on the front door? Both places are like fortresses.'
'That's what the owners have in common?'
'No. Both of them are scared stiff of dangerous intruders. To an almost pathological extent it appears…'
He stopped speaking. He had parked the car at the top of the drive. The front door opened. Framed in the dark opening – the lights inside had been switched off – stood the silhouette of a man. Holding a pump-action shotgun. Aimed at the Mercedes point blank.
'I'll sort him out,' said Tweed.
'God! What a welcome,' whispered Paula. 'Worse than Quarme Manor. ..'
'Good evening.' Tweed had lowered his window. 'We are looking for Captain Robson. It says Endpoint on the name plate.'
'Who are you? What do you want?'
A trace of Scots accent. The voice clear, level in tone, controlled.
'Special Branch. My name is Tweed. We have just called on Colonel Barrymore…'
Tweed made it sound as though Barrymore had led them to Endpoint. He waited for a reaction, said no more. Silence is a potent weapon.
'You'd better come in then.' The shotgun was lowered, still held ready for action as they alighted from the car and walked across the terrace. 'You have some identification?'
'Just about to show you. I'm taking my card out of my pocket.. .'
'It is very lonely out here. There have been two attempts to break in to my home. I'm Robson.'
As he looked at the card, shotgun tucked under his arm, Tweed studied Robson. Medium height, heavily built, but all of it muscle and bone, he was about the same age as Barrymore. And like the colonel his skin was deeply suntanned. The top of his rounded head was covered with an untidy thatch of brown hair and he had a straggly moustache of the same colour. Clad in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his shirt was open-necked, but his well-worn grey slacks had a razor-edged crease.
'Better come in, I suppose.' He handed back the card. 'Special Branch? Sure you've got the right man? Let's go and make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room.'
'Oh, this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed introduced.
'Welcome.'
Robson hardly gave her a glance as he closed the door and walked across a hall towards an open door. A brown-haired woman of about the same age appeared wearing an apron over her dress.
'Who is it, Oliver?'
Tweed detected a note of anxiety in her voice. White-faced, she had an air of bustle. Robson gestured towards her.
'My sister, May. Looks after me. Keeps the place going. Be lost without her. It's all right, May. Barrymore sent them along. We'll chat in the sitting room.' The moment she entered the hall the warmth hit Paula. Two old- fashioned radiators stood against the painted walls. The sitting room was long and large with a Wilton carpet wall to wail. Cosy-looking armchairs and couches were spread about and a log fire crackled beneath a huge burnished copper hood. 'Do take a pew, anywhere you like. This is my work room, too.'
He sat in an old swivel chair behind a desk with a scruffed top. A tumbler of something which looked like whisky stood next to a pile of newspapers. Robson stood up as they sat down.
'I'm forgetting my manners. What would you like to drink? I can do Scotch, white wine if you prefer…'
Paula had sat down close to him near the end of the desk. He stared suddenly as she adjusted the bracelet round her wrist. His right hand jerked, knocking over the tumbler. Liquid ran over the edge of the desk.
'Sorry. Damn careless of me…' He opened a drawer, took out a cloth and began mopping up the mess. 'Just back off holiday. Half here, half somewhere else.'
'I guessed that from your suntan,' Tweed remarked. 'You'd hardly have acquired that in this country. Go far?'
'Sailing off Morocco. Agadir and Casablanca. By myself. May can't stand the sea. Stayed back to guard the fort. Drinks?'
