Both Tweed and Paula, notebook perched on her lap, asked for wine. Robson poured two glasses of Montrachet. Returning behind his desk, he produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe.
Tire away.'
'I'm checking details of a murder which took place over forty years ago,' Tweed began. 'During your stint of duty in the Middle East.'
'A long time ago, as you say – that grim business when we made that raid on Siros. Barrymore was in command, but you know that – just coming from his place. Why has it become important now?'
'Because someone else investigating it has just been murdered. Ever met Harry Masterson?'
Robson's thumb, tamping tobacco in the bowl, remained poised for a second or two. Paula saw the pause. Cautious was a word Barrymore had used, describing Robson.
'Yes, he visited me. Jolly sort of cove. Life and soul of the party type. Asked some rum questions. What on earth is going on? 'Just been murdered,' you said.'
That is what I am trying to find out. Could you tell me in your own words what did happen on Siros?'
'Who else's words would I use?' Robson smiled drily.
'And if you don't mind, Miss Grey will record your statement – for the record.'
'Of course not. Certainly she may. Special Branch. You have a system, I suppose. One thing I am entitled to, I assume. A copy of the statement. Siros.' He settled himself at ease in his chair, lit his pipe, watching Tweed from beneath his upswept eyebrows, his light blue eyes thoughtful. What a contrast to Barrymore, Paula thought: he's the soul of relaxation. And his house reflects his informal personality.
'Siros,' Robson repeated, puffed at the pipe, 'the main island in the Cyclades group. Shaped like a boomerang, a huge one. Steep cliffs along the southern coast – rising up to Mount Ida. Same name as the tallest mountain on Crete. No idea why. Siros was the headquarters of General Hugo Geiger, who commanded the German troops occupying the Cyclades…'
'Is Geiger still alive?' Tweed interjected.
'No idea. Bit long in the tooth by now if he is. Like our little group. Now… The Greek Resistance had made its own HQ on Siros. They thought hiding under the Germans' noses was a smart tactic. We were carrying a fortune in diamonds to hand over to the Resistance.. .'
'Who is 'we'?'
'The colonel, of course. Myself. You wouldn't think I was a commando in those days. I'm a doctor. The Resistance lot were short of medical help. Plus CSM Kearns, stout fellow. Lastly, the Greek, Gavalas. He was to be the contact with his own people. He'd escaped to Cairo. He was the one who carried the diamonds. To cut a long story short, we landed from the motor launch at night on the southern shore, made our way up a difficult defile cut in the mountainside – where the Germans would least expect a landing. It was wild terrain. Someone – can't remember who – sounded the alarm. German patrol. Every man for himself in that situation. We scattered, later reassembled at an agreed rendezvous – and Gavalas was missing.'
'He'd handed over those diamonds?'
'No one knew. Unlikely. That rendezvous was several miles away on the northern slopes of Mount Ida. We were still to the south. We started searching for Gavalas. It was pretty dramatic – horrific. Barrymore found him. Dead. A knife sticking out from under his left shoulder blade. And the diamonds had gone. We headed back for the rendezvous with the motor launch due to take us off. Nothing else to do.'
'And the knife?' Tweed prodded gently.
'That made it more horrific. A commando knife. The colonel checked us. We all still had our own knives - including the colonel. Later we wondered whether the knife had been taken off one of the two earlier teams which had perished while raiding Siros.'
'Who by?'
'Could have been one of the Greek Resistance. Even a German soldier. Someone must have had quite a collection. There were six commandos who died on Siros.'
'And the value of those diamonds?' Tweed asked.
'A hundred thousand pounds. Wartime value.' Robson tamped his pipe, glanced at Paula writing in shorthand.
'One more question before we go, if I may. Could you please give me your assessment of the characters and temperaments of Barrymore and Kearns?'
'We make a good team. Kearns has a place on the way to Simonsbath, a stone's throw from here. The colonel is decisive, ice-cold in an emergency. The most controlled man I've ever known. Remarkable. Always ready for any danger, however outlandish. Never lets up his guard.'
'And Kearns?'
'A natural CSM. Very young in those days. Weren't we all? Your legendary man of action. But an excellent planner as well. The two don't usually go together. Could always see three moves ahead in the game. Still can. I think that sums them up. More wine?'
'Thank you, but I think we've taken up enough of your time.' Tweed stood up. 'Could I possibly visit your loo?'
'Of course. Remiss of me not to show you when you arrived.'
When he strolled back into the room Paula had slid her notebook inside her shoulder bag and was standing close to the picture window. Pete Nield would be out there watching and she was trying to signal to him they were leaving. Robson padded across and joined her by the window.
'I'm a lifelong bachelor,' he remarked, fiddling with his dead pipe. 'Not from choice. Once I was madly in love with a debutante. Can you imagine that?'
'Yes, I can. What happened, if I may ask?'
'Why not? It was all a long time ago. I thought my feelings for her were reciprocated. She left me standing at the church. Sounds like an old joke, but it happened. A telegram arrived. Sorry, Oliver. It won't work. Very sorry. Diana. And Diana was a Greek goddess in mythology. Went off and married a baronet. Rather put me off women. Present company excluded.'
'It must have been an awful blow.'
'It was a bit. She was a silly girl.' He made the comment with such vehemence Paula glanced at him. The eyes were like stones, the mouth twisted in an expression of bitter irony. 'Her baronet hadn't a penny. Had to take a job…'
Thank you for being so helpful,' said Tweed as he returned and stood on the other side of Robson. He tapped the long thin picture window. 'Good view by day, I imagine.'
'Yes, it is. A lookout point over the moor. As to helping you, my pleasure. I'll show you out.'
'You keep your home beautifully warm,' said Paula. It was the first remark which came into her head and she sensed Robson was embarrassed by his display of emotion.
'It has to be oil-fired central heating out here. Tricky during the oil crisis. We practically lived in this room. The log fire…'
In the hall the pump-action shotgun was perched in an umbrella stand, the twin barrels pointing at the ceiling. Ready to hand for the next caller, Tweed noted.
The door closed behind them and they climbed into the car. Before starting the engine Tweed looked back at the bungalow, at the security cameras. The viewing screen must be in a room he hadn't seen. 'Something odd about this place,' he said as he reached to turn on the ignition and then leant back. 'Look at the roof, the far end of the long stem on the bungalow. We couldn't see it when we arrived because of the dark and the glare of those searchlights.'
Paula stared through the windscreen. Projecting above the roof of the bungalow rose a wide circular column which reminded her of a lighthouse. Even more so because at the top was a circular rail and behind it the column was made of glass. She expected at any moment to see a slowly revolving light.
The moon came up while we were inside,' Tweed pointed out. 'Which is why we can see it clearly now. It's like a watch tower. Mind you, when I went to the loo his sister, May, took me the full length of the bungalow behind the sitting room to the main bathroom. On the walls are fishing nets with those glass balls suspended they use to keep nets afloat close to the surface. And fishing rods crossed like swords. Very much a man of the sea, Captain Robson.'
There's someone inside the lighthouse. I can see his shadow against the moonlight.'
