14
Three people sat in what was known as the Garden Room – Tweed's bedroom with the door at the far end leading into the hotel's garden. It was elevated one storey above street level and at ten in the evening the curtain was closed over the locked door.
Paula sat in an armchair, her legs crossed, balancing a cup of coffee on her knee. On a couch Nield relaxed, nursing a glass of cognac. Only Tweed sat upright in a hard-backed chair. It helped his concentration.
'I think I'll pop off to bed, get an early night after all that riding,' Partridge had said as they left the dining room.
'So apparently there were two horsemen riding the moor while we were driving round,' Nield observed. 'Partridge was one, and the other is Mr X.'
'I was pretty mad when Partridge said he was the horseman behind Quarme Manor,' Paula reflected. 'Pointing that rifle at you – even if it was unloaded.'
'He used the telescopic sight to find out who I was,' Tweed reminded her. 'Must have had the shock of his life when he saw it was me.'
'But the other horseman near Reams' place tried to kill you,' Nield pointed out. 'It's Mr X we want to track down.'
'That story about the Gavalas family still carrying on a vendetta worries me,' Tweed said. 'And I don't like the sound of the grandfather, Petros, who – according to Partridge – rules the family with a rod of iron. Sounds like a real ruffian.'
'Would anyone still carry on a vendetta after all these years?' Paula objected.
'The Greeks have a strong family sense. And an equally strong sense of family honour,' Tweed told her. 'According to Partridge two sons of old Petros were murdered. He could still be looking for the killers – or killer. Newman and Marler, who know Greece well, could fill us in on that angle best. Maybe when they return they'll have news.'
'But there is still no news from Athens?' Paula enquired.
'Nothing. I called Monica at Park Crescent while you were tarting yourself up in your room.'
'Tarting?' Paula grinned mischievously. 'Well at least he does notice when I freshen myself up.' Her expression turned serious. 'None of what we've learned gives us any data on poor Harry Masterson…'
She broke off as someone knocked tentatively on the door. Nield was on his feet in seconds, gun in hand. 'I'll check that.'
Tweed was also on his feet. 'Crouch behind the bed,' he ordered Paula. Switching off the main light, leaving the room dimly illuminated by table lamps, he moved his chair against the wall and sat down again. Nield approached the door silent as a cat. He stood against the wall to one side, grasped the key in the lock, turned it with great care, took hold of the handle with his left hand, threw it open.
A startled Partridge, still dressed, stood in the doorway. He glanced to his left as Nield slid the gun out of sight. Tweed asked him to come in and Nield closed and relocked the door.
'Very wise,' Partridge commented. 'And sorry to bother you at this hour. But I found things whirling round in my mind, facts I hadn't told you. A man called Harry Master-son was murdered while I was paying a visit to Greece…'
'What about this Harry Masterson?' Tweed asked after room service had delivered coffee. It was going to be a long night.
'I couldn't find out anything about his background – but I did discover he was squiring Christina Gavalas – that is Petros' granddaughter. Apparently they flew to Athens together. So I began to poke around.'
'Why? If you didn't know this Masterson?'
'Because where he went over the cliff- at a place called Cape Sounion – is close to the entrance to what the locals call Devil's Valley. That's where Petros Gavalas has his farm and his headquarters. It's hidden away in the hills near an abandoned silver mine.'
'Rather a flimsy connection,' Tweed probed.
'You think so? Masterson was with Christina Gavalas -and Cape Sounion was the location of his murder.'
'How do you know Masterson was murdered? Evidence, Sam – have you evidence? Something about the state of the body?'
'No. Just found by a coastguard cutter on the lookout for drug traffickers as it rounded Cape Sounion. Master-son's body was lying on some rocks. He'd plunged down two or three hundred feet.'
'I'm still waiting to hear some evidence,' Tweed insisted.
'Some years ago at a crime seminar in Athens I met a Captain Sarris of Athens Homicide. I visited him on this latest trip. He told me in confidence they couldn't prove anything, but Sarris was convinced it was murder.'
'Why?'
'He'd observed Masterson somewhere. Said he simply wasn't the sort of man to stumble over the edge of a cliff. Do you mind if I light my pipe? After all, you'll be sleeping here…'
'Light up! You think better when you're smoking, Sam. I can open the door to the garden later. Anything else?'
'Yes. There's a Greek called Anton riding around on Exmoor – Anton Gavalas, son of Petros. By his second wife. There was a rumour he slipped ashore off a boat from Portugal at Watchet.'
Tweed leaned forward. 'How do you know about this Anton?'
'Sarris told me just before I left to fly home. They keep an eye on the Gavalas family. I visited the harbourmaster down at Watchet. He told me ships do arrive from Portugal delivering cork. They take back wastepaper for recycling – there's a paper mill at Watchet. Then I ran into a roadblock.'
'What kind of a roadblock?'
The harbourmaster. Got pretty indignant when I suggested maybe someone had slipped ashore without his knowledge. Pointed out his office overlooks the harbour.'
'You still think he came ashore illegally?'
'I phoned Jim Corcoran, Security Chief at London Airport. He checked all the passenger manifests – I'd hinted it might have something to do with drugs. No Anton Gavalas showed up. Maybe he flew in via somewhere like Manchester. Doubtful.'
'How could you know it was Anton?' Tweed pressed.
'Sarris showed me several photos of him.' Partridge looked surprised. 'Thought you'd be ahead of me there.'
'You remember how I used to be.' Tweed waved a dismissive hand. 'A stickler for precise facts. You've seen Anton, then? Here?'
'Riding across Exmoor. Doone Valley area. Using a monocular glass to study Barrymore's place, Quarme Manor. Then on to Dr Robson's bungalow. Same routine there. Later across country to Kearns' place. He knows where those three live.'
'And you know where this Anton is based?'
'No, dammit. And not for want ot irying.'
'I'd like his description – unless you have one of those photos.'
'Sarris wouldn't release any.' He closed his eyes, sucked at his pipe. 'Late thirties. Hair black as sin. Small moustache, same colour. Nose of a hawk – like Petros. About five feet six. Nasty piece of work would be my guess. First-rate horseman,'
'And how do you know that?' Tweed went on.
'Followed him. Saw him riding by chance when I was on the moor. Kept well out of sight but one day he caught me. A cunning type. I rode round a big crag arid there he was – waiting for me. Asked in a sneering way why I was following him. He speaks perfect English. Sarris told me he'd spent time at a riding school while in Germany. Somewhere in Bavaria. Close to the main railway line between Munich and Lindau on Lake Konstanz – facing Switzerland.'
'What on earth would this Anton be doing prowling round Exmoor?'
'Obviously sent by Petros to locate the three men who took part in that commando raid on Siros. Petros is still seeking vengeance on the man who killed his sons, Stephen and Andreas, all those years ago.'
