He was, Monica realized, conducting in reverse an exercise he'd often carried out with her. At a certain point of an operation he would sum up the main points, using Monica to bounce off his ideas, to test their relevance. With Paula he was listening to how she saw the situation
– seeking a key element they had overlooked. Something simple; maybe a factor which didn't fit what they knew. Paula went on.
'We have met Barrymore, Robson and Kearns – the three men who were with Andreas when he was killed. The same three men were back in Cairo when Stephen was brutally murdered at the Antikhana Building. Both victims were brothers. It really stretches the long arm of coincidence to breaking-point – that the commando trio were in the vicinity of two murders. OK so far?'
'Go on…' Tweed had relaxed, listening with his eyes dosed as he visualized what she was saying.
'Now we have two odd complications – which don't link up with what I've said so far. The mysterious disappearance of Andreas' body from Siros the night he was killed. And the arrival of Anton Gavalas on Exmoor making enquiries about the ex-commandos.'
'Something else odd about Anton,' Tweed pointed out. 'The way he vanished without leaving a trace of the route he used. We checked with the harbourmaster at Watchet. No ship left for anywhere when Anton pulled off his vanishing act.'
'Anything in Partridge's notebook?' Paula asked.
'Yes. According to Partridge Anton is well-educated and speaks fluent English. Yet Newman told me his nephews
– Dimitrios and Constantine – are peasant types. And what game is Anton playing? In his notebook Partridge records Anton is a lone wolf with plenty of money at his disposal. Newman also said Christina hadn't mentioned Anton. They seem to want him to be the invisible man.' He paused and Monica asked who 'they' were.
'That is what we need-to find out. Anton could be acting independently of old Petros. This vendetta business is complex, reeks of a long and dangerous hatred. You know, I'm getting the impression someone is using the vendetta as a smokescreen – to hide something far more deadly. And who killed Masterson?'
It was Saturday night at The Luttrell Arms in Dunster. They always dined together on Saturdays. At the corner table at the far end of the dining room Colonel Barrymore occupied a seat facing the room with his back to the wall. Dr Robson sat beside him while Reams was seated opposite the two men. They were at the coffee stage.
'Another large Scotch,' Robson called out.
'Of course, sir. Coming right away,' the manager assured him as he passed their table.
'Pushing the boat out a bit, aren't we?' Barrymore commented in a supercilious tone, glancing at his companion.
Robson's complexion had lost most of its suntan and was now a ruddy colour like a setting sunset It was his fourth double plus several glasses of Beaujolais. He stroked his thatch of brown hair, pulled at his straggle of a moustache, grinned amiably. As usual he was in high good humour.
'Thought we were here to enjoy the evening. Ever known me to be half seas over?'
'There's always a first time,' Barrymore continued in a lofty tone. 'And we have serious business to discuss. See that chap with the dark moustache, black hair, a hearing aid? Caught him watching Quarme Manor this morning. I challenged him.'
'You did?' Robson sounded amused and Barrymore glared at him. 'Where was he?'
'Up on the ridge behind the manor. Riding a horse.'
'Free country – in case you've forgotten.' He chuckled. His blue eyes lit up as his drink arrived. 'Thank you.' Lifting the glass, he swallowed half the contents. That's better.' He turned to Barrymore. 'So what happened when you challenged the chappie? Sounds like the corporal of the guard.' He grinned at Kearns who stared back, blank- faced, ramrod-backed.
'Had the insolence to tell me he was bird-watching,' Barrymore continued. 'Hence the field glasses trained on Quarme Manor. Rode off pretty sharp, I can tell you.' His tone changed, became silky. 'Gentlemen, I smell trouble. There was the Greek you encountered, Kearns.'
'And how can you be sure he was Greek?' Robson chaffed the ex-CSM. 'Wearing his Evzone outfit, was he?'
'No laughing matter,' Barrymore snapped. 'Tell him,' he ordered Kearns.
'Well, sir,' Kearns began, gazing at the colonel, 'his appearance for one thing. Olive-skinned, the facial bone structure. I've seen enough of them to recognize the breed. When I spoke to him he replied in English but with a slight accent. Greek.'
'Not Bulgarian or Yugoslav?' Robson enquired. He grinned again, drank more whisky. 'Would you know the difference?'
'Yes, I think I would,' Kearns responded stiffly.
'And what was he doing? More bird-watching?'
'Said he was on holiday, that he liked wild places. Asked me the way to the nearest pub. Told him Simonsbath, miles away from where we met. To test him. Later I saw him riding down a gully towards Winsford. Which was the way to the nearest pub. See what I mean, sir?'
'He knew the moor, tried to pretend he didn't. That's what I want to talk about. The enemy could be closing in. Need to take more precautions.'
Barrymore sipped his cognac and Robson glanced at the balloon glass. 'Time I had one of those…'
Pete Nield, sitting with Harry Butler three tables away, adjusted his earpiece. A snappy dresser, he wore a navy blue business suit and a large jewelled tie-pin in his pale red tie. The tie-pin, shaped like a flower, was a directional microphone. The wire attached to it behind his striped shirt led to the miniaturized tape recorder in his jacket pocket. He spooned more fruit salad into his mouth as he listened.
Harry Butler, heavily built and clean-shaven, was dressed informally in a tweed sports jacket with leather elbow patches and a pair of grey slacks. He leaned over to whisper in Nield's 'good' ear.
'Reception OK?'
'Picking up every word,' Nield replied in an undertone and fingered his neat moustache.
The Engine Room wizards at Park Crescent had excelled themselves. Despite the presence of people at four other tables the directional mike was recording every word of the conversation at Barrymore's table. It had been easy for Nield to 'point' the microphone in the correct direction. A man fiddling with his tie-pin attracted no attention…
'You're not going to have a cognac on top of all you've had?' Barrymore enquired sardonically. 'You do have to drive home.'
'I'll get there.' Robson grinned again. 'I always do.' He signalled to the manager, pointing to the colonel's glass and then himself. The manager smiled, acknowledging the request. 'The other chappie,' Robson continued, 'the bigger one with the thin one you challenged…' His tone was mocking. 'Was he on the moor as well?'
'Never seen him before. As I was saying…'
'Had the thin one that hearing aid when you met him?' Robson persisted with the geniality of a man who has imbibed well.
Barrymore frowned, trying to recall the scene. 'Don't think he had. But he wouldn't need it, would he? Not out on the moor. Nov., for the third time. I think we should review our defences. Too many people poking around. There was that Tweed who barged in on us all.'
'Special Branch,' Reams remarked. T thought that rather strange. Despite the yarn he spun. Seemed to me he had an ulterior motive for calling on me. That man worried me.'
'Oh, just one of the horde of bureaucrats justifying his fat salary at the expense of the taxpayer.' Barrymore waved a languid hand. 'Wish I'd had him in the battalion. He'd have had to jump to it.'
'I suspect, sir,' Kearns persisted quietly, 'Tweed has had a spell in the Army. Something about his manner. And he'd done his homework. Knew about the raid on Siros. And the murder of that Greek chap, Ionides, at the Antikhana…'
'Hardly relevant.' Barrymore made a dismissive gesture.
'Are you certain, sir? Did anything strike you as weird about that body they brought down off the moor at Winsford?'
'Should it have?' The colonel was clipping the tip from a cigar. He lit it with a bookmatch as Kearns
