'No need to be snide…'

'Merely stating a fact. You supported the idea of switching the airdrop of arms to the Communists. That right?'

'Yes. As I told you, they were really fighting the enemy – and London agreed Churchill himself took the decision, so I heard. Killing Germans was his main aim in life in those days…'

'And Ionides was the man you worked closely with,' Tweed guessed.

'I wrote the text for leaflets in English. Ionides translated them into perfect Greek. I wasn't up to that then. I didn't know him at all well. We worked through secretaries. Hardly ever spoke a word to him. Very close-mouthed, our Mr Ionides.'

'Who do you think killed him so savagely? And why?'

'No idea. My billet was an apartment in another part of Cairo. I wasn't there the night it happened.'

'Quite so.' Tweed gazed at the concrete wall beyond the window, switched the topic suddenly. 'Where do you live, Professor?'

'You do jump about…'

'Just answer the question, please.'

'I bought a bungalow on a new estate near Simonsbath on Exmoor. Rather exclusive…'

'You work here in Bristol, yet you live on Exmoor?' Tweed's tone expressed disbelief. 'Why?'

Seton-Charles sighed heavily as though his patience was wearing thin. He spoke as though explaining a simple point to a child. 'With the motorway a lot of people commute between a home on Exmoor and Bristol. Businessmen as well as university professors, amazing as it may seem. My hobby is walking. I like the open country, the moor. Would you like a list of some other people who live exactly as I do? Your assistant could take down names, help to fill out your report.'

'Might be helpful.' Tweed agreed equably. 'Plus the occupation or profession of everyone living on that bungalow estate.'

Seton-Charles' expression went blank. Something like venom flashed behind the glasses, then disappeared. Tweed was puzzled so he kept silent, forcing the other man to react.

'I don't know anyone on the estate,' the Professor snapped. 'I keep to myself. I take students' papers home to work on. Any free time I walk the moors, as I've already told you. I was referring to the bourgeoisie who live in luxury pads near Taunton.'

'That bungalow you live in must have cost a packet,' Tweed observed in the same level tone.

'I have a huge mortgage, if it's any concern of yours. The colonel was very helpful.'

The colonel?'

Tweed was careful not to look at Paula. He sensed she had frozen, pen poised in mid-air. Only for seconds then she relaxed as Tweed waited again. Seton-Charles was answering more slowly.

'Colonel Winterton. He owned the land the estate was built on – had some old barns pulled down. That was why he was permitted to build. With a restriction the houses should be one storey high.'

'Where can I find this Winterton?'

'No idea. I never met him. I dealt with his staff at an office he had in Taunton. It was a package deal – he arranged the mortgages where required. He was fussy about who he sold the properties to. You had to qualify.'

'How?' Tweed pressed.

'I don't know about the others. When he heard I was a professor in Greek Studies he accepted me. I think the other residents are brokers, solicitors – boring things like that. They leave for work before me, I get back when they've got home. We don't mix.'

'So you could give me the address of Winterton's office based in Taunton? I'd like that.'

'You're welcome to it. Except it's no longer there.'

'What do you mean? Stop playing the half-smart intellectual with me.'

'You don't know everything…' Seton-Charles paused. Paula could have sworn he changed like a chameleon, then recovered, changed back again. Something about the cold glint in the eyes. 'Once he'd sold all the properties he closed down the office and the whole outfit vanished.'

'Vanished?' Tweed's tone was sharp. 'Explain that.'

The staff weren't local. They disappeared. The rumour was that Winterton pocketed his profits and went to live abroad.'

The whole outfit didn't vanish,' Tweed objected. 'Who do you pay your mortgage interest and repayments to?'

'Oh, we found out that was handled by the Pitlochry Insurance Company. Winterton had simply acted as middleman, taken his commission. That's it. End of the trail.'

Was there a smug note in Seton-Charles' voice? Paula couldn't be certain. He sat behind the table, smooth- skinned hands linked together. Like a man satisfied he had closed all the loopholes.

'You visit Greece frequently?' Tweed said suddenly.

'I go to Athens spasmodically.' He was frowning as though he hadn't expected this thrust. 'I have links with the university there. Take seminars…'

'Your last visit was when?'

'A few weeks ago. I thought we started out with the murder of Ionides over forty years ago.'

'We did.' Tweed stood up. 'Which makes a good point at which to end our first interview.'

'Our first interview?'

That's what I said,' Tweed replied and walked out.

They waited in the Mercedes loaned by Newman, waited in the car park. Tweed sat behind the wheel, Paula stirred restlessly beside him. There was no one else about and they were hedged in by cars on either side.

'What do you think of him?' Paula asked. 'And why did you insult him with that half-smart intellectual crack? Not your normal style.'

'To rattle him. I think it worked. You don't know everything. He got that far and stopped what he had been going on to say. Something funny about that new estate of bungalows near where Kearns lives. And Pete Nield, who often hits the nail on the head, remarked that estate was the only thing he'd seen on Exmoor worth a cool million. Something like that.'

'Where is Pete? He followed us down here from Park Crescent as you suggested, then dropped out of sight.'

'He's parked in the Cortina up the road. Again as I suggested. I want to see if Seton-Charles takes the bait.'

'Don't understand.' She gave a rueful smile. 'Par for the course – working with you. I still don't see why there should be something funny about the bungalow estate.'

'There may not be – but Seton-Charles is an experienced lecturer, used to fielding the sort of questions I threw at him. He answered fairly tersely, then went out of his way to explain a lot about the estate. I don't think he liked my asking where he lived. Now, who have we here?'

'Professor Seton-Charles – and in one devil of a hurry.'

In the distance the Professor was wending his way among the army of parked vehicles. He carried a briefcase and his hair was flurried in a breeze. For a man in his sixties he moved with great agility.

'Maybe it has worked,' Tweed commented. 'Pressure. Everyone remembers the last thing you say. I mentioned this was the first interview, suggesting I'd be back. One odd thing about our conversation. He only made a brief comment on my reference to two more recent murders. The absence of something so often goes unnoticed.'

'Well I didn't notice it, but I was taking notes. Are you going all mysterious on me again?'

The absence of any later comment by the Professor. You'd expect almost anyone to come back to that – to ask again what I'd been talking about. Whose murders? He didn't

'He's getting into a Volvo station wagon. Do we follow?'

'No, too obvious…'

'He's a professor. His mind will probably be miles away while he's driving.'

'Scion-Charles,' Tweed told her, 'has a mind like a steel trap. He may have nothing to do with what we're looking for, but he has to be checked out. And carefully…'

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