27
'Where to now?' Marler asked as they climbed into his car.
'British Embassy. I'll rout that fat slob, Patterson, out of bed if necessary.'
'Be it on your own head.' Marler nodded towards the clock on the dashboard. 'Eight in the morning here is six o'clock back in London. Who will be at Park Crescent apart from the guard?'
'Tweed would be my bet. I think he's reached the camp bed stage by now.'
They both knew what that meant. Tweed started investigating a fresh case slowly. Then the tempo built up. He unfolded the camp bed kept in his office and took up a permanent vigil at his desk, often working well into the night.
At the Embassy on Sofias Avenue Patterson greeted them in his shirt-sleeves, unshaven, sullen. He let them inside the hall without a word. No one else was about as Newman rubbed both hands together vigorously.
'The scrambler phone. It's an emergency.'
'When isn't it? And you might have shaved before invading the precincts of Her Majesty's Embassy.'
Ye Gods! Newman thought. How bloody pompous can you get? He grinned at Patterson. 'You look pretty rough yourself. Late night on the town?'
'I don't indulge. Like some people. I'll unlock the door
– you know the drill. He can't come with you.' He jerked his thumb at Marler.
Marler said nothing. He produced his Secret Service card, held it under Patterson's nose, withdrew it when Patterson reached for it. The official bit his lip, made no further comment, produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the door leading to the basement. Newman ran down the steps after switching on the light.
Marler pulled out a chair as Newman sat down and pulled the phone towards him. Upstairs Patterson slammed the door shut with great force. Newman pressed the red button, dialled the Park Crescent number.
'Who is calling?' Tweed's voice, very alert.
'Newman here. Sorry to call at this hour.'
'That's all right. Very glad to hear from you. I was worrying. I slept here, got up with the dawn. Paula's here
– she couldn't sleep and has just arrived. In case you need data taking down. Now, I'm listening…'
He listened without saying a word for ten minutes as. Newman reported everything that had happened since they last spoke – including the trip into Devil's Valley and how Marler had saved his life. Glancing across the table he saw Marler spread his hands in a What the hell gesture.
'You shouldn't have gone in alone,' Tweed told him.
'I know that now. OK, I'll behave in future. Nowhere tricky without my chaperon. Now you know the lot.'
'And maybe we've come a long way – with the information you've given me and what I've gleaned at this end. A lot more of the pieces in my hands. Now I have to try and fit them together. I'd better warn you, I'll be phoning Peter Sarris to try and stop him taking any action. Yet. I'll cover you. What's the next move you plan?'
'Grilling Christina again about her relationship and movements with Masterson. That's what I came out for -to find out what really happened to Masterson. It looks like the Greeks to me. Petros and his vendetta. He's mad as a hatter.'
'And dangerous. Tread carefully. He'll be turning Athens upside down to locate Christina. But don't be too sure you've got to the bottom of anything. Someone may be using Petros as a gigantic smokescreen – to divert our attention.'
'From what?' Newman asked.
'I don't know. Just a sixth sense. There are some pretty peculiar characters involved. Including a Professor Guy Seton-Charles. At the moment he's in the West Country, holds a position at Bristol University. But he takes seminars at the university in Athens. Greek Studies.'
'Description?'
'Early sixties, looks younger. Slim build. Clean-shaven, thinning brown hair, Roman nose. About five feet eight. Intellectual type. Conceited manner. Most distinctive feature the rimless glasses he wears. Informal dress.'
'I'll recognize him. Early sixties again. So many of them are. Barrymore, Robson, Kearns, Florakis…'
'Which could be significant. Takes them back to World War Two – where all this started, I suspect. Another point about this Seton-Charles. He was stationed in the Antikhana Building in Cairo at the time of the Ionides murder.'
'A pattern is beginning to form,' Newman suggested.
'Yes, but it's like a kaleidoscope. New events shake it up, give a fresh picture. One more thing before I go. And warn Marler – he can be impulsive. Petros is a very dangerous man. That crazy business about the skeleton in the mine. I'm sure you're right. It is the remains of Andreas. Watch your step, both of you. And has something else struck you just before I go?'
'I expect not, since you phrase it like that.' 'From your description Florakis' land adjoins Petros' -that is a strange coincidence. Might be worth following up. But cautiously. Keep in touch…'
As Tweed put down the phone the door opened and Monica came in. She greeted Paula, took off her raincoat, said she would be making coffee for everyone. Tweed waited until she returned with the tray and asked for black coffee. He was still working on automatic pilot, struggling to throw off the remnants of sleep.
'I woke early,' Monica said as she filled their cups. 'It was all going round and round in my head.'
'I can give you more – enough to make your head spin. Newman just called…'
He gave them both a concise resume of the data Newman had provided. The two women listened intently. Paula made a few notes in her book. Monica absorbed it in her encyclopaedic memory. Tweed leaned back in his chair as he concluded.
'So what do you make of all that?'
'Florakis seems to be the key,' Paula said promptly. 'You've been looking for a link between Greece and England. The fact that he appears to be sending coded signals to somewhere here may be the missing link. That reference to Colonel Winter intrigues me. Colonel Barrymore?'
'Not necessarily…'
'But the thing I got from that tape recording Pete made of the conversation at The Luttrell Arms was Barrymore still treats his two companions as though he's in charge.'
'Colonel Winterton,' said Monica. The man Seton-Charles told you had handled the property transactions for that bungalow estate near Kearns' house. Colonel Winterton, who disappeared once all the properties were sold. The Invisible Man.'
'Have you contacted Pitlochry Insurance then?' Tweed enquired. They were the outfit which actually loaned the mortgages.'
'I managed to get through after you left yesterday afternoon. I had trouble getting the manager to part with the information. I used our General amp; Cumbria Insurance cover to get him to open up. Said we'd had an enquiry from a Colonel Winterton about a property deal, that he'd given Pitlochry as a reference and…'She began choking. 'Coffee… went down the wrong way.'
Paula jumped up, accompanied her to the ladies' room. Tweed sat thinking. The plate at the front entrance read General amp; Cumbria Insurance Co. The cover had worked well. They pretended to be a specialized company dealing with top security protection for private individuals of great wealth. Officially, they also dealt with kidnapping insurance, negotiating with the kidnappers if a client was snatched. This explained all the trips abroad made by Tweed and his sector chiefs. They were even a member of the insurance industry's association – to complete the cover. Monica came back with Paula, dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief.
'I'm all right now,' she said, sitting down behind her desk. 'I was telling you about Pitlochry. The manager said they'd found Colonel Winterton sound and businesslike. He confirmed that Winterton had simply acted as a middleman between clients buying those bungalows and Pitlochry supplying the mortgages.'
'He met him?'
'No, that was the odd thing. Odd to me. All the transactions were carried out by correspondence from the
