Gomez, skipper of the freighter Oporto, was well-organized. A short fat jolly man, he helped to bring the canvas-wrapped cargo aboard up a gangway lowered on the far side from the jetty where his ship was moored. Anton waited until Carlos was guiding his fishing vessel back to Cascais, then handed Gomez the envelope containing ?10,000 in Swiss banknotes.
'The same amount as before. Where is the crew?'
'Below decks. I invented work for them when I saw Carlos coming. What they don't see, they don't know. Better I hide this in a safe place?'
'Very safe.' He knew Gomez would assume he was smuggling drugs. 'When do you sail? I have to complete some business.'
'At dawn the day after tomorrow.' He checked his watch. 'It is eleven-thirty. Yes, not tomorrow, the day after. That is OK?'
'Perfectly.' Anton, holding his executive case, decided to take it with him. He had to return to The Ritz, act normally, sleep there, have breakfast, then pay his bill. 'I would prefer it if I could slip aboard tomorrow and stay under cover until you sail.'
'What time? Your cabin is ready now.'
'Probably about midday. You can time arrival at our destination as you did when you took me before? At eleven o'clock at night? Again someone will be waiting to take me ashore.'
'There is a problem.' Gomez, his weatherbeaten face making him look more like sixty than forty, scratched his head. 'Last time I told the harbourmaster at Watchet we had engine trouble. Ah! I have it. This time, after you leave us, we will steam back a way down the Bristol Channel, turn round, and berth during the morning.'
'I'm counting on you.'
'Of course. You will be put ashore at Porlock Weir just as you were before.'
37
'I've never seen anything like this place,' Tweed said as they walked out of The Anchor. He had Paula on one side, Butler on the other, 'It's fascinating. A tiny world on its own.'
Tweed had driven down with Paula to Porlock Weir after he had warned Butler they were coming. 'Book us two rooms at The Anchor,' he had told Butler. 'I want to avoid The Luttrell Arms in Dunster this time. The idea is to surprise Barrymore and Co. You said they've all returned to Exmoor?'
Butler had confirmed the three men had arrived back the previous day. As they left The Anchor after a satisfying lunch he explained.
'Nield and I each have our own hired cars. We spent our time touring the whole area, checking for any sign of life at their residences. We split up, went to pubs to catch any gossip. It's common knowledge the three men took a trip away from Exmoor. You can't go to the loo down here without everyone knowing. Nield is out having another look-see.'
They crossed a narrow wired-fenced footbridge over seventeen-feet lock gates. A notice warned, Closed Spring Tide. Tweed paused, gazing at the oyster-shaped harbour behind the gates. Low tide. The harbour was a basin of sodden mud. A trickle of water ran under the footbridge out of the basin. Expensive power cruisers, moored to buoys, heeled over at drunken angles.
No one else was about as they followed a footpath past a small row of three terraced houses; all of them old, one with a thatched roof. Beyond, a shoal of pebbles led steeply down to a calm grey sea. Tweed stopped, taking in the atmosphere.
He looked back at the gabled hotel which was combined with The Ship Inn. Gulls drifted in the overcast sky, crying mournfully. Behind the coast the hillside, covered with dense trees, climbed. To the west the rocky coast stretched away and everywhere was a feeling of desolation.
'A quiet hideaway,' Tweed commented. 'Like the end of the world.'
'That reminds me.' Paula sounded excited as she delved inside her handbag. 'I found this in a pocket in my suitcase when I was packing to come down here. A brochure I picked up at The Luttrell Arms.'
She handed him a coloured brochure headed Take the West Somerset Railway to Minehead. Below was a picture of an old-fashioned steam train. He opened it up and looked at the map inside as Butler peered over his shoulder.
The steam train started at Minehead, ran along the coast through the port of Watchet and later turned inland over the Quantock Hills, ending at Taunton. It began running on 29 March and shut down for winter on 29 October.
' Endstation. ' said Paula. 'That clue Masterson gave you inside the cigar box he posted from Athens. He was drawing your attention to that old privately run railway.'
'And which is Endstation?' Tweed asked. 'Minehead or Taunton?'
'No idea. Don't you think I'm right?'
'Maybe.' Tweed folded up the brochure, handed it back to her. 'Hang on to it. It goes through Watchet, I see. The port where Anton probably came ashore from that Portuguese freighter.'
'Except he didn't,' Butler said. 'I checked that out. A two-storey building looking straight down on the harbour there is Customs and the harbourmaster. I followed him into a pub and got chatting. Told him a cock-and-bull story about how a friend had boasted he'd come ashore from that freighter without being spotted. The harbourmaster said bullshit. They keep a sharp lookout for suspicious characters trying to sneak ashore. It's this drugs problem. He was a solid ex-seaman type. Said it was impossible. I believe him.'
'Another theory gone down the drain. Let's wander west along the coast a bit. Looks pretty lonely.'
Butler led the way back across the footbridge and they walked down a road a short distance. It stopped abruptly and they had to pick their way across a treacherous surface of pebbles and small rocks.
'It really is the end of the world out here,' Tweed remarked.
'Maybe that's what Masterson meant when he wrote Endstation,' Butler suggested. Wearing a thick woollen pullover as protection against the damp sea mist drifting in, he walked with his hands inside his trouser pockets. There's an old dear back in one of those cottages who says she's seen ghosts – and lights flashing late at night. The barman told me so I called on her. A Mrs Larcombe. In her late seventies, but sharp as a tack.'
'I don't think you're right,' Paula objected. ' Endstation is one of those two terminal stations on that railway -Taunton or Minehead.'
'What's got into him?' Butler asked her.
Tweed was striding ahead, peering at the ground, his Burberry collar buttoned to the neck. He seemed totally absorbed in his thoughts.
Paula told Butler about the death of Jill Kearns. He listened as she explained Monica's anxiety about Tweed becoming obsessed. 'And now his mind is full of three deaths,' she went on. 'Masterson's, of course, and Sam Partridge and Jill.'
'Don't see how they link up. One in Greece, one on Exmoor, one in London.'
'That's what he's trying to do – link them all together. Drop the subject, he's coming back…'
'I found traces of a wheeled vehicle,' Tweed announced. 'In a patch where sand showed.'
'No vehicle would cross that terrain,' commented Butler.
'And on the way back, could we call on Mrs Larcombe if she's at home? I'd like a word with her…'
The cottage was built of stone, roofed with red tiles mellowed by the years. Swagged lace curtains draped the windows, the front garden was barely three feet wide but the lavender borders were trimmed and there was not a weed in sight.
Approaching the cottage, Tweed noted there was an end window facing west where he had walked. Butler raised the highly polished brass knocker shaped like a dolphin and rapped it twice. A nameboard on the picket gate carried the legend Dolphin Cottage.
A tall sharp-faced woman opened the door. Her nose was prominent, she was long-jawed, her eyes alert, her mass of hair grey neatly brushed. Butler spoke to her for a moment, then gestured for Tweed and Paula to enter. Mrs Larcombe led them into what she called 'the parlour', invited them to sit down and Butler made the introductions.
