anywhere tonight. We'll see you for dinner. Go and relax.'
Thanks. You're still prowling?'
'We're calling on friend Kearns. If he's home.'
'He is. I saw him ride in on his horse a while ago. I'll get moving…'
'Wait for that beastly dog to appear,' Paula said as Tweed pressed the bell-push beside the gates.
A light came on over the distant porch. Kearns came out slowly. He was carrying a heavy stick. He shone a flashlight and the powerful beam reached the gate, blinding Paula. Tweed half-shut his eyes.
'No dog,' Paula whispered. 'Funny.'
'It's you,' Kearns greeted them. 'I suppose you'd better come in. I'd like it kept brief, whatever it is.'
'Of course,' replied Tweed.
They followed him carefully up the centre of the path, keeping clear of the rough grass and the mantraps it concealed. Kearns led them into the dimly lit hall. Outside it was twilight; dusk was gathering over the moors. Paula dropped her handbag, scrabbled on the floor and picked it up.
Tweed hardly noticed: he was thinking Kearns was getting careless about security. The inner heavy wooden slab doors had been open when they arrived; only the grille gates were closed. Where was the dog?
There was a sudden ferocious snarl from behind a closed door as Kearns passed it. A heavy thud, as though the Alsatian had hurled its bulk against the far side. Kearns hammered a clenched fist against the door.
'Shut it!' he growled.
The first sign of tension – of emotion – he had shown. He took them into the same dining room with the oak table and the panelled walls. Again the lighting was dim. White-faced, Kearns sat at the opposite side, gestured for them to join him on the far side.
'What is it now?' he demanded.
'I know this is a grim time for you,' Tweed began, 'but we need as much information as we can get about your wife's murder. And memory has a habit of fading fast…'
'You are convinced it was murder?' Kearns asked, his large hands clenched, the knuckles showing white. His brown marble-like eyes stared at Tweed.
'Yes, I think it was. It's not much consolation – but since the Yard is also convinced they'll do their best to hunt down the killer. An ordinary hit-and-run driver who's probably never caught can cause even more anguish.' He looked round the room. The place looks well looked after. Have you got someone in to help?'
'I've done it myself.' Kearns stiffened his back. 'I don't want any other woman inside the house now Jill's gone.'
'I understand. Incidentally, at Quarme Manor I gathered you went for an early morning walk the day you left the Lyceum Hotel. So did Barrymore – on his own. Did you by chance see him while you were out?'
'Strangely enough, no.'
'Why 'strangely'?'
'Because,' Kearns explained, 'he always walks in St James's Park when we're in town. Which is where I went. No one else about at that hour. I didn't see any trace of him.'
'One more question, then we'll leave you in peace. I called in on Dr Robson while I was on my way here. He had a four-wheel-drive vehicle parked by the side of his bungalow. It's got the word Renegade painted on the side opposite to the driver's seat. Said he'd borrowed it from you.'
'That's right. But it isn't mine. I borrow it from a chap called Foster. Stockbroker type. Lives in the bungalow nearest the main road – on the left as you face the cul-de-sac. We do a lot of that on Exmoor – exchange things on loan. It saves money.'
'How old would this Foster be?' asked Tweed.
Kearns looked surprised at the question, but answered. 'I'd say about forty. Like most of them on that estate.'
'And when did they all move into those bungalows?'
'Fifteen years ago.'
Tweed stood up. Thank you for bearing with me. You have some friends you can talk to? I know myself what it's like – stuck on your own in a house when your wife is gone.'
Paula glanced quickly at him. She realized Tweed was recalling the time when his own wife had left him for a Greek shipping magnate.
'Oh, yes. In Winsford,' Kearns replied. 'I'll survive. Let me show you out.'
As they crossed the hall they heard the Alsatian. Now it was moaning and whining behind the closed door. Tweed thought that it sounded as if it were mourning the death of its mistress.
It was dark as Kearns used his flashlight to guide them to the exit. He said 'Goodnight', locked the grille gates and walked slowly back to the house. Tweed and Paula returned to the car. He sank behind the wheel, took a packet out of the glove compartment and smoked one of his rare cigarettes. Paula kept silent for a few minutes before she spoke.
'You're ruminating.'
'A lot to think about. That four-wheel-drive vehicle, Renegade. First it seems to belong to Robson, then Kearns and now this man, Foster. The question is, who drove it along the coast near Porlock Weir about midnight? No way of telling.'
'So we can't pursue that line of enquiry – assuming that it's worth pursuing.'
'Then there's the weird psychological set-up between the three men – Robson, Barrymore and Kearns. That must be quite something.'
'I'm not following you.'
'Use your imagination. Three men take part in that commando raid on Siros all those years ago. Andreas Gavalas is murdered with a commando knife. One of them did it…'
'But Barrymore checked their weapons after they found the body,'
'So, the killer carried an extra knife, knowing what he was going to do in advance. A hundred thousand pounds' worth of diamonds – now worth a million – went missing.
When Barrymore and Kearns leave the Army they settle on Exmoor, close to Robpon – who found accommodation for them. I don't think the three of them conspired to murder Andreas. Just one of them.'
'I'm being dim – what about the psychological set-up?'
'It's diabolical, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play. Nobody knows who did it. But two out of the three know they didn't. So two of them who are innocent must have wondered all these years which man was a murderer. That makes for almost unbearable tension.'
'So why stay together?'
That's the truly diabolical part. There's another factor locking them together – fear of Petros and the Gavalas clan coming to Exmoor for revenge. They're trying to protect one another.'
'You're right,' Paula said slowly, 'it's a macabre relationship.'
'Let's get moving.' Tweed shook himself alert. 'I want to take a quick look at that bungalow estate down the road.'
He parked near the bottom of the hill with the engine still running. In the night they had a good view of the six bungalows with whitewashed walls, three on either side of the cul-de-sac. Curtains were closed. Behind them lights shone. The coach lamps in the porches were all lit. No sign of life.
Each dwelling had a low wall, also whitewashed, bordering a trim lawn inside. All the gardens had the grass cut. No cars were parked either in the road or on a drive. All neatly tucked away inside the garages attached to the bungalows. On the roofs of five of them were the same conventional television masts. Only Seton-Charles had the complex structure with a satellite dish.
'I tell you again,' Paula said, 'it doesn't look real. If robots walked out I'd hardly be surprised.'
'Best get back to The Anchor…'
He was releasing the brake after moving the gear into drive when she touched his arm. He put the brake back on and turned to her.
'What is it?'
This.' She was holding a small white stick she'd taken out of her handbag. 'Remember when we arrived at Reams' place – I pretended to be clumsy and dropped my handbag on the floor. I'd seen this on the woodblocks.'
