man on holiday. The grey eyes under the thick brows gleamed as he spotted Paula. He took her arm.
'Welcome to Zurich, Paula.' He kissed her on the cheek. 'We bypass all the checks.' He looked over his shoulder as he led her to a side door which a guard unlocked. 'You'd better come too, Tweed. We have time to talk.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Beck had developed a soft spot for Paula when they'd met previously in Geneva. And he had organized their arrival so no one would notice them. He followed Paula along a corridor and into a starkly furnished room with maps on the walls.
Thank you,' said Paula as Beck pulled out a chair for her from under a table. 'But what about our cases? Shouldn't I go to the carousel?'
'All taken care of, my dear. I phoned Jim Corcoran, security boss at London Airport. When you checked in a special small red label was attached to your luggage and Tweed's. Two of my men are at the carousel now, collecting your things.'
'Am I permitted to join you?' Tweed enquired mischievously.
'As a special favour, rny friend. This is Kloten security chiefs office I have borrowed. As you see, there is coffee and sandwiches. You would like some, Paula? Good.'
On the table was an electric warmer with a transparent flask of coffee perched on it. Sandwiches wrapped in clingfilm. A telephone with a red button. Tweed sat down and stared at the instrument as Beck spoke while he poured coffee.
'Monica called you from London, spoke to the security chief and left a message. Can you call her urgently?'
Tweed looked at a clock attached to the wall with a red second hand sweeping the dial. 'We're going to miss our flight we're booked on for Athens. It leaves at 12.30 as I told you.'
'So…' Beck waved a hand. 'It has been delayed. A bomb hoax. All passengers have to identify their luggage laid out on the tarmac before they board. That takes time.' He smiled. 'One of the advantages of being Chief of Police.' He sat next to Paula as he addressed Tweed. 'So, make your call, then we can talk.'
I should have guessed he'd tie it all up for us, Tweed thought. He reached for the phone, pressed the scrambler button, dialled Park Crescent. Beck and Paula talked in whispers while Tweed was calling London. She liked the Swiss: he had a wicked sense of humour. She put her hand over her mouth to suppress laughter and then noticed Tweed's expression as he replaced the receiver.
'Is something wrong?'
'Later,' he replied and looked at Beck. 'Greece. Have you heard anything unusual on the grapevine?'
'No. Unless this comes under the heading of unusual…' For five minutes he recounted his two conversations with Kalos. He recalled how he had followed his quarry, kept an eye on him while he had spent a night at the Schweizerhof and then boarded a plane for Lisbon the following day.
'Lisbon?' Tweed's expression was grim. 'Are you sure, Arthur?'
'Of course I'm sure. I followed him myself to the airport. Later I checked with the pilot that he was on board. He was.'
'Sorry. That was a silly question. How long ago?'
'Ten days from today.'
'Hell's teeth.' Tweed stood up, began pacing the room. 'And I was congratulating myself that he was safely back in Athens. I'm getting this all wrong.' He looked at Paula. 'I said the solution lay in Greece, not Exmoor. Maybe it's the other way round.'
'Do we go on?' Paula asked.
'Yes. And we'd better hurry.'
'Might be as well,' Beck agreed. 'The baggage check should just about be over. You'll have to identify your own stuff. It will be all that's left on the tarmac…'
He hugged Paula, shook hands with Tweed. 'Anything more I can do to help – you give me a call.'
'You've helped a lot already,' Tweed assured him and they followed the Swiss to the aircraft.
They had eaten lunch. The plane was thirty thousand feet up and well south over the Adriatic Sea before Paula asked the question.
'You had bad news when you talked with Monica?'
'It's getting worse. Like the Klein problem we faced last year, the body count is rising. Butler called Monica. You remember that nice sharp old lady, Mrs Larcombe, we called on at Porlock Weir? This morning a neighbour noticed she hadn't taken her milk in. She started worrying, called the police. They found the front door unlocked and Mrs Larcombe battered to death.'
'Oh, that's awful. She was so bright for her age. Bright for any age. What do they think happened?'
'The police think some drunken youths called, pushed open the door when she reacted to the ringing of the bell, attacked her and walked off with fifty pounds she always kept in ready cash under her mattress. They found two empty beer cans in the front garden. No fingerprints.'
T did catch your emphasis on 'police'. What do you think?'
'I'm convinced it was staged. Drunken youths don't remember to wipe beer cans clean of fingerprints. Something bothered me about what she said to us and I couldn't recall it afterwards. Now I can.'
'What was it?'
'When that four-wheel-drive vehicle stopped outside her house at midnight she opened the front window. She said that window creaked. My guess is the driver heard that creak. And no one believed her when she said she saw flashing lights out at sea and up the coast. She saw them all right.'
'I still don't follow,' Paula commented.
'That was the first run – bringing something, or someone – landed on the coast. There must have been a second run last night, an important one. They couldn't risk her seeing them – so they called on her, she opened the door, and that was it. The fact that she opened the door is significant.'
'Someone she knew?'
'I think so. She was a shrewd careful woman. And I noticed she had one of those spyglass things in her front door. She could see who was there before she opened it. Yes, someone she knew – or knew of. A respected citizen.'
'What a brutal thing to do.' Paula shivered. 'To kill an old lady like that just on the off-chance she looked out of her window at the wrong moment.'
'But we are dealing with a ruthless killer. Look at the score – Sam Partridge, Jill Kearns and now Mrs Larcombe. The stakes must be very high.'
He peered out of the window. The air was crystal clear, without a cloud. He looked down on the intense blue of the Adriatic. A tiny blur of white on the blue located the wake of a ship moving south: the ship was invisible.
'When we get to Athens,' he went on, 'someone must go to the Embassy to call Monica. I want her to contact Roberts of Lloyd's of London, get him to check the shipping register.'
'Why?'
'Remember what Beck told us about Anton. He took a flight from Zurich to Lisbon. Roberts can check the movements of any vessel sailing from Lisbon about ten days ago – a vessel bound for Watchet on the Somerset coast. The killing of Mrs Larcombe backs up a vague theory I'd developed – that the way Anton slipped in without any record was that he came ashore from some vessel during the night. Hence those flashing lights Mrs Larcombe really did see.' He grunted. 'And now he may be back on Exmoor again. I don't like that at all. Monica must warn Butler.'
'And you think Jill was killed because she knew too much?'
'I have another idea about that. She may have been run down simply to divert our attention away from Exmoor to London.'
That would be too horrible,' Paula protested.
'I said we're up against a ruthless killer.' He looked round the interior of the aircraft. They were travelling first-class and the section was three-quarters empty, which enabled them to talk freely. He peered out of the window again, checked his watch, settled himself back in his seat. 'Less than one hour to Athens. I have the feeling we're going to stir up a hornet's nest.'
The heat hit Tweed like a hammer as he emerged from the aircraft on to the mobile staircase. He walked down the steps and, with Paula by his side, made for the main building.
