that.'
`Brockenhurst,' Newman said promptly.
`Then you was goin' the wrong way. Road across moor leads to Boldre and Lymington. Back a bit more and then take this road through Forest. Now, I'd better get home, make that phone call to police. Drive carefully..
Nobody said anything as Newman started up his engine, reversed a few feet, drove back the way they had come along the B3055. Tweed realized they were experiencing delayed shock: reaction had set in. He was the first to break the silence and avoided referring directly to the attack.
`One advantage of this route is we can see who – if anyone – is at home in those houses we visited.'
`I suppose that's the result of your idea that on the way out we crawled past,' Newman told him. 'The chopper.'
`We don't know that,' Tweed replied. 'But the enemy has committed two tactical errors. First, the attempt to kill Paula and me with the concrete mixer. Now this fresh attempt on our lives. I find it rather satisfying.'
`That's one way of looking at it,' Newman responded with heavy irony. 'What enemy?'
`I've no idea. But at least we know there is one.'
There was another spell of silence as they came close to The Last Haven, Fanshawe's residence. The Swedish- style house was a blaze of lights. Newman drove on slowly. Passing Leopard's Leap, Burgoyne's luxurious home, they saw a faint glimmer of lights beyond the shrubberies. Newman continued driving at low speed.
They reached the entrance to Prevent. Tweed was expecting darkness.
Instead he saw two patrol cars parked in the drive and behind the straggle of shrubbery the Victorian house was ablaze with lights.
`Stop!' he called out. 'Something's happened…'
A few hours earlier the same day two men in their twenties had anchored their small yacht offshore about midway between the mouths of the rivers Beaulieu and Lymington. It was a clear cold day on the Solent and before any sign of the freezing fog had appeared.
George Day and Charlie Neal worked in a stockbroker's office in London. But both men lived for their fishing trips aboard the yacht. A strong breeze was blowing up as they sat with their fishing rods, saying little, staring across the water.
`Time we started getting back to Lymington,' Charlie said reluctantly after checking his watch. 'And a fog was forecast for this evening.'
`Not yet,' George protested, 'I think I've caught something big…'
He began to reel in his line but his catch seemed to be carried towards the hull of the yacht by the current. George stopped reeling in, puzzled by the feel of what his hook was snagged in. He leaned forward. It was coming up from the stern, drifting along the side of their vessel. He waited, leaned further forward to get a closer view.
`Oh, my God!' he gasped. 'Look!'
`What is it?' Charlie chaffed him. 'Bit of driftwood? You and your big catch…'
He stopped in mid-sentence as the floating body slid under where they peered over. Charlie was the first to react. He reached down, grabbed, found he was holding a handful of dark hair. George was helping him now.
Leaning over together, they hauled the corpse aboard. White-faced, they stared at their catch as water ran over the deck. Charlie was the first to speak in a hoarse voice.
`Jesus! It's a girl. And she's lost an arm. Dear God! There's a blood-soaked bandage coming loose. It's horrible.'
`We'd better get straight back to the marina,' said Charlie. 'She can't be much over twenty, if that. Let's find something to cover her up. I can't stare at that while we're heading back. And I don't understand that bandage. Come on, let's get moving. This is something for the police. And you won't get me fishing here again.'
10
At the end of the drive leading to Prevent, Newman was stopped by a uniformed police sergeant holding up his hand. Tweed jumped out, followed by the others.
`Who are you?' the policeman demanded.
`I might ask you the same question.'
`Might you, sir? I'm Sergeant McCann. You know the owner of this house?'
`Yes. Sir Gerald Andover. My name is Tweed.' He gave the sergeant his card printed with General amp; Cumbria Assurance. 'I also know the Chief Constable, Mark Stanstead.'
`Colonel Stanstead is inside. These people with you?'
Tweed made introductions, including Nield. McCann was a typical country policeman, in his thirties with a weather-beaten face and shrewd eyes. He looked at Paula.
`Been trying to trace you, Miss Grey. I'd like you to give me a statement about your discovery of the man you dragged out of the river last night. Harvey Boyd…'
`She can do that inside,' Tweed interrupted. 'It is a trifle chilly out here. And may I ask what is going on?'
`Better ask the Chief Constable that question, sir…'
Two other uniformed policemen stood outside the front of the house as McCann led the way past the boarded-up front door. He continued along a path now familiar to Tweed round the side of the house, speaking over his shoulder.
`We entered through the back door by picking the lock. In here, if you would. And, Miss Grey, perhaps we could stay in the kitchen while I take that statement.'
Stanstead was examining the wreckage in Andover's study. Of medium height, well built, clean shaven, he had a thick thatch of brown hair and a ruddy complexion. He was in his forties, dressed in a blue business suit, with intelligent features. He moved quickly. A man, Newman thought as he was introduced, accustomed to swift obedience to his orders and with eyes which didn't miss a thing. After he had greeted Tweed in a warm manner, Tweed said: 'We were driving past, saw the lights, wondered what was up.'
`Grim news, Tweed. Two men fishing in the Solent this afternoon hauled a girl's body out of the sea. Brigadier Burgoyne and Miss Holmes next door have identified it as Irene, Andover's daughter. Minus one arm. An odd business that. The arm had been bandaged – the bit that was left – near the elbow.'
`Where is the body?'
`I had it brought here in an ambulance for Andover to identify – recognized her myself. Trouble is there's no sign of Andover so I was compelled to call on his neighbours.'
`And where is the body now?' Tweed persisted.
`It will have reached the mortuary at Southampton.'
Tweed took Stanstead aside. They held a whispered conversation. The Chief Constable nodded as though in agreement. He was making his way to the phone on Andover's desk when Tweed caught up with him, whispered again.
`Wait till you get back. This whole place has been bugged. Come outside a moment…'
It was only when they'd reached the kitchen that Tweed realized he'd overlooked something. Paula had just finished signing a sheet of paper. Sergeant McCann was folding the sheet to tuck it in his pocket with a look of satisfaction.
`There, Miss Grey, that wasn't such an ordeal, was it?' `Pretty straightforward, thanks to you, Sergeant,' she said.
Tweed gestured for her to follow Stanstead and himself into the garden. The freezing cold hit them and a heavy frost had formed on the spacious lawn.
'Go back quickly,' Tweed urged Paula, 'and take Newman and Nield back to the car. No talking until you're outside. Entirely my fault, I'd forgotten the house was bugged – including the kitchen where you've just made your statement, I imagine.'
'I'm on my way…'
`What is this all about?' Stanstead asked as he walked on the lawn with Tweed.
