He'd already checked. No one in the two rows ahead or behind them. Paula swallowed.
`If that is Dr Wand there's a streak of pure cruelty in the man.'
`Well, from what's happened so far the mastermind behind it all is certainly cruel – almost to the point of sadism.'
`You mean the severed arm of Irene, then her body floating in the Solent?'
`That – and many other things. A sadist capable of the most appalling mental cruelty – as well as physical. Unless I'm wrong in the theory taking shape.'
`No point in asking you what theory, I suppose?' `Not until I'm sure.'
The aircraft was in midair, crossing the North Sea, when Paula decided to go to the toilet. Some instinct made her put on tinted glasses. In the aisle she glanced into Economy section and nearly froze.
Sheer will power – plus SIS training – kept her moving. When she returned she waited until Tweed had settled himself in his seat. Then she leaned close to him.
`I've had a shock. You'll never guess who is travelling with us. In Economy.'
`You know I don't like guessing.'
`Willie Fanshawe, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Helen Claybourne. Helen has the window seat. Willie is next to her. The Brig. is across in the next aisle seat – like Newman with you. Willie was leaning over, chatting to Burgoyne.'
Did any of them see you?' Tweed enquired.
`No. I'm certain of it.'
`Any sign of Lee Holmes?'
`Absolutely not. And Economy is full up.'
`Maybe she caught an earlier flight to Brussels. I find it significant – the absence of Lee.'
`In what way?'
Tweed ignored her question. Taking off his glasses he began to clean them on his handkerchief, which meant his mind was racing. He asked her the question as he put on his glasses.
`You never got a chance to give me your impressions of the relationships between Burgoyne and Holmes and between Willie and Helen. Now might be a good time.'
`At first I made the obvious assumption – both men had their mistress living with them. Nothing odd about that. Then it did become odd. I decided I was wrong. Perhaps only another woman would sense it. The lack of little things indicating intimacy. Before we left each house I was convinced my first impressions had been wildly off the mark.'
`So what is the relationship?'
`Odd, as I said. Both women obviously manage house and do the normal jobs wives would do – or some mistresses…'
`You're becoming as cynical as me.'
`Let me go on. I had the strongest feeling both women are working for the men in some professional capacity. It's a business relationship, if you like.'
`Anything else?'
`Yes. Lee has to handle Burgoyne with kid gloves. Basically he's still the Brigadier, accustomed to giving orders and expecting instant obedience. With Helen I had the opposite impression. Willie is an amiable soul – has all his marbles though. But Helen is calling the shots.'
`I find your conclusions illuminating. Thank you.'
`Good. Glad to be of service,' she said ironically. Her tone changed. 'You look worried.'
`I am wondering how many more have to die before we bring this business to a climax. So far the body count is three, probably four. Harvey Boyd, Irene Andover, Hilary Vane – and I doubt whether we'll ever find Mrs Garnett of Moor's Landing alive.'
`You seem to be in a great rush to reach Brussels. What do you expect us to find there?'
`My worst fears confirmed.'
`I don't understand,' said Paula.
`You think it's a coincidence that Dr Wand is leaving for Brussels aboard that Lear jet? You think it's another coincidence that Burgoyne, Willie, and Helen are on board this plane?'
`Do you? It does seem strange.'
`I never believe in coincidences,' Tweed replied grimly. `And your remark about your worst fears?'
`I forgot to tell you I called Benoit, stopped him meeting our plane. It could be dangerous to be seen with him. After dumping our bags at the Hilton we're driving straight to Grand' Place – to police headquarters to meet Benoit there. Newman has phoned ahead for a hire car to be waiting for us.'
`You saw Marler go up to the stewardess yet again? My bet is he's had the pilot radio ahead also for a hire car.' `Probably. He knows what he's doing.'
`And you're not going to tell me about your worst fears?' she persisted.
'I'm certain we're involved in a race against time. The problem is very simple. Who will reach Gaston Delvaux first – while he's still alive?'
17
They were the first off the plane at Zaventem Airport. It was Tweed who led the headlong rush, with Paula and Newman hurrying to keep up with him. Through Passport Control they carried their only bags, the ones they'd taken aboard the aircraft. Newman caught up with Tweed.
`Why the mad scramble?'
`Change of plan. You know where to pick up that car you phoned ahead for in London? Good. Forget the Hilton – drive us straight to police headquarters off Grand' Place. I must check the situation with Benoit, then we race to Liege – to Herstal. To Delvaux's chateau. Not a minute to lose..
His unusual urgency conveyed itself to the other two. A cool, fast-walking Paula checked her watch. It would be dark when they arrived in Liege. Running outside the airport, Newman swore under his breath. The hire car waiting for them was a red Mercedes. Too conspicuous. It couldn't be helped. He hustled through the formalities with the car-hire girl, accepted the keys, told her to wait while he tested the engine.
`Get in,' Tweed said impatiently.
`You might have warned me it was going to be a marathon,' Paula remarked as she dived into the rear.
`I only decided this would save time when the plane was descending. And we lost time droning round in that holding pattern. All right, Bob?'
`Engine seems OK. We're off. Grand' Place and Benoit, here we come…'
Paula groaned inwardly as they drove into Brussels, the most muddled and depressing city in Europe. Like Los Angeles, a series of districts in search of a centre. And the fog which had delayed them was drifting in smoke-like trails in the busy streets.
Tall concrete blocks rose everywhere, interspersed with small, shabby, two-storey buildings – centuries old, paint peeling – cafes, bars, and shops illuminated with tasteless neon. Street skiving off in all directions. Drivers of cars jousting for the only available slot left in the middle of a wide boulevard.
The pavements – ankle-breakers – were crowded with Belgian housewives hurrying for metro entrances. The home of the EC commissioners hadn't changed. A worthy home for those fat, well-fed, and over-paid bureaucrats, she thought. The whole place was like a disturbed anthill.
Newman was driving ruthlessly, at high speed, overtaking. Belgian motorists blared their horns as they had to pull up suddenly to let him through. He's exceeding the speed limit, Paula observed to herself. Tweed's burst of nervous energy had transmitted itself to Newman's wild driving.
They pulled up outside a building off Grand' Place, which was barred to traffic with frontier-like poles. One of the truly ancient sections of Brussels, Grand' Place was surrounded with medieval buildings. Newman parked in a no-parking zone, took out a pad of stickers, wrote 'Police HQ' on one, attached it to the windscreen.
Tweed, already outside on the pavement, glanced at the sticker, called out to Newman.
`It's Politie here. You should have remembered that.'
