spaced from each other. Jason Schulz (dead), Jeremy Mordaunt (dead), Bogle, Lord Barford – Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Stockholm – Aubrey Barford, Gavin Thunder, Mark Wendover, fake Mrs Mordaunt, Rondel, Lisa.
'I was trying to link up one person with another,' Tweed explained. 'So far I've got exactly nowhere. No idea of what is going on, but something is.'
'That's why you've drawn large loops round each name,' Paula remarked. 'You've used this technique before. And the only loop with anything in it is Barford's – you've put in the city names I said Aubrey had overheard the Brigadier phoning.'
'All of which gets me nowhere.'
'Why put Lisa last?'
'Because at the moment she's my only hope that may lead us to what is happening. Assuming she does turn up at 5.30 this evening.'
'I'm sure she will.'
'Are you? We know nothing about her. She's a mystery woman.' He looked at Newman. 'And have you any idea why Mark Wendover hasn't arrived here?'
'Well, as you know, I had dinner with him last night. Then he asked me to join him again this morning for an early working breakfast. He went out somewhere soon afterwards.'
'A lot of use he is.' Tweed started cleaning his glasses. 'You had a so-called working breakfast with him. A long one?'
'Yes. Well over an hour.'
'And during that breakfast you told him everything you knew as regards our trip to Sussex – the visit Paula and I made to Lord Barford's, then the grim business in Alfriston?'
'Yes, I did.'
'I see.' He perched his glasses back on his nose. 'I just wonder. I really do.'
Early that same morning, Mark Wendover had a large breakfast with Newman, then immediately left the Ritz. He was wearing a white polo-neck sweater, blue jeans, trainers on his large feet and carried a trench coat over his arm. He was in a hurry to get the show on the road.
From a car-hire firm in Piccadilly he'd noticed when Newman had driven him from the airport the previous day he chose a cream Jaguar. His next port of call was Hatchards, the bookshop. He bought an Ordnance Survey map of East Sussex, studied it for at least two minutes, then hurried back to his car. He didn't need a map of London -from frequent visits he knew his way round the city as well as he knew Washington.
He was on the straight stretch to Petworth when a blonde in an Audi overtook him, waved a triumphant hand. 'Can't have that,' he decided. He increased speed, passed her, waved a hand. She soon realized she had no chance of repeating her earlier performance as the cream streak became like a toy car way ahead of her.
Later, when he turned off the A27 to Alfriston, he drove at a sedate pace. It was a glorious day, the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. When he parked the Jag on the outskirts of the village he threw his trench coat into the trunk.
His long strides soon took him into Alfriston and he walked into a pub which had just opened. In the country a pub was where you heard all the local gossip. Smiling at the barman, he ordered a pint of mild, sat down by the bar on a stool.
'You're my first customer today,' the barman told him. 'Here on holiday, sir?'
'Yes and no. Alfriston looks like the sort of place where nothing ever happens.'
'Don't you believe it. We've just 'ad a murder here. Up the road. Last night.'
'I like a good murder,' Wendover said cheerfully. 'Read a lot of thrillers. A local, I suppose.'
'No, it wasn't. A high-rankin' civil servant, so I hear.'
'Lived round here, did he?'
'No. Never seen down 'ere before. So why does he come down 'ere to shoot himself in an underground tunnel, of all places.'
'That sounds more like suicide.'
'Tell you something.' The barman leaned across the counter. 'The police is baffled. Show you where it 'appened if you'd come outside with me.'
Mark had only sipped at his drink. He carried the glass out with him. The barman pointed up the narrow street to where police tapes were still in place. Two farmers wandered past them into the pub.
'More customers. Excuse me…'
Wendover waited until he was alone. Then he poured the rest of his drink down a drain. He was careful about drinking and driving. Taking the empty glass back inside, he thanked the barman, walked out and a short distance up the High Street and into another pub. Except for the barman the place was empty. He ordered another pint of mild. The barman was a short, plump jovial type.
'Nothing wrong with startin' early, I always say. Just so long as you're not driving.'
'It's got a lot of character, this village,' Wendover remarked. 'But I don't imagine anyone important lives here.'
'Well, if I may say so, sir, you'd be wrong there. A bare five miles away Lord Barford lives. Got a big estate. Family's lived here for generations in the mansion, Barford Manor.'
'He does? I thought the aristocracy was being taxed out of existence.'
'Got a point there, you 'ave. Had two surveyors in here recently. One 'ad been asked to inspect the place. He was tellin' his friend his lordship's in deep trouble. Risin' damp, dry rot. He said the whole roof has to be replaced, and half the windows. Cost his lordship over a million. He lives well but he hasn't got that sort of money. And he's got a helicopter and a ridin' stable. Often rides over the Downs, he does. Towards the Eagle's Nest.'
'What's that?' Wendover asked, then sipped at his pint.
'One of these crazy modern houses. Very big. A chap called Rondel owns it.'
'Sounds foreign. Barford and Rondel are friends, then?'
'Don't think so. Lord Barford spent a lot of time abroad in the Army. Don't think he's keen on foreigners. Can't blame 'im.'
Wendover was aware that a few minutes earlier someone had come in and stood close behind him. He made a point of not looking round. The newcomer spoke, his voice unpleasant, arrogant.
'Mind telling me what you're doing here?'
'Yes, I do.' Wendover turned round. A short man stared at him with a hostile expression. He wore a dark, ill- fitting suit. 'Who are you?'
'Bogle. Chief Constable.'
'Assistant Chief,' the barman said.
'Barrow,' the policeman snapped. 'You keep out of this. I'll have a lemonade.'
'Boogie?' Wendover enquired. 'Like a bugle soldiers blow at ceremonies?'
'Bogle,' the policeman repeated. 'B-o-g-l-e. Got it?'
Here we go, thought Wendover. Newman had relayed to him over dinner Tweed's encounter with this character. He turned his back, sipped more of his drink. A hand tapped his shoulder. Wendover put down his glass, swung round.
'I don't like people who touch me.'
'And I don't like people who ignore me. I'm investigating a murder. You've been going into pubs and asking questions I find suspicious. I'd like to see proof of your identity.'
'Would you? You're going to be disappointed. Unless you can charge me with some offence. Incidentally, your lemonade is getting cold.'
With this parting shot Wendover walked out into the street. He was on his way back to his car, which took him past the open door of the first pub he'd visited. A shout from inside stopped him. The barman came running out.
'I think maybe you dropped this when you took your wallet out of your back pocket to pay me.'
He handed Wendover a small notebook bound in blue leather. Opening it, Wendover saw the letters MoA engraved in gold on the inside of the front binding. Riffling through the pages he saw a series of coded numbers and words.
'Thank you,' he said to the barman. 'Without this I'd have been lost at work.'
Slipping the book into his pocket he hurried back to his car. He knew from his time at Langley with the CIA
