Walking along the other path Newman stopped frequently to listen, then resumed his long strides. She had to hurry to keep up with his pace. The forest ended, they were in the open, the smell of the sea even stronger. The ferry was like a large barge with a small ladder at its stern, a short distance from a large engine. One weather- beaten rustic wearing oilskins stood on the shore, smoking a curved pipe.
'Going across?' he called out in a West Country accent.
'It's calm today so don't bother with oilskins. I'm Abe,' he introduced himself as Newman handed him the fare for two people.
'Had any other passengers?' Newman enquired with a smile.
'Only six of those bastards… excuse me, miss… in their black fancy-dress uniform. Came over early this morning, asked if the old tub, as they called my ferry, crossed at night. I told them the last crossing is at 8.30 p.m. I bring her back through the channel marked with lights. You mention us to anyone and you're in hospital one of'em said. So I won't be sayin' another word to people like that. ..'
They climbed the small ladder and Paula saw there were long continuous seats on either side of the barge. Newman led her to the front and as they settled themselves Abe started the engine. The barge slid out along a channel between long reeds, then they were in open sea.
'Black Island is shaped like a triangle,' Newman explained, 'with the apex pointing south into the Channel. We land at a small village called Lydford. Has a pub and not much else.'
'No holidaymakers?'
'A lot at the eastern end, which has small hotels and good beaches. There's another ferry – one that takes cars. At this end there are locals in places like Lydford. That's it. Nothing on the western side, where the fancy- dress lot are building like mad. It's sinister. Which is why I want photos.'
He stopped talking as Abe fixed the tiller, walked down to them. There was hardly any motion as Lydford's church spire hove into clear view.
'Don't know what they can be buildin' over on the west side,' Abe began, talking with his pipe in his mouth. 'I've seen cargo ships comin' in, unloadin' steel bars and Gawd knows 'ow many breezeblocks.'
'Probably another holiday centre,' Newman suggested.
'Don't look like it. We'll be landin' soon. I comes over to collect any passengers on the hour. You'll be comin' back?'
'I hope so,' Paula said under her breath.
There was a bump as the barge gently hit the wooden dock. Slinging his golf bag over his shoulder, Newman helped Paula up on to the dock. He grinned as he tapped the bag with one hand while they walked off the dock into the tiny village.
'Good job there are golf courses on the eastern cost. So this won't look odd.'
'No one about to notice,' Paula observed.
The village was very small. On either side of the road were old one-storey thatched cottages. The postage- stamp-size garden in front of each was neatly tended. The church was also small and constructed years before of black stone.
'Not very welcoming,' Paula commented as they walked down the street. 'Black stone. Why?'
'Because this island has the only granite quarries I know of in the south. Black granite, hence its name.'
'There are some nice expensive-looking houses over there,' Paula commented. 'You can just see them in gaps between the fir trees. Some oaks too.'
'We turn down this lane,' Newman said, not interested in her observations as he kept turning his head to scan for any sign of life. 'This is where it could get hairy…'
They walked some distance west along the curving lane. Fir trees arched above their heads, as if they were walking inside a tunnel. Rounding a corner they saw a track leading away to their left, its broken surface carrying the wheel marks of wide heavy trucks. A sentry was posted there, wearing a long black coat, peaked cap, an armlet with the legend State Security, an automatic weapon slung over his left shoulder.
'Get back the way you came,' he ordered. Beneath the peaked cap his face was coarse and ugly. He barked as Newman came up to him, Paula by his side, 'Back to the friggin' mainland. Restricted area here. You can always lay her in the grass and do it other side of the channel.'
'Manners…' Newman began.
The sentry was starting to slip his weapon off his shoulder, watching Newman. Paula had her gun in her hand, holding it by the muzzle. She slammed it down on the sentry's nose, aiming for the bridge. The sentry opened both eyes wide, then closed them as he slumped backwards on to the verge.
Newman crouched over him, checked his pulse. He grinned at Paula as he looked up at her.
'Nice work.'
'He was watching you, not bothering about a woman.'
'He'll be out for quite a while. Now we have to hide him and I know just the place. Found it when I came over here this morning.' With ease he lifted the body of the six-foot thug, called over his shoulder as he began walking quickly along the track, 'You bring his weapon.'
At a turning Newman walked a few paces off the track. Paula caught him up, to find him staring down into an abandoned quarry. The slope was fairly gradual. Newman bent down, lowered the unconscious man to the edge, pushed. He slithered down a long way, lay still at the bottom. Without being asked Paula tossed the weapon down so it lay a few feet away from the inert body.
'Now it gets dangerous,' Newman commented as they returned to the track. Paula caught him up.
'What do you call what's just happened?'
'Just an opening shot.'
The enclosing trees ended and they were in open rolling country. A distance to the south she could see a green down with the blue horizon of the sea on either side. No sign of anyone.
'What's that hill?' she asked.
'Hog's Nose Down. Well named, considering the sort of people who have taken over the western end.'
Newman was carrying his automatic weapon which he'd hauled out from the golf bag. Noting this, Paula kept hold of her Browning, close to her bag so that she could slip it inside if it seemed wiser. They arrived at a long low ridge. Newman stopped, dropped down behind it, poked his weapon over its crest. Paula dropped down beside him.
'Why are we doing this?'
'I'm a student of the Duke of Wellington's campaigns in Iberia. At Vimeiro he placed his troops behind a ridge to save them from the enemy's initial heavy artillery bombardment. When their infantry followed they couldn't see them and were shot down in their hundreds. Time to keep moving…'
They crossed the ridge, went down the other side and walked over a grassy plain until they reached another ridge. The sky was a clear blue; a bitter wind blew, almost freezing, so Paula buttoned her windcheater at the neck.
Newman climbed it, went over the crest, dropped flat on the far side, poking his automatic rifle over the top. Paula did not follow his example. Her tone had an edge to it when she spoke.
'Can we stop playing soldiers and get moving? It's perishingly cold.'
'Nearly there,' Newman said with a smile as he jumped up. 'You brought your camera? Good. Lots to photograph if it's quiet. The beginning of the prison state…'
Only half-built, it was located in a vast hollow. Newman used his field glasses. Swivelling them everywhere, he grunted with satisfaction.
'No one about. All gone to get lunch at the pub. We go in now. Prepare for a shock. This is a new idea for a prison. Take plenty of pics.'
There were frameworks for more buildings everywhere, a series of tall steel posts with breeze block walls behind them. Newman led Paula into a large completed building. The entry door was solid steel but no lock had been attached yet.
Paula shuddered inwardly as they went inside. The floor was solid concrete. She thanked Heaven she was wearing her boots. The straight corridor which ran into the distance was surprisingly narrow. She was expecting cells with bars separating them from the corridor. No bars. Newman opened the steel door of a cell. She peered inside.
Hardly room for a big dog. A hole in the floor which Newman explained would be the only toilet facility. Along
