round bends in the lane Marler informed Tweed they had travelled fourteen miles. `Keep going,' Tweed ordered.
'There's a white brick house on the edge of the road,' Paula called out.
Marler slowed down. Tweed took out the handkerchief to wave and warn the two cars behind to stop. Paula leaned forward as Marler crawled past. She shook her head and told Marler to keep moving. `No good,' she called out. 'I saw the signboard. Dogwood is the weird name of that place.' `It's also too close to the road,' Tweed commented. `I'm sure Calouste would choose a house well back from the road.'
They drove on another mile without seeing another residence. Paula suddenly leaned forward, looking partly to her left. She told Marler to crawl again. Tweed took out his handkerchief, lowered his window. `Heather Cottage!' Paula called out triumphantly. 'I saw it on the name board… ' `Tricky place to assault,' Tweed decided after studying it through his pocket binoculars. 'Open ground up to the place.'
The Audi was parked out of sight a few yards up the lane. Newman had reacted to Tweed's signal. His Merc was parked out of sight of the target, with Harry's Ford parked behind him. Paula borrowed the binoculars. Heather Cottage was a large two-storey thatched cottage with windows open on both floors, its walls painted white.
Marler lifted up the golf bag from the floor under their feet. Unzipping it, he took out the Armalite rifle, carefully attached the 'scope. Getting out, he aimed it at a rock by the side of the lane, adjusted a screw slightly, checked his aim again. `I'm going up the far side of the hedge running along the edge of the place. There may be a back door they could slip out of.' `I'll come with you,' said Paula, her Walther in her right hand.
By now Harry, heavy satchel on his back, had crawled to the cover of the front hedge, followed by Newman. Harry extracted two large grenades from his satchel, held one in each hand. He grinned. `Tear-gas grenades. One through the open window downstairs and one through the upstairs window, same side. I go in through the right- hand window.' `I come with you,' said Newman. `I'll watch the front door,' Tweed decided. 'They may come out that way.'
The grenades went in, exploding inside their target areas. Harry rushed forward, dived in through the open right-hand window. A lean evil-faced man wearing jeans and a jacket, neither of which fitted him well, staggered in from the hall, holding a machine-pistol. He tried to aim it. `Behind you!' Harry shouted.
Instinctively the lean-faced gunman looked back. No one was behind him. He vanished into the narrow hall, ran out through the open back door. He had recovered from the whiff of tear gas he'd absorbed. He saw Paula standing by the hedge, swivelled his machine-pistol to mow her down. Two shots were fired from her Walther. The first bullet hit him in the forehead, the second penetrated his chest. He fell against the cottage wall, slid down it, sagged in a heap. `You did well,' said Marler. 'My Armalite slipped on my shoulder. Must be losing my grip.'
Paula ran forward, stooped to check the gunman's carotid arteries. She shook her head as she straightened up. Tweed had just appeared round the front corner of the cottage. `He's dead,' Paula called out. 'From his features he looks French.' She put on a glove, searching his trouser pocket, brought out an almost empty cigarette packet. `Gauloise; she called out. 'He was French.'
Newman's head poked out of an upstairs window. 'Is everything OK out there? Oh, I see it is. Harry and I have checked the place upstairs as well as downstairs. No one here. What's that motorcycle doing leaning against the wall there?' `Escape vehicle he won't be needing any more,' Marler replied, pointing to the corpse. `Kitchen's a real mess,' Newman reported.
Tweed darted inside through the back entrance, followed by Paula. They entered the kitchen. A sudden breeze blew soiled napkins out of the window. The table was laid for three. Plates had remnants of food, two with eggs and bacon, the other with unsavoury- looking sausages. Cups were half-filled with coffee. Paula used a latex glove to pick up and examine a large piece of wrapping paper. It had the name of a butcher's shop in Paris. `French again,' she said. 'So what happened here?' `Calouste was warned by his informer we were on our way,' Tweed said grimly. `Left behind one chap to clean up, the dead one outside.' `He's going to be difficult to capture,' Paula mused. `Or kill,' Tweed said. 'After what Buchanan told me about his track record, the bit known, in France and Austria, that would probably be the best solution. He's one of the most ruthless, cold-blooded villains I've ever encountered. In the meantime we search this place from top to bottom. It's obvious he left in an almighty rush, which means he could have left something behind.'
Newman and Tweed disappeared to search the upstairs while Butler and Marler checked the downstairs. Paula stayed in the kitchen. She emptied the food off the plates in the dustbin outside the back door, then closed the window and began a systematic search.
Under the cooker she found a screwed-up piece of paper. Still using the latex gloves, she cleaned a portion of the table and carefully spread out the sheet of paper. It was perforated down one side, which suggested it had been torn from a notebook. A single word had been written on it in black biro.
Sheebka.
Sounds Turkish, she thought. She then went outside to pick up the napkins blown out of the open window. Half under the side hedge she spotted a large coloured sheet. She brought it in, spread it on the table. She was looking at a single page torn from an Ordnance Survey atlas. It was a section of the West Country with a black circle marked round the county of Cornwall. At that moment Tweed returned, followed by Newman, Marler and Butler. `As I expected, not a thing in the whole house,' Tweed told her. `You're wrong,' Paula contradicted. 'Look at these two items.'
They all gathered round the table to look at her finds. Tweed picked up the sheet from a notebook with his latex-gloved hands. `Sheebka? Doesn't mean a thing. Cornwall circled could be significant. Devil of an area to search, but not now.' `What, then – after this?' Paula wanted to know. `It's a bust,' said Harry, who had joined them. 'How the hell did Calouste know we were coming?' `Good question,'Tweed agreed. 'It confirms he has a spy who could be inside Hengistbury. Communicates with him by mobile phone. The only answer.' `Who could it be, then?' `No idea.' `I told you I thought Snape, lurking at the edge of the wood, watched you leave. Can't be sure it was Snape,' Marler said. `So how would he overhear where we were going,' Tweed asked, 'if he was prowling in the wood?' `He couldn't,' Marler agreed. 'I'm going to give Newman a hand with cleaning up the mess outside. He's moving the corpse of that Frenchman, I'm cleaning blood off the walls he smeared when he slid down them.' `I was wondering about that,' Tweed commented. `Then we all go back to Hengistbury.'
Ten minutes later both men appeared. Newman explained he'd hidden the body under the side hedge, Marler reported the cottage wall was as good as new – 'That is,' he added, 'like it was when we arrived.'
Tweed had just settled himself in the passenger seat of the Merc with Marler behind the wheel, when he made his remark, staring at Heather Cottage. `I wonder what happened here before we arrived on the scene…'
About two hours earlier Calouste was seated behind the wheel of his car, parked beyond Heather Cottage, but with a clear view of the road from Gladworth. He was expecting two of his French employees. He was also in a position to drive off if the wrong people arrived. He was not wearing his dark glasses.
A Renault appeared, pulled up in front of the cottage. A man got out. Calouste switched off his engine, which had been running ready for a speedy take-off. He walked back to the cottage. His feet, clad in soft-soled black shoes, moved quickly and he moved with a curious rolling gait. His lack of height was countered by the width of his powerful shoulders, his large nimble hands. He wore a dark trilby hat and an expensive dark suit. If seen by a local they would be sure he was a London businessman.
He had deliberately told his employees he would arrive later so he could check on their punctuality. He approached the two men on the grass as they unlocked the front door.
Despite his silent approach it was, of course, Jacques who swung round, a nasty-looking wide-bladed knife in his right hand. `Jacques,' Calouste began, speaking in English, `Pierre has brought a motorcycle? Good. Then he can park it round the back of the cottage. Afterwards he makes breakfast swiftly for us. Bacon and eggs for me and for you, Jacques. For himself I assume he'll want the sausages in that greasy package he's hugging. Inside French wrappings, I see, which was very foolish of him. He must destroy the wrapping before we leave. We may not be here long.
The lean Pierre, with the evil elongated face, understood English but it was Calouste's technique to keep a man in his place by giving his orders through a third party. `Very good, sir,' Jacques replied. He used French to repeat the orders to Pierre, adding, 'Get moving, you lazy lout. Motorcycle first out of the boot, parked round the back, then try and prepare a decent breakfast.'
As the two men entered, Calouste stepping inside first, Calouste reflected that Jacques was his prize catch. He owned a butcher's shop in Paris, was a butcher by profession.
