frequently while he was talking, as though he were plucking his thoughts from it.
'We'll go back the short way, along this side of the lake. The road's reasonable.'
'More than Margesson is.'
They met no one and Tweed was relieved when he saw Buchanan, arms banging round his overcoat, waiting for them. A mist had crept out of the forest and was advancing towards Carp Lake. It was almost a fog, and coils of it slid out over Carpford. When they looked back all the strange dwellings had vanished.
'Sorry to keep you so long, Roy,' Tweed apologized. 'We had two long interviews.'
'Goes with the territory. You left just in time. Caught up in that fog you could find yourself in the lake, which is deep.'
'How deep is it?'
'Thirty feet at least. Who did you see?'
'While you're both talking I must call Newman on my mobile,' Paula told them. 'He'll be worried by now.'
Tweed climbed into the back of the car while Buchanan got behind the wheel. The engine had been left ticking over so the interior was pleasantly warm. Beyond the windscreen the fog was drifting down towards them.
'Two interviews,' Tweed told Buchanan. 'Both weird, odd in different ways. One with Mrs Gobble, the other with Olaf Margesson.. .'
Abbreviating, he related the gist of the conversations and their impressions. Buchanan listened without speaking until Tweed had completed his resume. Then he turned round.
'I couldn't even get into Margesson's house. I suspect he was inside and just didn't open the door. I don't like the sound of him at all…'
Paula heard his comment as she clambered in beside Tweed. She sighed ecstatically, taking off her gloves as she soaked up the heat.
'Bless you, Roy, for keeping the car warm. I could kiss you. Now, Park Crescent. Newman wants us back by eleven-thirty to meet someone. Didn't say who but, like me, he doesn't trust the security of both our mobiles.' She peered ahead as Buchanan began driving down the road. 'The Porsche has gone. Where is it?'
'Taken away on a transporter. And there's plenty of time for us to get back to town ages before eleven- thirty.'
'My tummy's rumbling,' Paula told him. 'I had no lunch and I'm desperate for food.'
'Then we'll turn off to Foxfold, a village down in the valley. There's a good hotel there, the Peacock. You can have a full meal and we'll still be back for Newman in good time.'
'I do not like Margesson,' Paula said vehemently. 'He's like some kind of priest, a mad one. I'm going to call him the Priest in future. Most poisonous.'
'Dangerous might be nearer the mark,' Tweed commented.
They had dropped to a much lower level after Buchanan had swung along a narrow lane to his left. As they entered Foxfold Paula realized it was a normal village, nestling in a deep gulch. There were street lights, and old brick-built houses and cottages stood well back from the road. High up on the gulch, overlooking the village, was a large house with a blaze of lights. Buchanan turned off the lane and climbed a steep drive leading to the perched house.
'That's the Peacock,' Buchanan said as he pulled up in front of a large window with leaded lights.
'Well,' Paula began, her mind darting about, 'at least we know that mysterious man with the black overcoat exists. Mrs Gobble has seen him prowling about in the night.'
'One thing I meant to ask you, Roy,' Tweed said as Buchanan switched off the engine, 'is do you know how it was possible for Victor Warner to buy land and build that monstrosity? Everyone else has to pay rent to that dubious London lawyer.'
'He was smart. He had a surveyor check the area, found that the developer, the New Age outfit, had overlooked it. Jumped in and bought it, then had his house built by workers imported from Milan in Italy. He's very rich. You know why?'
'No idea.'
'He keeps this quiet. His father owned a company which manufactured – of all things – a laxative. Victor inherited a huge fortune when his father departed this world. He likes to keep the source of his wealth quiet.'
'No wonder!' Paula chuckled. 'A laxative!'
They were about to enter the hotel when a Maserati sped up the drive, parked behind Buchanan. The driver jumped out of the car. Tall and slim, agile, he wore a long dark overcoat. Paula whispered to Tweed.
'It's him. The man you saw at the edge of the wood watching us in Carpford.'
'I don't believe it,' Tweed replied with astonishment. 'Of all people. This is my old friend from Belgium, ex- chief of their anti-terrorist squad. Jules Beaurain.'
As Tweed made introductions, Paula was struck by Beaurain's powerful personality, by his good looks, by his courtesy and command of English. He kissed her hand briefly and gave her a wonderful smile.
Six feet tall, in his late thirties or early forties, his hair was black, neatly brushed, his blue eyes piercing without any hint of anything but friendship. His face was long and beneath his strong nose were firm lips and a fine jaw. All his movements were swift.
'The brilliant Paula Grey,' he said, still smiling. 'When Tweed visited Brussels he praised your talents to the sky. So it gives me great pleasure to meet you. I had not expected someone quite so attractive. Don't know how you get any work done with this lady in your office.'
'That's right, pile it on,' Tweed replied with a mock grumble. 'We are just going in for dinner. Paula is starved. Can you join us?'
'I also have not eaten for years, so it seems. Certainly I should be honoured. And I trust the famous Superintendent Buchanan will be another guest.'
'How do you know he's a Superintendent?' Tweed enquired. 'I remember he was a Chief Inspector when we last met in Brussels.'
'I make it my business to know what is happening in so many different parts of the world. Does your friend realize my career, now ended, tallies not so far from his?'
'I do,' Buchanan said emphatically. 'Notorious would describe how we regard him at the Yard. But after commanding the anti-terrorist squad you returned to the police in the role of Commissioner.'
'This is fascinating,' Paula interjected, 'but I'm still in great need of food.'
'My apologies.' Beaurain took her by the arm and led the way into the hotel and the restaurant. 'Let me choose the table where we can talk openly. I am staying here at the moment.'
They sat down at a long table perched in a corner under the eaves of the ceiling. Before Tweed could open his mouth Beaurain, sitting next to Paula, was suggesting different wines from the list. He also recommended mushroom soup and lamb chops to follow.
'I, unlike my countrymen, prefer them bien cuit.'
'So do I,' said Paula. 'And the soup. My mouth's watering.'
She also ordered Chardonnay to drink and Beaurain nodded his approval. Everyone followed his choice and Paula began attacking the freshly-baked rolls. There were only two other couples, seated at tables well away from them.
'You will soon feel that life is worth living again after your grim experiences exploring Carpford. All the inhabitants are so peculiar. I doubt after leaving Mrs Gobble you enjoyed the encounter with Margesson. I doubt, also, that Mrs Gobble is all that she seems.'
'You,' Tweed accused, 'are the man with the field-glasses who watched from the edge of Black Wood.'
'The very same. I have been keeping an eye on what I suspect is a cleverly disguised base for some operation.'
'Incidentally,' Buchanan observed, 'I never once spotted you following us in that Maserati.'
'I should hope not. During my career I have had to follow some very dangerous villains without their knowing. It is not so difficult once you get the hang of it.'
'You just called Carpford a base,' Tweed observed quietly. 'A base for what? Run by whom?'
'I simply have no idea. We could discuss the notion when we next meet.'
'You remarked outside that your career has ended,' Tweed persisted. 'You have left Belgium for good?'
'I have. When I became Commissioner I soon realized that politicians were trying to control me. Since there
