'I'd come with you,' Tweed said. 'But the situation here…'
'Bob didn't ask for you,' she said with a cheeky smile. 'I will keep you informed as far as I can. Borrow a mobile off Pete Nield. See you.'
'Don't take your Saab to drive down there,' Tweed warned. 'You are known to have that car and the enemy has done his homework. Take my old battered Ford with the souped-up engine. That might confuse them.'
'Will do.'
She was almost at the door when she stooped to pick something up off the carpet. It was a contact lens with a greenish-yellow tint. She took it back and laid it on Tweed's desk.
'The Parrot must have dropped this as she left in a fury.'
'I wonder,' said Tweed very thoughtfully, looking at the lens.
'And here,' Paula said, handing him a camera, 'inside is the film. I took two shots of our visitor.'
Tweed called over to Monica. He gave her the camera.
'Take this down to the basement. Tell them to print what's inside. Then they should give the prints to that clever artist, Joel, and ask him to come up. I have experienced his talented hand at creating people's images.'
7
Paula was racing down the motorway, the same one Newman had driven along earlier. Before leaving Park Crescent she had used a map to check the location of Tolhaven, a place she'd never heard of. A souped-up engine, Tweed had said. She was having to concentrate to stop the car carrying her away, and so hard she passed the exit leading to the safe house Newman had used without giving it a thought. Shortly afterwards she turned off the motorway down a road leading more to the south.
The end of March. It was a gloriously sunny afternoon and cold. She had her window open a few inches to keep herself alert. She frequently checked her rear-view mirror but there was no sign of black cars. She had eluded State Security – no, Special Branch as they still were, despite their black uniforms, the long overcoats, the peaked caps.
She was driving through open country with rolling hills on either side. Here and there a field had crusted brown sods of soil. Ploughing was well under way. She sighed with pleasure. Such a relief to be in the country and away from the crammed streets and buildings of London.
The road was straight for long stretches and she risked increasing her speed. Eventually she crossed the Dorset Downs and a panoramic view opened up. The road descended, hedge-lined on both sides, but ahead in the distance the sun glowed off a vast stretch of blue sea. The English Channel. She crawled through the first village she had encountered for ages, saw a signpost bearing the legend Tolhaven.
No traffic. She was thinking of the contact lens she had given Tweed, along with the camera she'd used to photograph the Parrot. She had a twin camera in her pocket. 'I wonder,' Tweed had said and asked Monica to give it to the basement boffins, develop the film, then send it to Joel, the artist. Why? What had occurred to him in his agile brain?
Tolhaven was a dull place, small and with stone buildings, most of which had small shops at ground level. She saw the Monk's Head, turned into a parking area under an arch. Newman's Range Rover was parked in a corner.
In reception a woman in late middle-age, wearing a crumpled grey dress, told her Mr Newman had said he was expecting a lady guest. His room was 25, hers was 24, both on the first floor.
'You made good time,' Newman greeted her when Paula had tapped on his door, and entered his large bedroom, its windows overlooking the main street. 'Are you armed?'
'Yes. Sounds as though you expect trouble.'
'I do. Thanks for coming. I need someone sensitive to weird atmospheres. We ought to get moving. On foot. It will be dark soon.'
'Mind if I dump my emergency bag in my room and change into walking boots? You can come with me…'
She had noticed Newman was exuding energy, but that his expression was grim after his welcoming smile. He was clad in a camouflage jacket and trousers tucked into boots. She worked quickly in her room while Newman peered out of a window looking down on the car park.
'Don't miss a trick, do you?' he said sharply. 'Parked your car like mine facing out for a quick getaway.'
'That's on the cards?'
'I've paid in advance for both rooms for two nights. If we have to we can take off in an emergency.'
'You expect one?'
'State Security have been here for hours in full battledress. I've done a recce, so I can show you.' He looked towards the bathroom. 'We may not be back for a while.'
'I'm OK. What are we waiting for?'
'Have you eaten?' Newman paused on the pavement outside the hotel. 'I should have asked earlier.'
'Yes. Shouldn't we keep moving?'
He led them down a side street near the hotel and over to the far side of the High Street. They emerged into the open and the small town was gone. The road climbed to an ancient bridge. Paula peered over a crumbling stone wall. Below a fast-flowing river headed seaward. On one bank an old wooden dock was gradually collapsing into the water.
'Ages ago, before the Channel decided to recede,' Newman explained briskly, 'Tolhaven was on the edge of the sea. The town has a history of smugglers and savage fights with the equivalent of the coastguard.'
'It's eerily quiet, apart from the water lapping,' she remarked as they walked quickly beyond the bridge.
'It's a riot here compared with where we're going.'
'Can't wait
The road became a lane with forests of fir trees hemming it in on both sides. To their right, in a break in the trees, a path curved away marked with a sign: Ferry.
'Where does that go to, then?' she asked.
'To Black Island,' Newman replied, 'not far off the coast. I've been there for a quick shufti…'
'What was that? Think I've heard it before.'
'Arabic for look-see. Philip Cardon used the word when we had fun down in Marseilles.'
'Fun? We nearly got killed.'
'That was a honeymoon compared with what this could be. I want you to keep quiet, crouch down after me.'
Newman's whole attitude, his remarks, made Paula check the Browning in the shoulder holster. They had turned off into another gap in the forest. The grass and dead bracken were squashed down with what looked to Paula like wheel-tracks. He held up a hand to halt her as they arrived at an opening. Three large cars were parked facing the track. Newman checked each one with small powerful field glasses. He had laid the golfer's bag which he'd carried casually slung over his shoulder down on the grass. He completed his survey, tucked away the glasses.
'Empty,' he announced in a whisper.
'What's in the golf bag? Not irons, I suspect.'
'A powerful automatic weapon with plenty of ammo,' he told her casually. 'I think we'll risk crossing over to Black Island by ferry. The thugs had overhead lights fixed up where they were working, so maybe they carry on at night.'
'What work?'
'That's what I want you to see. If I tell you to do something like "drop flat" you do it damned fast.'
They had returned along the track to the road, went back to where the signpost pointed to the ferry.
'I thought I always did when you said something. I was with you down at the training mansion in Surrey. I seem to recall I scored more bulls than you on the firing range.'
'You did,' Newman agreed. 'I said that because my impression is the thugs in State Security gear are also well trained. And they're armed…'
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.