Precipice

'Stay exactly where you are!' ordered Marler. Paula's heart began to thud at his tone of voice.

Marler was perched on a section of the path above Bowling Green where it turned to the west. He was aiming the powerful beam of his torch down into a swamp beyond the path where the Trent had flooded a huge area.

'Oh, Lord,' said Philip, who had walked behind Paula and Tweed, guarding their rear. 'It's Ben. He must have slipped.'

'Slipped, my foot,' said Newman grimly, 'and that's not meant as a joke.'

'No one else around, is there?' asked Tweed quietly, recognizing the most important factor.

'Not at this hour.' said Newman.

He held his torch steady and in the beam Paula saw part of the figure of a man protruding above the watery ooze. He was submerged to his waist and one arm was held still and upright, as though calling for help. The head was bent back at a grotesque angle.

Using his own torch and Newman's beam to light his way, Marler slithered down a steep bank, reached the edge of the flooded area, carefully trod one leg into the mud, found it sank halfway up his gumboot and then settled on something firm below.

Paula sucked in her breath as Marler reached out with one hand after taking off his glove, gently pressed a finger against the carotid artery. Hauling out his leg on to dry land to join the other, he made his way back up the slope.

'Well?' said Tweed.

'It's Ben. His neck is broken.'

'What about the dog?' Paula asked.

'Oh, he'd throw it into the quagmire as soon as he'd killed Ben. He wouldn't want it running round drawing attention to this place too quickly. So, everyone, there we are.'

'Where are we?' Paula asked in a dazed tone.

'The Motorman. Again.' said Marler.

14

Everyone – except one man – had returned to London from the Priory Hotel early the next morning. Tweed had been electrified by the discovery of the corpse at Bowling Green.

'We're getting out of Dorset fast.' he had informed his team, at a brief conference held in his room.

'Why the haste?' Paula had asked.

'Because that's the fourth murder, and one way or another several of us have witnessed the killings. We can't risk staying here until Buchanan asks some very leading questions. Also, I'm going to speed up the tempo from Park Crescent

Only Pete Nield had been left behind, with orders to keep his eyes open and report any developments. By ten in the morning Tweed was in his office with Paula, Newman, and Marler. Newman was telling Tweed how he had handled Franklin and Eve.

'I saw them separately. I explained to Franklin you had received an urgent message recalling you to London and left it at that.'

'How did he react?'

'That it suited him to get back to London to check the progress of several investigations…'

'And Eve?'

'She also said she would be glad to leave. Apparently she had a nasty stomach upset soon after we left to meet Ben. She retired immediately to her suite, she thought it was something she ate which disagreed with her.'

'Too many vodkas and cognacs, more like,' Paula said caustically.

The phone rang. Monica answered it, then motioned to Tweed.

'Arthur Beck is on the line from Switzerland. Says he'd like to speak to you urgently…'

'Trouble, Arthur?' Tweed enquired.

'I tried to get you last night. About eleven, your time, Monica had just gone home someone told me. Brazil landed at Cointrin Airport, Geneva, last night. Had a limo waiting for him. One of my men watching the airport saw him leave with that aggressive bastard, Carson Craig. The car was followed by two unmarked cars and a motorcyclist. It headed east for Ouchy and Montreux."'

'Curious. I've heard he has offices in Paris and Zurich ."'

'Let me finish. In Ouchy both unmarked cars lost him. I've had an unkind word with the drivers. But the chap on the motorcycle was brighter. He saw Brazil and Craig switch to another identical limousine in Ouchy – with the same number plates as the one which left Geneva. He followed it to Berne, to here. Brazil has a secret HQ not a hundred yards from where I'm sitting – in my own HQ.'

Tricky chap.' Tweed commented.

'I think he'll be on the move again soon. You know we have a small airport at Belp, outside the city. Well, the executive jet which flew him to Geneva has landed here. And the pilot has filed a flight plan for guess where?'

'I never guess.'

'You do it all the time. The flight plan is for the jet to fly to Geneva this evening. I have watchers at Belp Airport.'

'Like a perishing grasshopper, our Mr Brazil.'

'Must go now. Will keep you in touch – even if it does cost me my job…'

Tweed sighed, put down the phone, told the others the gist of Beck's call.

'What do you think?' he asked.

'That Geneva keeps cropping up.' Newman said.

'I'm suspicious after what you've told us.' Paula said slowly while she drew faces on her notepad. 'If I were Beck I'd have someone waiting at this Belp Airport who can definitely recognize at least Brazil – and Craig if possible. To make sure that if two men board that jet they really are who they're supposed to be.'

'I think you've just had a flash of inspiration.' Tweed thought for a moment, then looked at Monica. 'Would you call back to Beck and give him Paula's idea? Tell him it came from Paula – he respects her – and that I'm in full agreement with the suggestion.'

He had just finished speaking when the phone rang yet again. Monica answered, frowned, looked at Tweed.

'Bill Franklin is waiting downstairs. Says he'd like to see you briefly if you have the time.'

'Then we'll make the time for Bill. Call Beck after he's gone.. .'

In a small stone villa on Kochergasse in Berne, not far distant from Federal Police Headquarters, Brazil sat behind a huge Louis Quinze desk. The only other occupant of the room, its walls covered in ancient tapestries, was Jose, a tall lean man wearing a grey business suit. He sat in a corner behind his own much smaller desk.

'Well, Jose,' Brazil boomed cheerfully, 'would you say I fooled them all last night? Your idea of changing limousines was brilliant.'

'From what I've heard of Tweed I would assume it was dangerous to feel too confident.'

'I was talking about Beck, not Tweed,' Brazil said sharply.

'My comment stands.'

Brazil stared at his most trusted confidant. In his late thirties, Jose came from French Guiana, the one-time French colony in South America, now a departement of France. Jose had a poverty-stricken childhood but, working hard, he had saved enough money for a one-way ticket to the States.

There he had sold newspapers on the streets, washed up in restaurants, living in one slum of a room while he studied in the early hours to be an accountant. Achieving top marks in his exams, he had applied to a conglomerate run by Brazil in America for the job of junior accountant.

Brazil had wandered into the office where Jose was being interviewed, had taken over the interview himself. He was so impressed by Jose's intelligence, by his ethics, he had appointed him as his deputy, a post Jose had held ever since Brazil had moved to Europe.

His skin was coffee-coloured. Clean-shaven, he always dressed impeccably and was the only man who didn't hesitate to disagree with his chief. It was a quality which Brazil admired.

'Now you have a moment free,' Jose began, 'I can tell you of a phone call from England which came in early this morning, our time. It was from the informant you nicknamed the Recorder.'

'Interesting information?'

'The Recorder told me a few names of key personnel on Tweed's team. Robert Newman, Paula Grey, and -subject to confirmation – William Franklin.'

'Is that all?' There was an edge to Brazil's voice. 'I must have at the earliest possible moment the names of all the key members of Tweed's team. That reminds me, I must put in a phone call to England.'