The Greek Key

'Then I'll have to take on both Barrymore and Kearns,' Newman decided. He grinned at Paula. 'You're just about as bloody… independent as Marler.'

'You were going to say bloody-minded,' Paula told him. 'Maybe I am. Do I get the order of the boot?'

'I'll overlook it this time. Eat your dinner, it's getting cold. ..'

The problem solved itself the following day when Marler turned up at The Anchor, sent down by Tweed. Secretly Newman had been relieved the previous evening: Paula would have protection, working with Butler. He was careful not to point this out to Paula.

While Paula and Butler visited Taunton, Newman gave Marler the task of shadowing Kearns in his hired Peugeot. Apart from Newman, they all travelled in hired cars. It took a week for Butler and Paula to come up with a list of names of the owners of the bungalows on the estate. Once she had the names Paula took to visiting The Royal Oak at Winsford where she was soon firm friends with the heavily built barman. She always arrived before the crowd at lunchtime, always came alone.

Bit by bit she told Jack, the barman, about herself. 'I'm recovering from an illness – convalescent leave they call it, the insurance company I work for. And when I was a kid I used to come down to Taunton to visit relatives…'

Her psychology was shrewd: country folk liked to know who they were talking to. Gradually she extracted from Jack information about the occupants of the bungalow estate. The one day she avoided was Wednesday: she had seen Barrymore and Robson lunching at their usual table. They were still keeping up the ritual meetings, but Kearns was not there with them. She checked his absence on two Wednesdays before avoiding that day.

'Thinkin' of buyin' one of those bungalows when it comes on the market?' Jack commented to her one day. 'You'll be lucky. A funny set-up that lot, you mark my words.'

Tunny in what way?' she asked.

'Ever 'card of a bungalow estate put up fifteen years ago and not one of the original owners has moved? Six bungalows there are. Six men. You'd think at least one would have moved on. New job, somethin' like that. Not a bit of it. They're all still there. And keeps themselves to themselves.'

'You mean you've never met one of them?'

'Now I didn't say that, did I, miss? One of them came in here soon after they'd all moved in. Chap called Foster. Didn't take to 'im. Drank gin and tonics while he chatted. La-di-dah type.'

'What did he chat about? It sounds like a mystery. I love mysteries,' Paula glowed.

'Said he was an investment counsellor, whatever that might be. Works in Bristol. His wife has some big job overseas. Never seen 'er. Said his friend, Saunders, also had his wife abroad. Some job with the UN in New York. Funny sort of married life. Wouldn't suit me – visiting the missus once or twice a year.'

'You mean the wives never come here?'

'That's about the long and short of it. Then there's the crank. Professor Guy Seton-Charles. Bachelor. Something to do with Bristol University. In summer they mows their lawns at the weekends. That's about all you see of 'em. Stuffy lot, if you ask me.'

Paula swallowed a piece of her chicken and mushroom pie, the day's speciality chalked up on a blackboard. She sipped at her glass of white wine. Jack was polishing yet another glass until it came up gleaming like silver crystal.

'I heard there was a Mr Simon Mode living in one of the bungalows,' she said casually.

'Maybe. I wouldn't know. They're there and yet they're not there.' People were beginning to fill up the tables. He turned to another customer. 'What can I get you, sir?'

That was the night they had the most almighty row back at The Anchor.

They were all assembled for dinner at their usual table. Paula sat between Newman and Marler. Butler and Nield faced them, and Nield, inadvertently, lit the fuse.

'Saw you today, Paula. I was tracking Robson when he tried to call on Kearns. Got no joy. I thought Kearns must be out. Robson pressed the gate bell several times, no one came out, so he pushed off. I had wondered whether Kearns was ill.'

'I think he is,' Paula replied. ' I saw Robson call, then drive off. A few minutes later Dr Underwood – we met him in the bar if you remember – called. Kearns came out and let him in.'

'What did you mean, Pete?' Marler asked. 'You said you saw Paula. Driving along the road?'

'No. Parked in her hired Renault inside a gateway overlooking that bungalow colony – and Kearns' place.'

Marler turned to Paula. 'What the devil were you doing there?'

'Observing that bungalow estate. You can look down on it. It's odd – one woman seems to clean the lot. Furtively.'

'How do you mean?' Nield enquired.

'She always slips in by the back doors. She has a key to each of them. I've used night glasses to watch her after dark…'

'After dark?' Marler's tone expressed incredulity 'How long have you been keeping up this vigil?'

'For about two weeks.'

'You do realize it's only a matter of time before you're spotted,' Marler persisted in a cold voice. 'It's madness.'

'I have already realized that.' She said the words deliberately, disliking his tone. 'I saw the solution today. There's a riding stable near Dunster which hires out horses. In future I'll ride – which means I can get on the moor, check the area from different angles.'

'You bloody well won't…'

'Partridge used a horse,' she snapped. 'For the same reason, I suspect. He could see more from a horse.'

'And look where it got him.' Marler leaned his long white face – his Grecian suntan had long since faded -close to hers. 'It got him a knife in the back. You should be armed. You shouldn't be doing it at all.'

'No one's going to stop me,' she said icily, staring hard at Marler. 'If you feel that way, get me a weapon…'

It was Newman who calmed the atmosphere. He knew Paula was seething at the unspoken suggestion that she couldn't take care of herself. He remembered times when Tweed had put her in the front line to toughen her up. Standing up, he said he was driving into Minehead to call Tweed, to ask him to send a Browning automatic with spare magazines by motorbike courier. While he was away the rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

The following morning after breakfast Newman tapped on Paula's door. Inside he handed her a Browning and spare mags.

'So, I've come of age,' she said and smiled drily.

'How are you going to carry it on a horse – so it's easy to get at in an emergency?'

She produced a makeshift but neat holster made of blue denim and took hold of the Browning where she had laid it on a table. Releasing the magazine inside the butt, she checked to make sure there wasn't a bullet up the spout, pushed the mag back inside the gun and slipped it inside the holster. Two straps of the same material were attached to it.

She was wearing tight denims thrust inside riding boots and a padded windcheater. All purchased the previous day. Then she strapped the holster to her right upper leg close to her crotch. Parading round the room, she made a gesture with her slim hand.

'I'm on a horse. You meet me. Would you notice it?'

'No. It blends in perfectly. How on earth did you make that holster?'

'By staying up half the night. I cut material from the bottom of my jeans – tucked inside my boots you can't see where I took it from. Then a lot of careful sewing.' She came close to him, kissed him on the cheek. 'I expected you to flare up like Marler last night. Thanks for your vote of confidence.'

Newman shrugged, grinned. 'You are one of the team. Marler's got a short fuse. What did that cleaning woman you saw down at the estate look like?'

'Middle-aged. Medium height. About a hundred and twenty pounds. Grey hair tied back in a bun. I've got several photographs of her. I was carrying my camera with the telephoto lens. Should we send the film to Tweed?'

'Let me have it. Maybe in a few days one of us will have to go up to London. You'd finished the film?'