A fresh fall of massive rocks poured down, tumbling over each other like some mad race. The head vanished. The boulders piled over the invisible corpse, building a grisly funeral pyre. Slowly the noise receded, the cliff settled, returned to stability as a great cloud of dust, a dense fog, spread over the whole ghastly scene.
Kearns, still carrying the satchel, walked back to Tweed, his wrists held out, as though waiting for handcuffs.
'He killed Jill,' he said in a choked voice. 'It had to be one of them. I've lived with the conviction Robson or Barrymore killed those Greeks during the war. But we were afraid of Petros, so we stuck together. I followed you the previous walk you took along here, saw the landslip. I kept several Mills hand grenades when I left the Army. I tested one up at Dunkery Beacon the other night – to make sure they were still working. I'm ready to go.'
Two questions,' Tweed replied. He opened his hand, exposing the stick of French chalk he'd taken from his pocket. 'Paula picked that up in your house – you used it to simulate grief, to chalk your face. Why?'
Kearns walked a few slow paces until they were on their own. 'When Barrymore phoned, asked me to come and meet you at his house, I'd been sobbing like a child -because of Jill. So I had to clean up my face somehow. I used that stick of French chalk – the one Jill used when she occasionally did a bit of dressmaking.'
'I see.' Tweed changed the subject. 'During the raid on Siros, why land below a German lookout post?'
'Bravado. Barrymore's. And because of the lookout there were few German patrols at that point. Made tactical sense – we relied on a sea mist to cover us, which it did most of the way. Now, I'm ready to go.'
'Then go,' said Tweed. 'I don't recall ever seeing you here. Leave Exmoor. Petros is in prison. Go,' he repeated, 'build yourself a new life.'
'Thank you…'
'I said go!'
As Kearns walked slowly away Tweed stared towards Porlock Weir. No sign of activity: they were too far west for the thunder of the falling cliff to have been heard. 'Poor devil,' he commented. He glanced at the pile of rocks where the dust was settling. 'It will be months before they find out what is under that lot, if ever. Now, let's get rid of that boat.'
Standing on either side of the motorboat, Tweed and Newman exerted all their strength. They heaved it upside down, pushed it over the pebbles, which made a grinding noise. The craft slid over the edge, floated for some distance half-submerged, drifted out to sea.
Kearns had managed to start up his Renault while they were occupied and it disappeared into the distance. Between them they tackled the Land Rover which still had the key in the ignition. Within ten minutes Newman had driven it to the water's brink. One final shove propelled it off the pebbles and it sank from view.
'Back to The Anchor,' Tweed ordered. He put an arm round Paula who was shivering with reaction. 'You need a good stiff drink. It's all over. Detente is intact-for better or worse. And I'll report to the PM on the quiet about Lucharsky and his allies. It's up to her what she does after that.'
– – Epilogue
– – It is reported that Deputy Chief of General Staff, Andrei Lucharsky, General Budienny, and a third unnamed general, together with their aides, Colonels Rykovsky and Volkov, perished while flying in a helicopter over the Caspian Sea. The pilot saved himself by parachuting from the machine. No further details are available of this tragic accident.
Extract from December issue of PRAVDA.
'Odd that so much top brass should be committed to one chopper,' Tweed commented after reading the report. He handed it back to Monica. 'File it.'