The Greek Key

There's a couple of other things, Tweed,' Paula continued. 'I wonder if you noticed Partridge's expression when my bracelet slipped from under my cuff? He stared at the Greek key symbol like a man transfixed.'

'Probably looking at your legs,' Nield joked. 'Enough to transfix any full-blooded male…'

'Oh, shut up! The other thing was when we met those three men. Barrymore, Kearns and Robson – all with dark suntans.'

'I did notice,' Tweed agreed. 'And they went to some length to explain where they'd been. Even Barrymore, who wasn't exactly voluble. Interesting that all three said they'd been away to places difficult to check – Morocco and the Caribbean…'

'Which, as I said earlier, means one of them could have just returned from Greece where Harry Masterson died.'

'Exactly. And the timing of their absence coincides with when Masterson was killed. Pure speculation, of course.'

'But odd that they should all be away at the same time,' she persisted.

'Now you're reaching,' Nield intervened. The month of May – the time when people who are free to go on holiday do. They avoid the crowds.'

'And that's not all,' said Tweed.

'It's enough for me tonight.' Paula stifled a yawn. 'But do tell me what else there is.'

'When we can I want to check Sam's story about Anton Gavalas.'

'How on earth are we going to do that?' she asked, standing up and clearing the coffee cups, arranging them neatly on a tray.

'When we can we visit Watchet. I ask the harbourmaster. Was there a ship which berthed from Portugal? I carry more clout than Sam, who is now retired. Did he see a man answering the description of Anton coming ashore?'

'Sleep well.' Paula bent down, kissed him on the cheek. 'Forget everything.'

'I'll try.' Tweed smiled grimly. 'I'm expecting developments. Maybe rather unpleasant ones.'

15

The following morning Paula was walking down the old oak staircase when Nield caught up with her. Both had breakfasted with Tweed. Paula had gone to her room to fetch her outdoor clothes, leaving Tweed to linger over his coffee in the dining room.

'I'm off to Minehead to fix the Mercedes,' Nield told her. 'You look thoughtful.'

'It's Tweed. He's worried. He enquired for Partridge before we had breakfast. The manager told him Partridge had early breakfast and had gone off to the stables. He's going to ride over Exmoor again. Tweed wishes he'd leave it alone – or cooperate with us.'

'Independent chap, our Mr Partridge. And, like Tweed said, he's obsessed with a forty-year-old murder. You can't reason with an obsession.'

'I suppose you're right…'

She half-opened the door to the dining room, then stopped, paused, and closed it again quietly. Checking the belt of her raincoat, she glanced up at Nield from under her thick eyebrows.

'She doesn't waste much time. I thought she was a manhunter.'

'Who?'

'You'll never guess who's sitting at Tweed's table. Jill, Reams' ravishing blonde wife. She asked Tweed where he was staying just before we left Woodside House.'

'Tweed will handle her, maybe extract some information.'

'You could be right.' She hesitated. 'Do you mind if I come with you to Minehead, Pete? I can leave a note tor Tweed.'

'I'd welcome the company…'

Tweed had been sitting quietly, sipping his coffee, sorting out in his mind what he had learned, when Jill Kearns walked into the dining room. Slipping off her suede gloves and her camelhair coat, she'd perched in the chair opposite him.

'I hope I'm not too early for you. Stuart – my husband – went off riding on the moor so it seemed an ideal opportunity to pop over and see you.'

She wore a tight-fitting powder-blue sweater which showed off her well-rounded breasts and had a polo-necked collar. Using both elegant hands she threw her shoulder-length hair over her shoulders, inserted a cigarette in the ivory holder, pausing before she lit it.

'Do you mind? My smoking while you breakfast?'

'Not at all. I'm only drinking coffee.'

'And there's no one else about, so it's an ideal chance for us to get to know each other better.'

'As you say…'

Tweed smiled to encourage her. She had excellent bone structure, a well-shaped nose, a full-lipped mouth painted with bright red lipstick. Her eyes were a startling blue beneath blonde arched eyebrows. She radiated animation and he guessed her age at something over thirty. About half Reams' age. And very sexy.

'Let me tell you something about myself,' she began in the soft, husky voice he remembered well from the previous evening. 'My father was a squadron leader with the RAF in the Mid-East during the war. Stayed on afterwards as an adviser to the Egyptian Government. I was actually born in Cairo.' She cocked her head on one side, staring straight at him. 'Is this all a frightful bore? It must be…'

'On the contrary, I'm always interested in the background of a beautiful woman.' She inclined her head, smiled impishly as she acknowledged the compliment. 'Please go on.'

'My mother was Clementine Hamilton. Born in Dublin

'That name rings a bell.' He waited.

'My brother, David Hamilton, is a Member of Parliament. I was born late. My mother was forty.'

'Was? You mean…'

'Both my mother and father are dead. A car crash. They were in a pile-up on the M25…'She hurried on as Tweed began to say something. 'It's all right. It was quite a few years ago. Then I married Stuart – or he married me might be more accurate. His first wife died in a swimming accident. You'll have noticed the difference in age between my husband and myself. I found the younger men callow, quite boring. I didn't know Stuart at all well. He's very handsome – but looks aren't everything.'

'I suppose not,' Tweed commented cautiously.

She reached across the table with her right hand and placed it over his. Her hand was warm, the fingers supple as they entwined Tweed's.

'I need an ally, a confidant, someone I can trust…'

'I'm afraid I might not fit the role,' he began.

'Someone right outside this tight social circle on Exmoor. Wait,' she urged as he opened his mouth. 'Please, let me finish. I am becoming frightened. Something is wrong. Help me. Please.'

She released his hand but her eyes held his. Blue? More like lapis lazuli. For a moment Tweed was aware of himself standing mentally away from the table, observing his own reactions. The woman was getting to him, exercising all her charm, exerting an almost hypnotic effect.

He drank more coffee, gazed at the base of the inside of the cup. His brain began to tick over again. He chose his words carefully.

'What are you frightened of?'

'The atmosphere. As though something awful is about to happen.' She stubbed her cigarette, fitted a fresh one into the holder, lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. Tweed reached across to the next table, put a clean cup and saucer in front of her, poured coffee from the pot. She said, 'No, thank you,' when he offered cream and drank half the cup of steaming black coffee. 'Thank you, Tweed. I needed that.' He sensed they were already on intimate terms as he asked the question.

'I'm afraid I don't understand yet – what atmosphere?'

'The moor, for one thing. Being shut up in Woodside at night – cut off from the world by high walls. Like being in prison. My only companion. Wolf, my dog.'

'And for another thing, Mrs Reams?'

'Jill. Please call me Jill. Then there are Stuart's strange friends. Dr Robson and that Colonel Barrymore. Do you know they were in the same Army unit all those years ago? Now they still seem to be in the unit. They meet twice every week. Once here for dinner. On Saturdays. Then for lunch at The Royal Oak in Winsford each Wednesday.'

Today is Wednesday…'

'I know. Which is why Stuart won't be back until late this afternoon at the earliest. So I'm safe. Driving over here in the hope of seeing you. And, Tweed…' She leaned close to him and he caught the faintest whiff of perfume. Something expensive. His mind felt dazed. They'll all be at The Royal Oak,' she went on in her soft, soothing voice. 'And the weird thing is the colonel -Barrymore – still acts as though he's in command of them. He's creepy. The way he looks at my legs sometimes. I know what he's thinking.'