The Greek Key

'Yes,' said Seton-Charles. 'You're sure the vans will still be available? Not already sold?'

'My dear chap, the advertisement said they have six vans they want to shift. Bound to be at least two left, providing you're in Norwich first thing tomorrow. That's it…'

The connection was broken. Seton-Charles hurried back to his Volvo station wagon, backed it on to the road, started driving for his home on the bungalow estate.

He had no idea of the identity of the man who had called him. He thought the codename Jupiter rather pretentious, but driving along he realized Jupiter was a first-rate organizer. Now he'd drive to Norwich during the late evening, find a hotel. He'd have to park his Volvo in a lock-up, buy a second-hand motorcycle.

When he'd purchased the two furniture vans he'd park the motorbike inside one, then drive it to Cherry Farm, an uninhabited farmhouse he'd visited earlier. Next he'd ride the bike back to Norwich, collect the second van, drive it to the farm. Finally, he could use the bike to ride back again to Norwich to pick up his Volvo. The bike would be dumped in some convenient wood. Job done.

But what could Jupiter want with a couple of furniture vans? He couldn't even guess. But the operation-whatever it might be – was under way. And there had been a hint of urgency in the way he'd been given his instructions.

'Do go easy on Kearns,' Paula said as Tweed parked the Mercedes just short of Woodside House. 'Remember, his wife has just been killed.' She looked up. 'Good Lord, it's Pete.'

Nield leant on the edge of Tweed's window. He looked very tired. He winked at Paula and then spoke to Tweed.

'It's a small world, as they say. Seton-Charles has come back from Greece. I've been checking for days. He's just returned to that bungalow of his at the end of the cul-de-sac after making a covert phone call.'

'Covert?'

'I saw his Volvo parked outside his bungalow so I hung around. He has his own phone, as you know. So what does he do? Drives to a public call box near Simonsbath.'

'A long call?' Tweed asked.

'Let me tell it my way. I follow him. He hides his Volvo in some trees, walks into the box, then waits at least ten minutes.'

That sounds like a professional. He has an arrangement to be at a certain call box at a specific time. Go on.'

The phone rings. He snatches it. Conversation lasts precisely ninety seconds. Then he drives back here. His car is inside his garage. What do you think?'

'He bears watching.' Tweed looked closely at Nield. 'You've had a long day, I'd say.'

'Bit frayed. I could do with a sit-down and a half pint.'

Then drive back to The Anchor now. If Seton-Charles put his car away it doesn't look as though he's going anywhere tonight. We'll see you for dinner. Go and relax.'

Thanks. You're still prowling?'

'We're calling on friend Kearns. If he's home.'

'He is. I saw him ride in on his horse a while ago. I'll get moving…'

'Wait for that beastly dog to appear,' Paula said as Tweed pressed the bell-push beside the gates.

A light came on over the distant porch. Kearns came out slowly. He was carrying a heavy stick. He shone a flashlight and the powerful beam reached the gate, blinding Paula. Tweed half-shut his eyes.

'No dog,' Paula whispered. 'Funny.'

'It's you,' Kearns greeted them. 'I suppose you'd better come in. I'd like it kept brief, whatever it is.'

'Of course,' replied Tweed.

They followed him carefully up the centre of the path, keeping clear of the rough grass and the mantraps it concealed. Kearns led them into the dimly lit hall. Outside it was twilight; dusk was gathering over the moors. Paula dropped her handbag, scrabbled on the floor and picked it up.

Tweed hardly noticed: he was thinking Kearns was getting careless about security. The inner heavy wooden slab doors had been open when they arrived; only the grille gates were closed. Where was the dog?

There was a sudden ferocious snarl from behind a closed door as Kearns passed it. A heavy thud, as though the Alsatian had hurled its bulk against the far side. Kearns hammered a clenched fist against the door.

'Shut it!' he growled.

The first sign of tension – of emotion – he had shown. He took them into the same dining room with the oak table and the panelled walls. Again the lighting was dim. White-faced, Kearns sat at the opposite side, gestured for them to join him on the far side.

'What is it now?' he demanded.

'I know this is a grim time for you,' Tweed began, 'but we need as much information as we can get about your wife's murder. And memory has a habit of fading fast…'

'You are convinced it was murder?' Kearns asked, his large hands clenched, the knuckles showing white. His brown marble-like eyes stared at Tweed.

'Yes, I think it was. It's not much consolation – but since the Yard is also convinced they'll do their best to hunt down the killer. An ordinary hit-and-run driver who's probably never caught can cause even more anguish.' He looked round the room. The place looks well looked after. Have you got someone in to help?'

'I've done it myself.' Kearns stiffened his back. 'I don't want any other woman inside the house now Jill's gone.'

'I understand. Incidentally, at Quarme Manor I gathered you went for an early morning walk the day you left the Lyceum Hotel. So did Barrymore – on his own. Did you by chance see him while you were out?'

'Strangely enough, no.'

'Why "strangely"?'

'Because,' Kearns explained, 'he always walks in St James's Park when we're in town. Which is where I went. No one else about at that hour. I didn't see any trace of him.'

'One more question, then we'll leave you in peace. I called in on Dr Robson while I was on my way here. He had a four-wheel-drive vehicle parked by the side of his bungalow. It's got the word Renegade painted on the side opposite to the driver's seat. Said he'd borrowed it from you.'

'That's right. But it isn't mine. I borrow it from a chap called Foster. Stockbroker type. Lives in the bungalow nearest the main road – on the left as you face the cul-de-sac. We do a lot of that on Exmoor – exchange things on loan. It saves money.'

'How old would this Foster be?' asked Tweed.

Kearns looked surprised at the question, but answered. 'I'd say about forty. Like most of them on that estate.'

'And when did they all move into those bungalows?'

'Fifteen years ago.'

Tweed stood up. Thank you for bearing with me. You have some friends you can talk to? I know myself what it's like – stuck on your own in a house when your wife is gone.'

Paula glanced quickly at him. She realized Tweed was recalling the time when his own wife had left him for a Greek shipping magnate.

'Oh, yes. In Winsford,' Kearns replied. 'I'll survive. Let me show you out.'

As they crossed the hall they heard the Alsatian. Now it was moaning and whining behind the closed door. Tweed thought that it sounded as if it were mourning the death of its mistress.

It was dark as Kearns used his flashlight to guide them to the exit. He said 'Goodnight', locked the grille gates and walked slowly back to the house. Tweed and Paula returned to the car. He sank behind the wheel, took a packet out of the glove compartment and smoked one of his rare cigarettes. Paula kept silent for a few minutes before she spoke.

'You're ruminating.'

'A lot to think about. That four-wheel-drive vehicle, Renegade. First it seems to belong to Robson, then Kearns and now this man, Foster. The question is, who drove it along the coast near Porlock Weir about midnight? No way of telling.'

'So we can't pursue that line of enquiry – assuming that it's worth pursuing.'