The Greek Key

'Then there's the weird psychological set-up between the three men – Robson, Barrymore and Kearns. That must be quite something.'

'I'm not following you.'

'Use your imagination. Three men take part in that commando raid on Siros all those years ago. Andreas Gavalas is murdered with a commando knife. One of them did it…'

'But Barrymore checked their weapons after they found the body,'

'So, the killer carried an extra knife, knowing what he was going to do in advance. A hundred thousand pounds' worth of diamonds – now worth a million – went missing.

When Barrymore and Kearns leave the Army they settle on Exmoor, close to Robpon – who found accommodation for them. I don't think the three of them conspired to murder Andreas. Just one of them.'

'I'm being dim – what about the psychological set-up?'

'It's diabolical, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play. Nobody knows who did it. But two out of the three know they didn't. So two of them who are innocent must have wondered all these years which man was a murderer. That makes for almost unbearable tension.'

'So why stay together?'

That's the truly diabolical part. There's another factor locking them together – fear of Petros and the Gavalas clan coming to Exmoor for revenge. They're trying to protect one another.'

'You're right,' Paula said slowly, 'it's a macabre relationship.'

'Let's get moving.' Tweed shook himself alert. 'I want to take a quick look at that bungalow estate down the road.'

He parked near the bottom of the hill with the engine still running. In the night they had a good view of the six bungalows with whitewashed walls, three on either side of the cul-de-sac. Curtains were closed. Behind them lights shone. The coach lamps in the porches were all lit. No sign of life.

Each dwelling had a low wall, also whitewashed, bordering a trim lawn inside. All the gardens had the grass cut. No cars were parked either in the road or on a drive. All neatly tucked away inside the garages attached to the bungalows. On the roofs of five of them were the same conventional television masts. Only Seton-Charles had the complex structure with a satellite dish.

'I tell you again,' Paula said, 'it doesn't look real. If robots walked out I'd hardly be surprised.'

'Best get back to The Anchor…'

He was releasing the brake after moving the gear into drive when she touched his arm. He put the brake back on and turned to her.

'What is it?'

This.' She was holding a small white stick she'd taken out of her handbag. 'Remember when we arrived at Reams' place – I pretended to be clumsy and dropped my handbag on the floor. I'd seen this on the woodblocks.'

'What is it?'

'I'm pretty sure it's French chalk. Let me test it.' She held the stick, rubbed it on the cuff of her cotton blouse. A white mark appeared. She brushed at it with her fingers and it vanished. Opening the glove flap, she balanced the makeshift shelf on her knee, rubbed the stick across it. The substance appeared as small grains of powder. She bent forward, sniffed at it. 'No smell.' Moistening her index finger, she dabbed it in the powder, tasted it. 'No taste. It is French chalk.'

'I fail to see the significance.'

'You know I make some of my dresses. I use it for marking. And there's another purpose it could be used for.'

'Now you're keeping me dangling.'

'Reams' complexion – normally ruddy when the suntan has worn offis white. We put it down to grief. I think he used this stick of French chalk to alter his complexion, to simulate grief. It must have dropped out of his pocket. I think he used it to touch up the effect just before he appeared at the door. There is a mirror in the hall. And I noticed traces of white powder on his jacket lapel.'

'My God!' said Tweed. 'And Howard still thinks I'm wrong to introduce women into the Service.'

40

They arrived back at The Anchor and found Butler and Nield having a drink in the bar. Nield sat at the corner table with his head leant against the wall, his eyes half-closed. It was early for business: they had the place to themselves.

'Don't get up,' Paula said as Nield stirred. 'You look all in.'

'Application to the job in hand.' Nield smiled. 'Your boss expects non-stop action,' he said as Tweed arrived with the drinks: mineral water for himself, a glass of white wine for Paula. 'I've been driving over those moors until they seem to start moving.'

'Application!' Butler snorted and drank from his half-pint glass. That's what we're here for.' He lowered his voice, speaking to Tweed, who sat next to him. 'Barrymore left Quarme Manor soon after you'd gone. Drove into Minehead. Made a call from a public box. Funny thing to do – he ha* his phone at home.'

'How long a call?'

'Between one and two minutes. I was going to time it but found my watch had stopped. Then he drives straight back to Quarme Manor.'

'Odd,' Tweed agreed. He looked round the table. 'Does anyone know whether Jill Kearns used to take that Alsatian when she went for her early morning walk on the moor?'

'I do,' Nield said. 'The answer is yes. Came out in a chat I had with the barman over there. She was well-known for those walks. Always started at 6.30 a.m. on the dot. The dog always went with her. For protection as much as company, I imagine. A lonely place, the moor.'

'That means the dog was pining for her,' Tweed remarked. 'And why am I worried about Mrs Larcombe down the road? Something she said. It will come back to me. What is it?'

Paula plucked at his sleeve. 'Look outside.' He twisted round, gazed out of the window. Two men and two girls clad in denims and windcheaters were getting out of a Land Rover covered with a canvas roof. They walked off towards the harbour. 'You see,' she said, 'another of those vehicles.'

Butler nodded. 'Four-wheel drives? They're pretty common – Pete and I have seen a number while we've driven around.'

'And there,' said Tweed, 'goes another theory I had. Every time I think I've got somewhere it turns into a dead end.'

'Like Porlock Weir,' Paula chimed in and sipped more wine.

'One thing I'd like you to do,' Tweed said to Nield, 'is check on the inhabitants of that bungalow estate near Kearns' place. Any titbit you can pick up.'

'First target the electoral register,' Nield replied. Then go on from there.'

'Why the interest?' Paula asked.

'Two remarks you made. That it didn't look real. And that you almost expected robots to emerge. Incidentally, the pathologist at Taunton told me Partridge was killed by someone who knew just where to insert the knife. Another thing. Pete,' he went on, 'I need to know whether Kearns still takes those night rides up to the summit of Dunkery Beacon…'

'Certainly not at the moment. Only when there's enough moonlight to see his way. Tricky riding those moors at night even for a really experienced horseman.' He drank more beer. 'Well, that should keep my days filled.'

'There's more for you.' Tweed smiled at Nield's expression. 'You'll cope. I'd like you sometime – in daylight – to get up to the top of Dunkery Beacon and poke around up there. With Butler's help you'll manage. Plus, of course, keeping an eye on the other two. I wouldn't want you to have time on your hands, to get bored.' He finished his mineral water and stood up. 'I fancy a breath of fresh air. Want to come, Paula?'

'Lovely idea. Help to work up an appetite for dinner. That remark you made about the pathologist's comment again points the ringer at the commandos.'

'Any news from Greece?' Tweed asked Butler as he donned his Burberry. 'You check regularly?'

'As you requested. Not a word. Monica didn't seem worried. She said Newman only calls when he has something solid. Same with Marler.'

'See you." Tweed nodded to the barman, opened the door, paused. 'Pretty blustery out there.' He took his old waterproof hat off a peg and rammed it over his head. Paula wrapped a scarf round hers.