By Stealth (13 page)

`You should put up a notice if it's private property.' `There was a bloody notice...'

`Watch your language, old man. Especially when you're talking to a lady,' Newman suggested amiably.

`Vandals!' Barton was beside himself with fury. 'You don't expect them on the river but they come. Wreck things just for the pleasure of it...'

As he raved on Mordaunt helped Paula aboard the dinghy to the same seat at the prow. Tweed glanced downriver, joined her as Newman and Nield came aboard. Mordaunt started up the engine after releasing the rope tying the craft to the landing stage. They were moving out into midstream when Paula also glanced downriver and stiffened.

The temperature had nosedived, the sky was almost dark as night. And drifting swiftly up from the Solent was a dense freezing fog.

*
    
*
    
*

Paula's nerves were on edge but she made a great effort not to show it. The freezing fog — like ice mist — had caught up with them, blotted out both banks. It recalled for her the vigil at Lymington marina when she had waited for Harvey Boyd to return. Something was moving up close behind them.

The fog swirled like dense smoke. She peered back and saw it was only phantom shapes which came and went. At least so they appeared. Tweed sensed her nervousness, squeezed her arm.

`We'll soon be back at Buckler's Hard,' he said quietly.

`But how on earth will Mordaunt find his way up the main channel? We could end up marooned in one of those horrid marshy flats.'

`Seems to know what he's doing...'

The fog trailed clammy fingers over Paula's face. Just as it had done at the marina. She was living the nightmare all over again. Gritting her teeth, she continued to look over her shoulder, waiting for something huge to drive them under the water.

They had been talking in whispers. It was an unconscious reaction to the leaden hush which had fallen on the river with the arrival of the fog. Even the sound of their outboard was muffled as Mordaunt followed the familiar course of the channel. Then she heard a slapping noise of water washing against a hull. A second later a distinct shape loomed up to starboard. Paula's gloved hand clenched the plank seat tightly.

`Just a yacht moored to a buoy,' Tweed assured her.

They passed within a foot of the yacht with its mast a dim silhouette spearing up and vanishing inside the fog. Visibility dropped to zero as they rounded a sweeping bend. The freezing cold was penetrating Paula's windcheater. She turned away from Tweed to lick her lips, dry with fear. Then she leaned her head close to his.

`That water slapping against the yacht's hull — something must have disturbed the water. It's like oil. I wonder if that girl in the dinghy we saw coming down is also on her way back?'

`I expect so,' said Tweed in the same calm tone.

`I'd have thought we'd have reached Buckler's Hard by now.'

`We're nearly there. I remember coming round this steep curve. And the fog is thinning. We'll be safe on
terra firma
within minutes.'

`Don't tempt fate...'

Lee Holmes steered her small dinghy close to the shore by the boatyard. Brigadier Burgoyne appeared, wearing his driving helmet and goggles, scarf in one hand. As she stepped out he dragged the dinghy ashore up the slope to the hull of the large yacht.

`You took your time,' he snapped. 'I think I can hear them coming back. We've got to be away before they arrive.'

I haven't a lot to report...' she began.

`Then save it until we're well on our way.'

He ran to the shed. So they could leave quickly he had already opened the doors. She ran after him, pulling her sodden scarf off her head, shoving her misted-up glasses into her handbag. He had the engine going as she jumped in beside him. She was shutting the door of the Bentley when he drove off through the dark up the private road, his headlamps undimmed. On the outward journey Lee had remained hidden, huddled on the floor behind the front seats. Burgoyne rapped out his order.

Now, get on with your report.'

`No need to be so bossy. You're not dressing down one of your subalterns.'

`You cut it too damned fine. Get on with the report.'

`They all — except Mordaunt — got off at Moor's Landing and disappeared for ages. Tweed, Paula Grey, and two men I couldn't recognize — except one looked familiar through my glasses. It will come back to me who he is. When they returned Barton was with them, seemed to be in a rage, waving his hands about.'

`How long do you reckon they were there?'

It was dark now, which didn't stop Burgoyne racing along a straight stretch, headlamps blazing. He was anxious to reach the main road from Beaulieu to Brockenhurst before his targets appeared.

`Exactly thirty minutes. I timed them.'

`As long as that? They must have poked around a lot. I don't like it.'

`Then,' Lee continued, brushing her long mane of blonde hair, saw the fog coming upriver so decided I'd better hare back. Tweed and his friends were leaving, anyway. I nearly lost my way coming back up that bloody river.'

Did they see you?' Burgoyne snapped, indifferent to her problems.

`I don't think so. I stayed well back from them.'

`Thirty minutes at Moor's Landing,' Burgoyne repeated, jerking to a brief halt, then roaring round on to the main road. No, I don't like the sound of that at all. Tweed could ruin everything. He'll just have to be discouraged.'

`How?'

`I'll decide that,' he said grimly.

The fog had dispersed by the time Mordaunt brought the dinghy alongside the landing stage at Buckler's Hard. Paula jumped on to it before Mordaunt could offer his hand. To ease the tension out of her legs she left the others behind, crossed the catwalk, turned left along the river path and past the closed shop.

It was almost dark as she stood at the bottom of a wide gravel path leading uphill. On either side was a row of old terrace houses mounting steeply to the distant brow. They stood well back from a spacious grass verge. Mordaunt appeared beside her.

`I'd regard it as a great pleasure — for me — if you'd have lunch with me in London. Here's my card. Leave a message on the answer-phone if I'm out.'

`That's very kind of you. May I think about it?' `Think on …'

Mordaunt refused to accept any payment from Newman, even for the fuel. Thanking him, Newman hurried after the others. Tweed seemed to be in great haste to get away from Buckler's Hard.

`What's the rush?' Newman called over his shoulder as he drove the Mercedes uphill with Paula beside him. 'And Pete will be staying closer to us on the return trip in his Sierra. Doesn't want to lose us in the dark.'

`Stop the car,' Tweed said as they reached the top and turned on to the country road towards Beaulieu. want to listen.'

Newman signalled to Nield, stopped, switched off his engine. He looked at Tweed in his rear-view mirror. Tweed had lowered his window, sat with his head cocked to one side.

I thought so. I can hear that chopper again. Just taken to the air, I would suggest. After picking up whoever was watching us from the west bank with binoculars.'

`Does it matter?'

I advise you to drive very carefully from now on.'

9

Newman was heeding Tweed's warning, driving slowly down the steep winding hill close to the approaches to Beaulieu. His headlights showed up a road sign.

`Bunker's Hill,' said Paula, stifling a yawn. 'They got the name right.'

Tweed didn't take in what she'd said. Sitting in the left-hand seat he had his window lowered a few inches as Newman negotiated the dangerous turn, moving up another hill along the B3054 away from Beaulieu. Tweed again had his head cocked sideways, listening.

`Can't we shut that window?' pleaded Paula. 'Even with the heaters on it's freezing.'

`No, we can't. I sense danger. Please keep quiet...'

Paula sighed. Zipping her windcheater up to the collar, she closed her eyes, rested her head back, and went to sleep. Sitting next to Newman, the icy breeze played on her neck but she didn't notice it any more.

Ahead, their lights illuminated the lonely, hedge-lined road. They hadn't seen another vehicle since leaving Buckler's Hard. November, Newman was thinking. All the tourists gone. A heavy frost was forming. From the back of the car a hand reached over, shook Paula by the shoulder. She opened her eyes, blinked.

`What the hell is it now?'

You must stay awake, alert,' Tweed called out. `Thanks a lot.' Wearily she picked up the map. 'Where are we now?'

`We're approaching Hatchet Gate. It's just a handful of
 
houses. If you remember, on the way out we passed that sheet of water by the roadside on our right — Hatchet Pond. Although it's quite large and more like a small lake.'

`Why did you wake me up?' Paula asked, studying the map.

`Because I can hear that chopper coming closer. It seems to be heading straight for us.'

`Just a chopper,' Paula commented. 'Incidentally, I see from the map we could take the left fork by Hatchet Pond and go back to Passford House via Boldre. It's a more direct route.'

`We'll try it then,' said Newman.

`It takes us across Beaulieu Heath,' Paula went on. 'I do remember that on the outward trip. It's very level and looks like a blasted heath, to quote Shakespeare, I think. Easier driving.'

That was when she heard what Tweed's acute ears had picked up. The steady egg-beater chug-chug of a helicopter. It sounded as though it was behind them and losing altitude rapidly. Worried, she woke up quickly. The chug-chug was a roar and now it sounded to be just above the roof of the car.

`What the devil is he playing at?' Newman snapped. `I don't think he's playing,' Tweed warned.

Newman rammed his foot down on the accelerator, swerved off the main road on to the left fork. As he did so the undercarriage of the chopper appeared just ahead of them. Paula stiffened. The damned thing was flying barely twenty feet above them.

Newman had just completed his swerve, was straightening up to drive along the road across the desolate moorland which showed up in his headlights. He also saw the so-called pond alongside the road to his right, stretching away for some distance. He was still moving fast, trying to out-race the crazy pilot.

`
Brace yourselves
...'

It was the only warning he had time to shout. Paula pressed her back into the seat, her feet against the front of the car. In the back Tweed took similar precautions, grabbing hold of the overhead handle. Newman braked furiously, bringing the Mercedes to a teeth-rattling emergency stop. He was jerked forward but held on to the wheel.

The chopper had dropped a projectile which hit the road in front of them and burst. By the lakeside another lake had spread — covering a large area of the road surface from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlights a dense dark glutinous liquid gleamed with a sinister reflection.

`Oil,' Newman said, releasing his seat-belt. 'If we'd hit that at the speed I was moving at we'd have ended up in Hatchet Pond. And we had heavy rain a few days back, so it's probably deep..

Behind them Nield, who had been driving at a proper distance from them, slowed, stopped, leapt out of his car. He hoisted the Walther he was gripping with two hands to aim at the helicopter, then lowered it without firing. All the passengers in the Mercedes walked towards him.

`No good,' Nield told them. 'It was out of range. You could have drowned.'

`I'm sure that was the idea,' Tweed agreed mildly.

`I'm going over to that house,' Newman said. 'Someone should inform the police about the mess in the road — or the wrong people could have a fatal accident...'

He returned quickly, carrying an illuminated hurricane lamp. By his side walked an old stooped man with a bushy moustache, carrying another lamp.

`We were lucky,' Newman called out. 'And Mr Harmer here is going to call the police when we've got these warning lamps in position.'

`I'll take mine other side of the slick,' Harmer said.

He walked on the grass verge, well clear of the seeping oil, placed his lamp on the far side of the oil lake. Newman had backed his car and placed his own lamp as the old boy returned.