By Stealth (15 page)

`You don't seem to mind them after the lights go out,' she retorted as she used her lipstick. `When do we leave for Passford House? You seem edgy — was it having to identify Irene's body?'

`I've seen enough dead bodies in my time.' Burgoyne's expression was even more saturnine. `But you were cool enough and I think Stanstead noticed.'

`I'm ready. Are you?'

'I've been ready for ten minutes while you've been tarting yourself up.' His tone became commanding. `We take the Jag., of course. Mustn't risk them seeing the Bentley. And I've just thought of a good tactic. Pop round to
The Last Haven
and ask Fanshawe to join us. Good camouflage.'

`I don't have to ask that Claybourne bitch as well, do I?' `Of course you do. Be polite. Make the effort. Just for once …'

Pete Nield, clad in a grey boiler suit he'd fetched from his Sierra, crawled slowly through the undergrowth close to Andover's estate. He wore the boiler suit to protect his city clothes — and the grey colour was neutral in the dark.

He had parked his car by the copse Newman had used during the previous day. His hands were protected with gloves and he pressed down the undergrowth ahead of him slowly. The ground was covered with dead leaves, crusted with frost. One false move and the crackle of those leaves would be heard yards away in the uncanny stillness of the bitter night.

His boiler suit was unzipped to his waist: he could grab the Walther out of his hip holster in a millisecond. He pressed down another tangle of undergrowth and froze. A hand had descended on his right shoulder.

`Friend,' a familiar voice whispered. Harry Butler's.

Nield was flaming. He could have shot him by mistake. But his greatest annoyance was that Butler, turning up out of nowhere, had tracked him without making a sound. He'd tell him. Later. There were other matters which had priority. As Butler crouched beside him Nield aimed a finger, pointing.

`Good work,' Butler whispered. 'Think you've found them?'

`Look for yourself. Listen, for Christ's sake...'

Twenty feet beyond where Nield had pressed down the undergrowth a large camper was parked. It stood on a narrow track and what Nield regarded as amateurish camouflage had been attempted. Uprooted undergrowth had been piled on the roof, piled against the vehicle's sides.

A large tall aerial speared up towards the branch of the fir tree it was parked under. The noise Nield had heard was the metallic rattle of the aerial being retracted. It telescoped slowly until it was almost level with the roof.

Nield had no doubt they were looking at the vehicle acting as the recording station for all the voice-activated bugs placed inside
Prevent
. The interior would hold all the sophisticated recording equipment registering on tape everything said inside Andover's house.

A burly man, no more than a silhouette in the dark of the Forest, appeared as the rear doors opened. Holding a long pole, he dropped to the ground and used the pole to sweep the roof clear of the undergrowth camouflage hopefully concealing them from aerial observation. He then moved all round the camper, removing the undergrowth piled up against its sides. Walking back to the rear, he disappeared inside, and the doors were closed quietly.

`They're leaving,' Nield whispered. 'We'd better hurry back to my car. Just a minute — how did you get here?'

`In the Cortina after making my delivery to Rabin in London. You tail the camper, I'll guard your rear...'

`Just one point, Harry,' Nield said as they reached their cars. 'If you ever creep up on me like that again it will give me great pleasure to break your bloody neck. I had the Walther in my hand when you first spoke.'

`Point taken. Now let's get on with the job. Wonder where that camper will lead us to?'

Tweed was just washing his hands and face in Room 2 at Passford House when he heard a gentle tapping on his door. He opened it cautiously, keeping one foot behind it. Then he stood back as Paula, who had stayed on the ground floor to warn the head waiter they'd be arriving soon for dinner, came in, closing and locking the door behind her.

We have company,' she said, breathing heavily. `That's nice. Who is honouring us tonight at this hour?'

`I peered into the bar before coming upstairs. Burgoyne is there with his blonde beauty, Lee Holmes...' `Maybe I can look forward to a lively evening?'

`Stop joking. With them are Willie Fanshawe and Helen Claybourne.'

`Right. You and I will go in for a drink, see just what happens. Could you pop along to Newman's room — warn him. Tell him the situation. I suggest he goes into dinner without us.'

`You find it strange — that quartet turning up?'

`I find it odd that Burgoyne — after identifying Irene's dead body — then trots out for a drink. To say nothing of Lee Holmes. We'll just leave the initiative to them, see what they do...'

Ten minutes later they entered the bar at the front of the hotel. A comfortable room, oblong in shape, it had the bar at the far end along one of the shorter sides. Lee Holmes jumped up immediately, swung her long legs as she walked up to Tweed, holding a glass. She ignored Paula.

`Mr Tweed, how marvellous, this gives us a chance to plan our liaison in London.'

She gave the word 'liaison' a certain seductive emphasis. Taking hold of his arm, she led him towards the bar.

`And my glass is empty.'

`So what are you drinking?' Tweed paused as they passed a window table where Burgoyne sat with Fanshawe and Helen Claybourne. 'Do you mind?' he enquired.

`The best man always wins,' Burgoyne said sardonically. He did not look pleased, Paula noted. 'Don't mind me,' the Brigadier added with a final slash. 'I'm just part of the furniture.'

Paula stood still as Fanshawe, beaming, jumped up, came to her rescue. Taking her by the arm, he guided her to the seat Lee had occupied next to Helen Claybourne.

`How nice to see you again, Paula. I may call you Paula? Good. I'm Willie. We're working our way through a bottle of Laurent Perrier, as you'll see. Or would you prefer a different tipple?'

`Champagne is my favourite drink, thank you.'

And there he goes again, she thought. The words had tumbled out of his wide, generous mouth. The use of the old-fashioned word 'tipple'. She glanced towards the bar as Lee laughed, a tinkling laugh full of enjoyment. She was performing a pirouette and her long blonde hair swept in a wave over her bare shoulders. The eyes of every man in the room studied her — furtively when the were with their wives.

`Lots of lovely bubbly champers,' Lee said. 'And the way things are going — with you turning up — I'll end up feeling just like one of those bubbles...'

Paula clinked glasses with Willie and watched Helen Claybourne over the rim of her glass as she sipped. Unlike Lee, Helen was wearing the same outfit as when they'd met the previous evening. There was a touch of demure severity about her mandarin collar and pleated skirt. Very businesslike, Paula thought approvingly — compared with Lee, who was the essence of
joie de vivre
.

Helen glanced towards the bar as Lee laughed again. With her refilled glass, she had twined her long bare arm round Tweed, crossing their glasses so each could sip out of the other's. Her greenish eyes glowed as Tweed watched her with a hint of amused tolerance.

`I'm a fun girl,' she confided. 'I think life should be fun. You and I could make that come true. I can tell from looking into your eyes, you secretive man.'

`What do you want to know about me?' he asked amiably.

`You're married, I can tell. But I don't think that you are living with your wife any more.' She squeezed his arm. `Go on, confess. Am I right?'

`You must be psychic,' Tweed observed. 'It was all a long time ago.'

`The memory lingers on?'

Not really. It's faded into history. And I live in the present, not the past.'

She had hit an exposed nerve, but he was surprised he was not in the least annoyed with her. Had she done her homework? His wife had run off with a Greek millionaire to South America a hundred years ago. Maybe it was just feminine intuition. Lee nodded solemnly.

`You are an interesting man. Live in the present always. That's my motto.' She drank more champagne. `Have you a nice pad in London? Somewhere I could come and see you? I'd love that.'

`Maybe we'd better have lunch sometime first,' Tweed said evasively. `Do you get on well with Burgoyne?'

`Can you imagine any woman doing that...'

At the table by the window overlooking the illuminated car park and the lawn Paula decided to drop a bombshell. But Helen was glancing again at the bar and put her spoke in first.

`The trouble with Lee is she has to hypnotize every man in sight. It's a mania with her and she seems to have your friend in the palm of her hand already.'

`It's a nice palm anyway,' Paula said equably. She dropped her bombshell. heard a rumour that you and the Brigadier had to identify a body brought out of the sea. And that it was Irene Andover's corpse.'

`How the hell did you hear that?'

Burgoyne sat stiff-necked, glaring at Paula. His tone was cutting as though dressing down a private soldier. He leaned forward, gazing at Paula as he went on.

I suppose Tweed is — was —the negotiator for his insurance outfit, trying to act as go-between for Andover with the kidnappers of his daughter.'

`Kidnappers?' Paula sounded stunned.

`Well, it's been obvious,' Burgoyne hammered at her in a bullying manner. 'Andover for the past three months has rapidly deteriorated physically and mentally. A shadow of his former self. And it all coincided with the disappearance of Irene.'

`I thought you said she'd hopped off with a Frenchman,' Paula reminded him.

`Her corpse hadn't materialized then. We were all trying to keep it under wraps.'

`Maurice,' Willie urged, 'you're talking too loud. I don't think anyone has heard you yet in here but go on like that and they will..

`You keep out of this.' But Burgoyne had lowered his voice. 'And you've been as blind as a bat as to what's been going on right on your doorstep.'

`I simply had no idea,' Willie protested. 'What's all this about a body fished out of the sea? I'm completely in the dark.'

`You always are,' Burgoyne said brutally.

Paula was furious. Willie was obviously hurt. He drank a lot of champagne to cover up his discomfiture. Burgoyne was well into his stride. He focused on Paula again.

`Your boss has made a right balls-up of it this time. The poor girl might have been saved if he hadn't been brought in — by Andover, I assume — and stumbled around like the legendary bull in a china shop.'

'He usually knows what he's doing,' Paula said quietly, determined to keep her temper.

`I find all this very perplexing, distressing,' Willie complained in a subdued voice. 'Won't someone please put me in the picture?'

This was the moment when Helen intervened. The only sign that she was irked by Burgoyne was one crossed leg swinging up and down.

`Willie, a lot of this is rumour. Maurice is in one of his moods tonight. There's absolutely nothing for you to feel upset about. We'll hear in good time — and from a more reliable source than the Brig. — what is really going on.

We're supposed to be here this evening to enjoy ourselves.'

She gave him her cool smile. Paula saw Willie relax. He beamed at her and then proceeded to refill her glass.

`Helen's right. We are here to enjoy ourselves. From now on the enjoyment starts.' He looked at her glass. `Sorry, that's a meagre tot-up. We've run out.'

`Yes,' said Helen. She looked at Burgoyne. 'Maurice — don't you think you ought to order another bottle? I thought you were host and the others may join us soon.'

`Doesn't look much like it to me. Lee's swarming all over Tweed,' Burgoyne growled.

`Maurice,' she repeated, 'please order another bottle.'

To Paula's surprise the Brigadier summoned the barman and placed the order. From that moment the tension drained out of the atmosphere. Willie babbled on cheerfully about his days in the Far East, Burgoyne listened with an expression suggesting he'd heard it all before. Helen relaxed in her chair, produced a large fountain-pen from her evening bag, and began scribbling a list on a notepad.