By Stealth (2 page)

`That's Harvey Boyd,' Tweed said tersely. 'I may wish to choose my own pathologist. Warn Southampton. I do have that power …'

He left the ambulance abruptly, leaving Walford to follow, went back inside the building. Paula opened a door and came in clad in the new clothes Tweed had brought, her wet things inside a plastic bag he'd given her. She rushed forward and hugged him as Newman entered a few steps ahead of Walford.

`Tweed, you're so considerate,' she gasped out. 'I was like ice. That warm towel was heaven. And the change of clothes.'

`You may be in a state of shock,' Tweed warned. 'A hot drink would help. No alcohol.'

`Mr Walford provided me with one when I asked him. A mug of steaming cocoa.'

With her back to the other two men, she lifted her head off his shoulder and Tweed caught the flash of humour in her grey-blue eyes. Only a man like Walford would serve cocoa and she hated the stuff.

`We shouldn't really have the press in here at this stage,' Walford grumbled, eyeing Newman.

`He's a close associate of mine,' Tweed said, and left it at that.

No point in explaining that Newman had been fully vetted years before, that he'd worked closely with Tweed on a number of secret missions. The Harbour Master hadn't given up. He was holding a long form while he continued gazing at the foreign correspondent.

He saw a man close to forty, five foot ten tall, clean shaven, athletic in movement, with light brown hair, alert eyes, and a face suggesting strength of character. Walford had seen photos of him in the newspapers above reports from trouble spots all over the world, but not for several years. Bob Newman had written a blockbuster international best-seller,
Kruger: The Computer That Failed
. It had made him a fortune and now he could do what he liked. Walford waved the form.

`The police will want a statement about this episode from Miss Grey. I'll need some details myself..

`The Chief Constable, Mark Stanstead, is a friend of mine,' Tweed interjected. 'She'll give her statement to him.'

`Then,' Walford plodded on, 'there's the question of informing relatives..

`He was a distant cousin of Sir Gerald Andover–his only relative,' Tweed informed him. 'He also happens to be someone I know. Lives way out in the New Forest. You know his address? Good. Tell us how to get there and we'll drive to Andover's place now.'

`I'll tell you one thing, Mr Walford,' Paula said suddenly. 'Just before Harvey's – Mr Boyd's – engine stopped I saw the vague outline of a large vessel in the fog coming up the river. At least there was something...'

`I suppose she's overwrought with her experience,' Walford began, staring at Tweed.

`Then I'm overwrought, too. Let her finish,' Tweed snapped.

`Some vague shape, anyway,' Paula went on. did see something.'

`Nothing else was moving on the river tonight,' Walford insisted. 'You must have imagined it.'

`Oh, really?' Paula was furious. 'You think Harvey Boyd pulled out the plug on his own boat and then sliced the side of his head off?'

`He was a bloody fool to venture out in these weather conditions...'

`He might have been a fool but he was a brave one,' she raged. 'He went out because a pal of his, George Stapleton, disappeared a month ago crossing to the Isle of Wight in his yacht. He just vanished. No trace of wreckage was ever found. Mind you, that was a month ago. Maybe you've got a short memory?'

`No need to—'

`And while we're on the subject, how many other vessels have disappeared in this area in the past year?'

`I'm not a computer...'

`So there have been other mysterious disappearances? I'd like to know how many. Please. You could check the records.'

`I suppose I could...'

`Then suppose you do just that. Now!' Tweed intervened.

`Five altogether.' Walford sounded reluctant to admit the fact. 'If silly stories get bandied about a lot of the yachtsmen who use our marina might look for a different anchorage. Bad for business.'

'Oh, Lord!' Newman spoke for the first time. 'Bad for the tourist trade. Here we go again — the old Jaws syndrome.'

`There's no sharks round here,' Walford rasped.

He reached for an old red leather-bound ledger from a shelf, began leafing through it. Newman looked grim.

`There may be no sharks but there is the odd jellyfish.'

`I'm looking up the register,' Walford growled. 'Not that I see this has anything to do with our experience tonight.'

`Just give us the statistics in detail and we'll be the judge of that,' Tweed told him.

`Mid-October,' Walford began, 'a George Stapleton took out his yacht bound for Wight in a heavy fog. Never reached Yarmouth. No wreckage ever found.' He turned back several pages. 'You should be dealing with the Harbour Master himself on a job like this.'

`So where is he?' Paula demanded.

`On holiday abroad. I'm by way of just standing in till he gets back. Here we are. Early February this year. Two youngsters sailed — separately — into the Solent with about a couple of weeks between them. Neither of them returned. No wreckage washed up.'

`The weather at that time?' Tweed queried.

`Heavy fog. The idiots...' He glanced up, saw Paula's expression, changed his description. 'Neither of those yachtsmen enquired here about conditions. And here is number five — including your Harvey Boyd. Middle-aged chap called Benton, friend of your Sir Gerald Andover.' He looked at Tweed. 'He went out in a small powerboat beginning of February. And before you ask — again in a dense fog. No sight or sound of him or his vessel since he sailed for the River Beaulieu.'

`Five missing boats in a year?' Tweed emphasized the note of incredulity. 'Surly there's been an investigation? Questions asked?'

`Comes in cycles.' Walford closed the ledger with a snap, his expression mulish. 'In previous years you get not a single accident for ages. More youngsters can afford a yacht these days.'

`Benton wasn't a youngster,' Tweed pointed out.

`And that reminds me. Shouldn't you phone Sir Gerald Andover, seeing as he's the only relative of this Boyd?'

`You don't phone news like that when he's close enough to break the news to him face to face. You were going to show us how to get to his house. And I presume there'll be a search for any wreckage from Boyd's powerboat?'

'Coastguard's already been informed.' A gleam of triumph in Walford's eyes. 'Of course they can't go out tonight. Fog's getting worse. And I've a map here I can mark so you'll find Andover. Not easy to locate in the Forest.'

He spread out on the scrubbed wooden table an Ordnance Survey map he'd hauled off the same shelf after replacing the ledger. Holding a biro, he looked up in surprise as Paula stood beside him.

`I'm a good navigator. On land, anyway,' she explained. `You drive back into Lymington, take the Brockenhurst road here...'

His biro followed the route, which was complex, warning her where she could easily go wrong. She thanked him as he handed her the map.

`The police...' he began as his visitors hurried to the door.

`I told you I'd contact the Chief Constable,' Tweed reminded him. 'Thank you for your co-operation.'

Outside the large white building a spacious car park stretched away into the grey fog. Tweed had loaned his Ford Escort to Paula to drive Boyd into Lymington.

Parked next to it was Newman's Mercedes. Walford had followed them, stood in the doorway.

`Mr Tweed,' he called out, 'you said Special Branch — what was Boyd really up to?'

`That's right,' Tweed responded ambiguously. 'Must go. I'm in a hurry to let Andover know what's happened.' He lowered his voice. 'Paula, you know how to get us there. Why not take my Escort. We'll keep on your tail.'

She unlocked the door, slipped inside as Newman opened the driver's door of his Merc. and Tweed sat quickly beside him. In the distance they heard the siren of an approaching patrol car.

`That's why you were in a hurry to get clear,' Newman remarked.

Before Paula switched on the Escort's ignition she lowered her window. Despite the cold air she welcomed it to clear her mind. Near by she heard the screech of a seagull. The piercing cry, fog-muffled, sounded as mournful as the foghorn she'd heard at the end of the marina wall. A requiem for the dead.

`One thing's certain,' Newman remarked as he followed Paula's tail lights towards the car-park exit, 'whatever the rest of the night holds for us it can't be as great a shock as Paula had back there at the marina.'

It was a comment he was to regret making within the hour.

PART ONE

Kidnapped - No Ransom

1

To Paula's relief, the fog disappeared on the outskirts of Lymington. With the map open on the seat beside her, she drove at speed along the deserted A337 with desolate heath on either side. She welcomed being on her own: it gave her a chance to restore her normal resilience. Concentrating on driving pushed out of her mind the dreadful experience.

Approaching Brockenhurst, she just caught sight of the right-hand turn-off to Beaulieu in time, flashed her indicator, swung on to a twisting country road which was the B3055, leading eventually to the first place of human habitation, Beaulieu.

Walford had warned her there was a long stretch of what he'd called the wilderness — the fringe of the New Forest. In her rear-view mirror she saw the comforting headlights of Newman's Merc. tracking her a short distance behind. Now she had to be sure not to drive past
Prevent
, the home of Sir Gerald Andover, buried in the woods as Walford had described it.

In the Mercedes Newman maintained the same speed as Paula but was careful to keep a reasonable distance from her. He guessed she might have difficulty finding the house and wanted room for an emergency stop if she pulled up suddenly.

`Was it a good idea to let her drive alone out here after such a shock?' he asked.

`I did it deliberately,' Tweed replied. 'She needs to get her act together as quickly as possible. She'll want to show me she can do just that. And she'll do it much better on her own for half an hour or so.'

`If you say so. I had a look at Boyd in the ambulance.' `And how did you manage that? They don't let just anyone examine a corpse,' Tweed remarked.

`Oh, I said, wouldn't you let his brother see him? They let me inside at once. Note I didn't say I was his brother. They just made the assumption.'

`One of your tricks from your foreign correspondent days. What was your impression? It wasn't a pleasant sight.'

`That a bloody great meat cleaver wielded by a Norse god had sliced away the side of his skull. No ordinary ship could have caused such a frightful clean-cut injury. It would break through the hull first, carrying some of the wreckage with it,' Newman pointed out.

`And Paula didn't hear the sound of any other vessel's engine. Only the chug-chug of Boyd's powerboat — until it stopped for ever. It's a mystery.'

`Another minor mystery is why did you come down to the Passford House Hotel? Very nice place — but you don't take holidays.'

`I had a call from Sir Gerald Andover asking me to come and stay there. He asked me to wait until he contacted me,' Tweed said.

`So you rushed down — and at the same time Paula's driving down to the same place with Boyd. What's going on?'

`I wish I knew. Another mystery.'

Newman reduced speed. The well-surfaced road, more hilly than he'd expected, was twisting and turning round sharp bends. On either side his headlights swept over bare trees, branches reaching up towards the sky like skeletal hands. A lot of oaks, and here and there a copse of dense evergreens. And mist was appearing in the Forest, curling forward between the trunks, masking his windscreen. He started the wipers going and Paula's red lights came up clearer.

`Who is this Sir Gerald Andover?'

`A near genius. For years he was research director on the main board of one of the biggest oil companies. His main job was to predict the future — how the world would develop globally. He foresaw the 1973 oil crisis long before it happened, even sent the PM of the day a report warning him the Arab sheiks would form a cartel and blackmail the West by rocketing the oil price. No one took any notice of him. Then, as you know, it all came true. I know him. Bit of an odd type.'