By Stealth (4 page)

Everything suggested the owner had just prepared himself a Spartan supper and had been interrupted before eating it. Facing her and beyond the table were windows screened with ragged net curtains, half covered with a heavy white curtain in need of a visit to the laundry.

She opened cupboards fixed to the wall, checking their contents. Next she opened a door in the wall and found herself staring into a large walk-in pantry with a tiled floor. The shelves — like the wall cupboards — were well stocked. She noticed something which contrasted with the primitive equipment: someone, presumably Andover, had arranged the items so the most recent sell-by dates were at the front.

She opened the large fridge and again it was amply stocked. About to leave the kitchen, she paused, staring at the big chest freezer. Might as well check everything. She took hold of the lid, raised it, nearly dropped it.

Don't faint, for God's sake
, she told herself. Again there was a good stock of provisions. But on top of them was a deep plastic container about two feet wide and without a lid. Inside the container was a tumble of ice cubes. And below the first layer — showing so clearly through the ice — was a human right arm severed at the elbow, a bloodstained bandage covering the stump, a woman's hand stretched out, still attached, with an emerald ring on the third finger of the hand.

She stood in the doorway to the library, holding the Browning in both hands, prepared to fire point-blank at any intruder, at whoever had committed this barbaric act.

Tweed put a finger to his lips, frowning to warn her not to speak. He walked over to her, grasping her arm, led her to the desk, showed her the bugged lamp. With a waving gesture he indicated that there were more of them everywhere.

She nodded mechanically, then it was her turn to take Tweed by the arm, holding the automatic in her right hand. Like a sleepwalker she guided him to the kitchen, raised the lid of the freezer chest. He blinked once, leaned forward briefly to examine the severed limb, closed the lid. Holding his arm again, she propelled him across the hall and out beyond the front porch before she warned him.

The butcher is still here. Through the kitchen window I saw someone move in the back garden...'

2

`Go back to Newman,' Tweed told Paula. 'Tell him what has happened, briefly, then come back with him. And perhaps I'd better have the Browning.'

`We should go and find out who is roaming about behind the house now. Otherwise he'll get away...'

Tweed couldn't fault her logic. They couldn't afford to waste time arguing. Gesturing for her to follow, he moved off the cinder drive, stepping on to the rough-cut grass which ran round the side of the house.

There were no barriers, no side gate. Lousy security. It appeared Andover had never felt the need for it. There were no lights in the side windows to his left. On his right a wall of huge evergreens masked them from the next property.

Emerging at the back, Tweed realized
Prevent
had a sizeable estate. His night vision was coming back and a vast lawn spread away to distant trees. He paused, reaching a hand behind him to stop Paula. She had been right. In the middle of the lawn, coming closer to the house, a man was walking slowly.

`He's talking to himself,' Paula whispered.

`And I think I recognize the walk. Looks like Andover himself.'

At that moment the shadowy figure moved into the light splaying out from the kitchen window. Tweed had a clear view as the figure stood still and was appalled and shocked. In the icy cold, where drifts of fog hung motionless in the air, Andover wore only a pair of slacks and a shirt.

But it was his appearance which shook Tweed. Haggard, his face drawn, he had lost weight and his shoulders sagged. The phrase 'a lost soul' leapt into Tweed's mind. This bore no relationship to the crisply spoken, erect, decisive Andover he had known in London. This man was a physical wreck.

`Who is that?' He jumped as Tweed stepped into the light followed by Paula, her Browning held behind her trench coat. 'Oh, it's you, Tweed... What the hell are you doing here?... I distinctly told you to wait at Passford House until I called you... And to come alone...'

He spoke in a disjointed way, his voice hoarse. Only the last sentence was delivered in a familiar crisp tone.

`It's very cold out here,' Paula said to him quietly. 'I will fetch you a coat. I noticed a cloaks cupboard — I imagine that's what it is — in the hall.'

`Very kind of you, my dear.' His manner changed again, was polite, grateful. 'It is a cloaks cupboard.'

She turned and walked swiftly away, slipping the gun inside her shoulder-bag. Alone with their host, Tweed made his suggestion, testing Andover's reaction.

`We could go inside to talk..

`No! No!' Andover grabbed Tweed by the lapels of his British warm. 'And you've been inside, haven't you? Did the two of you talk while you were poking around?'

He was very agitated, trembling as he tugged at Tweed's coat as though trying to shake a reply out of him. Tweed stood stock still, made no attempt to remove the shuddering hands.

`I'll answer you only when you get a grip on yourself.'

Paula appeared round the corner, holding a woollen scarf and a heavy coat. Andover released Tweed as though ashamed that Paula had seen his performance. Standing back, he accepted the scarf, wrapped it round his neck, slipped his arms into the sleeves of the coat Paula was holding for him.

`That really was most considerate of you,' he said in a normal voice. 'It is a bit nippy tonight.'

`Quite Siberian — or maybe you're used to the elements,' Paula continued in a conversational tone. 'And I'm Paula Grey, Mr Tweed's assistant.'

`She's more than that,' Tweed added, watching Andover closely. 'She's my deputy and acts in my stead when I'm away. A recent promotion. We're using more and more women in our organization. She knows as much as I do.'

`Women,' said Andover, 'are more meticulous. They have a greater loyalty and great powers of concentration.'

The only reason we were inside your house — poking around as you put it — was the front door was wide open. Is that wise?'

`I've left the front door open,' Paula intervened quickly as she detected fresh signs of agitation. 'It's an easy mistake.'

`I suppose so,' Andover said in a normal tone. He fumbled under his coat and inside his trouser pocket. 'The key is here. Foolish of me. Must have my mind on my thoughts.'

`And,' Tweed went on, 'we never spoke a word to each other while we were inside. I simply called out your name twice and then tried to find you.'

I do understand.' Andover sighed visibly with relief.

`Is your daughter Irene right-handed?' Tweed enquired suddenly.

Andover's reaction was manic. He grabbed Tweed with both hands round the throat. 'What the devil made you ask that question?' he roared. Tweed again stood his ground. He grasped Andover's wrists, squeezing hard. He had far greater strength than most people supposed. Prising the throttling hands loose, he held on to them and put his face close to Andover's. 'That is quite enough of the rough stuff.' He let go as he felt the hands go limp.

Andover was shaking like a leaf in the wind when Paula again intervened in her conversational tone.

`Driving here, Tweed and I were discussing whether more people were left-handed as opposed to right. Just idle chat to pass the time.'

`Oh, I see.' Andover ran a hand through his flaxen hair. `Tweed, I'm dreadfully sorry. Quite unforgivable on my part. Don't know what got into me. Had a bout of neuralgia. Leaves you frightfully edgy.'

`I know it can be very painful,' Paula agreed in her soft voice.

`One of those things.' Andover was addressing Paula now as though he'd forgotten Tweed's existence. 'Irene is left-handed. Five months ago I gave her an emerald ring.' A flash of pain crossed his strong-boned clean-shaven face. 'It was her eighteenth birthday.'

`I'd like to meet her sometime,' Paula continued carefully. 'But at that age they don't spend much time at home.'

`Quite right, my dear... She's gone off on an extended holiday... with her French boy friend, Louis... Good chap, her Louis... You'd have liked him..

And you're lying, Tweed thought, as he trailed off. He had the impression Andover was retreating into a world of his own and asked the question quickly.

`You asked me to come down here. May I ask why — now I'm here?'

`Of course.' Andover, normal once more, frowned. Paula studied him. About five feet ten tall, slim in build, he had a high forehead, a clever face, and almost a touch of arrogance in his manner. No, not arrogance — rather a fixity of purpose. She had the feeling that for a brief time she was seeing the Andover Tweed had known in London.

`Of course,' he repeated. 'I have a file in the house I want you to study. It's very serious. We may be facing a new enemy — far worse than Hitler or Stalin so far as Western Europe is concerned. And just when Europe thought it was safe to go to sleep. If you don't mind waiting outside at the front I'll go in and get it for you. Not the sort of thing you entrust to the post... Disaster, Tweed. Catastrophe might be a better word...'

He started to walk along the side of the house briskly, shoulders erect, when he swung on his heel, came back.

`Tweed, I really am sorry. The way I treated you. I've been pretty rotten company. Why not call in next door, have a drink with my neighbour, Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne, another old China hand. He's civilized, which is more than I've been...'

Before Tweed could respond Andover had disappeared and they followed him slowly. At the front of the house they waited in silence by the car, both of them shaken by their macabre experience.

Andover trotted out five minutes later by Paula's watch. He carried a large brown manilla envelope under his arm. As he handed it to Tweed Paula saw it had an address scrawled on it and a first-class stamp. Andover caught her glance.

`Camouflage,' he explained to her as he handed the envelope to Tweed. 'A fictitious name and address and stamped for the post. No one will guess what it contains. You can tell the Brig. you called here.' He put his hand to his forehead. 'I've got it. Tell him I have an attack of neuralgia and sent you round for some decent company.'

During the five-minute wait Tweed had wrestled with the problem of whether to break the news about Harvey Boyd's death. It seemed quite the worst time but the police would be in touch with him anyway — and probably soon.

`Thank you,' he said, tucking the envelope inside the sports jacket underneath his trench coat. 'There is one more thing I ought to tell you before we go. And it's very bad news.'

Andover opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut without saying anything. Paula could have sworn his lips had formed the name Irene. Andover stiffened himself, nodded to Tweed.

`Well? Spit it out.'

`It concerns Harvey Boyd, who, I gather, is a distant relative of yours?'

Paula felt sure this time that a mixture of emotions had flashed across Andover's face. Relief. Then regret that he had felt that sensation. He nodded again, waited.

`Harvey Boyd is dead,' Tweed told him. He explained what had happened in as few words as possible. Watching their host, Paula saw an odd pensive expression. `... so soon,' Tweed concluded, 'the police will arrive to inform you.'

`Not here! I won't have a lot of flat-footed policemen trampling over all the place, invading my privacy.'

Andover's tone was brusque, almost rude. Staring at his visitors, he frowned.

`Tell you what,' he went on rapidly. 'The Rover is in that garage...' He indicated two closed wooden doors let into the side of the house. 'I'll drive over to Colonel Stanstead. He's the Chief Constable and we know each other.'

`You could do that,' Tweed agreed.

`I'll call him on the way, tell him I'm coming. Yes, that's the answer.' He paused. 'Harvey was a good chap. Just came out of the SAS a few months ago. People say the younger generation has gone soft. Don't know what they're talking about.'

`We'd better go,' Tweed decided. 'Very sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings.'

`Sooner hear it from you than anyone else.' He reached out, took Tweed by the arm, guided him towards the house out of earshot of Paula. 'So they've got Harvey too.

`Who are "they"?' Tweed asked quickly.