The Power (10 page)

Thank you, Paula,' Tweed said. 'I was suspicious but you confirmed it. A multiple pile-up? On the A30 in February and at this time of night? And a road crew with an American foreman? The whole set-up was phoney, stank to high heaven.'

'So what had they waiting for us up at that dead end?'
Paula mused.

'A
dead
end - for all of us,' Cardon suggested.

'You have a macabre sense of humour. It doesn't bear
contemplating - out in the middle of that moor ...'

She started checking her map again. Tweed was driving at speed, lights undipped, swerving round corners. He was
anxious to reach the main road.

'What worries me,' he said, 'is how did that gang of thugs
know we would be travelling along that road at this hour?
Again it suggests a powerful, well-organized network. I get
the feeling our every move is being monitored.'

'We're close to the A30,' Paula warned. 'As to how they
could know where we were - Buchanan told us your
presence down here was reported by all the media. They
could have flown down from London to St Mawgan Air
port - arranging in advance for hire cars to be waiting. And
this is where they stole the equipment from

Tweed had slowed down, paused at the T-junction on to
the A30 to look both ways. Yards to the left, road repair
equipment was stacked on a verge, flashing lights
illuminating cones and other material. Tweed drove out,
turned right to the west, his headlights showing a great belt of the road descending a long hill. No other traffic in sight.
The rain had stopped but the road surface gleamed in the
moonlight.

'You could be right, Paula,' he remarked. There would be time for the opposition to fly down from London. But
these are people who can move like lightning. I still find it puzzling why the anonymous call was made to the media. I'm going to pull in here, have a word with Pete Nield, make sure they're both all right.'

Paula saw a lay-by was coming up. Tweed signalled,
pulled off the main road into it. He stopped, still keeping
his engine running as the Sierra drew in behind him. It was Butler who got out of the car, used a torch to check the side
of his vehicle, then walked up to Tweed who had lowered
his window.

'You handled that well, Chief,' he commented. 'Nothing
like a reception committee to welcome us to Cornwall.'

'I heard shots,' Tweed replied.

'You did. One bullet went wide. The other ricocheted off the side of the Sierra. I just found the point where it
dented the metal. Maybe time we moved on ...'

They were driving again through the night along the
deserted A30 when Paula made her suggestion.

There are only three people who could have cooperated with the killer who committed the massacre,' she said.

'Gaunt or Jennie Blade,' Tweed anticipated her. 'And
we saw two people on High Tor. But who is the third?'

'Celia Yeo, the young red-headed girl who was helping
in the kitchen.'

'Why pick on her?'

'Because I ask questions. After the police doctor had
examined the staff he remarked that the one who had got
off lightest from being coshed was Celia. Said he was surprised she had become unconscious - so slight was the
bruise on her head.'

'Not very conclusive,' Tweed objected.

There's more. I talked to Cook when Celia was outside in the scullery. Apparently the girl she recently replaced
was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, had both legs broken. Celia turned up at the manor offering her services

the following day, which Cook thought was rather odd.'

'Still not sufficient to convince our jovial Chief
Inspector, Roy Buchanan,' Tweed persisted.

There's more still. I had a little chat with Celia on the
quiet. She's a mulish type, hard as nails, and has
avaricious eyes. That girl would do almost anything for
money. And she lives in Five Lanes - where the
real
postman came from. I think I'll drive over there and talk
to her again. Her day off is tomorrow. And I saw her
sneak back across the grounds with a scarlet tea towel in
her hands. She said she'd hung it out to dry - it was still
dripping water. She could have hung it from the branch of
a tree at the edge of the estate to signal to the killer -
signal to him that Amberg had arrived. I don't think she'd
known what was going to happen.'

'Bit of a far-fetched theory,' Tweed commented.

'Hold on, Chief,' Cardon called out. 'Paula has made a pretty solid case for your so-called far-fetched theory.'

'If you say so,' Tweed responded impatiently, concen
trating on his driving. 'One thing I insist on, Paula.
You're not going back to Bodmin Moor on your own.'

'Maybe Bob Newman will come with me - if he's
reached Padstow . . .'

Paula saw why Tweed had referred to the Hotel
Metropole's strategic position as soon as they arrived.
Perched high up, it looked down on and across the
estuary of the River Camel. Gleaming like a sheet of
quicksilver by the light of the moon, it appeared to be
about a quarter of a mile wide from Padstow to the
opposite shore.

Parked outside, in the forecourt in front of the large
Victorian building, was Newman's Mercedes 280E. Its
owner appeared from inside as Tweed was registering for
his party. Newman frowned at Paula, slipped her a sheet
of folded paper as he passed her, which she palmed. He
walked outside as though he'd never seen them before in
his life.

She showed Tweed the note as they travelled up in the lift to their rooms. Tweed had a suite, No. 11, on the first
floor, while Paula's double room was on the second.

'Come down and see me within five minutes,' Tweed told Paula after he'd read the note.

Butler and Nield, acting as guards, had rooms close to Paula's. Tweed had requested this at the desk.

'Miss Grey is recovering from a serious illness,' he had informed the receptionist. 'Pneumonia. She might need
assistance walking when she leaves her room...'

Paula closed her room door. The lights were on, the
curtains drawn. She moved swiftly, sensing the urgency in
Tweed's order. Opening her case, she threw the lid back, lifted out her favourite navy blue suit, hung it in the wardrobe, hurried back to the lift.

Tweed had a much larger room with a sitting area. He
stood in the middle, still wearing his trench coat in spite of
the heated atmosphere. Handing her the note, he began
pacing like a caged tiger. The note was terse.

Meet me in my car -parked halfway up Station Road. Have phoned H. Very big trouble. H. wants you to call him. Have
found safe phone. Bob.

'You said you were ravenous just before we reached here,' Paula reminded him.

'Food will have to wait. I phoned the dining-room. They
will serve us later.' His brusque tone softened. 'But you
can go straight down to dinner - you've had a pretty rough
day.'

'Nothing doing. I'm coming with you.'

'So is Butler...'

Outside the hotel an icy breeze blew from the north. As they climbed the hill Paula asked her question.

'Why do they call this Station Road?'

'Because at the bottom of the hill behind us is a building
which is the old station. Now it's Customs & Excise. The trains don't run here any more. Haven't for years. The line
was eliminated long ago. Here we are. You sit next to Bob.
Maybe he'll be better company than I am tonight. While
I
remember, Bob, I'd like to borrow your field glasses.'

Newman drove to the top of the road, turned right down
New Street. Lined with two-storey grey
stone terrace
houses, it made Paula feel they had arrived in old Corn
wall. Newman paused, pointed to a wooden cabin set back
from the road. No light in the windows.

'Believe it or not, that's the police station. Unmanned.
So, if we hit trouble, don't expect any help from the
police.'

'Comforting,' Paula commented.

Newman swung right again down St Edmund's Lane, an
even narrower and bleaker street at night. It descended
steeply and it too was hemmed in on either side with old
grey stone terrace houses. No one about,
not a soul, and
the lighting was dim, Newman paused for a moment,
pointed to a gap in the wall to their right with a shadowed pathway leading uphill.

'That's a short cut on foot back to the Metropole.'

'I wouldn't advise going up there after dark,' said Butler,
seated next to Tweed.

It was the first thing he'd said since they had entered the
car. Paula, feeling edgy, took the remark personally.

'I suppose that was for my benefit. Harry, I'll have you
know I
can
take care of myself.'

'I wouldn't go that way at night myself,' Butler told her
equably.

Newman drove to the bottom of the lane and Paula
leaned forward, anxious to get some idea of Padstow's layout. Turning to the left along a level road, Newman gestured to his right.

'That's a dock beyond the car park with the estuary on
the far side. I'm now driving along a one-way street. If I'd
turned right at the bottom of St Edmund's Lane it's
two-way traffic. Ahead is the harbour, a complex system. I
can show you better in the morning. Tweed, I decided it
might be better if I stayed elsewhere as an unknown
reserve. I have a room overlooking the harbour in the Old
Custom House, the building on your left. It's a very good
hotel. And there is your phone box. I have to park a bit
further on. See you in the morning?'

'Yes. We'll be walking past your hotel at ten o'clock on
the dot. Good night. Take care ...'

Newman had paused, while Tweed and Paula got out of
the car. Butler followed them, crossed to the carpark
where he had a clear view of the old-fashioned red phone
box. The raw wind hit them as Tweed struggled to haul the
door open and Paula dived inside with him. It was with
some trepidation that Tweed dialled Howard's number at
the Surrey mansion.

'Who is this?' Howard's voice enquired after Tweed had
been passed through an operator.

Tweed. I gather you wanted to talk to—'

'Is that a safe phone?' Howard interrupted, his voice tense.

'It should be. It's a public call box. If you don't mind I
won't say where I'm speaking from.'

'Oh, damn that, I don't care. As long as you're well away
from London .. .'