Blood Storm (12 page)

There were no houses in the forested area, no pubs, no
one he could ask for directions. He drove slowly on and
almost missed an ancient signpost at the entrance to a
turning. He reversed to read it, barely able to make out the
words on the worn signpost. Peckham Mallet.

He proceeded slowly down the narrow lane. After about
half a mile he saw an old codger, dressed in working-
man's clothes, scything the grass verge. He stopped, got
out, smiled as he approached the man. His shoulders
were permanently bent, probably due to the nature of
his work. About seventy, Tweed assessed. His face was
lined, his chin was shrunken and he'd not had a shave for
days.

'Can you help me, please?' Tweed began. 'I've been
asked to give General Macomber some information. I need
to speak to him urgently.'

'Who might you be?'

Tweed produced his folder, held it under the old boy's nose. The workman studied it. He attempted to straighten up but the shoulders stayed bent. He gazed at the folder,
then gazed at Tweed.

'SIS? That wouldn't be Secret Service, would it?'

'It would be and is. I'm asking for your help, please.'

'Won't find the General round 'ere. Comes up to the
cottage on his way to Lunnon. Spends a few days up there and then goes back 'ome. On his way up he calls 'ere to pay
me wages, checks the cottage back there.'

He waved with the scythe he was still holding. Tweed stepped back quickly to stay clear of the deadly blade. He
looked up a pathway to a cottage set in the fields as he
spoke.

'Would you mind putting down that scythe while we chat
for a moment?'

'Means I'll 'ave to bend over to lift it again. If I'm able to
manage that. . .'

'I'll pick it up for you,' Tweed said quickly.

Without bending, the workman threw the scythe a foot or
so away from them. What a dreadful way to spend the later
years of your life, Tweed thought as he looked up the
pathway at the cottage. Built of brick with a renewed tiled roof and a brilliantly polished brass knob on the freshly
painted wooden front door that gleamed in the sun. The
General was obviously a stickler for appearances.

'Stays there overnight sometimes. Just sleeps there, then
buzzes off to Lunnon.'

'When was he last here - and in London?' Tweed asked
in an off-hand tone.

'A week ago. Stayed up in the Smoke a few days, then
came back here this morning on his way 'ome.'

That places General Lucius Macomber in town at the
time of the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. Interesting,
Tweed thought. He bent down, picked up the scythe
carefully, handed it to its owner.

'Where is his real home, then?' Tweed asked. 'The MoD
had lost his permanent address,' he concluded, making it
up as he went along.

'That be a distance from 'ere. He's a large house on Black
Island, near Tolhaven. You takes the ferry, gets off at
Lydford, walks past the village, takes the first road to the left
and he's a short way along on your left. I goes down there
to look after his garden, more like a park. Other people 'elps
'im but he likes me to trim edges. I'm Pat,' he added.

'You've been very helpful, Pat.' Tweed paused. He was
absorbing the shock that the General lived in the location
where Newman and Paula were exploring. 'Oh, where does
this lane lead to?'

'Mountain 'igh. See all over Sussex and Surrey from the
top. I'd take the car, if I was you. It's a long pull walkin' up
there.'

Tweed drove up the lane, which swiftly became very steep as the trees disappeared, with green grass spreading up the slope. Tweed was aware he was climbing a considerable
height. He'd never heard of Mountain High. Too difficult
to find the lane up, he decided.

He had another surprise when he reached the summit. It
was flat as a billiard table and extensive.
An airsock to show
wind direction suggested private planes landed there. He
parked on the edge of the landing field, climbed out and
took in a deep breath of the marvellous fresh air. He was on
top of the world.

Pat had not exaggerated. The panoramic view in every
direction was stunning in the sunlight. Tweed could see for
miles, and in the far distance he could make out a small
plane high in the sky. He went back to his car to fetch his
powerful field glasses.

He had already located the General's cottage, which from
where he stood looked no bigger than a doll's house. What
had attracted his attention was a large enclosed truck
moving away from the back of the cottage. Through his lenses he read the legend painted on its side: Windrush & Carne Removals. Take Anything But A Tank.

He watched it heading towards a large barn whose rear
doors were wide open. The truck entered the barn. The
driver appeared at the back and Tweed had a clear view of the contents. Heavy old furniture - and a black metal box.
The driver climbed inside the truck, inserted a key, lifted
the lid of the black box. Tweed had a brief glimpse inside -
a maze of wires. His lips tightened. High explosive.

He had a clearer view of the driver. Grabbing a small
sketch pad from his pocket, he used a pencil to draw his impression of the driver's face. A brown trilby pulled down at a slanting angle over his forehead. Thick upper lids were
closed down over half his eyes, a bent nose, a slit of a mouth,
heavy jaw, the whole expression had a cunning look. The
driver turned his head away. Tweed slipped the pad back into his pocket, continued watching through the glasses.

The driver jumped agilely out of the furniture van, fixed
a large padlock after closing the heavy doors. He then
repeated the process after leaving the barn. He ran across to a Saab parked nearby, jumped in behind the wheel. Tweed
noted the plate number and the car was moving fast down
the field on to the road leading back to London.

Tweed turned round as the light aircraft he'd seen flew
closer, dipped and was landing on the airstrip. The moment
it was stationary the pilot leapt out, removed his goggles
and helmet. He
grinned at Tweed.

'First person I've ever found up here.' He was youngish,
his voice was cultured, his personality friendly. He marched
towards Tweed.

'Care for a spin? Half an hour and you'll look down on
the beauties of this part of the world. I love it.'

'Thank you,' Tweed replied, 'but I have to go now to an
urgent appointment in London. I appreciate the offer.'

'Maybe another time.'

Tweed walked briskly back to his car. This landing point
might just be useful one day, he thought. Newman is an
expert pilot. He could get us down here in no time.

The Cabal's meeting had resumed after lunch. Nelson
insisted that they must keep checking on progress. So many aspects to keep moving. Benton spoke gently, gazing up at
the ceiling. His words were aimed at Noel.

'Still wasting our time chasing the girls, are we?'

'Of course. What better way of spending a free evening?
I've dumped Eve. She was too prissy when it came to the point. Women are useful for only one thing. Not to mind.
I'm on with a girl
called Tina. Very hoity-toity, but I'm sure
she knows what men need.'

He's younger, Benton thought. He'll grow out of it. Or
will he? Another anxiety surfaced. He stared at Noel.