Cross of Fire (20 page)

'I'm tired, sir. I've been working since five in the
morning...'

'And what have you got to show for it?' Dawlish
demanded brutally.

'My informant at the Bruderiell reports a lot of new
arrivals today. And this is November. One of them is Robert
Newman, the foreign correspondent...'

'Who this Peter Wood phoned me about. On the excuse
of thanking me in advance for having him at my shoot. What
he really called about was to ask if he could bring Newman.
As I told you earlier ...'

'Which is someone else I checked on for you,' Brand said
hastily.

'Don't bloody well interrupt me. A lot of people seem to
be taking a sudden interest in me - and this is a critical time.
In case you've forgotten.'

'Could be a coincidence...'

'I've survived by not believing in coincidences. On top of those people, a Paula Grey is coming to interview me. She sounded sexy on the phone. Could be a bonus for me there.'
Dawlish added and grinned coarsely. 'Is the weapons consignment nearly ready?'

'Half the delivery is ready. The balance will be at the
collection point soon.'

'And you're keeping a close eye on the met forecasts for the Bay of Biscay? The voyage to Arcachon can be a real bastard.'

'I record them hourly.' Brand assured his boss, relieved
that he seemed in a more amiable mood.

'And the Cat will have completed its overhaul?'

'I checked with the skipper today. The Cat will be in good
shape.'

'It had better be.'

Dawlish stood up, walked to the large window behind his desk. He stood with his back to Brand, gazing out across the
lawn sloping to the landing stage at the edge of the Aide. A
moonlit night showed storm clouds scudding in from the
east, from the North Sea.

Silhouetted against the light from the room Dawlish stood
so still on his thick legs he looked like a Buddha. Brand had
never met another man who could remain motionless for
long periods. Dawlish had no fear of hostile action from the grounds. For one thing they were patrolled by wolfhounds. For another the windows were made of bullet-proof glass.
Brand risked disturbing his thoughts, wanting to demon
strate his thoroughness.

'Another arrival in Aldeburgh - seen in the bar of the
Brudenell - is Jean Burgoyne.'

Dawlish's reaction was different from what Brand had
expected. He swung round, his eyes glowing, his manner
explosive.

'What the bloody hell is she doing back here? All this happening when we're approaching what I told you was a critical time. The biggest delivery yet. Plus a wad of money for our friends in France.'

'Burgoyne has an uncle in Aldeburgh.' Brand pointed out in a conciliatory tone. 'She does visit him occasionally...'

'Bloody hell, have you lost the few marbles you've got
left? Jean Burgoyne's uncle Brigadier was Military Intelli
gence. Goddamnit! Another coincidence - and with this
other lot arriving ...'

Dawlish strode swiftly to the luxurious cocktail cabinet
concealed behind a floor-to ceiling bookcase, pressed a but
ton which operated a sliding case, exposing the cabinet. He
poured a large Scotch, drank the whole glass, and didn't
offer anything to Brand.

'The uncle is eighty ...' Brand ventured.

'And a perfect conduit back to the Ministry of Defence.
I'm getting the feeling I'm being crowded. Always before
that feeling has meant trouble.' He handed the glass to
Brand. 'Get me another. A large one. We're going to have to
take precautions tomorrow. Arrange to have men ready to take up the chopper. Both men to be armed. I may want
someone followed, maybe dealt with.'

'That could be dangerous,' Brand warned, handing back the refilled glass. 'Another death after what happened to Karin Rosewater.'

'To succeed in this world you have to take risks.'

'One other thing I found out today. Someone else is staying at the Brudenell...'

'Don't play with me, Brand. Who?'

'Chief Inspector Buchanan of the CID and his sidekick,
Sergeant Warden.'

'So, if we sense danger there may be a fatal accident during
the shooting party. With the blame manipulated to one of the guests,' Dawlish concluded and drank the rest of his Scotch.

Chapter Thirteen

In the bar at the Brudenell Jean Burgoyne had said she'd
better get home. She gave Paula her address and a phone
number before she left.

'I've found our conversation frantically relaxing.' she said warmly. 'Please promise that we'll meet for another chat soon. There may be some problems I'd like to talk over with you. That's if you don't find me a crashing bore.' she added hastily.

'Anything but.' Paula responded. 'I'm not sure how long I'll be here but I'll call you. We'll meet.'

'I'm simply
not
after an interview.' Jean stressed
anxiously. 'Please don't think that.'

'I know. We'll meet.' Paula repeated.

As soon as Jean had gone Victor Rosewater walked over
to Paula. Again she thought he was a handsome-looking
man and he was smartly dressed in a check sports jacket
and well-creased grey slacks. But his face was drawn, his
smile forced as she invited him to sit beside her. He put a
glass of orange juice on the table.

'I said I would come here.' he began, 'but the last person
I expected to be lucky enough to meet was you.'

'Why didn't you phone me? You've got some leave?'

'I was going to call you from here. It was a rush catching the flight from Europe. And as I told you in Basle, I've a
roving commission. I came here because this is where Karin
died.'

'You think that's a good idea?' she asked quietly.

'No power on earth can stop me finding out who mur
dered her. The solution must be here. Why? How? Who?'

His expression and tone were grim and determined. He smiled again, drank some orange juice as the wind ham
mered the windows as though trying to break through the
glass. Rosewater put down his tumbler.

'It must have been a night like this when her life was
ended.'

'Something like this,' she said, wondering what he was
thinking.

'Do you mind walking in the dark with this wind
blowing?'

He was gazing into the distance, staring past her, not
aware of the other customers drinking and chattering.
Revenge was the most potent of all driving forces, she
thought as she watched him.

'What do you want to do?' she asked eventually.

'Please say no if you don't like the idea. But I want to go
and see where it happened, under the conditions it hap
pened. There may be something the police have overlooked.
No one knew Karin like I did. She could have left a clue.'

She was about to say there were clever men from Scotland Yard who had been all over the ground, when New
man walked in. He paused when he saw Paula was not
alone. She beckoned him over.

'Bob, this is Victor Rosewater.' She gave him a warning
look. 'He was Karin's husband. Tweed and I met him. in
Basle, as you know. Victor, this is Robert Newman.'

'The foreign correspondent...'

Rosewater stood up, shook hands. Newman's arrival
seemed to help him. He had recovered his normal poise.
Newman joined them, looked at Rosewater's glass, asked if he was drinking orange juice.

'As a matter of fact, I am.'

'You're teetotal?'

'Good God, no!'

'Then maybe something a little stronger would help on a cold night like this. How about a Scotch?'

'Thank you, but no.' Rosewater looked embarrassed. 'I
just don't think alcohol is a good idea, feeling as I do at the moment.'

'Victor wanted to be shown where the tragedy hap
pened.' Paula told Newman. 'He thinks he might just find
something the police overlooked.'

'You mean now?' Newman queried, a hint of surprise in his tone.

'Yes,' Paula continued. 'Under the same conditions of
weather there were that night. And I think the storm has
blown itself out. I can't hear the wind.'

'And it would be about this time, wouldn't it?' Rosewater asked, checking his watch.

'Yes, it would.' Paula agreed. 'Within an hour or so,
anyway.' She looked at Newman. 'I'm quite prepared to go out for a walk after I've wrapped up well.'

'Then I'll come with you.' Newman decided.

'That would be a great relief to me.' Rosewater said. 'The two of you coming with me - if it's not a great imposition, which I suppose it is.'

'Nonsense.' Newman stood up. 'Let's get on with it. I'll get my things. Meet you both in the lobby a few minute
from now...'

Aldeburgh was dead. The streets were deserted as Paula,
Newman and Rosewater left the Brudenell by the entrance away from the front. They left the town behind when they
entered the public car park. The wind had dropped as
quickly as it had risen. Paula had a creepy feeling as her
feet crunched the pebbled ground of the car park.

It was moonlit and she could remember the exact spot where she'd parked her car when she'd arrived with Karin.
The car Butler had later driven back to London for her after Newman had taken her home in his Mercedes. They walked out of the car park on the gravel road leading to Slaughden
Sailing Club in the distance. As they passed the old barn-
like structure with a sign reading
Boat Storage
a cloud blotted
out the moon and it was pitch dark.

'Which way now?' asked Rosewater, walking alongside
Paula.

'A bit further along this awful road and then we turn
down a footpath leading across the marshes.'

She had switched on her flashlight at the same moment
as Rosewater turned on a more powerful beam. Behind
them Newman walked slowly, glancing all round, his own
flashlight switched on. Paula turned off the road, led the way down the steep bank and
followed the footpath over the marshes below the gravel road. Rosewater caught her
up, slowed down when he realized his long legs were
making it difficult for her to keep pace.

'How long to get there?' he asked.

'About ten minutes from here ...'

Despite the lack of wind it was very cold. Paula was
muffled in a fur-lined coat, its hood pulled over her
head. On her feet she wore gumboots. The two men were also clad in gumboots as they squelched over the soggy
ground.