Cross of Fire (38 page)

In the bar on the ground floor Brand glanced at his watch.
He was drinking Scotch with water - he needed a clear head
tonight. From where he sat he had seen Paula enter the
elevator. He guessed from her dress that she could be going out somewhere for the
evening.

Of course she could be dining in the hotel, but Brand
didn't think so. Despite his coarse manner Brand was sur
prisingly sensitive to social nuances. He'd have bet a
month's fat salary that within the hour she'd leave the hotel.

Unlike his working clothes worn during the morning at
the Cross Keys, he was now dressed in a smart, heavy grey
suit tailored to allow his thick arms easy movement. On a
chair next to his he'd placed his motoring gloves. The last
thing he needed tonight was company at this moment.

Tweed was moving at high speed across Suffolk behind the
wheel of Newman's Mercedes 280E, headlights sweeping in
the night over hedges lining the road. The wind battered the side of the one and a half tons of car, threatening to blow it off the road.

Tweed kept a firm grip on the wheel, indifferent to the
grim weather conditions, driving automatically, his mind
full of anxiety. He was heading for Aldeburgh, Monica had
phoned the Brudenell to book him a room, and he was
determined to get there as fast as possible.

He had Paula on his mind. His instinct that she was in danger was strong. He couldn't have explained why his
earlier doubts had surfaced into fear - but he did know that
when he'd had this instinctive feeling of trouble before it
had always proved to be right.

He had tried to reach her on the phone at lunchtime but the receptionist at the Brudenell had told him she was out
somewhere. He had decided against leaving a message: he might be alarming her for nothing.

Then Newman's car had been returned by one of Robles' staff. The veterinary pathologist had phoned him the report
from Porton Down - and that had not made reassuring
news. The worst possible case, had been the verdict.

It was the return of Newman's car which had made
Tweed take one of his lightning decisions - that he would
drive it to Aldeburgh himself. Before leaving London New
man had phoned from his flat, had told Tweed he'd be
staying at the Brudenell for two days and nights.

There another reason for Tweed's urgent flight from
London. He wanted to see for himself the scene of the crime
where Karin Rosewater had been murdered. You could
listen to other people's detailed accounts of the landscape,
but there was nothing like checking it for yourself. He
looked at the clock on the dashboard, calculated he'd arrive in time to explore the marshes at about the same hour when
the murder had been committed. After making sure Paula
was all right...

Paula, wearing her suede coat, her scarf wrapped round her
head against the wind, stepped out of the elevator, handed
her key to the receptionist, told her she was driving to see a friend in Aldeburgh.

It was black as pitch outside the front entrance. She
walked quickly to the Ford Escort, parked in a slot up
against the hotel wall. Climbing behind the wheel, she
slipped her key into the ignition, turned it. Nothing hap
pened. Just a discouraging grunt. She tried again and again
to start the engine. Nothing. She looked up as a shadowy
figure appeared beyond her side window. Lieutenant
Berth ... No,
James Sanders.

'Won't she behave?' he asked. 'Let me try.'

She hesitated, thought: I'm just outside the hotel. Getting
out, she stood while he slipped behind the wheel and
fiddled with the ignition. He tried six times and shook his
head.

'Probably the battery is dead. You were going for a long drive?'

'No, only local. To an address in Aldeburgh.'

She wished she hadn't reacted so quickly as he climbed
out. He'd wound up the window and now he dosed the
door.

'That's my Saab parked next to your car. I'll drive you wherever you want to go. Nothing else to do.'

Again she hesitated. She had tapped on Newman's door
before coming down. No reply. Obviously he was still out walking: he could walk for miles when in the mood. And Marler had gone back to London. Paula made a virtue of punctuality and it was only a short drive.

'I have a map showing where I'm going. Admiralty
House is the name. It's marked with
a cross ...'

Berthier took the map as he sat behind the wheel, left his
door open, pretended to study the map. He knew damn
well where he was going. Only recently he'd been outside
Admiralty House when he'd followed Jean Burgoyne.

Paula again hesitated before getting into the front pass
enger seat. I can cope with him. if I have to, she thought,
and slipped into the seat. Berthier handed back the map.

'I've got the route. As you said, it's very local...'

She fastened her seat belt and he drove off. She adjusted
her shoulder bag, wished she was carrying her .32 Browning
automatic, but she wasn't. Relax, for Pete's sake.

He drove along the deserted High Street, turned left up
the curving hill past houses which seemed to have no lights.
Paula was surprised as they ascended how dark the back road was. Expensive houses at the end of long drives but
not the sort of place she'd want to live.

Close to the entrance to Admiralty House, where the
road levelled out at the summit, Berthier swung the car on
to the grass verge. He switched off the engine, turned to
her.

'I've admired you ever since we met,' he began. 'You're
a very attractive woman.'

'Thank you ...'

She unfastened her seat belt quickly. His strong left hand wrapped itself round her neck, his right hand slipped under her coat, felt the dress, slipped under that. He'd released his
own safety belt and was leaning over to her, pulling her
towards him. She raised her right hand, free of the glove
she'd slipped off, reached for his face with her hard nails.

'Leave me alone or I'll mark you for life ...'

'Gutsy? I like that in a girl.'

His grip increased on the back of her neck. Her nails dug into his face without drawing blood. Suddenly her hand left
his face, she rammed the point of her elbow against his
Adam's apple. He spluttered, released the grip on her neck,
his other hand sliding out from under her coat. Her left
hand opened the door, her right grabbed the loose glove,
she jumped out on to the mushy grass. She spoke quickly
before slamming the door shut, her tone contemptuous.

'Thank you so much for the lift, Mr Sanders. I won't be
needing transport back...'

Hurrying along the verge, she turned into the entrance to
Admiralty House. Walking along the drive she saw the
curtains were pulled back from an inviting living room well illuminated. Jean Burgoyne saw her coming, met her at the
door.

'Welcome to the Brigadier's den...'

Paula went inside. She'd already decided not to say
anything about the episode with Berthier. Later she would walk home. It wasn't all that far.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Tweed found two car slots available up against the wall of the Brudenell when he arrived. Plenty of space to park Newman's large Mercedes. He collected his small case off
the front passenger seat, the special walking stick devised
for him by the Engine Room, got out into the icy night,
locked the car, walked into the hotel.

'Yes, Mr Tweed, we have a room reserved for you. The same room you occupied recently,' the receptionist assured
him. 'And a number for you to phone urgently as soon as
you arrive.'

'Thank you. I'll make the call from my room...'

Inside the large room with windows overlooking the
front he threw his Burberry on to the bed. The North Sea
was making more noise than it had last time. The windows
were closed but he could hear the crash of countless tons of
water against the promenade.

Dumping his case on the floor, propping the stick by the
wall, he opened the folded slip. Monica's number. Something had happened. He picked up the phone, dialled.

Tweed here, Monica. I am speaking from my hotel room.' he said rapidly, warning her.

'I understand.' A brief pause. 'The
brand
product was originally used in diving operations - from a North Sea oil rig. It was found to be defective - its use was discontinued under a cloud. Later it was used by bodyguards employed by two security firms. Again it was thought to be defective
- nothing proved. It was then taken up by a firm of qualified accountants. Latest development, held in high regard by a firm at Dawlish Warren in Devon. End story.'

'Thank you for doing such a good job.'

'Don't go. There's more. Rather sensitive, could be
urgent.'

'Something affecting my business trip here ...?' Tweed was talking rapidly. He raised his voice suddenly. 'Oper
ator! This is a bad line. Can you do something about it?' He listened for the click telling him someone was listening in.
No click. His acute hearing waited for a sharp intake of
breath. Nothing. No one was listening in. 'Go ahead,
Monica.'

'Lasalle called. He's worried.'

'About what?'

'His informant at Third Corps tells him Sergeant Rey has
disappeared. Lasalle trunks it might be an ominous
development.'

'Lasalle is right.'

'There's more. Corcoran phoned from Heathrow. Major Lamy flew in a few hours ago - just after you left. No doubt about it. Travelling as William Prendergast. You won't believe this.'

'Try me.'

'He left Heathrow in a hired car he drove himself, a
Rover. On his way to Aldeburgh. I tracked him myself.
That's all.'

'It's enough.' Tweed said grimly. 'Thanks again. Don't
hesitate to call me with any more news. Get some rest...'

Tweed put down the phone, began pacing the room. Brand, Dawlish's right-hand man, had originally been a
diver for an oil rig. It sounded as though he'd been mixed
up in something shady. Sabotage? Later he'd been a body
guard for two separate firms - and dismissed from both.
Had he already become a spy for Dawlish? And Monica's reference to the tiny coastal resort of Dawlish Warren had been clever. She was telling him he'd moved from the two security firms straight into Dawlish's employ. The reference
to qualified accountant was strange - it sounded as though '
Brand had been one, which meant he was far more than just a thug running other thugs. Tweed continued pacing, thinking about the Lasalle data.

Sergeant Rey, de Forge's boobytrap specialist, had vanished from Third Corps GHQ. Where could Rey be? What mission might he be engaged on? Of course, he could be on
leave. But Tweed didn't think so. De Forge wouldn't be sending anyone on leave now the
momentum of his campaign was building up.