The Janus Man (25 page)

Gerda vanished off the road like a ghost, Pushing her cycle at speed. Newman noticed she had swiftly turned off her lights. Falken chuckled again before he replied, taking the sting out of his remark.

`Mustn't get paranoid, Albert Thorn. They are probably simply returning to their police barracks at Wernigerode. At this game you suspect everything and everyone, I agree. But also remember you will meet many who are merely proceeding on their lawful occasions.'

The slow-moving car's headlights illuminated them from behind, then were dipped. As the vehicle passed them Schneider leaned out of the window, calling to them in a hoarse voice.

`Good hunting, Mr Thorn...'

The car moved faster and was gone, its engine sound muffled almost immediately by the mist. Gerda rejoined them, jumped into her saddle and pedalled behind them.

`I thought there was a trace of irony in Schneider's voice,' Falken commented. 'And he made a point of letting you know he remembered your name...'

`Now who's getting paranoid?'

Falken shook with laughter. For a few seconds his cycle wobbled. Then Gerda overtook them, riding ahead. She gestured for them to halt, jumped nimbly from her machine and pushed it up a narrow track on the right-hand side of the road.

`We have reached the car,' Falken explained as they followed. `It's a Chaika, a Russian car. It gives a certain authority to anyone riding in it. And if you think your recent experiences have been a little tense, they were nothing.'

`What's coming?' Newman asked.

They laid the machines on the ground and helped Gerda who was already using her gloved hands to haul away great clumps of loose undergrowth, exposing the hidden Chaika, swathed with a neutral-coloured blanket over the bonnet to protect the engine against the cold.

They next hid the three cycles, covering them thoroughly with the loose undergrowth. Gerda checked the finished product, walking all round the buried machines before she pronounced that she was satisfied. Under her arm she had tucked the windcheater concealing the stubby-nosed Uzi machine-pistol.

Falken settled himself behind the wheel of the Chaika, his long legs hunched. Newman, at his request, sat beside him and Gerda squeezed herself in behind them. The ignition fired at the sixth attempt.

`What's coming?' Newman repeated. 'Where are we going?'

`To visit the witness you will interview. Concerning gentle and shy Dr Berlin — who does not like his photograph being taken. Our destination, my friend? The centre of Leipzig — only the throw of a stone from the building containing Markus Wolf's headquarters. And at the moment he has a guest, a certain Soviet GRU general — military intelligence. Vasili Lysenko. He must be planning a major operation. Come on! Let's go!'

He swung the Chaika on to the track, turned on to the road and followed the direction Schneider had driven along.

Newman thought the chill of the forest night had increased enormously.

Twenty-Four

London's Soho had not improved, Tweed decided as he walked along the street. But at least he felt safe now. No longer any reason for keeping an eye open for cripples who might be skilled assassins. It was good to be back in peaceful Britain.

But soon, he thought, he would get restless again — restless to return into the field, to Germany. The human mind was a weird instrument. Always next, the spice of variety.
Portman Investigations
read the metal chrome plate attached to the side of the open doorway.
First Floor
.

He was surprised that the plate was shining and clean. He walked inside and started mounting the old bare wooden staircase. He put a hand on the banister rail and hastily withdrew it. The rail was greasy to the touch.

The twin of the chrome plate outside was attached by the side of a closed door, minus the reference to the floor. He knocked, three hard raps. It was opened quickly and Tweed had another surprise. He was expecting something sleazy and shifty.

`Mr Portman?'

`Mr Tweed? You're prompt. More than most of my clients are. Come in, take a pew. Now, how can I help you along the twisted pathways of life in this vale of sorrows?'

A small, round-faced jolly-looking man in his mid-forties, Mr Samuel Portman. Plump-bodied, like a well-fed pheasant. Tweed wondered why he'd likened him to that fowl, then remembered what he'd dined off the previous evening with Diana. His blue, pin-striped suit wasn't Savile Row, but it was well-pressed and clean. Almost Pickwickian in appearance — without the spectacles. Tweed produced the folder and showed it.

`Special Branch...'

`Oh, really? Your girl who made the appointment didn't say.'

`We don't believe in the maxim it pays to advertise.' Tweed put the folder back in his pocket, his manner amiable. 'Paula Grey. One of your clients. Hawkswood Farmhouse, Norfolk. Why did she employ you?'

`I couldn't possibly disclose that. Confidential, our investigations. The keystone of our relationship...'

`You've tried, made the right noises, now stop wasting my time.' Tweed's tone had hardened. 'I can always take you back to headquarters. The investigation I'm conducting is very serious, may involve terrorists. Don't worry about Paula, she's no connection. Let's start again. When did you begin checking on Hugh Grey?'

`Well, since you're Special Branch, I suppose I must make an exception. I don't like it, mind you, don't like it at all... `We don't like terrorists. Get on with it, man.'

`Just over two years ago she came to see me. August it was. A very hot day. I couldn't-really understand it. You see... Portman hesitated. `... they weren't married then.'

`I know that. Get to the point.'

`She asked me to follow Hugh Grey, to report on his movements. She said she thought there was another woman. I haven't been able to find a trace of that. He goes abroad a lot. The number of times I've seen him off from Heathrow. Always to Germany. I couldn't follow him. The expense, you see.'

`And each time,' Tweed said casually, 'you found it easy — to follow this Hugh Grey?'

`No.' The little man admitted it reluctantly. 'Paula Brent — as she was before they married — phoned me the day before he was due to go off from Hawkswood. I'd drive out next day, wait for him near a crossroads out of sight, then pick him up. He knew I was on his track. He'd wait till he came to a traffic light near Much Hadham, slow down, then shoot across on the amber. I couldn't risk following through on the red. They might revoke my licence if the police caught me. They don't much like us — the police. And once
he
followed me here to Soho.'

`Tell me.'

`I lost him. Much Hadham again. Then I was driving through London and I picked him up in my rear view mirror. Couldn't believe it. Where would he pick up that skill? He's something in insurance. He was still with me when I arrived in Soho.'

`So he knows who you are? What you are?'

`Not bloody likely.' Portman perked up. 'I parked the car, then walked into a solicitor pal's office near here.'

`Surely he waited for you?'

`No. You see, I have an arrangement with the solicitor in question. He needs me from time to time. I foresaw I might have this problem one day. The plate outside the solicitor's office reads — I'm making up the other names — Blenkinsop, Mahoney and Portman. He thought I was a solicitor. It must have puzzled him.'

`How can you be so sure of that?'

`Blighter walked in to reception and asked the girl.
He
said he was Special Branch.' Portman stared at Tweed, watching his reaction.

`Cheeky sod,' Tweed replied immediately, expressing just the right amount of indignation. 'Give me your impression of Hugh Grey.'

`Full of confidence. But then these insurance chaps have to be — peddling the sort of stuff they do. I wondered if he was mixed up in drug smuggling, if his girl, later his wife, suspected the same thing.'

'Why?'

`Frequent trips abroad. The way he sometimes knew I was on his tail, the way he ditched me, and the way he enquired about me here in Soho. The skill,' Portman repeated, 'that's what I don't understand. Plus the cheek of the devil. Doesn't sound like insurance to me at all.'

`Must have cost his wife a fortune hiring you. Two years is a long time.' Tweed was probing, searching for he wasn't sure what. Portman clasped his hands behind his head, a gesture which reminded Tweed of Guy Dalby.

`It was spasmodic,' he explained. 'Only when he was leaving to go somewhere from Norfolk. Often I lost him, as I mentioned. I used to race direct to Heathrow, hoping to catch him there, but often he never turned up at Terminal Two — or I missed him.'

`Ever follow him anywhere else? Maybe to somewhere inside this country?' Tweed asked casually.

`Never once. Always Heathrow — or I lost him.'

That meant Grey had spotted Portman, eluded him, whenever he was bound for Park Crescent — or his
pied a terre
at Cheyne Walk for that matter. Grey certainly knew his job. `How does Paula Grey pay you?' Tweed asked.

`Always in cash — no matter how large the fee. That's normal in such cases. Cheques can be traced. I gather she has her own business of some sort. In any case, a third of the population in Norfolk is part of the black economy...' He clapped a hand over his mouth. 'Now I've put my foot in it.' Portman frowned. `You're a very persuasive chap — you get people to let down their guard.'

`I'm not interested in things like that. Last question. What is Paula Grey's attitude now?'

`She's still worried about something. Can we leave it at that?'

`Why not?' Tweed rose to go. So far Portman was intrigued with the novelty of his visitor. Soon he might begin to wonder about Tweed. 'One thing,' Tweed said as Portman accompanied him to the door, 'I've never been here. This interview never took place.'

`Official Secrets Act?'

`Well...' Tweed smiled, `... at least I never read it to you.'

`Did you find out anything from Portman?' Monica asked, all eager-beaver as Tweed closed his office door.

`I'm not sure. Only the absence of something.'

`That's right, go all cryptic on me. It means you have a definite lead but you're not telling. Want me to hang up your Burberry?'

`No, thank you. I have to collect Diana in a minute from Newman's flat, then we drive down to Harry Masterson's. He is at his cottage?'

`Yes, I called him as you asked. Said you might want to phone him. He said he'd be there all day — he's painting one of his portraits. What are you doing?'

Tweed had collected a pair of dividers from a cupboard and was standing in front of the wall-map. He placed one point on Vienna, then measured the road distance to Lübeck. He repeated the exercise with Bern and Frankfurt, again measuring the road distances to Lübeck. Then he stood back from the map and placed the dividers on a table.

`Any one of them could have managed it by road,' he said.

'I don't understand.'

`After the second blonde girl, Iris Hansen, was murdered out on the beach at Travemünde, I called all the sector chiefs. None of them were at home. And no one knew where they had gone.'

`Normal procedure if their security is tight — and it's pretty tight with this new lot you chose.'

`As you say. I'd better get off...'

`You're suggesting one of them could be a maniac killer? That would be terrible for the department.'

It's not so good for the victims who were murdered,' Tweed replied and left the room.

`What a lovely cottage. The clematis is glorious.'

Diana walked with Tweed along the country lane to the gate of Harry Masterson's cottage near Apfield. Brilliant sunshine glowed out of a clear blue sky. In nearby trees birds chirrupped. Tweed had his hand on the gate, looking at the garden which was a mess, the lawn uncut, the rose beds full of weeds, when he realized she had stopped, was standing like a frozen statue.

He looked up. Masterson had appeared in the doorway, his bulky figure filling it. Tweed glanced at Diana. Her face seemed even whiter than usual.

`What's wrong?' he asked.

`From here it's just like my mother's cottage in Devon. She was only forty-two when she died. I suppose the similarity gave me a shock.' Her normal exuberance returned. 'Come on, Tweedy, we mustn't keep him waiting...'

Masterson, his thick black hair gleaming in the sunlight, came down the scruffy footpath to meet them. Dressed in a pair of cream slacks and an open-necked white shirt, he held a paintbrush in his right hand which he transferred to the other hand.

`Welcome to Paradise Cottage, Tweed. And who is this delightful vision you've brought with you? Now the day is perfect...'

He shook hands with her and Tweed made introductions. He had warned her before what he would say.

`This is Diana Chadwick, niece of an old friend of mine. She's in London on holiday.'

`Niece, eh?' Masterson dug Tweed gently in the ribs. 'You can do better than that, Tweed.' He looked at her and grinned.

`If we take him at his word there's hope for me yet. Come on in, both of you. Care for a drink? And where the devil is your car? You can't have walked here.'

`I parked it up the lane. I wasn't sure I was on the right road,' Tweed lied. He'd wanted to surprise his host. Masterson hustled them inside, grasping Diana by the arm. He doesn't waste time, Tweed thought ruefully. He glanced up at the cascade of purple-flowering clematis flowing down either side of the doorway as he entered. Masterson glanced back, missing nothing.

`Damned good stuff, that creeper. Doesn't need a thing doing to it. Just grows and grows, like Topsy did. Can't stand gardening...'

`So I observed,' Tweed replied drily.

`I'll show Diana the cottage,' Masterson rambled on buoyantly. 'You've seen the place, Tweed. Make yourself at home in the sitting-room. Help yourself to a drink. We'll be back soon...'

He winked at Tweed as Diana dropped her handbag on a settee in the cluttered living-room, the soft furniture covered with chintz designs. Cushions lay scattered at random, several on the floor.

Tweed waited until they had climbed the twisting, creaking steps of the staircase. He'd have good warning when they were coming back. His agile fingers picked up Diana's handbag, opened it, checked the contents quickly. No travellers' cheques, just a wad of folded banknotes. He counted them. ?250. Mostly in twenties. When he'd met her at Heathrow she'd excused herself while she went to the Midland Bank exchange. He returned the notes to the zip pocket exactly as he found them and replaced the handbag on the settee.