`There's a chopper floating round behind us,' he told them. 'A private machine with no markings. Odd, that.'
Newman drove on up the steep and winding hill. At the top he manoeuvred them round a series of bends along a lane with hedges on either side. Then they were on the level. The Bentley had disappeared despite the long straight stretch ahead.
`Lord!' Paula commented. 'He must have moved.' `Souped-up engine,' Newman told her.
`That chopper is flying on a course parallel to us now,' Tweed reported from the back.
`You seem very intrigued by it,' Paula replied over her shoulder.
`Give me the map,' Tweed said.
A few minutes later, in lonely open country with fields spreading away, Newman reached a private road leading to Buckler's Hard. He was about to turn down it when Tweed called out again.
`That chopper's landing well ahead of us. From the map I'd say it's coming down somewhere on the west bank – on the land owned by Lord Montagu.'
`Just a chopper,' Newman said as he began turning left.
`Should we be going down here?' Paula asked. 'I think this is probably only for use by people who own a boat.'
`Then we own a boat,' Newman rapped back. Seahorse IV, if anyone wants to know. And in my rear-view mirror I see Pete Nield is catching us up. I wonder what glad tidings he brings?'
Half-way down a steep descent the anchorage came into view. The sun was shining and the basin of blue water sparkled like diamonds. It was more like a small lake but towards the Solent the river ran out between tree- shrouded banks. To the north, where it came from Beaulieu, it curved in an S-bend. Newman stopped, turned off the engine. 'I'll wait for Pete…'
Tweed, followed by Paula, got out of the car to stretch his legs. On the river deserted yachts and power cruisers, covered with blue plastic sheeting for winter, were moored to buoys. The view was scenic but there was no sign of activity. End of the season. Nield parked his Sierra behind the Mercedes, jumped out.
Paula, who had been wandering about, looking down at the anchorage, began walking back to Tweed.
`Come on, Pete,' she said crisply. 'I'm not a schoolgirl any more. Let me hear the grisly details.'
`They are grisly. The concrete mixer is still there – jammed between two trees. So are the police who told me the road was closed. They'd erected a sheet round the vehicle but a breeze blew it up. The driver who tried to kill you is set solid in concrete. They're having to use pneumatic drills to remove his unwanted overcoat.'
`Better him than you,' Newman commented. 'What next?'
`Paula and I will borrow your Merc. You and Pete take the Sierra down and we'll follow. Try and hire a boat to take us downriver,' Tweed suggested.
`We're on our way…'
Tweed parked the Mercedes behind the river front and under the lee of a large yacht propped upright by heavy wooden staves on either side. It shielded the car from easy sighting.
`Why are we hiding?' Paula asked.
`A Mercedes would be noticed. I'm curious about that vintage Bentley which overtook us. And that chopper I saw landing close to the river. I smell danger.'
`From what quarter?'
`I've no idea. But we crawled past Andover's house. The thugs who broke in may have returned and seen us through the shrubbery.'
`Won't the police be there after your phone call?' she queried. 'Although I didn't see a patrol car.'
`They'll have been and gone hours ago. To them it will be just another break-in. Andover probably wasn't there to inform. They'd get their pet builder to board up the front door and leave it at that.'
`Anyone else?'
`We also crawled past both Burgoyne's and Fanshawe's residences. Either could have spotted us, decided to follow to see what we're up to. And someone is going to drastic lengths to stop us, as we know from last night.'
`You're trying to smoke out whoever it is,' Paula stated.
`I would like to know the identity of the enemy. There is one – I know that from reading Andover's file and Gaston Delvaux's letter to him from Liege.'
`And you're not going to tell me anything about either?'
`Not yet.'
They had been walking down a dried mud track scattered with gravel as they talked. When they came round the corner of a clump of trees and undergrowth the track led on to a walk along the river's edge. Newman was hurrying towards them with another man in his midthirties.
Tall and slim, the stranger walked with an athletic stride, was well built, clean shaven, and had an aquiline nose. He wore denims and trainers. Paula was relieved by his working clothes, his pea-jacket. She was clad in denims thrust inside knee-length gumboots and a padded windcheater.
`He's good looking,' she whispered to Tweed, 'and he knows it.'
`A piece of luck,' Newman called out as the two men came close. 'This is an old acquaintance of mine. Mordaunt, freelance journalist. He's agreed to take us for a spin on the river.'
Tweed made introductions, using first names only, omitting to mention himself. Mordaunt made a beeline for Paula, holding out a large strong hand. His voice was upper crust.
`I say the day is improving no end. Welcome to Buckler's Hard, Paula. I've just been putting my boat to bed. A small yacht. Spend as much time down here as I can during the spring-summer. Have a small pad in London. All my money, such as it is, goes on the boat. They're expensive things, boats.'
`Can I have my hand back?' Paula asked with a dry smile.
`Sorry. Didn't mean to offend. It's such a small, shapely hand. Can't really blame me. Now, for the river trip. I've got a large dinghy with an outboard I borrowed. No charge – glad to be of service. This way…'
`Isn't there a more stable boat available?' Tweed enquired.
`I'm afraid not. Not to worry. Water is as smooth as silk. Hardly a ripple. You'll enjoy it.'
As he walked off with Newman Paula noticed his thick, dark hair was blow-dried. An odd mix of the matinee-idol type and a practical man of action. She glanced at Tweed, who was following reluctantly.
`You did take your Dramamine back at the hotel,' she reminded him. 'And we're not going out to sea.'
`Heaven forbid. Water always moves and anything on it moves even more. I suppose I shall survive.'
`You can hold my hand,' Paula teased him. 'Lucky this Mordaunt being here.'
`Or department of strange coincidence…'
Tweed was following the others across a catwalk leading to the main landing stage. Behind him was a long single-storey building which was a combined shop full of tourist-memento rubbish together with the kiosk where tickets were sold for the catamaran cruise. Everything was shut until the next season in spring.
Paula was suddenly aware Tweed had paused. He was staring to the north where, onshore, was a large collection of vessels of various sizes drawn up on land. He had caught sight of a man's figure disappearing behind the hull of a large yacht.
`Something wrong?' Paula asked.
`I thought I recognized someone up there. Forget it – don't mention it to the others.'
Mordaunt had donned a sailor's peaked cap which he perched on his head at a rakish angle. He stood by a large dinghy inside which Newman and Nield had sat down near the stern. This compelled Tweed and Paula to occupy the seat near the prow, hardly his favourite position for such an enterprise.
`All aboard now?' Mordaunt called out in his confident manner. 'Ready for the Skylark cruise, everyone? But where to? Any preference.'
`What I can do without,' Tweed whispered, 'is the hearty nautical touch.'
`We'd like to visit Moor's Landing,' Newman told their host as Mordaunt released the mooring ropes, jumped aboard, and sat down by the tiller.
`You won't be popular there,' Mordaunt warned. `They're a very standoffish lot. Don't mix with pleb types like us. Could even be a hostile reception.'
`We'll risk it,' Newman said firmly.