The only reason we were inside your house – poking around as you put it – was the front door was wide open. Is that wise?'
`I've left the front door open,' Paula intervened quickly as she detected fresh signs of agitation. 'It's an easy mistake.'
`I suppose so,' Andover said in a normal tone. He fumbled under his coat and inside his trouser pocket. 'The key is here. Foolish of me. Must have my mind on my thoughts.'
`And,' Tweed went on, 'we never spoke a word to each other while we were inside. I simply called out your name twice and then tried to find you.'
I do understand.' Andover sighed visibly with relief.
`Is your daughter Irene right-handed?' Tweed enquired suddenly.
Andover's reaction was manic. He grabbed Tweed with both hands round the throat. 'What the devil made you ask that question?' he roared. Tweed again stood his ground. He grasped Andover's wrists, squeezing hard. He had far greater strength than most people supposed. Prising the throttling hands loose, he held on to them and put his face close to Andover's. 'That is quite enough of the rough stuff.' He let go as he felt the hands go limp.
Andover was shaking like a leaf in the wind when Paula again intervened in her conversational tone.
`Driving here, Tweed and I were discussing whether more people were left-handed as opposed to right. Just idle chat to pass the time.'
`Oh, I see.' Andover ran a hand through his flaxen hair. `Tweed, I'm dreadfully sorry. Quite unforgivable on my part. Don't know what got into me. Had a bout of neuralgia. Leaves you frightfully edgy.'
`I know it can be very painful,' Paula agreed in her soft voice.
`One of those things.' Andover was addressing Paula now as though he'd forgotten Tweed's existence. 'Irene is left-handed. Five months ago I gave her an emerald ring.' A flash of pain crossed his strong-boned clean-shaven face. 'It was her eighteenth birthday.'
`I'd like to meet her sometime,' Paula continued carefully. 'But at that age they don't spend much time at home.'
`Quite right, my dear… She's gone off on an extended holiday… with her French boy friend, Louis… Good chap, her Louis… You'd have liked him..
And you're lying, Tweed thought, as he trailed off. He had the impression Andover was retreating into a world of his own and asked the question quickly.
`You asked me to come down here. May I ask why – now I'm here?'
`Of course.' Andover, normal once more, frowned. Paula studied him. About five feet ten tall, slim in build, he had a high forehead, a clever face, and almost a touch of arrogance in his manner. No, not arrogance – rather a fixity of purpose. She had the feeling that for a brief time she was seeing the Andover Tweed had known in London.
`Of course,' he repeated. 'I have a file in the house I want you to study. It's very serious. We may be facing a new enemy – far worse than Hitler or Stalin so far as Western Europe is concerned. And just when Europe thought it was safe to go to sleep. If you don't mind waiting outside at the front I'll go in and get it for you. Not the sort of thing you entrust to the post… Disaster, Tweed. Catastrophe might be a better word…'
He started to walk along the side of the house briskly, shoulders erect, when he swung on his heel, came back.
`Tweed, I really am sorry. The way I treated you. I've been pretty rotten company. Why not call in next door, have a drink with my neighbour, Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne, another old China hand. He's civilized, which is more than I've been…'
Before Tweed could respond Andover had disappeared and they followed him slowly. At the front of the house they waited in silence by the car, both of them shaken by their macabre experience.
Andover trotted out five minutes later by Paula's watch. He carried a large brown manilla envelope under his arm. As he handed it to Tweed Paula saw it had an address scrawled on it and a first-class stamp. Andover caught her glance.
`Camouflage,' he explained to her as he handed the envelope to Tweed. 'A fictitious name and address and stamped for the post. No one will guess what it contains. You can tell the Brig. you called here.' He put his hand to his forehead. 'I've got it. Tell him I have an attack of neuralgia and sent you round for some decent company.'
During the five-minute wait Tweed had wrestled with the problem of whether to break the news about Harvey Boyd's death. It seemed quite the worst time but the police would be in touch with him anyway – and probably soon.
`Thank you,' he said, tucking the envelope inside the sports jacket underneath his trench coat. 'There is one more thing I ought to tell you before we go. And it's very bad news.'
Andover opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut without saying anything. Paula could have sworn his lips had formed the name Irene. Andover stiffened himself, nodded to Tweed.
`Well? Spit it out.'
`It concerns Harvey Boyd, who, I gather, is a distant relative of yours?'
Paula felt sure this time that a mixture of emotions had flashed across Andover's face. Relief. Then regret that he had felt that sensation. He nodded again, waited.
`Harvey Boyd is dead,' Tweed told him. He explained what had happened in as few words as possible. Watching their host, Paula saw an odd pensive expression. `… so soon,' Tweed concluded, 'the police will arrive to inform you.'
`Not here! I won't have a lot of flat-footed policemen trampling over all the place, invading my privacy.'
Andover's tone was brusque, almost rude. Staring at his visitors, he frowned.
`Tell you what,' he went on rapidly. 'The Rover is in that garage…' He indicated two closed wooden doors let into the side of the house. 'I'll drive over to Colonel Stanstead. He's the Chief Constable and we know each other.'
`You could do that,' Tweed agreed.
`I'll call him on the way, tell him I'm coming. Yes, that's the answer.' He paused. 'Harvey was a good chap. Just came out of the SAS a few months ago. People say the younger generation has gone soft. Don't know what they're talking about.'
`We'd better go,' Tweed decided. 'Very sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings.'
`Sooner hear it from you than anyone else.' He reached out, took Tweed by the arm, guided him towards the house out of earshot of Paula. 'So they've got Harvey too.
`Who are "they"?' Tweed asked quickly.
`Time for you to get round to the Brigadier's. If he's not in try Willie Fanshawe. He lives just beyond the Brig.'s place, Leopard's Leap. Willie's house is The Last Haven. Another old China hand.' He paused again, glanced to where Paula was getting into the car. He's trying to make up his mind about something, Tweed thought. Andover whispered the words.
`No ransom at all has been demanded…'
He turned away before Tweed could speak, walked swiftly back to the house. His head drooped, his shoulders were quivering. Tweed heard the slam of the front door closing and then he climbed in behind the wheel. Paula was waiting in the front passenger seat.
Did you see that?' she asked. The poor devil was crying on his way back to the house. A strong man like that. He must be going through hell. Shouldn't we inform the police?'
`Not yet. It's obvious Irene is the victim of some hideous kidnap plot. Andover's last words to me were "No ransom at all has been demanded." I find that sinister. Plus the macabre business of her amputated arm being sent to him.'
He started the engine, anxious to get clear before Andover emerged to drive to see Colonel Stanstead. At the exit, he paused. To his right Newman appeared on the far side, waved to show his location, where he had hidden his Merc. Tweed drove right, turned off the road down what was little more than a wide path. Newman's car was parked out of sight from the road behind a copse of evergreens. He climbed into the back of the Escort as Tweed switched off the engine.
`This file isn't safe,' Tweed commented.