Deadlock

'Meningitis. Unfortunately I was away for a few days when the outbreak started. Then it was too late. A major tragedy. It started with Simple Eric – the only one to survive. A weak head but a strong body. So often the case in this world, Mr Sneed. Is that your Mercedes outside The Bluebell?'

'Yes.' Tweed switched on the torch, swung the beam full on to the ancient mausoleum. That must go back a few years.'

'Ah! Sir John Leinster's final resting place. The last of his line, sadly. He died forty years ago. Now, Mr Sneed, I expect you'll be wanting to continue your journey. Ned, perhaps you'd be good enough to escort our visitor safely back to his car. Breckland, Mr Sneed, is a very lonely and dangerous place. So easy to get lost in the forest where feral cats roam.' Portch was almost purring like one of the wild cats he'd mentioned. He asked the question as Tweed was turning away.

'Your two friends. If they turn up do we tell them you have proceeded to Cockley Cley?'

'Yes, please. They're travelling in a large blue Peugeot,' Tweed said, keeping up the fiction.

He almost tripped in a deep gulley. He kept walking, glancing down. Two deep wide ruts were embedded in the grass. At some time a heavy vehicle had been brought into the church yard. He opened the left-hand side of the double grille gate and walked briskly back towards his car, followed by Grimes who hurried to catch him up.

They were passing a giant fir overhanging the road when Tweed glanced to his right. Almost concealed in the undergrowth below the fir was a red snout. The front end of a Porsche.

'I'll be leavin' you here,' Grimes said. 'There's your nice car waitin' outside Bluebell…'

He pushed open the garden gate of a cottage, hurried along the path. Tweed heard the slam of the front door and was on his own in the night. He recrossed the footbridge, walking at his normal pace, gripping the torch firmly.

He had the key in his hand when he reached the Mercedes, pushed it in the lock and turned it. Somewhere behind him a thud of running feet came closer. He slid behind the wheel, slipped the key into the ignition, started the engine, turned on the headlights, pressed down the lever which locked all the doors.

In the wing mirror he saw Simple Eric rushing towards the car. Grimes, close behind, grabbed the lad and began wielding a large strap, beating him about the body. Tweed put the gear into reverse, released the brake and backed the vehicle slowly towards the struggling figures. He saw Grimes pause, stare towards him as the car moved closer. Eric seized his chance, broke free and ran, disappearing behind the pub into the dark wall of the forest. Grimes jumped to one side, then grabbed the handle of the rear door, pulling at it furiously.

Tweed changed gear, drove off, pressing his foot down. The acceleration was impressive. He caught a last glimpse of Grimes, thrown off balance, sprawling in the road. Tweed drove on through the gateway and pressed his foot down further, speeding along the straight road. He kept glancing in his rear view mirror, waiting for the headlights of the Porsche. Nothing appeared.

He turned right along the highway and sped along its smooth surface. Within minutes he passed a signpost oa his left. Pointing to Cockley Cley. He kept on, heading for Swaffham, leaving behind the forest where feral cats roamed, where a strange doctor seemed to have a village in the palm of his hand. He left behind Breckland.

It was late evening when he reached the Norfolk coast, taking the turn-off for Blakeney Quay, Paula Grey's new home.

3

'Tweed, what a weird experience. Now finish up your bacon and eggs while I natter. You could have had a pork chop…'

'This is fine, Paula – no good for my weight but marvellous for my stomach.'

Her tiny house overlooked the harbour at Blakeney just across the road. Which was little more than a wharf at the edge of a creek. Paula Grey was a slim thirty-year-old with a good figure, raven-black hair shaped to her neck, a longish face and strong bone structure. She wore a blue blouse with a mandarin collar and a cream pleated skirt. Sitting in a bentwood chair close to him, she crossed her long legs.

'Shouldn't you tell the police – or something?'

'Nothing to go on. Nobody attacked me. I just felt they wanted to. Queer village, that. We'd best forget it. Just don't go near the place again.'

'But someone has been checking up on me here – going round showing a photo of me and asking where I live…'

'What?' Tweed paused, his napkin half way to his mouth. 'You didn't mention this on the phone.'

'I didn't want to go into everything,' she explained. 'After you said you'd come and see me.'

'Go into everything now. Start from the beginning – and I need the complete picture, please.'

'Have some more coffee. Now, from the beginning. I was in my car outside this house a few days ago – ready to drive off into the wild blue yonder. No particular destination. Day off from my pottery business – which I'm seriously thinking of selling. Behind me were the docks where a coaster was unloading soya bean meal. They store it in that tall warehouse down the street. I saw this white-haired man – very tall and tough-looking – striding down the gangplank, carrying a case. I began to get curious…'

'Why?'

'The coasters normally carry only cargo. And he looked familiar.' She leaned forward, slim hands clasped over shapely knees. 'And a funny little man brought him a red Porsche. Didn't add up – travelling cargo and then the expensive car. I decided to follow him, see where he went. For something to do.'

'Surely he'd spot you quickly?'

'I didn't think so – not in this part of the world. The roads are so narrow. Often it's happened to me. Driving to the factory at Wisbech – another car catches up with you, perches on your tail for miles until it can overtake. See what I mean?'

'Go on.' Tweed drank more coffee and started on the bowl of fruit salad she'd put before him.

'We drove to Fakenham, then he took the A 1065 to Swaffham. Beyond Swaffham he kept on the 1065 for Mundford. We were in Breckland by now. He pulled up suddenly – the bastard timed it perfectly.'

'What happened?'

'I had to stop close behind him – a big truck was coming in the opposite direction. So, when I passed him I was moving slowly. I glanced at him and damned nearly swerved. He was pointing something at me which looked like a gun.'

She shuddered at the recollection and helped herself to coffee. 'He got a good look at me – and I'm sure it was Foley. Afterwards I realized he was holding some kind of camera – a cine job…'

'Probably the type with a pistol grip.'

That's right. Next thing I knew he overtook me and drove alongside. We were both going like bats out of hell. Then the sod deliberately swerved towards me, tried to drive me off the road.'

'Unnerving. What happened then?'

'I've seen that sort of thing so often in films and wondered why they didn't do the obvious thing. I suddenly reduced speed – as much as I dared. He shot ahead and I dropped back.'

'What next?'

'I was flaming. You know – macho girl not going to allow a chauvinist pig to get away with that. I followed him. When he turned left up the narrow road to Cockley Ford I kept after him. Soon he'd gone clear out of sight. That cooled my ardour. Commonsense took over. I came to an entrance to a field and turned the car round. I find Breckland creepy and there have been queer rumours about that village.'

'What kind of rumours? And this fruit salad is some of the best I've ever tasted.'

'Take you to Cockley Cley – the other village. That is, if you will stay on a few days. I've a friend there, a Mrs Massingham who knows all the gossip.'

There's a hotel in Blakeney?'

'Hotel! I have a guest bedroom. Bit of a box, but you can bed down there.'

'You're tempting me.' Tweed paused.

'Box room for you then.' She smiled. 'It was good of you to come. Have you got your complete picture now?'