Deadlock

Three of the removal men from the furniture van standing in the shadows started roping up the wardrobe. Dr Portch came forward, shaking his head as he watched them.

'Sorry about that, lads. I should have locked it more securely. My fault entirely.'

In his high-pitched voice Nield, who had an acute ear for intonation, caught a hint of smugness. Behind the group gathered round the net a Customs official was busy chalking other crates.

'Should know your stuff by now, Dr Portch. Back and forth, back and forth to Holland. A right commuter, you be. You'll be with us again, I'll be bound.'

'Wouldn't surprise me one little bit,' Portch assured him.

Nield stood stock still. His mind raced. Butler's remark. That bomb found on Paula Grey's doorstep… the first appearance of that new Soviet type of bomb… Then Newman's account of what he'd seen the evening he visited Cockley Ford – and the church – with Harry Butler.

Then there was the Custom official's comment. Should know your stuff by now… He was automatically passing all the crates, marking them with his piece of chalk -without examination. He hadn't even bothered to come and have a look at the opened crate inside the net.

Nield received further confirmation of the appalling idea which had flashed through his mind when one of the removal men spoke as he tackled the crate.

'Can't understand how these screws came loose. You crated most of the others yourself, Dr Portch. This one I screwed up.'

'Must have worked their way loose during the journey along that bumpy side road from Cockley Ford,' Portch said smoothly. His voice quickened as he addressed the man tightening the screws. 'Foreman, I'd like to give you your tip now. I'll forget it if I leave it until the last minute…'

He had his wallet in his hand, taking out banknotes which he handed to the foreman. 'You've done a very good job again.'

'Thank you very much, Doctor. Very generous. Mind you, we're not finished. Only half the van has been unloaded.'

'And you'll take the same care you always do.'

Nield felt himself go cold. Portch had successfully turned the removal crew's attention away from the loose screws. The crate had been intended to fly open – a precaution to show the innocence of the cargo. He suddenly realized Portch had noticed his presence, was staring at him.

'A bit late for an evening walk, sir.'

'A necessary bit of exercise,' Nield replied instantly. 'I have been consuming rather a lot of beer…'He belched.

Portch chuckled, a sound like pebbles sliding down an iron chute. 'Getting the wind out of his sails.'

There was a polite chortle from the assembled removal men who stood back as the foreman waved a hand and the hoist began to lift the net prior to swinging it over the hold.

Nield was taut with tension. He had to get to a phone, to call Park Crescent. He turned quickly, caught his foot between two projecting cobbles, lost his balance and heeled over sideways. His skull struck the stone wall of a cottage. The world spun, oblivion fell like a curtain, he collapsed.

The barman, who had been watching from a window, came running along the front as Dr Portch bent over Nield, felt his pulse. As he straightened up Nield stirred, one hand groping against the wall. The barman, panting, stood silent for a few seconds, regaining his breath.

'He's drunk,' Portch announced. 'He practically admitted it.'

'No he's not.' The barman, a burly man with ruddy cheeks, had clenched his fists. 'No one gets drunk in my bar. I saw it. He tripped, hit 'is 'ead against that wall.'

'Well, his pulse is normal…'

'He needs to go to 'orspital,' the barman hammered on. 'I'll drive him there.'

'Might be best,' Portch agreed with no particular interest. 'I have to catch the tide.'

The barman stooped as Nield struggled to get to his feet and looped an arm round him, hauling him upright. He glared up at Portch who watched with blank eyes from behind the gold pince-nez. Some doctor, the barman was thinking. And now I see him close up I don't like those eyes. Lizard eyes.

'Can… walk,' Nield mumbled.

'With a bit of 'elp. I'll take your weight.'

The barman took Nield back to the pub by easy stages, supporting him under the shoulders. Inside he let Nield sag into a chair near the door. He shouted to his assistant. 'Mick, you take over. I'll be gone a while.' He turned back to Nield.

'Your car's parked down road? Usual place? Give me the keys then.'

Nield fumbled under his coat for his jacket pocket. The barman reached into the pocket, his hand came out with the keys. When he backed the car round the corner in front of the pub and went inside Nield was still conscious, sipping mineral water provided by Mick. The glass suddenly tumbled from his hand, rolled across the floor.

'Never mind that, sir. Ups-a-daisy. Car's outside.'

'Get me… to King's Lynn… Duke's Head,' Nield mumbled, his face ashen.

'You're going to 'orspital. Come on now.'

With the barman's aid Nield stood up, stumbled towards the door. He nearly tripped at the exit but the barman's firm grip saved him. Nield's last clear vision of Blakeney was of the coaster, the crane swivelling another loading net to the hold. He fell into the back of the car, rested his swimming head on the head-rest, then blacked out.

38

'A lot of urgent messages for you, Tweed,' Chief Inspector Benoit said as they settled in his office at police HQ off Grand'Place. He pushed a sheaf of typed notes across his desk.

Newman sat in a corner chair where he could survey the whole room. He lit a cigarette while Tweed sorted through the pile, arranging it in a certain order.

The Alouette had flown them from the football field to Brussels Airport. As arranged over the radio by Benoit, unmarked police cars had been waiting to drive them into Brussels.

No one had eaten for hours and Newman felt very tired. He also detected rare signs of fatigue in Tweed, his face drawn but the eyes behind his glasses were still alert. Tweed looked at Benoit.

'You have a scrambler phone? I have to call Lasalle in Paris.'

Benoit pushed one of the two phones on his desk forward after pressing a red button on the instrument. 'Installed since the growth of terrorism. Help yourself. You know the number?'

'Yes.' Tweed dialled from memory, wondering whether Lasalle would still be at rue des Saussaies. It was nine in the evening. Lasalle himself answered.

'Tweed? Been trying to get you for hours. I contacted Interpol about whether any German in Brazil had fathered a child. Didn't expect anything but a reply came back fast. Bit of a scandal – the woman involved comes from a good family. A man called Kuhn gave her a son a few months ago. They plan to marry. Nothing on present whereabouts of this Kuhn. Best I can do.'

'Thank you very much…'

'Getting anywhere?'

'Nothing definite. Be in touch.' Tweed put down the phone, looked at the other two men. 'Man called Kuhn had an affair with an upper-class Brazilian girl. Result, a son. Supposed to be going to marry her. He's disappeared. Klein. Kuhn. The names are similar.'

'Not conclusive by a mile,' Newman objected. 'Any description?'

'I gather not. It's a miracle Interpol extracted that much information.'

'But if Klein were Kuhn,' Benoit pointed out, 'it would give him a bolt-hole you'd never penetrate. No extradition from Brazil if he has an offspring by a Brazilian girl – even out of wedlock.'

'It's a long shot,' Newman insisted. 'What positive evidence have we got about anything? None. Klein, as someone said earlier, moves like a phantom.'

'I have to call Monica next,' Tweed said.

He was reaching for the phone when there was a knock on the door, a uniformed officer appeared when Benoit called out ami the man whispered in his ear. The Belgian police chief looked at Tweed.