Precipice

'How do you know that?'

She had Newman's attention now and he gazed straight at her, his curiosity aroused.

'Because when Philip took me up Lyman's Tout I noticed the drive coming round the house through a gap where the drystone wall had crumbled. I'm observant. Trust me…'

She ran back to her Porsche. Newman drove forward at a slow pace, studying the dark house, which was very big. All the shutters were closed but as they got closer he noticed they had been painted black recently. Black. Awful!

The dark hulk seemed to move towards them and Philip saw that at the end they would pass round were several large barns – very like the barn General Stern-dale's old Bentley had been partially parked inside. Here the great doors were all closed.

'Let's hope she knows what she's talking about.' Newman commented. 'She's on my tail – if she drops back I'm going to get suspicious.. .'

Ever since they had left Wareham the weather had been unpredictable. And there had been no more rain overnight. Philip was pondering these factors as they cruised past the barns.

'You might make it back along the track over the top of Lyman's Tout even in your Merc.' he remarked. 'I think the mud might have hardened. I don't promise anything.'

There was still no sign of anyone occupying Grenville Grange. Newman was not reassured as he rounded the end of the house and saw a pebbled track continuing towards the sea which petered out into ruts halfway down the slope towards the cliff edge. He turned off the engine and the car slid slowly down the slope and inside the ruts, which were hardened, probably due to the lack of rain and the severe frost.

'What do you think?' Marler asked.

'Something's not right. Those wide-open gates bother me.'

'Why?' asked Philip.

'They suggest someone is expected. So I'd expect there to be staff inside the house. Everyone shut up. We're close to the cliff edge.. .'

He switched on the engine for more control. The wind off the sea had hit them like a hammer blow as they came round the end of the house and started down the barren slope. The sea gleamed an intense blue and great white horses showed on mountainous waves thundering in.

Reaching the end of the drystone wall, Newman eased the car round the end, glancing to his left. The cliff edge was very close. Behind him Eve drove her Porsche slowly, a few feet from his tail. As he negotiated the turn inland onto Lyman's Tout he watched her in his rear-view mirror. She had the sense to ease her way round, following Newman's example. He parked the car close behind the drystone wall, which was higher than his roof. Eve parked behind him.

'What now?' Philip asked.

'We watch that place for awhile. You and Marler stay a distance behind me to guard my rear. Take Eve with you if you have to drag her.'

He lifted the large pair of 'birdwatcher' binoculars he had borrowed from Butler, got out, found the ground was hard, wandered back, and lay down on the ground at a point where he could see the house round the end of the wall.

He could feel the cold seeping through his clothes as he focused, waited. Marler, Philip and Eve had disappeared behind huge rocks some distance to his rear. Patiently, he waited. He heard nothing above the whine of the wind, the dull thud of the monstrous waves against the cliff base far below. Then something round and metallic pressed against his neck, the muzzle of a gun. He froze.

'I'm holding a loaded shotgun, chum,' a familiar voice said. 'Blow your head off. My head still aches from your catching me off guard in that bar. Now, what are you doing here on private property? Might as well talk before I pull the trigger

The voice of Craig, a more sophisticated voice now, and even more menacing.

Pete Nield, Harry Butler's partner, was a great contrast in appearance and manner to the man he worked closely with. Whereas Butler dressed in denims and a shabby windcheater, Nield, unlike the burly Butler, was slim and a snappy dresser.

Nield wore a check sports jacket and fawn slacks with a razor-edged crease. His white shirt was spotless, bisected by a smart grey tie. He had returned from watching the Priory for any sign of Buchanan to contact Tweed, to bring him up-to-date on Newman's trip to Grenville Grange.

'Pete.' Monica interrupted him, 'Tweed is away.'

'Where?'

'He didn't say.'

'Paula there?'

'No. Listen. I have instructions for you and Harry. I assume you're calling from a phone box.'

'Monica, you have the most amazing intuition.'

'Flattery will get you nowhere. I said listen…'

Nield kept quiet while she relayed Tweed's instructions. After the brief conversation he hurried back to the Black Bear in the hope that Harry Butler would call him from Poole.

Fat chance of that happening now I have to leave to watch the roundabout at Stoborough Green, he thought. Life was not like that. As he turned the key in the door to his room he heard the phone ringing. He rushed across to the instrument – knowing it would stop ringing as he picked it up. He grabbed it.

'Yes. Who is it?'

'You sound breathless. You're out of training.' Butler's heavy voice mocked him.

'Very funny…'

'Partridge is OK for tonight's meal? Partridge is OK.'

'My favourite dish.' Meld replied, playing along with Butler's cryptic message. 'You're still in Poole? Good. New instructions. An important client is possibly coming via the ferry at the exit to Poole Harbour…'

'Sandbanks this side, Shell Bay on your side. Go on…'

'He has to be treated like royalty. If he travels that route he'll probably be inside a limousine with tinted windows. You're his escort – a very discreet escort. He could just arrive within an hour, maybe longer.'

'Got it. I'd better get moving.'

'Me too.'

At Sandbanks Butler eased his sturdy bulk out of the phone booth, ran to his parked Ford Fiesta. Pete Meld would have grasped the gist of what he had reported: that he'd checked out Partridge.

Using the phone directory on arrival, he'd torn round in his car, calling at four different addresses where a Partridge lived. Apologizing at the first three of them, explaining he was looking for a friend, he hit gold dust at the fourth, a small detached house with a notice in a window. Room To Let. The landlady, a portly woman, was forthcoming.

'I'm sorry, but your friend has just moved to a cottage near Wareham. Very quick it was. I'm sorry to lose him, he was a quiet tenant. Worked in his rooms – had a lot of funny equipment. Computers he called them. And a machine which chattered and spewed out typed sheets of messages.'

'Probably his fax machine,' Butler guessed.

'He was such a nice quiet man. No trouble at all. He wanted a quiet place in the country. Some people like that, you know. Wouldn't suit me. I like a bit of life…'

'Just to make sure I've got the right man, could you describe him,' Butler interjected to halt the flood of words. He waited. People were terrible at describing someone they even knew well.

'Small. Much smaller than you. Less well built, if you don't mind my saying so. I wondered if he was a foreigner. Mind you, he spoke perfect English, but his appearance. He had such smooth skin that I used to wonder if he ever had to shave…'

'Could you give me the actual address he's moved to?' asked Butler in desperation.

'Devastoke Cottage, near Stoborough. That's south of Wareham. You take the

'Many thanks.' Butler was backing away to escape the barrage. 'I know how to get there. I'll be on my way…'