Precipice

He listened while Butler told him about the motorcade he'd seen returning the way it had come when he'd first spotted it.

Tell Newman on the quiet I'll be back later. I'm on my way to that public phone box. I live in them…'

He was surprised when he dialled the private number at Heathrow of Jim Corcoran, security chief, to find his old friend was in his office.

'Any news about Marchat?' he asked.

'Yes. Good job it's February.'

'Why?'

'Not many passengers. So I had fewer passenger manifests to check. I even found the check-in girl who dealt with him. She remembers him. He seemed nervous.'

'I'm waiting for you to get to the point.'

'Always want everything yesterday. Anton Marchat was the passenger's full name.'

'I have his photo now. When I get back to London I'll send a copy to you by courier. See if the girl agrees the photo is of Marchat.'

'You never stop plaguing me. OK.'

'He caught a flight to Geneva,' Tweed said.

'Via Swissair. So why the devil do you ask when you know?'

'It was an educated guess.'

'Who said you were educated?' asked Corcoran.

'I have another favour to ask you. Now, don't blow a gasket. Do you know the security chief at Bournemouth International?'

'Yes, I do. Jeff is a pal I sometimes visit. Nice part of the world down there. What is it this time?'

'I'm pretty sure that Leopold Brazil will be taking off from that airport in his private jet – may already have done so. He'll have filed a flight plan, or his pilot will. It's very important I know his destination. If I could know it before he lands that would be marvellous.'

'Marvellous is the word.' Corcoran said cynically. 'I call you at Park Crescent?'

'Yes. And give the destination to Monica.'

'You owe me…'

Corcoran had gone off the line. Tweed knew he was very quick. He'd already be calling Jeff at Bournemouth International. Tweed dialled Park Crescent, explained the situation briefly to Monica.

'If Corcoran calls you, leave a message for me at the Priory. Just the destination.'

'Understood. Don't go, I've got a message for Marler. From someone called Archie. He asked for General and Cumbria Assurance, so I don't think he knows who we really are. Message was, could Marler go and see him urgently? Address, The Bird's Nest, Kimmeridge. I ask you! The Bird's Nest. Sounds cuckoo to me.'

Tweed chuckled briefly at one of Monica's rare bursts of humour.

'How would this Archie know Marler is down here?' he asked.

'I was going to tell you. He saw Bob Newman somewhere down there, thought Marler might be with him.'

'Did he? I'll pass on the message…'

Tweed never looked smug. It wasn't in his nature. But as he hurried back to the Black Bear he looked pleased. Everything was on the move, the momentum was building up.

Re-entering the bar, Tweed found Paula and Newman with Marler seated at a large table near the bay window overlooking South Street. Ben, the barman, was sitting between Marler and Newman. He started to get up but Tweed waved him back into his seat. 'I've still got my orange juice.'

'Ben.' Marler began, 'was waiting for you to come back. He's got something interesting to tell us about Marchat, apparently.'

'Really?'

Tweed sat down, relaxed. Ben was a small tubby man with a ruddy complexion and a mop of sandy hair. He smiled at Tweed, cleared his throat before speaking. Paula was amused. There was something about Tweed's appearance, his personality, which made people tell him things they wouldn't normally speak about.

'Ben is a stand-in, as I mentioned earlier.' Marler explained. 'For a friend, the normal barman who has gone off to the Caribbean for a month's holiday.'

'Marchat.' Ben started, 'came in about a week ago and had more to drink than usual. I wouldn't say he was tipsy but he wasn't sober either. He told me that he was worried. He'd spotted prowlers outside Sterndale's house several nights running. Always after dark. He reported what he'd seen to Sterndale but the General pooh-poohed his fears, said nobody could get into his house after he'd locked up.'

'About a week ago?' Tweed said thoughtfully.

'Yes, it would be that.' Ben agreed. 'I told him to tell the police, to go to the station in Worgret Road."'

'That's the name.' Newman interjected. 'I said West Street earlier.'

'Lot of people make that mistake.' Ben was still talking to Tweed, rubbing a hand over his plump face. He struck Tweed as a likeable, decent chap, not over-endowed with brains but shrewd in summing up customers. 'You see, West Street runs into Worgret.' He paused. Tweed waited, sensing Ben was wondering whether to tell him something else. He was sipping his orange juice when Ben started talking again, keeping his voice down even though no one else was in the bar.

'He told me something else which sounded important – Marchat thought it was very important…"'

He broke off as two men entered and stood by the bar. One rapped a coin on the counter.

'Have to go serve them.' Ben looked indecisive. 'You know Bowling Green?'

'I do.' said Newman. 'A grassy bowl beyond the far end of North Street, or near the end. There's a footpath on the right past St Martin's Church…'

'That's it.' said Ben. 'I live near the River Trent, take my dog for a walk at eleven o'clock at night. Could we meet at Bowling Green? Mind you, the forecast is for a cold frosty night.'

'We'll be there.' Newman promised him. 'We may come along the East Walls…'

'That will get you there.'

The two men were getting impatient at the bar and again the coin was rapped on the counter. Newman glanced at them as Ben ambled back to the bar. He lowered his voice.

'I suppose they couldn't be more of Mr Brazil's kindly friends?'

'He might have left a couple behind to keep an eye on things, but I think it's unlikely.' Tweed was speaking very quietly. 'Butler has told me he saw the limo which brought Brazil to Grenville Grange was on its way back to the ferry. I think he's leaving the country again.'

'So we've lost him.' said Paula.

'Maybe…'

'I'd like a quiet word with Marler.' Tweed said as they left the bar and entered the corridor.

'We could walk further along this passage to what they call the Beer Garden.' Marler suggested. 'It won't be very comfortable at this time of year – wooden benches and a cobbled floor.'

'Ideal.' Tweed looked at Paula and Newman, but Paula spoke first.

'I noticed a place called the Old Granary down on the Quay. We'll wait there for you…'

'Good idea. Near where the cars are parked outside the Priory.. .'

Tweed was being cautious. He suspected Archie was very careful to keep his clients, the people he acted as an informant for, separate and unknown to each other. He doubted whether Newman knew Archie was Marler's informant.

Seated on a cold hard wooden bench, he told Marler about Archie's urgent call to Monica. He asked whether Marler would sooner drive there on his own.

'I don't think so,' Marler decided. 'You come in your own car, following me, and Newman and Paula can come in the Merc. When I get there, drive past the cottage a short distance and I'll consult Archie.'

'We'd better get moving.'

'Just so long as you don't mind if I drive like the wind to Kimmeridge. Archie sounds worried.'

'We might just manage to keep up with you.'

It was still daylight as the three cars drove along the winding road well beyond Corfe Castle. They had to slow down as they approached Keith Kent's house because of a bend just before they reached it. As they passed Tweed saw one of the curtains in Kent's living room twitch. They had been observed.

They turned left later where a narrow road was signposted Kimmeridge. They had been hemmed in on both sides with hedges and the odd copse of trees. Now the landscape opened out and in the gloom of the afternoon they saw the sea below them.