Tweed glanced at the window of sheet glass. Inscribed in old lettering was the name. Lowell, French amp; Browne. Solicitors. No one was seated at a large desk at right angles to the High Street. Nor was there any sign of any occupant anywhere in the office. Tweed frowned. `Don't go to the Pike's Peak for lunch,' Harry warned. 'Your target must be in the restaurant.'
Tweed chose a tea shop which served full lunches. They invited Harry to join them but he had a packed lunch in his car. Paula ordered ham and eggs and Tweed followed suit. He had a faraway look and Paula kept quiet. `Excuse my not talking,' he said, 'but I have a lot to think about.'
They were driving back towards London through the dark tunnels with Harry a quarter-mile ahead of them when Tweed began. talking. `Worked it out yet?' he asked Paula. `Yes. My brain must have gone to sleep. That attempt to kill us with the digger was brilliantly organized. First, there must have been someone watching us leave Park Crescent. Then he'd use his mobile to alert a pilot waiting at a private airfield, describing our car and maybe us. Pilot takes off and checks the lane leading to Hengistbury Manor. When he sees us the pilot flashes a signal to the digger driver, already waiting for us. `Very good. But how did they know we were heading out to see Bella this morning?'
No idea.' `Think!' he said with a smile. 'There's a traitor inside the Main Chance family. They all knew we were coming. Bella will have told them, maybe days ago. The traitor informed the brilliant organizer of that attack on us.' `Oh, my God! You have to be right.' She leaned forward. "There's a police barrier across the road. Very close to where that digger crash-landed. `Leave the talking to me,' Tweed suggested as he stopped, but kept the engine running.
A uniformed officer, exuding self-importance, strolled towards them as Tweed lowered his window. He peered into the car and Paula stared back. He then addressed Tweed. `Driving down from London, sir?' `I'm driving to London from Gladworth. What seems to be the problem?' `I'm Inspector Tetford from Leaminster. There's been a nasty accident. Fatal. Driver of a large digger missed seeing a small gorge, plunged into it. Weight of the said digger killed him.' `Really,' said Tweed. `Coming from Gladworth, would you know a Jed Higgins?'
'No, I wouldn't.' `Odd business. Digger was stolen from his barn. Earlier the farmer received a phone call saying his wife had been injured in a car smash on the motorway nearer London. So he dashes off and later finds there's been no car smash. Gets back to his farm after the digger was stolen. Finds his wife safe and sound, back from shopping in Gladworth.' `As you said, odd business.' `And, sir, none of the locals ever heard of Jed Higgins. I won't detain you any longer.' He stood back, saluted, waved to someone and the barrier was lifted.
Tweed drove on without a glance into the field where a canvas tent had been erected over the digger. `What do you think of that?' Paula asked. `I don't like it. The whole thing was planned by a brilliant organizer' `So are we getting involved with the Main Chance Bank.' `No.' `You mentioned a traitor. I'm wondering about Snape. He did take photos of us this morning when we were leaving Park Crescent.' `The timing is all wrong. They – whoever "they" may be – had to have that data earlier to set up their complex trap.' `Yes, that makes sense. So you still think we'll never get involved with Hengistbury again?' `Absolutely not. I'll explain why if you'll come back with me to my Bexford Street house this evening.' `Of course I'll come. But I still wonder if we've seen the last of Hengistbury.'
5
Norfolk, the Wash.
Thirty-six hours before Tweed and Paula left for Hengistbury, a man called Max was standing in darkness on the seaward side of the great dyke which protected the wilderness known as the Wash, protected the vast area of grassland from the erosion of the North Sea. Max was waiting for the tramp steamer lying just beyond the three-mile limit to reply to his signal.
He held the powerful torch in his large hand. He had flashed one short, two long, one short. He was cold. Despite his fur-lined beaver overcoat, woollen scarf, the cap on his head and the motoring gloves he was frozen in the bitter Arctic breeze. Fortunately the sea was calm. The VIP who would come ashore disliked rough water.
Then the breeze dropped and at that moment the tramp answered his signal. One short, two long, one short. His earlier signal had informed the tramp it was safe, this section of the Wash was deserted.
Dammit, he thought, the whole Wash is deserted. The only buildings were never-used ancient churches scattered across the grassy emptiness, built centuries ago by wool merchants when wool was profitable money. Then the economy changed and the price of wool nosedived. The wool barons disappeared – and so did their workers, abandoning the villages which over a long period had crumbled. Max flashed his torch again as he saw a massive rubber dinghy approaching. This was the only place it could land its powerful passenger_ A crude landing stage with rails projected into the water and Max signalled again to guide the dinghy in. It moved swiftly but its muffled engine made hardly any noise beyond a gentle purr.
Max was over six feet tall, burly, quick with his hands and feet. He had been the most productive lumberjack in Canada. There he had killed one of his fellow workers who owed him money and refused to pay. Removing the knife from the corpse he had used a chainsaw to fell a poor-quality tree, guiding it so it landed across the body. The rest of the crew were working a distance away and Max knew no one would be interested in the fallen tree.
Max immediately went to Vancouver, caught a flight to London. He spent time in the East End where he learned to speak like a Cockney. His next move was to use some of the pile of money he'd earned to buy the best clothes.
He then spent time in some of London's top hotels, listening carefully to how the guests spoke. He was educating himself to mix in any environment. He had an acute brain so he soon boarded a flight to Paris.
He took a job as a bouncer in a high-class nightclub off the Champs-Elysees. His tough but well-shaped features and fair hair appealed to women. He liked women but in his role as a bouncer avoided getting involved. By now he was speaking fluent French.
Late one night when the club closed he walked out, wandered into a classy bar which was empty, he thought, as he ordered a drink from the barman. Normally he was careful, taking euros from a few in his trouser pocket. This time he made a mistake. He took out his wallet stuffed with money. A fat man appeared from nowhere, grabbed for the wallet.
Max held on to the wallet, used his left hand to hurl the thief halfway down the bar where he tripped, fell over. With a savage look on his plump face the thief jumped up after pulling an automatic out of his hip holster. He was aiming the weapon when Max, who had lifted his hands, called out in French. `Behind you!'
The fat man glanced back as Max's right hand slipped a knife out of his pocket. The long blade whipped through the air, penetrated the fat man's throat. He fell forward on the handle and the knife was driven through to the back of his fleshy neck. He lay very still.
Max turned, picked up his glass again, used a handkerchief to wipe off his fingerprints. Which was when four sinister apache types appeared all round him. Max was considering how to deal with them when the one in front of him lifted the palms of both hands in a peace gesture. `The chief was impressed with you. He wishes to talk with you. In that alcove over there…'
Which was how Max came to meet and eventually become second-in-command to the man now stepping carefully ashore from the dinghy held fast to the landing stage by its crew.