'Good morning. Just checking to make sure you're not wandering off on your own.'
'Makes me feel like a ruddy prisoner,' she mocked him. She liked Pete. 'I'm on my way to Tweed's suite. Come and join us.'
'What on earth has happened?' she asked as Tweed unlocked his door and ushered her inside. She went over to his extensive bay window which gave a better view. 'The river has vanished.'
'Leaving behind a vast sandbank,' he explained as he joined her. 'There's a very high tidal rise and fall here. The tide is out now.' He pointed to his left through a side window. 'That rocky cliff protruding at the edge of the town blots out a view of the open sea. Straight across from us is Porthilly Cove. No water there at all at the moment. There is a narrow channel which remains along the shore of that weird village over there.'
'Where is that?'
'Place called Rock. A small ferry shuttles back and forth between Padstow and Rock. At low tide – now – the ferry departs from a small cove at the base of the rocky cliff. When the tide rises it departs from the harbour.'
'What a strange place. This is my idea of Cornwall.'
She gazed to her left, beyond Rock towards the invisible Atlantic. The far shore was forbidding. Climbing up steeply was a wilderness of boulders, scrub and heathland. A sterile, inhospitable area. Yet further in past Rock there were green hill slopes undulating against the horizon as the sun shone out of a clear blue sky.
'You haven't heard that tape on the recorder I had hidden in my pocket when I talked to Cook,' Nield pointed out. 'It doesn't add much to what Buchanan later told us.'
'Let's hear it quickly, then get down to breakfast,' Tweed urged.
He stood with Paula staring out at the endless sandbank. Nield placed his small machine on a table, ran throug h the first part, then pressed the 'play' button.
'I spent time putting her at her ease,' Nield explained. 'Now, listen…
'Cook, can you tell me what you saw when the kitchen door was opened and closed again?' Nield's voice.
'It was an 'orrible shock, I can tell you…' Cook's voice quavered, then became firm. 'He was standin' there with this awful gun. A short wide barrel – bit like a piece of drainpipe. He aimed at the floor, something shot out and the place was full of a greyish sort of vapour.'
'The tear-gas,' Nield's voice broke in gently. 'But you probably had a good look at him?'
'Like a nightmare. That woollen hood over 'is 'ead with slits for the eyes. He moved gracefully, like a ballet dancer. But those eyes – without feeling, without any soul. A chill ran down my spine. Those eyes were blank – like a ghoul's eyes.'
'What happened next?' Nield pressed, still gently.
'We're all choking. Tears running down our faces. Then this beast walks straight up to me and 'its me on the 'ead with something. I just dropped to the floor and didn't know what was 'appenin' till I came round…'
'That's the relevant part,' Nield said. He switched off the recorder. 'There's more but nothing informative.'
'Interesting that reference to moving with the grace of a ballet dancer,' said Tweed. 'Time for breakfast.' He picked up a copy of the Daily Telegraph which had been slipped under his door. The late edition. They must fly them down.' He showed them the headline.
HUGE IRA BOMB DESTROYS LONDON BUILDING
That's not the significant item. I'll show you in the dining-room.' Butler joined them outside and they took the lift to the ground floor. Tweed held on to Paula's arm, keeping up the fiction that she was an invalid.
In the dining-room Tweed sat with Paula at a table with a panoramic view of the harbour over the grey slate rooftops of the small port. After ordering a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs he folded the paper, handed it to Paula.
That's the intriguing bit,' he told her, keeping his voice down.
'GHOST' ROADBLOCKS IN WEST COUNTRY LAST NIGHT
Paula read the text below the headline. The gist was that a series of roadblocks had been established on all the main routes out of Cornwall. Motorists had been stopped and told it was a census to check the amount of traffic passing through. The strange twist was that no police force or council office had any knowledge of them.
'What is this weird business?' she asked Tweed.
'Not reassuring,' Tweed replied quietly. 'They – whoever they are – were looking for us. Again it confirms my fear about the extent of the vast network we're up against. To be able to organize something like that so rapidly.' He smiled. 'Enough to put me off my breakfast -but it won't.'
'It's like a noose closing round us,' Paula commented.
'Oh, we'll find a way of eluding them.' Tweed checked his watch. 'I must be at that phone box to call Cord Dillon just after nine thirty.' He glanced across at a distant table where Butler sat with Nield. 'Luckily you'll have some reliable company while I'm away.' 'But I'm coming with you to the phone box,' she insisted.
'Certainly, Paula, I fancy a drive to Bodmin Moor myself,' Newman told her. 'I'd like to get the atmosphere of where this ghastly massacre took place. Odd there's nothing about it in the paper. Meat and drink for the tabloids.'
They were standing outside the phone box while Tweed held the door half open in case someone else tried to use it. Tweed swung round.
'That's something else I find sinister – the absence of any report about the massacre at Tresillian Manor. It looks as though someone has silenced Roy Buchanan – and he's a man not easily silenced.' He looked back the way they had come as Cardon loped towards them, smiling.
'Morning, everyone. What a beautiful day. Sorry to be late but I slept in. I usually do if nothing's happening.'
'Too much is happening,' Tweed snapped.
'Bob is taking me for a drive to Bodmin Moor,' Paula reminded Cardon.
'Can I come too?' Cardon asked. 'Butler and Nield are ample guard for Tweed.' He grinned at Newman. 'Carry your bag, sir?'
'As I told you, we're going to interview one of the servant girls who works at Tresillian Manor,' Paula said. 'I think she might not say a word if too many people arrived. But thank you, anyway, Philip.'
'I could stay with the car if you're keeping it out of sight,' Cardon persisted.
'We'll be doing just that,' Paula agreed.
Take Philip with you,' Tweed ordered. 'I don't like this idea of yours, but as you're being obstinate I'll only let you go if you have two men with you. Now, I must make that phone call…'
At the London end the receiver was lifted swiftly when Tweed had dialled the number. He instantly recognized the distinctive American voice that answered.
'Who is this calling?' Dillon demanded.
'Tweed. Monica said you wanted to talk to me urgently.'
'Monica was dead right. Are you OK? I walked to Park Crescent… Say, where are you calling from?'
'Public phone box…'
'Like me. I said I walked to Park Crescent – saw your building. A hole in the wall. Are you sure you're OK?'
'I wasn't inside when it happened,' Tweed assured him. 'Neither was anyone else. They were warned in the nick of time. Why are you in London?'
'Tweed, I'm on the run. In Washington I'd have ended up on a slab. This is a tough one. Certain people – a small army of professionals – are out to liquidate all of us. They're controlled from the very top. We haven't a hope.'
'Cord, I need to know what it's all about. Up to now I'm in the dark. Shadow-boxing. Give me a lead, for God's sake. Where are you staying?'
'At a crummy little London hotel which I've just left. I can see the entrance from this box. Keep moving is the name of the game. Survival. I called to warn you to do just that – if you want to go on living.'
'Cord, I need data,' Tweed said grimly.