`Thanks a bundle.'
Newman surveyed the marina, the various craft moored hull to hull. You could step from one craft to another. He walked down a landing stage towards a large sloop, a sixty-footer, he estimated. A slim woman in her sixties sat in a captain's chair, a pair of rimless glasses perched on her nose as she sat reading a hardback.
Gone With the Wind
. This was probably a good place to start. She looked up as Newman approached, removed the glasses and laid the book in her lap.
Slim, she had dark hair, thick and silky, cut short, and aristocratic features. A handsome woman, there was a cynical twist to her mouth, an air of competence, increased when she spoke in an upper crust accent.
`Robert Newman? I am right? Recognize you from pictures in the papers. Welcome aboard. Take a pew. Your friend can come, too. Come to hear all the gory details? So you can write up a really lurid story? Blood on Priwall Island. There, I've given you your headline...'
`I might use it.' Newman settled himself in a canvas chair while Tweed lowered himself gingerly into its twin facing the waterfront. 'This is my friend, Tweed...'
`And I don't think you miss much either — not with those eyes.' She stared hard at Tweed who smiled faintly. 'Care for some coffee? Ben, the hired help, will provide...'
`Ben will provide coffee — but he's not the bloody hired help.'
A white-haired man with a weather-beaten face appeared at the top of a companionway. Six foot tall, he was thin and wiry and stooped in the way Newman had noticed tall sailors were apt to. Blue eyes studied the new arrivals above a great beak of a nose.
`Coffee for three?' Ben asked. 'Make up your minds, do... `Yes, please,' Tweed said promptly. 'No milk or sugar for either of us.'
`Black as sin? And there's plenty of that on Priwall.'
The head disappeared and Tweed slipped a Dramamine in his mouth. The damned boat wouldn't keep still, which made the mainland seem to move. The water was only choppy but he knew he'd feel queasy if he didn't take precautions.
`Sin on Priwall?' Tweed enquired.
`And walking over there along the waterfront,' the aristocratic woman commented.
Tweed had already seen Diana Chadwick strolling towards the marina. The wide-brimmed straw hat, the elegant movement of her body were unmistakable.
`Diana Chadwick,' Tweed prompted.
`You know her?' Their hostess crossed her legs and her cream skirt dropped into its natural pleats. 'I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Ann Grayle. My husband was in the Diplomatic Service. I buried him in Nairobi five years ago. Always said when that happened I'd take a lover. The right man never turned up. Not until now.' She stared at Newman, a hint of amusement in her pale grey eyes.
`Diana Chadwick,' Tweed prompted her again before Ben arrived with coffee.
`A promiscuous tart.'
`The noun alone expresses your meaning,' Tweed said mildly.
`Oh, if that's the way of life someone wants, who am I to object? The veteran of a hundred beds. Especially back in Africa. Her husband was the last person to know — as always...'
`He did get to know?'
`No, which is the point of my remark. He died with his illusions
intact
. Which is more than his wife was. A bank director, pillar of the club, so popular no one had the guts to say a word to him. He was gored to death by an irritable rhino. That was supposed to have happened to Dr Berlin. But they
found
the body of Luke — Diana's spouse. If you know her you could have a good time. They do say she's an expert. All that experience...'
`He — Luke — left her well off?' Tweed enquired.
`Penniless. Oh, I know — a bank director. You'd think he'd be a good provider. Didn't leave a sou. Lived up to his very last penny. Hunting big game is an expensive pastime.'
`How does she survive then?' Tweed asked.
`That's the mystery. She always has plenty of new things to put on her back. Of course, she's a good friend of Dr Berlin. Creepy old horror in my opinion...'
`You mean he provides her with an allowance?'
`Now I didn't say that, did I?' Mrs Grayle sat erect in her chair. 'Unlikely, I'd say. Berlin is as mean as muck. Good, here at last is Ben. Not that we need him — but the coffee is essential.'
Tweed could have guessed Ann Grayle was a diplomat's wife. She carried an air of authority of a woman used to organizing other people's lives. And woe betide the wives of the junior staff if they didn't know their place.
`I heard you slandering Diana,' Ben remarked as he served the coffee. Tweed drank some quickly to make sure the pill had gone down.
`Eavesdropping again?'
`You don't seem to realize how your voice carries. They could have heard you in Lübeck.' Ben sagged into a chair and turned to Tweed. 'And I'm sure Diana doesn't live off Dr Berlin.'
`Ah!' Ann Grayle's eyes lit up. 'She has a defender. I wonder what service she rendered Ben to get him on her side?' `You have the mind of a sewer,' Ben stated calmly. `That's because the world is a sewer.'
`You said Luke's body was found and implied Dr Berlin's wasn't,' Tweed remarked.
`Which is perfectly true. They did find a blood-stained jacket in the bush, but no positive identification that it ever belonged to Berlin. The next thing we hear is he's turned up in a hospital for tropical diseases in Leipzig.' She frowned over the rim of her cup. And I recall that was about the time that funny Russian attaché paid a visit to Nairobi. Caused quite a stir. We'd never seen a Bolshevik before.'
`You seem to have a good memory,' Tweed coaxed. 'Could you remember his name?'
`Began with an "L".'
`Lysenko?'
`Yes! That was it. We all gave him the cold shoulder. Never knew why he came. He vanished again after about a week.'
Tweed finished his coffee, refused another cup, and said they wouldn't impose on Mrs Grayle any longer. She rose to her feet.
`And I thought we'd be chatting about that horrible murder...'
`Maybe I could come back soon?' Newman suggested.
`Welcome any time. Except between two and four. Always have a nap then. Keeps me young. Bring Tweed with you.' She smiled, a dry smile. 'Diana is waiting for you.'
The large sleek white power cruiser Tweed had observed Diana Chadwick boarding was berthed at the edge of the marina, nearest to the opening to the Baltic. She was sitting on deck shaded by a parasol, reading a German fashion magazine.
`Well,' she greeted them, throwing aside the magazine, `has the cat torn me to pieces?'
`Mrs Grayle?' Newman asked.
`Who else. She hated me in Nairobi. She detests me in Cannes. She loathes me in Lübeck. Apart from that, we get on terribly well. Plonk yourselves. That swing couch is comfortable.'
Tweed sat down and thanked God he had swallowed the Dramamine. The large power cruiser,
Südwind
, bobbed slowly up and down, insidiously. The added movement of the swing couch was not welcome.
`Midday!' Diana was in fine form. 'We can have a drink. A drop of cognac? Maybe two drops...'
Newman looked round the vessel while she served the drinks and said, 'Down the hatch!' It would travel a long distance; fully fuelled, was capable of traversing the North Sea. He lifted his glass and asked the question.
`All this is yours?'
`God, no! Wish to heaven it was. Belongs to Dr Berlin. He lets me sleep on it, even live here if I want to. In return, I clean the brass trimmings. Even swab down the deck when I've the energy. Take a look around if you like. I'll stay up on deck and sip my poison.'
Newman led the way up into the wheelhouse and closed the door. Tweed gazed at the instrument panel, peered closer at the various dials. His eyes lighted on the transceiver, a high-powered instrument of the latest kind.
`You can see the waveband Berlin tunes to,' he pointed out to Newman. 'See that tiny scratch mark? Let's check it...'
`I didn't know you were mechanically minded.'
`I did a signals course once. I'll turn down the volume — then Diana won't hear...' He switched a dial, then adjusted the waveband control. There was a crackle, followed by a voice talking in a foreign language, a continuous flow of words.
`Interesting,' said Tweed.
`What the devil is it? I don't recognize the language.'
`Russian. I know just enough to be able to tell what the gist is. It's the Soviet marine control. Weather forecast for the Baltic and the North Sea. Not German — so not from the DDR.
It has to be coming from Kaliningrad. Very intriguing. Let's turn it back to where it was...'
`This job could go a long way.'
`How far? You know more about boats than me.'
`Several hundred miles.'
`Do me a favour, Bob. Show me how to operate it. I've messed about with cruisers on the Broads, but it was a long time ago...'
He listened while Newman explained the functions of the various instruments. The reporter went over everything three times until he was sure Tweed had absorbed his instruction.
`And if you ever have to take a boat like this out, remember one thing if you forget everything else..
`Which is?'
`Keep your eyes glued for'ard — what lies ahead of you. OK. Look back at the stern occasionally. But it's what's ahead you have to watch. And in misty conditions that means the radar-scope. You seem to have mastered that.'
`I think I hear voices. We'd better get back to Diana.'
Her voice warned them as they opened the door, calling up to them in a voice which carried a note of strain. They had a visitor.
`Gentlemen,' Diana called out, 'we have company. May I introduce you to an acquaintance. Kurt Franck.'
The tall blond German, clad in windcheater, jeans and a leather belt round his middle, his feet shod in trainers, waved a large hand in welcome.
Twelve
`Champagne?' Franck lifted an opened bottle from a table and hoisted it like a flag. Diana had produced four tulip glasses. She sat in her chair, legs crossed, her expression wary.
`Bit early,' Newman replied in German.
'Never too early for champagne! Sit down everyone. Think of a toast...'
Newman sensed Diana disliked her unexpected visitor, the man who had provided a glass of water when she spilt drink on her dress outside the Jensen. Franck, self-assured as the devil, had taken over the cruiser. Without waiting for Tweed to react he poured four glasses. Tweed sat next to Diana with his back to the sun where he could observe the German. Franck raised his glass and gazed at Newman who sat down and reached for his glass.
'I have thought of a toast.'
`Well, come on then! We want to drink...'
'A toast to the swift hunting down of the maniac who killed Helena Andersen...'
Franck froze, his glass in mid-air. His heavy face seemed to grow heavier as his ice-blue eyes stared at Newman. There was a sudden atmosphere of tension aboard the
Südwind
.
'I find that a macabre toast...'
'It was a macabre murder. Cheers!' Newman winked at Diana. 'Down the hatch.'
`I'll drink to that,' she said.
'Of course...' Franck sat down and splayed his powerful legs. 'You are a newspaper reporter, so you spend your life grubbing for the dirt...'
`Franck!' Diana said sharply.
`That's OK,' Newman said easily. 'The killing of that Swedish girl was a pretty dirty business.'
`But doesn't your conscience ever prick you?' Franck persisted. 'Poking your nose into people's private lives...'
'It certainly wouldn't bother me if I were investigating you,' Newman told him cheerfully. 'What do you do for a living, anyway? Unless the answer is embarrassing.'
`And why should it be embarrassing?' An ugly note had crept into the German's tone.
`Tell me what you do and we'll know the answer.'
'I'm a security consultant. I protect people's privacy — instead of invading it.'
`That's an interesting job.' Newman sipped a little more champagne, frowned and put down his glass. 'What company?' 'I work independently. Freelance...'
'He chauffeurs rich old ladies,' Diana said with a hint of a dry smile.
'Is that so?' Newman commented. 'Sounds a profitable …'
occupation. Some rich dowagers like a handsome young chap at their beck and call...'
`What exactly does that mean?' Franck's left fist clenched on the arm of his chair and his tone was savage.
`Now, now,' Tweed intervened. He leaned forward towards Franck. `I'm having difficulty placing what part of Germany you come from.' He waited, a look of cheerful anticipation on his face.
`Why do you want to know that?'
`I make a hobby of locating local accents. Just a foolish hobby of mine.' He smiled genially. `You don't mind my asking?' `Now we're getting personal,' Franck replied brusquely. `I'd have said Saxony,' Newman interjected.
Franck pushed back his chair, stood up and loomed over Newman. The Englishman placed his glass on the table, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.
`I find your manner obnoxious,' Franck announced. `And you don't seem to appreciate the champagne..
`Obnoxious? I thought we were having a friendly conversation. As to the champagne, it's lukewarm and a rather inferior brand, now that you bring the subject up...'
`Bollinger? An inferior brand?'
`I'm afraid they saw you coming. The bottle may be Bollinger, the contents most certainly are not. Were you thinking of leaving us?'
`You and I will meet again, Newman.'
`Anytime.' Newman gave a broad grin. `Anytime at all...'
Franck turned on his heel, and strode off the cruiser. The gang-plank trembled under his weight, under the heavy thud of his feet. He disappeared amid the tangle of masts in the direction of the Priwall ferry.
`Well,' said Newman, 'that saved him answering the question where he comes from. I must have said something that disagreed with him.'
`I find him creepy,' said Diana. 'And I don't want any more of his bloody champers.' She hurled the bottle over the side. `He used the fact that he'd given me that glass of water at the Jensen to come aboard the other day. Thinks he's a real charmer. That women will queue up to spend the night with him. I simply love the type. A real lady-killer …'