Colin Forbes - The Greek Key

'Then take me up into the conning tower where you spend so much time at night. That curious structure which is supposed to be a watch-tower. Then I can satisfy myself there is no transceiver up there. Plus an aerial which automatically elevated while you were transmitting to Florakis in Greece, receiving messages from him. The retracting aerial on a Mercedes gave me that idea.'

The Luger wavered, then steadied. Robson's eyes became colder still. No smile. The bedside manner had vanished. His face became a frozen image, reminded Tweed of pictures of the statues on Easter Island.

'You're clever, I'll grant you that. But it was all in a great cause. Lenin's cause which I embraced when I was a young man. The cause Gorbachev is trying to pervert with his mad glasnost '

'You killed Partridge because he was getting too close to the truth,' Tweed went on. 'You killed Mrs Larcombe because her window creaked and you heard it that first night you collected Anton Gavalas off the Oporto. You couldn't afford to risk her seeing you the second time when you brought the Stinger launchers ashore.'

'Dear me.' Robson's lips curled cruelly. 'You have worked it all out.'

'And you killed Jill Kearns in London. Why?'

'Simply to divert attention to London from Exmoor. She was a foolish sort of woman…'

Tweed saw movement by the gap in the curtains out of the corner of his eye. There was a tremendous smashing sound, glass breaking under a hammerblow. He thought he saw a rifle butt. Robson glanced at the window, swung the Luger round. Tweed reached up, grasped the plastic shade, pulled it down over the bulb. There was a brief flash, the room was plunged into darkness. Tweed threw himself sideways on to the floor as the Luger roared. Confusion. Bodies moving, feet running. A door shut. A vehicle's engine started up, moving at speed down the slope, skidded as though turning along the lane.

Tweed felt his way into the hall, along the wall, opened the front door. The sound of a second vehicle starting up, driving along the lane towards Quarme Manor. He ran down the slope, ran all the way back to where the Mercedes was parked, jumped in behind the wheel. Paula had released the locks as she saw him coming,

'Two vehicles driving at speed along the lane,' she said tersely. 'First a four-wheel-drive job, like we saw parked by the side of Robson's house. Then a car. Couldn't see the make.'

'We must hurry.' Tweed was driving through the gateway, turning along the lane, lights full on, driving away from the Doone Valley. In his wing mirror he saw a police patrol car coming up behind him. He passed Quarme Manor, reached the ford gushing with deep water, drove through it. Behind him the patrol car stopped half-way through the ford. He drove up the hill, kept going when he turned right on the coast road, heading back towards Minehead.

The Toll Road!' Paula shouted.

He was almost past it, swung the wheel, began the descent and slowed as he nearly took them over the brink. They arrived in front of The Anchor and Newman was just climbing into the Cortina. He left it as Tweed approached, dived into the back.

'Two vehicles heading for the pebble beach,' he reported.

'I know. It was Robson…'

'Robson?' Paula gasped. 'I thought it was Kearns.'

They had driven along the track, began bouncing across the pebble-strewn beach. Something jumped up under the Mercedes, there was a loud clang. The car stopped. Tweed jumped out, began running over the pebbles, careful not to lose his footing. In the distance both vehicles had also been stopped by the terrain. He glimpsed two running figures, a hundred yards between them. Behind him Newman ran with Paula, ready to catch her arm if she slipped. Then the searchlight beam came on, aimed at the foot of the looming cliffs. The light shone from the edge of the sea.

It took Newman a moment to grasp the searchlight was mounted at the bow of a motorboat which had been driven up on to the edge of the beach. Tweed ran on past the sign reading, Warning. Keep clear. Danger of cliff falls. He passed an empty Renault, then the four-wheel drive vehicle.

Robson was caught in the searchlight beam as he kept to the lee of the cliffs. A shot rang out. The bullet sang past Newman's head. Paula was fumbling for her Browning when Newman saw inside the beached boat a bulky figure, clad like a seaman, aiming a gun. He swung up the Magnum, gripped in both hands, fired two shots. The seaman was hurled back, tried to recover his balance, toppled, fell over the stern of the boat. His body drifted with the outgoing tide.

Robson, hair awry, flung up a hand to shield his eyes against the glare of the light supposed to lead him to the boat. Tweed saw the tall figure a hundred yards from Robson reach inside a satchel slung from his shoulder. He hoisted his right arm like a cricket bowler, threw an object high up the cliff.

His hand delved again inside the satchel, came out and his arm hoisted a second time. There was a deafening crack on the cliff top above Robson. Tweed stopped, grabbed Paula by the forearm to halt her. She was gasping for breath as the second grenade detonated.

From high up on the cliff they heard a muttering rumble, prelude to a cataclysm. A vast slab of cliff broke free, slowly slid downwards, then faster. Robson looked up, opened his mouth. A cascade of rocks roared towards him. He turned to flee. The cascade engulfed him, like a rising tide, swallowing him up to the waist. In the searchlight beam he was a man half buried alive. He opened his mouth again and screamed and screamed, waving his arms. Then a Niagara of boulders stormed down, bounding against each other. One struck his head and seemed to telescope it deep into his body. Paula gulped.

A fresh fall of massive rocks poured down, tumbling over each other like some mad race. The head vanished. The boulders piled over the invisible corpse, building a grisly funeral pyre. Slowly the noise receded, the cliff settled, returned to stability as a great cloud of dust, a dense fog, spread over the whole ghastly scene.

Kearns, still carrying the satchel, walked back to Tweed, his wrists held out, as though waiting for handcuffs.

'He killed Jill,' he said in a choked voice. 'It had to be one of them. I've lived with the conviction Robson or Barrymore killed those Greeks during the war. But we were afraid of Petros, so we stuck together. I followed you the previous walk you took along here, saw the landslip. I kept several Mills hand grenades when I left the Army. I tested one up at Dunkery Beacon the other night – to make sure they were still working. I'm ready to go.'

Two questions,' Tweed replied. He opened his hand, exposing the stick of French chalk he'd taken from his pocket. 'Paula picked that up in your house – you used it to simulate grief, to chalk your face. Why?'

Kearns walked a few slow paces until they were on their own. 'When Barrymore phoned, asked me to come and meet you at his house, I'd been sobbing like a child -because of Jill. So I had to clean up my face somehow. I used that stick of French chalk – the one Jill used when she occasionally did a bit of dressmaking.'

'I see.' Tweed changed the subject. 'During the raid on Siros, why land below a German lookout post?'

'Bravado. Barrymore's. And because of the lookout there were few German patrols at that point. Made tactical sense – we relied on a sea mist to cover us, which it did most of the way. Now, I'm ready to go.'

'Then go,' said Tweed. 'I don't recall ever seeing you here. Leave Exmoor. Petros is in prison. Go,' he repeated, 'build yourself a new life.'

'Thank you…'

'I said go!'

As Kearns walked slowly away Tweed stared towards Porlock Weir. No sign of activity: they were too far west for the thunder of the falling cliff to have been heard. 'Poor devil,' he commented. He glanced at the pile of rocks where the dust was settling. 'It will be months before they find out what is under that lot, if ever. Now, let's get rid of that boat.'