Colin Forbes: The Greek Key

'A penny for your thoughts,' she said. 'You're not here – you have that faraway look.'

'Harry Masterson,' he replied. 'Why has he chosen Greece for his holiday? Dammit, he's Sector Chief for South-East Europe. You'd think he'd want to get as far from that part of the world as possible.'

'He does speak fluent Greek – among his other languages.'

'And you saw him in Bond Street the day before he was due to start his leave. With an attractive girl you think was Greek.'

'So, it's simple. Harry is divorced, has lots of girlfriends. This time it's a Greek. Maybe she wanted to go there, felt homesick.'

'I'm not convinced.' Tweed, a compact, clean-shaven man in his forties who wore glasses, sat behind his desk, began cleaning the glasses with a handkerchief. Monica frowned. He often performed that action when he was disturbed. 'Harry can't take a proper holiday,' Tweed continued. 'He once told me he's bored in three days without a problem to get his teeth into. He's been out there for three weeks.'

'And not a word from him, you mean?'

'But there has been a word – if you can call this a word. I got in early this morning. This came in the post.'

Unlocking a drawer, he took out a package shaped like a cigar box. The wrappings were still intact although the package had been opened. Monica stood up, came round and stood by the side of her chief. The address was written in Masterson's clear bold hand. Marked 'Personal'. The stamps were Greek. Tweed lifted off the top packing where he had carefully slit along the edges. Inside was a cigar box.

'From Harry Masterson. I don't like it,' Tweed said grimly. 'It looks like pieces of evidence he's collected about an investigation he's working on. And sent to me in case something happens to him.'

'Aren't you over-reacting? What's inside the box?'

'See for yourself.' Tweed flipped back the lid. 'That girl you saw him with in Bond Street before he left for Athens. Is this her?'

He rummaged among a collection of papers, photographs and a small notebook. Selecting one of the photographs, he placed it on the desk.

'Yes, that's her,' Monica said, studying the picture. 'I'm sure of it. She looks slimmer in a white dress. Good figure. She was wearing a coat when I saw her. I wonder where it was taken? Looks like somewhere in Greece.'

'Look on the back. Zea. Wherever that might be. Notice anything odd about the picture?'

There are a lot of expensive-looking pleasure craft moored behind her. And beyond, the buildings are stepped up a hill. What's odd?'

'I'm damned sure the girl didn't know her picture was being taken by Harry. She's looking at some book. I think he took it surreptitiously. That's suggestive in itself. I don't think he trusted her…'

'Don't use the past tense…'

'Come in,' Tweed called out as someone rapped on the door. A slim, fair-haired man in his early thirties with an air of self-assurance entered. 'Marler, your timing is perfect as always,' Tweed commented. 'You know Greece fairly well. 7 He handed him the photo. 'Harry Masterson took this picture somewhere in Greece. Any idea of the location?'

Marler examined the print, turned it over, smiled drily. 'It all links up if it's Harry, doesn't it? An attractive female, a small port, very exclusive, millionaires' yachts. Nothing but the best for our high-life Harry. This is the port of Zea. It's along the coast road from the main Piraeus harbour.'

'Why so exclusive?' Tweed asked. 'Apart from the floating palaces? Drug traffickers can afford those boats these days – if they're at the top.'

'Because just behind Zea is the Royal Yacht Club. Nowadays it is officially the Yacht Club since Greece became a republic.' He picked up a magnifying glass from Monica's desk. 'Bet you a fiver some of these still have the initials RYC on their sterns. Are you on?'

'No. I'm fed up with losing money to you.'

'And you would have lost.' Marler was peering through the magnifier. 'Two of the yachts berthed do have those initials. A bit of rather nice snobbery,' he commented in his upper-crust voice. He laid down the glass. 'What's this all in aid of, if I may be so bold?'

'I'm worried stiff about Harry.'

'For what good reasons?'

Marler, dressed in an immaculate pale linen suit, blue-striped shirt, matching blue tie and handmade shoes skilfully weighted in the toecaps – 'useful for kicking your opponent in the balls' – sat down in Tweed's armchair. He lit one of his rare king-size cigarettes. Crossing his legs, the epitome of relaxation, he fixed his blue, ice-cold eyes on Tweed.

'Reason One, why choose part of his working sector for his holiday? Oh yes, I know he likes the sun, but the Caribbean would have served. Reason Two, he always sends a rude postcard. No card. Reason Three, instead he sends this cigar box with stuff which looks to me like clues about an investigation he's conducting. Reason Four, Harry gets bored easily – so if someone has approached him with a problem which intrigues him he'd jump at the chance of occupying himself with it.'

That the cigar box? May I see?'

'Over to you. See what you make of the contents. I've only had time to skip through them. I find the sending of that sinister.'

'Any note, letter, with it?'

'No. Monica saw him in Bond Street with that girl whose photo you're looking at.'

'When was that?' Marler asked.

Three weeks ago. The day before he flew to Athens, I assume.'

' You assume? ' Marler raised an eyebrow. These photos are a mix. Some obviously in Greece, some in this country. Don't know where.'

'I do,' said Tweed. That one of the outside of The Royal Oak Inn. I recognize it. Winsford. A village on Exmoor. So why do we have Somerset and Greece? Doesn't make sense.'

'Unless he hasn't spent his whole three weeks in Greece. The day he was seen by Monica he could have taken off for Exmoor. Gone on to Greece later. Suggests something the Greek filly told him led him to Somerset. Something he found there led him to Greece. A regular bloodhound, our Harry. Picks up a scent and won't let go.'

The timing,' Monica agreed, 'suggests it could have been something the Greek girl told him sent him haring off to Somerset.'

'I wonder what,' muttered Tweed, sifting through the non-Greek pictures. This looks like Watchet, a tiny port on the Bristol Channel. One of the front, another of the harbour. I remember that line of lampposts along the front with the small hill at the eastern edge of the harbour. Dunster High Street, not a doubt. The front entrance to the Luttrell Arms, leading hotel in Dunster. Another of a Tudor-style mansion behind a stone wall. Familiar. Near the Doone Valley if I remember right.'

Marler had emptied the cigar box and was fiddling with the base of its interior. He raised a thin sheet of wood pressed down on the base, extracted a folded sheet of paper.

'Seen this?' he enquired. The scene widens. Take a shufti.'

Tweed studied the opened sheet. Harry's distinctive writing. MOD. Brigadier Willie Davies. Ministry of Defence. Harry had visited the place, presumably before he flew to Greece, maybe even before he'd driven down to Somerset. There were two more words written on the sheet of paper. Somerset Levels.

Tweed felt a prickling of the hairs at the back of his neck, an unreasoned sense of foreboding. He became aware that Marler and Monica were watching him.

'Something's wrong,' said Monica.

'I hope not.' He passed the sheet to her. 'I don't think we've told you yet, Marler, that Brigadier Davies is our most friendly contact at the Ministry of Defence. He's also a member of the same club as Harry. They were close.'

'Chums, you mean?' Marler enquired. 'As well as a professional relationship? This business is getting a bit weird. So many strands. And what the deuce is – are – the Somerset Levels?'