Colin Forbes: The Greek Key

'Yes,' said Tweed. 'Call the Yard. Superintendent Jack Richardson. Give him my best wishes. I need the home address of Chief Inspector Sam Partridge of Homicide, now retired.'

'Before you phone,' he said as Monica sat behind her desk, 'I want you to react quickly to this question. One possibly important clue from Harry's cigar box. One single word. Ready? Endslation.'

The name of some operation. Codename.'

'Doesn't add up,' Paula intervened. 'It could have been the codename tor the raid on Siros. But there's no reference to any codename in the. file. Also, Harry wrote it on a British postcard. That points to Somerset.'

She turned to Monica. 'Isn't all this pretty painful for you? You knew Harry well. Is it a good idea to come back yet?'

'Anything I can do to track down the swine who killed him. I want to be a part of this. I'll call the Yard.' She reached for the phone.

Tweed was heading for the door. 'Something else to pass on to Newman and Marler. Someone else is taking an interest in the Siros file. Partridge. What's the betting he's in Greece at this moment?'

'Do you think it's a good idea Newman going to Athens with Marler?' Paula asked after Tweed had left the room. They seem to fight like cat and dog. Square up to each other on every issue. Bob is early forties, Marler barely thirty.'

'And there, my dear, you have put your finger on it,' Monica assured her. 'They do scrap, I agree. But whereas Marler is quick off the mark, independent-minded – just the way Bob used to be until recently – Bob has become harder, tougher, wary. They could make an ideal combination once they're out there on their own. I think Tweed is banking on that.'

'What changed Bob? Made him a hard man? After all he was an international foreign correspondent. Still is, if a story interests him.'

'Ah, that was his experience behind the lines in East Germany when he went underground with a resistance group. A bitter, grim time, but he came through. Now, I'd better get on…'

When Tweed walked briskly back into the room Monica was putting down the phone. She waited until he had sat behind his desk, scribbled a note on his tasks pad.

'Did you know when you were at Scotland Yard they had a nickname for you? Quicksilver Tweed, they called you, according to Superintendent Richardson…'

'A long time ago.' Tweed made a dismissive gesture. 'What about Partridge?'

'I have his phone number at Cheam. Thought I'd call him when you got back.'

'Yes, I'd like to talk to him personally.'

Monica dialled a number. She had a brief conversation with someone, then put her hand over the mouthpiece.

'Partridge isn't there. It's Mrs Partridge…'

'I don't know whether you'll remember me,' Tweed began, using his own phone, 'my name is Tweed…'

'I know you, it must be years…' She had a cultured voice. 'Sam worked with you at the Yard. We met once at a party. I recognize your voice…'

'Sorry to bother you, but I need to speak with Sam urgently.'

'He's not here, Mr Tweed. And I've no idea where he is…'

Tweed frowned, detected a note of anxiety in her voice now.

'Something wrong, Mrs Partridge? Why don't you know where he is?'

'You know how Sam is. He can't retire gracefully. Too active, restless. He's investigating some old murder case. I am worried. Before he left he said something he's never said to me before.'

'What was that?'

'He warned me never to open the door to strangers. Especially if they looked to be foreigners. He even had a spyglass fitted in the front door before he dashed off.'

'Dashed off where, if I may ask?'

'I've no idea as I said earlier. He packed his own bag. He's taken enough clothes to last him several weeks.'

'What sort of clothes?'

'Some of his old Army khaki drill suits. Plus a lot of normal clothes- the kind of things he wears in this country.

Tweed paused, wondering how to word it. 'Mrs Partridge, don't be alarmed by my call. It's something I'm working on connected with my insurance job as claims investigator. Wives are pretty clever where their husbands are concerned. They often spot a clue as to what they're up to. Have you any suspicions as to where he might have gone?'

'You're not thinking of another woman?'

Oh Christ, Tweed thought, are all marriages like this? Always the wives not a hundred per cent certain about their menfolk? Mrs Partridge went on talking.

'Sam's not like that. I'd know if it was anything untoward.'

'I phrased that badly. As you say, Sam is like the Rock of Gibraltar. It's his destination I'm interested in. I do need to contact him urgently.'

'Oh, I see what you mean. Sorry, Mr Tweed, I simply haven't a clue as to where he might be.'

'Here or abroad?' Tweed persisted, hating himself.

'I just don't know. He took off two weeks ago and I haven't had a word from him since. Mind you, he warned me that might happen. I just wish I could help…'

That's quite all right. I'm sure you'll hear from Sam soon. By the way, I'd follow his advice. No opening the door to strangers, especially foreigners. I've no idea why he said that – but Sam usually knows what he's talking about. He'll explain it all when he gets back. Take care.'

He put down the phone and stared into the distance. Paula was typing the Siros file out, slim fingers skimming the keys.

'What was all that about?' asked Monica. 'And who is this Partridge character? Where does he fit in?'

'He called on Brigadier Davies after Harry had been there. Wanted the addresses of the three commandos who made up the team which raided Siros. You'll understand that bit when Paula gives you the file for a quick look before it goes to Newman and Marler. Where does Partridge fit in? I wish I knew. It's a peculiar business. Partridge told Davies he was investigating the murder of a Greek called Ionides over forty years ago in Cairo.'

'My God!' Paula paused briefly. 'That makes two murders. And both of them Greeks.'

'And Partridge warned his wife against opening the door to any foreigners. Greeks? Partridge has disappeared off the face of the earth, went off on some trip a fortnight ago. Destination unknown. I've got an awful feeling oi presentiment. Harry walked into something too big even for him to handle.'

'But you'll find out what it is,' Monica told him.

'We'll try. Paula and I drive to Somerset tomorrow. You hold the fort. I'll keep in touch – for any messages from Newman.' He clenched his fist on the desk. 'One of us has to come up with something.'

'Ten minutes before we land,' said Newman and peered down out of the window of the Swissair DC9 as the plane banked and swung eastwards.

'And we've got damn all to go on,' Marler observed.

From thirty thousand feet Newman stared down as they left the sapphire blue of the Adriatic Sea behind and flew over a landscape of bleak mountains studded with maquis – scrub. Savage gulches cleft the terrain between the mountain ridges. A wilderness of rock. They were over Greece.

The air was incredibly clear, the sun shining brilliantly.

He felt he could reach down and touch the summits of the highest peaks. He looked at Marler sitting next to him, arms crossed, his face expressionless.

'If I were flying in to follow up a story I'd feel I had more than I normally had. We have to locate Christina Gavalas – the girl Harry flew to Athens with. We have copies of his photo to show round the hotels to find where he stayed. We've got Andreas Gavalas who went with the commando group forty odd years ago to check. We have the island of Siros to visit. We have Nick the Greek…'

'Who?'

'A driver who makes his living taking tourists from the Hotel Grande Bretagne on trips in his Mercedes. Nick is an old friend of mine. Very reliable, tough. He knows a lot about what goes on in this country.'