Colin Forbes: Deadlock

' Aaarraagh! '

Eric was choking, gasping for breath. Grimes realized he had twisted the lad's shirt collar in a vice-like grip, that without meaning to do so he was strangling him. The horror he would have to return to inside The Bluebell had filled his mind. He relaxed his grip, began slapping Eric's face with desperate urgency.

Eric mustn't die. Grimes was panicstricken at the thought. They had discussed it the previous day. Dr Portch had said the idiot lad would help to frighten people away from the village. That it didn't even matter if Eric was there when the killing of the objectors took place. No one would believe a word he said. And he never left Cockley Ford. He was an asset to the atmosphere of a tightly-closed off community Portch had created. Only Grimes left the village to collect supplies from Thetford. To Grimes' profound relief, the lad began to recover, sitting up.

'They was sick,' Grimes repeated, hammering the message into the fool's skull. They died a few weeks ago. They was buried then. No one died tonight.'

'No one died tonight,' Eric agreed, parrot fashion…

Outside in the churchyard in the drenching rain behind the building six sheets of heavy canvas covered freshly-dug graves. In the lee of the church wall, sheltered from the rain, crouched an old man like a guardian of the graves. He leant on a rusty shovel smeared with wet mud, huddled in a sailor's pea-jacket with a hood concealing his head. He would have to wait. He knew that – but that was one thing a gravedigger learnt. Patience.

The outside world might never have heard of the April massacre at Cockley Ford but for a chance happening. A man called Tweed decided to take a rare holiday.

Over a year later.

'It's a super idea – taking this holiday,' Monica said. 'You haven't had one since Noah and his Ark…'

'I don't like holidays,' Tweed said mulishly, prowling round his office in Park Crescent. 'I get bored stiff in three days.' He stared glumly out of the first-floor window as the wind bent the trees in distant Regent's Park. 'Look at it. And it's raining. May. Godawful. ..'

'The forecast is sunshine this afternoon,' his assistant said brightly. 'Even the Deputy Director of the Secret Service needs a break. And Bob Newman has loaned you his 280E Mercedes. You will have a whale of a time.'

'It's already afternoon,' Tweed grumbled, cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. 'And who believes in weather forecasts any more?' He glanced towards the phone on his cleared desk – willing it to ring.

The door opened and Howard, faultlessly dressed in a dark blue suit from Harrods, waltzed in, shooting snow-white cuffs. His chief was in the worst possible mood from Tweed's point of view, exuding an air of bonhomie. He eyed the suitcase standing by Tweed's desk.

'Off on our hols? Good show. Don't delay. We'll keep the home fires burning. Just forget all about us.'

Probably burn the place down, Tweed thought to himself. The second sentiment was more acceptable. Howard thrust his right hand in his trousers pocket and rattled loose change. Another irritating habit. He stooped to brush a speck of dust from his trouser leg as he continued.

'Going somewhere interesting? Barbados? The Seychelles?'

'Clacton,' Tweed said perversely. 'A breath of sea air.'

'No accounting for tastes.' Howard studied the manicured fingernails of his left hand. 'Well, I'd better be off. Just thought I'd pop in, wish you bon voyage and ail that. Even if it sounds like a trip round the pier. Clacton has one?'

'No idea.' Tweed sat down behind his desk and Monica frowned. She waited until Howard left the room before she shook her index finger at her boss.

'No more hanging about. Off you go. It isn't Clacton, is it?'

The phone rang before Tweed could reply. Monica lifted her own instrument quickly. After identifying herself she grimaced as she listened.

'He's just going off on holiday, I'm afraid…'

'Who is it?' Tweed demanded.

'Paula Grey – calling from Norfolk,' she reported, holding one hand over the mouthpiece. 'She sounds a bit fraught – but I can handle it. I'll tell her you've just left…'

'I'll take it,' Tweed said firmly and lifted his receiver. 'I am still here, Paula. How are you? It sounds as though something's bothering you.'

He listened, saying little, grunting, asking the occasional question. At one stage he opened a deep drawer, using his left hand to rifle through a collection of maps of the British Isles, hauled out one of East Anglia and unfolded it as Paula continued talking.

'Got it,' he said, his finger pressed on a section of the map. 'Are you still at your new home in Blakeney? Yes, I have the address in my head. You may see me in the next day or two. It is odd, I agree. One thing, Paula,' he concluded, 'don't go anywhere near Cockley Ford again. Not until I've seen you. Promise? Good girl…'

He replaced the receiver, folded up the map, pocketed it, stood up and went over to the stand where his Burberry hung on a hanger. Monica watched him suspiciously as he hastily slipped on the raincoat and picked up his suitcase.

'And what, may I ask,' she enquired, 'is odd?'

'You may ask. I may not tell you.' He changed the subject to soften his reply. 'Howard was just a bit too jaunty – the way he is when he's covering up a problem.'

'It's Cynthia, his wife. There's talk she's on the verge of leaving him…' She stopped, appalled, could have cut out her tongue. Tweed's own wife had walked away several years ago – to live with a wealthy Greek shipowner. Rumour had it they were shacked up together in a luxurious villa in South America.

Tweed's face was expressionless. Behind his glasses his eyes showed no reaction. The parting had come as a great shock to him – something he never referred to. Monica, a woman of uncertain age, a spinster who had worked with Tweed for years, began talking rapidly.

'It's office gossip. Probably nothing more. Some people have to have something to natter about in the canteen. About Paula. Something's happened. Suddenly you're in one hell of a rush to leave. Five minutes ago you were like a ship without a rudder.'

'Maybe I've found my rudder…'

'Blakeney is on the coast, you mean'?'

'A breath of sea air I said earlier. Very bracing – the wind off the North Sea…'

'You're not going anywhere near Wisbech, the interrogation centre, I hope?'

'Not a chance. Hold the fort while I'm away. Maybe a holiday is a good idea.'

'Paula might be a good idea for you – now she's on her own…'

'You're a wicked woman. I don't know why I employ you.'

On that note he left the room before she could think up a suitable retort.

Tweed sat behind the wheel of the 280E parked in the Crescent, studying the manual Newman, foreign correspondent and trusted confidante, had left with the car. Everything was automatic – you pressed buttons to open the sun-roof, the windows, to elevate the aerial for the radio, and it had a central locking system. Depress the small lever which locked the driver's door and all the other three doors were locked.

He drove out of London and headed for Bedfordshire. The rain continued to pour down steadily. He left the suburbs behind and moved into open country as evening approached. The sky was a low ceiling of slow-moving pewter cloud. He stopped in Woburn for a late tea at the Bedford Arms. When he drove on along the straight road which followed the endless stone wall enclosing Woburn Abbey estate it became almost like night.

On the seat beside him the map of East Anglia was open, his route outlined with a felt-tip pen. He had drawn a large circle round a section marked with one word.

Breckland.