Colin Forbes - The Main chance

Jacques, crouched in the brambles by the side of the track, was confused. He had been looking forward to seeing the Mercedes blown to smithereens. Perhaps even elevated a few feet before it crashed to earth, a fireball consuming the occupants.

Instead, his vision blurred, he saw activity. Reaching in his pocket for his binoculars, he dropped them. He could not find them in the tangle of brambles. He swore. What was happening?

A patient man, he waited for what seemed a long time. Then, to his astonishment, he saw the gates open. The Mercedes was proceeding down the drive. At the gateway it turned to his right, towards London.

Jacques was shattered. Was the bomb defective? No, that was impossible. He was an explosives expert. Carefully he began his retreat along the track. Getting into the saddle of the motorcycle he drove at high speed, bouncing over hill crests.

He would tell Calouste the truth. It was safer. He knew Max used to lie to conceal a failure. Now, he was sure, the durable, but too human, Max was dead. Arriving at the roundabout he found Calouste waiting in his car. Jacques eased the motorcycle in the boot, climbed into the front passenger seat beside him. Calouste again took the turning to the West Country. `Tweed is dead,' Calouste hissed.

It was a statement, an expectation. `No, he isn't,' Jacques said firmly. Tor some reason the bomb I placed under the car did not detonate. It was not a defective bomb-' `What!' Calouste screamed. 'He must be. I want him dead, so you are wrong.' `I'm afraid not. I caught a glimpse of him driving away to London. I-' `It cannot be,' Calouste screamed again as he drove into the lay-by they had parked in earlier. He threw his door open, his stiletto in his hand. Jacques grasped the handle of his wide-bladed knife. Calouste jumped out, began circling the car with his ambling walk. `Tweed must be dead!' he screeched. 'It was Tweed who told Bella not to sell the bank to me.' `I thought Bella was murdered before Tweed went to Hengistbury,' Jacques unwisely replied through the half-open window. `Tweed has a weak spot,' Calouste raved on. He was using his stiletto to stab at the air, at imaginary forms of Tweed. 'That tart he is always with, the one who did not come to meet Max in Mayfair.' He paused. 'At least that is what Max said.' He began dancing round again, stabbing at nothing with the stiletto. 'So,' he raved on, 'we kidnap her…' `Then what do we do?' Jacques muttered, knowing Calouste was not listening to a word he was saying. `We take her fingerprints on ten different cards,' Calouste screamed from the field of yellow rape he had dashed into, using his razor-sharp stiletto to cut the heads off the flowers.

Jacques sagged in his seat. He had never seen Calouste like this. His green eyes were glowing with hatred. Jacques did not know Calouste, ever cunning, was using green-tinted contact lenses. `When we have her fingerprints we send one photo marked with a cross on her right index finger…' `What for?' asked Jacques who had an idea of the answer. `You are a butcher. You chop off the right index finger and we send it to Tweed through the post. To stop any further mutilation Tweed resigns from investigating the case, also resigns as Deputy Chief of the SIS,' Calouste screamed. `Suppose he refuses?' Jacques yelled.

What was also getting on Jacques's normally ice-cold nerves was Calouste continuing to slash the heads of the rape as he continued his crazy dancing. Jacques had had enough. He shouted his question out of the window. `What if Tweed still refuses your demands?' `We continue to slice off parts of the girl's anatomy. That is, after we have sent photographs of her with the relevant sections marked with a cross.'

What was really disturbing was that Calouste's face appeared to have changed. His jaw was twisted to one side, which caused his mouth to twist into the most evil smile Jacques had ever seen.

Jacques determined to react. He made a show of glancing in the rear-view mirror, then shouted at the very top of his voice. `I think I can hear a car approaching the crest of the road behind us. Sirens blaring.'

Calouste ran to his seat behind the steering wheel. The most extraordinary transformation had taken place. His face, only moments before the devil incarnate, was now quite normal. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, saw no sign of an approaching car. The stiletto had vanished. Reaching into his jacket pocket he brought out a long fat envelope, handed it to Jacques. `I so appreciate your support that here is a little present. Inside you will find twenty thousand pounds in Swiss banknotes. Now we will drive on. To Seacove.'

There was a curious incident as Tweed drove cautiously along the winding road, away from Hengistbury, still under the forbidding canopy of dark fir trees. A Rolls-Royce crept round a bend ahead of them. Marshal was at the wheel. He honked his horn, pulled into the side of the road, waved a hand for them to stop. Tweed drew alongside, lowering his window as Marshal lowered his. Marshal was holding a mobile phone. `Tweed,' he called out buoyantly, 'I've had a splendid idea. Follow me and I'll take you both down to Seacove, my hideaway in Cornwall. Very remote, and I'd love to show you my beautiful luxury yacht. Very advanced design,' he rambled on. 'Created by Shepherd, the most unorthodox designer in the world. You could turn your car round at a gap in the hedge just beyond the bend behind me..

Before Tweed could reply, Marshal had pressed numbers on his mobile. `Might be fun,' Paula whispered. 'And I think we ought to see the place. We could go to Dodd's End to see Mrs Carlyle tomorrow.'

As Tweed hesitated Marshal was talking loudly into his mobile. They could even hear the answers from the other end. `That you, Lavinia? Good. I'm thinking of taking Tweed and Paula down to Seacove now. Where? Seacove.' `Did you say you're taking Tweed and Paula down to Seacove?' she asked.

Not a good idea,' Warner's voice rumbled. He must have been standing close to her. 'It will be freezing today,' he continued.

Tweed started shaking his head but Marshal was so absorbed he never noticed. `Mrs Grandy,' Lavinia's voice called out, 'there may be two less for lunch. Marshal is taking Tweed and Paula to Seacove. Yes, I said Seacove.'

Tweed at last caught Marshal's attention across the open windows. He had waved a hand up and down. `We'd love to, Marshal, but another day, please. We've an appointment we can't miss in London!'

Marshal threw the mobile on the seat beside him. His face showed disappointment, then broke into an engaging smile. `That's a date. Hope your trip is successful.' `I'm sorry if you're disappointed,' Tweed said before he drove on, 'but I think we must interview Mrs Carlyle at once – what Crystal told us could have a bearing on the case. `I have no idea where Dodd's End is,' Tweed said some time later, 'so it's a good idea you're navigating. It's quite a complex route when you reach Kent.' `Don't worry,' Paula reassured him. A minute later she pointed to an ancient wooden signpost, the name just readable: Dodd's End. Tweed stared at what lay ahead up a small hill. `It's this place?' `Only a hamlet. Looks as though the builder who created it about thirty years ago favoured Tudor.'

There were nine houses, each well spaced from the next. All had two triangular roofs over dormer windows with wooden beams attached to the white plaster walls, and all had neatly tended large front gardens. No one seemed to be about. Tweed had the impression they'd been abandoned when a plague came. At the far end, on the crest of the hill, was a larger house facing down the road.

"They've all got numbers, no names. So which one is Baron's Walk?' Tweed complained. `I saw a woman sneaking a look at us from behind a curtain,' Paula told him. 'The house on the left you're almost past. Let's ask her…'