Colin Forbes - The Power

Tear-gas!' Tweed snapped.

He closed his window, driving with one hand, maintaining his speed. A glance in his rear-view mirror showed him the Sierra roaring after him. He heard two reports.

Shots had been fired. Nothing hit his vehicle. A quick second glance in the mirror showed him the Sierra rocketing up behind him: no apparent damage.

Thank you, Paula,' Tweed said. 'I was suspicious but you confirmed it. A multiple pile-up? On the A30 in February and at this time of night? And a road crew with an American foreman? The whole set-up was phoney, stank to high heaven.'

'So what had they waiting for us up at that dead end?' Paula mused.

'A dead end – for all of us,' Cardon suggested.

'You have a macabre sense of humour. It doesn't bear contemplating – out in the middle of that moor…'

She started checking her map again. Tweed was driving at speed, lights undipped, swerving round corners. He was anxious to reach the main road.

'What worries me,' he said, 'is how did that gang of thugs know we would be travelling along that road at this hour? Again it suggests a powerful, well-organized network. I get the feeling our every move is being monitored.'

'We're close to the A30,' Paula warned. 'As to how they could know where we were – Buchanan told us your presence down here was reported by all the media. They could have flown down from London to St Mawgan Airport – arranging in advance for hire cars to be waiting. And this is where they stole the equipment from

Tweed had slowed down, paused at the T-junction on to the A30 to look both ways. Yards to the left, road repair equipment was stacked on a verge, flashing lights illuminating cones and other material. Tweed drove out, turned right to the west, his headlights showing a great belt of the road descending a long hill. No other traffic in sight. The rain had stopped but the road surface gleamed in the moonlight.

'You could be right, Paula,' he remarked. There would be time for the opposition to fly down from London. But these are people who can move like lightning. I still find it puzzling why the anonymous call was made to the media. I'm going to pull in here, have a word with Pete Nield, make sure they're both all right.'

Paula saw a lay-by was coming up. Tweed signalled, pulled off the main road into it. He stopped, still keeping his engine running as the Sierra drew in behind him. It was Butler who got out of the car, used a torch to check the side of his vehicle, then walked up to Tweed who had lowered his window.

'You handled that well, Chief,' he commented. 'Nothing like a reception committee to welcome us to Cornwall.'

'I heard shots,' Tweed replied.

'You did. One bullet went wide. The other ricocheted off the side of the Sierra. I just found the point where it dented the metal. Maybe time we moved on…'

They were driving again through the night along the deserted A30 when Paula made her suggestion.

There are only three people who could have cooperated with the killer who committed the massacre,' she said.

'Gaunt or Jennie Blade,' Tweed anticipated her. 'And we saw two people on High Tor. But who is the third?'

'Celia Yeo, the young red-headed girl who was helping in the kitchen.'

'Why pick on her?'

'Because I ask questions. After the police doctor had examined the staff he remarked that the one who had got off lightest from being coshed was Celia. Said he was surprised she had become unconscious – so slight was the bruise on her head.'

'Not very conclusive,' Tweed objected.

There's more. I talked to Cook when Celia was outside in the scullery. Apparently the girl she recently replaced was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, had both legs broken. Celia turned up at the manor offering her services the following day, which Cook thought was rather odd.'

'Still not sufficient to convince our jovial Chief Inspector, Roy Buchanan,' Tweed persisted.

There's more still. I had a little chat with Celia on the quiet. She's a mulish type, hard as nails, and has avaricious eyes. That girl would do almost anything for money. And she lives in Five Lanes – where the real postman came from. I think I'll drive over there and talk to her again. Her day off is tomorrow. And I saw her sneak back across the grounds with a scarlet tea towel in her hands. She said she'd hung it out to dry – it was still dripping water. She could have hung it from the branch of a tree at the edge of the estate to signal to the killer -signal to him that Amberg had arrived. I don't think she'd known what was going to happen.'

'Bit of a far-fetched theory,' Tweed commented.

'Hold on, Chief,' Cardon called out. 'Paula has made a pretty solid case for your so-called far-fetched theory.'

'If you say so,' Tweed responded impatiently, concentrating on his driving. 'One thing I insist on, Paula. You're not going back to Bodmin Moor on your own.'

'Maybe Bob Newman will come with me – if he's reached Padstow.. .'

Paula saw why Tweed had referred to the Hotel Metropole's strategic position as soon as they arrived. Perched high up, it looked down on and across the estuary of the River Camel. Gleaming like a sheet of quicksilver by the light of the moon, it appeared to be about a quarter of a mile wide from Padstow to the opposite shore.

Parked outside, in the forecourt in front of the large Victorian building, was Newman's Mercedes 280E. Its owner appeared from inside as Tweed was registering for his party. Newman frowned at Paula, slipped her a sheet of folded paper as he passed her, which she palmed. He walked outside as though he'd never seen them before in his life.

She showed Tweed the note as they travelled up in the lift to their rooms. Tweed had a suite, No. 11, on the first floor, while Paula's double room was on the second.

'Come down and see me within five minutes,' Tweed told Paula after he'd read the note.

Butler and Nield, acting as guards, had rooms close to Paula's. Tweed had requested this at the desk.

'Miss Grey is recovering from a serious illness,' he had informed the receptionist. 'Pneumonia. She might need assistance walking when she leaves her room…'

Paula closed her room door. The lights were on, the curtains drawn. She moved swiftly, sensing the urgency in Tweed's order. Opening her case, she threw the lid back, lifted out her favourite navy blue suit, hung it in the wardrobe, hurried back to the lift.

Tweed had a much larger room with a sitting area. He stood in the middle, still wearing his trench coat in spite of the heated atmosphere. Handing her the note, he began pacing like a caged tiger. The note was terse.

Meet me in my car -parked halfway up Station Road. Have phoned H. Very big trouble. H. wants you to call him. Have found safe phone. Bob.

'You said you were ravenous just before we reached here,' Paula reminded him.

'Food will have to wait. I phoned the dining-room. They will serve us later.' His brusque tone softened. 'But you can go straight down to dinner – you've had a pretty rough day.'

'Nothing doing. I'm coming with you.'

'So is Butler…'

Outside the hotel an icy breeze blew from the north. As they climbed the hill Paula asked her question.

'Why do they call this Station Road?'

'Because at the bottom of the hill behind us is a building which is the old station. Now it's Customs amp; Excise. The trains don't run here any more. Haven't for years. The line was eliminated long ago. Here we are. You sit next to Bob. Maybe he'll be better company than I am tonight. While I remember, Bob, I'd like to borrow your field glasses.'

Newman drove to the top of the road, turned right down New Street. Lined with two-storey grey stone terrace houses, it made Paula feel they had arrived in old Cornwall. Newman paused, pointed to a wooden cabin set back from the road. No light in the windows.