Colin Forbes: The Janus Man

`Bob asked me to have it here on the phone from Oslo. Monty the guard and George the doorman drove two of the vehicles. I left them at a crossroads nearby. Thought you might not want them to see you.'

`I'm leaving now.' Tweed climbed behind the wheel of the Cortina. 'What's the Volvo for, Bob?'

`Me. Maybe I've had enough. Time for a holiday.'

He had a strange smile on his face as he waved Tweed off and turned to the Volvo. Monica opened the rear door, showed him two petrol cans with screw caps stacked on the floor. To keep them stable she'd packed foam rubber between and around them.

`That's what you asked for. Each one is almost full. Not for me to reason why – there are garages everywhere if you need to tank up..

Tweed took a country road, the B1388, to Little Walsingham, turned along the B1105, and at Fakenham joined the A148 for King's Lynn. He pressed his foot down, trying to gauge how long it would take the power cruiser to make landfall. It was going to be a close run thing.

His face had a set expression. He knew if he thought about

' it he'd feel very tired. The fresh East Anglian air blowing in through the window was sharpening him up. How the hell am I going to manage it? he kept asking himself. There was hardly any other traffic on the road. He had the world almost to himself. He overtook a large furniture van. Smithers of Edmonton. He wondered about that van.

Approaching King's Lynn, he turned on to a side road which would avoid getting tangled in the one-way maze. He crossed the bridge over the slow-flowing Ouse just south of the town.

Ahead stretched the flatlands of the Wash. A thin veil of mist hovered on the horizon. He had moved on to the A17 now. He began to. keep a careful lookout for the side turning to Hawkswood Farm, the remote house perched near the edge of the Wash.

Near Sutton Bridge he swung off the A17 on to a turn-off towards Gedney Drove End. He was now driving along a very minor road, elevated above the surrounding countryside but with an excellent tarred surface. He stopped for a moment, reached for the Tupperware canister of water Monica had shoved into one of the pockets facing the rear seats. He prised off the lid and drank greedily. His mouth was dry – dry with fear. Through the window came the faint sound of the whispering grasses swaying gently in the fields below.

He clamped down the lid, shoved the canister back inside the pocket and drove on. As far as he could see there was no sign of life. Not a human being, not another vehicle. In the distance he could see the long single-storey building which was Hawkswood Farm. Again no sign of life. No smoke from the chimney. No car parked in the driveway:

Tweed pulled in at the entrance to the track leading to the dyke. Switching off, he pocketed the keys, got out and began walking rapidly towards the farm. The breeze flapped his trousers. Somewhere behind him he heard the purr of a car's engine in the distance. He ignored it, concentrating all his attention on the farm.

He opened the picket gate carefully so it wouldn't squeak. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he walked up the path. He tried the handle of the front door. Locked. He took out his bank cheque card, eased the plastic sheet between door jamb and lock, heard it click.

He turned the handle again carefully, pushed the door open slowly, listened. Taking a few paces into the living-room, he stopped. On a side table stood a large and heavy glass mortar and pestle. The noise of gushing water came from the half- closed kitchen door. He took several cautious paces forward, peered through the gap between the door and the wall on the hinged side. He blinked at the macabre sight.

Standing with his back to Tweed, in front of the sink, a man was shaving. He had removed the right-hand side of his black beard, exposing a long scar where Sue Templeton must have clawed at him. He was about to lather the other side. He turned off the tap. He reached up with his shaving brush and paused. Tweed never knew what alerted him. He dropped the razor, reached inside an open drawer, grabbed a broad-bladed knife and swung round. He had taken two or three paces towards the living-room when Tweed began to run, snatching up the heavy glass pestle.

He ran out of the front door, down the path and turned on to the road in the direction where he had left the car. Behind him feet pounded on the road. Tweed ran full tilt, the pestle grasped in his right hand like a relay runner's baton. His pursuer was gaining on him. He increased speed. The fresh air he gulped into his lungs helped. He reached the track which led to the dyke, turned down it. Beside his Cortina a Volvo was parked. He ran on down the track.

The dangerous stretch came when he arrived at the end of the track, climbed the little rise and went down the other side. He began to run along the narrow path leading to the dyke, which rose like a frozen green wave in the distance. Tweed only caught a glimpse of it. He had walked this way before, knew the risk. Behind him he heard the steady pounding of other feet. He kept his head down, placing his feet carefully, avoiding the hard tufts of grass which could bring him sprawling in a second. He'd never climb to his feet again.

He was getting out of breath, keeping his mouth closed as he evaded the treacherous tufts. Then he got his second wind. He increased speed a little, aware that the gap was still closing between himself and the man behind him. He was sweating like a bull with the effort. Sweat ran down his forehead, dribbled from his armpits. He reached the foot of the great dyke.

He scrambled up the inner side, reached the top, slithered down the far side. The vast expanse of the Wash spread away before him, well beyond the marshlands and the creeks. He had a brief view of a power cruiser moored to the landing-stage which had been reinforced with fresh timber. He was very close to the area he remembered, the patches of sand, the sinister acid green grass which seemed to float on top of the ooze. He turned at bay, breathing hard.

A man was charging down the outer side of the dyke, the ugly-looking knife grasped in his right hand. Still a macabre sight, half a black beard remaining on the left-hand side of his face, Hugh Grey stopped, eyes glaring wildly. Not really sane.

He moved towards Tweed, expecting him to turn away, to try and run. Tweed did the unexpected. He moved in close, brought the pestle down savagely on the wrist of the hand holding the knife. Grey dropped it, looked surprised and in that moment of indecision Tweed moved again. Grey was standing with his back to the marshy verge. Tweed lifted both fists, hammered them with all his strength into Grey's solar plexus. Again the look of surprise. He toppled backwards after stumbling a few paces. He sprawled across the surface of the ooze. He tried to sit up. His feet and legs began sinking first, disappearing rapidly. The ooze sucked him deeper. He was only half in view, from the waist up.

He panicked. Placing the flat of both hands on the mud, he tried to stop the suction hauling him down. He screamed obscenities at Tweed, then began pleading for help. Tweed stood without moving, silent, breathing heavily. The hands disappeared. Grey tried to haul them out, couldn't. The mud closed over his forearms. He let out a strange bleating noise. Nothing intelligible. Only his neck and head showed now. He stared at Tweed. He opened his mouth and took in a gulp of mud. The head sank slowly out of sight. There was a brief disturbance. Ripples and bubbles where he had gone down. Then the ooze settled to its normal smooth surface.

Tweed picked up the knife, tossed it into the quagmire. It landed on its point, disappeared in seconds. Tweed looked towards the cruiser and Newman was standing on the deck, watching.

Tweed and Newman were lying down on the landward side of the dyke, peering over the crest at the cruiser. Newman had released the mooring ropes and the vessel was drifting very slowly away from the landing stage as the tide went out.