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at me which looked like a gun.'
    She shuddered at the recollection and helped herself to coffee. 'He got a good look at me - and I'm sure it was Foley. Afterwards I realized he was holding some kind of camera - a cine job . . .'
    'Probably the type with a pistol grip.'
    That's right. Next thing I knew he overtook me and drove alongside. We were both going like bats out of hell. Then the sod deliberately swerved towards me, tried to drive me off the road.'
    'Unnerving. What happened then?'
    'I've seen that sort of thing so often in films and wondered why they didn't do the obvious thing. I suddenly reduced speed - as much as I dared. He shot ahead and I dropped back.'
    'What next?'
    'I was flaming. You know - macho girl not going to allow a chauvinist pig to get away with that. I followed him. When he turned left up the narrow road to Cockley Ford I kept after him. Soon he'd gone clear out of sight. That cooled my ardour. Commonsense took over. I came to an entrance to a field and turned the car round. I find Breckland creepy and there have been queer rumours about that village.'
    'What kind of rumours? And this fruit salad is some of the best I've ever tasted.'
    'Take you to Cockley Cley - the other village. That is, if you will stay on a few days. I've a friend there, a Mrs Massingham who knows all the gossip.'
    There's a hotel in Blakeney?'
    'Hotel! I have a guest bedroom. Bit of a box, but you can bed down there.'
    'You're tempting me.' Tweed paused.
    'Box room for you then.' She smiled. 'It was good of you to come. Have you got your complete picture now?'
    'You've missed out a vital bit. Something about someone going round with a photo of you, asking where you lived.'
    That was yesterday. Creepy- like Breckland. A woman friend who lives up the street warned me. Told her some yarn about visiting his cousin and he'd lost the address. Showed her a photo of me. She sent him off with a flea in his ear - but he went on to see Mrs Piggott. She'll tell anybody anything.'
    'Any description from your friend?'
    'Yes, and she's observant. Short, stocky build, in his forties at a guess. Wears pebble glasses which gives him a sinister look. A face like a lump of dough. Plump. His clothes hanging off him - and messy into the bargain. Spoke English with a foreign accent. Mittel-European, Cathy thought.'
    'Observant, Cathy, as you said . . .'
    'Oh, and the description reminds me of the man who met Foley with the Porsche off the coaster.'
    ' If it was Lee Foley. I deal in facts. Talking about facts,' he continued casually, 'your vetting for joining the Service came up Al. If you're still interested.'
    'That's marvellous.' Her grey-blue eyes glowed. 'I can sell the business at any time for a good price. I held off till I heard the verdict.'
    'Hold off a bit longer,' Tweed advised. 'I'd like to think about it a bit longer. The fact that you come from a military family helped.'
    'Sounds rather snobby ...'
    'Oh, don't worry. That was just background. We're looking for a different type these days. Excellent linguists. The fact that you can speak French, German and Italian like a native was the key qualification. Let's sleep on it. We can talk more tomorrow - things will look clearer then.'
    'Sleep well . . .'

    Tweed didn't sleep well. He lay awake in the tiny bedroom at the front, overlooking the harbour. Some time after midnight he heard a great surge of water. The tide was going out. He remembered a remark a restaurant owner had made to him at Brancaster, further along the coast towards King's Lynn. It's like pulling the plug out - one moment the sea's there, then it's gone. Nothing left but the empty creeks. The surging sound ceased abruptly. Tweed fretted about the Mittel-European who had enquired about Paula's address. Why should they want to know where she lived -whoever they might be? The episode had sinister implications. Of course, they'd got her photo from the cine-film taken by the Porsche driver, Foley.
    At some ungodly hour he fell