The Main chance

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There was nothing to warn Tweed he was setting out on the strangest case of his career, as Deputy Director of the SIS and, earlier, as Scotland Yard's ace detective.

It was a glorious March day as he drove well south of London with his second-in-command, Paula Grey, seated beside him. She studied a map, navigating for him; they had left the motorway on her instructions, were now driving south-west along a wide country road. On either side rose steep banks topped with hedges, green leaf-shoots already showing. The sun shone down out of a clear blue sky. Occasionally they passed an isolated house, its front garden covered with crocuses and sheaves of daffodils. `This is the life,' Paula remarked, glancing out of the window. Attractive, slim, thirty-something, jet black hair reaching her neck framed a well-shaped face. `Any idea where we're going?' Tweed asked. `Of course I have. Hengistbury Manor is buried deep inside what they call The Forest, which is vast. A weird area to site the headquarters of the Main Chance Bank.' `Richest private bank in the world, so Buchanan said.'

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