The way was easy enough and few people were about: Senglea was not Valetta with its bars and prostitutes and tourists. Tourists avoided Senglea, since they could be waylaid and robbed in a much more positive sense than by the women of the town. Senglea, so Hedge had been told, had had its quota of sandbaggers once, evil men who lurked upon roofs and swung heavy sandbags on the ends of long ropes to strike sailors on the head so that their pockets could be rifled. Some could still exist even today. They went down a steep street whose steps led towards the Grand Harbour, but turned off to the right before they had descended far. Then to the left.
“Third house on the right,” Hedge said, crossing the street with Kolotechin close at his side. A bright moon shone down, illuminating what Hedge had just called a house. It was a dreadful-looking hovel with a rotting wooden door, slap on the street. Hedge knocked upon it and it almost gave way. But it opened instantly and in the moon’s light an old crone was seen, as wrinkled as a walnut, dressed completely in heavy black with more black over her head in the form of a curious wide mantle like an enormous dinner plate with side drapes.
She beckoned the two men in.
She said, “You are welcome.”
“It’s very kind of you,” Hedge said, stepping into a terrible stench of no sanitation and goats’ milk that had gone off. There was a narrow passage with paper hanging in great strips from the walls, and when the crone shut the outer door there was no light until she had struck a match and lit a candle held bare in her knobbled fingers.
“Follow,” she said. They did so, and entered a small room with a glassless window giving on to a patch of back yard where a goat was tethered outside the open door of a privy. A dreadful seat loomed in the moonlight, plain wood with a hole. Hedge brought out his handkerchief and fanned his face. He felt suffocated in this appalling hovel but he knew he had to accept his lot. The old woman placed the candle on a table; shadows chased each other eerily around the room. She said, “You will be safe here. This is a British house.”
“Ah, yes,” Hedge said, nodding. He understood: the High Commissioner had told him of the crone’s background and her single-minded loyalty to the British now gone, to her immense sorrow, from Malta. She was something of a fanatic about it, apparently. To her, the past was all. Her late husband, one Pepe Zammit, had served very many years as a locally entered rating in the British Mediterranean Fleet, most of those years having been passed as admiral’s messman aboard the flagship, the battleship Queen Elizabeth. Mrs Zammit, who now began a long story about the old days, was able to remember the names of the Commanders-in-Chief so well and truly served by her husband that he had been awarded the MBE by His Majesty King George VI just before the war. The names came easily from her tongue: one after the other, right up to Sir William Fisher — admirals all.
Hedge interrupted with a cough. The past was all very well and he wished it was still with him, but present pressures were much more urgent currently, and there was Kolotechin to consider too. The erstwhile head of the KGB was likely to become restive under such a patriotic British barrage of aristocratic names and it was vital that even Mrs Zammit should not know he was a Russian. She was unlikely to ask; she had too much to say on her own account. Hedge, having coughed, said, “Very interesting indeed. Very. If you would kindly show us where we may sleep, we will trouble you no further.”
“It is no trouble, it is a privilege.”
“It’s kind of you say so, Mrs Zammit, but we need sleep.”
She nodded understandingly. The British had always needed sleep, though largely, according to her husband, in the afternoons when much pre-luncheon gin had been consumed in the wardrooms of the Fleet and officers retired to their bunks. Sleep they would have, but first food?
“No, thank you,” Hedge said.
“Yes,” said Kolotechin and Hedge gave him a forebearing look. No doubt Kolotechin, a basic peasant, was quite accustomed to poor feeding but Hedge had no intention of risking salmonella. However, he was forced to wait while a meal was prepared. When it came it looked horrible, but Kolotechin fell to like a glutton and seemed happy. He belched two or three times. Hedge sat foodless with a wrinkled nose and a queasy stomach. The smell was bad enough. After the meal, they went to bed in an attic room with a skylight through which the moon shone without remission. The beds were very hard, the single blanket provided for each was thin and scratchy, and fleas were present. Hedge passed a wretched night, a night made the more wretched by the glint of the moon on metal protruding from beneath Kolotechin’s pillow: Kolotechin was armed, all right. In the end sleep came to Hedge via his whisky flask.
14
Shard reached Heathrow soon after 0700 hours and found a car waiting. He was driven straight to the Foreign Office and within minutes of his arrival was informed that he was wanted by the Head of Security. He went up and made his full report of events, both as regarded Moscow and the journey out with Hughes-Jones, and in regard to Malta and Hedge. The Head of Security listened intently and without comment, tapping a gold ball-point on his blotter. At the end he asked, “What’s your assessment now — I mean in regard to Hughes-Jones and the man Evans? You spoke of possible revenge.”
“Yes, sir. That could be real. Evans should be given protection.”
“Already done. Full co-operation from the local Chief Constable. Evans is under day and night surveillance. If Hughes-Jones tries anything, he drops in the bag. So maybe he won’t, after all. On the other hand, even if he’s not out to kill, it’s logical in the circumstances to suppose he’ll want words with Evans sooner or later.”
“He’s no fool, sir.”
There was a short laugh. “I know! But would you say, perhaps, he’s unworldly?”
Shard nodded. “That’s about the right word.”
“I thought so. He may act from his heart rather than his head.”
“And Hughes-Jones’s wife?”
“No sign. Still with him — that’s the assumption. They’ve really gone to ground. You’ll have your work cut out, Shard.”
“I don’t relish it,” Shard said glumly.
“No more do I.”
“Is it absolutely inevitable? That he’ll be returned to Russia, I mean?”
The Head of Security shrugged and spread his hands. “Nothing’s inevitable till it happens, but I believe it’ll prove so. He can’t stand against Kolotechin as it were. And now …”
“Yes, sir?”
“A promise has been made to Kolotechin. You must go out and get your Welshman, Shard. We all have to accept dirty work from time to time.”
Dirty work it was; Shard left the opulence of the Head of Security’s room and went down to his own section, wondering how Hedge was making out. For a while he was busy on the telephone to Cardiff, where the Hughes-Jones hunt was being co-ordinated. All exits into England were covered by police blocks and so far nothing had turned up, apart from the stationary Marina in Pontymadaw. It was being assumed that Hughes-Jones, either accompanied by his wife or alone, had nicked another car, though in fact none had been reported missing from the Pontymadaw vicinity. In short, the trail, such as it had ever existed at all, was stone cold dead.
Telephoning finished in the official sense, Shard rang Beth. He was back, he said, and all was well. But no, he couldn’t come home just yet. Give him another day or two, then maybe. He asked routinely after Mother Micklam and was told she was well. He said he was glad. Beth sounded fed up with her lot as a policeman’s wife. Once, she had totted up the number of days they’d been together in a year, and the sum was a sad one. Mrs Micklam used to go on and on about grandchildren, and Beth had said, not without some truth, that they literally hadn’t had the time.
Ringing off and feeling dead weary and fed up himself, Shard went out into Whitehall and took a taxi to Paddington for the train to Cardiff. He had already fixed ahead for a car to be put at his disposal by Cardiff police.
*
It was a pitch dark night and they were still in the deep for
est, somewhere in Wales. Hughes-Jones, even with his good knowledge of the Welsh roads when on his lay preaching circuit, had forgotten just where the forest was roadwise. Funny, that; he couldn’t understand it really. It was like a memory blank, the sort of thing that hit men who drank — on the morning after, they couldn’t remember what they had done, which laid them open to all kinds of unpleasantnesses, even blackmail, and cruel jokes. Hughes-Jones didn’t feel tired at all, neither did he feel hungry. That was funny, too; he hadn’t slept for a good long while and the coffee and snack had been long, long ago, by now. Every now and again, in the thick darkness, he reached out a hand and felt for the motor-bicycle to make sure it was still there. He would be needing that. He thought about it: Evan Evans’s motor-bicycle, now there was a thing! That saddle … perhaps they had … but no, no, that was too stupid a thought, for they couldn’t possibly, not on a motor-cycle saddle, no. A car now, yes; he had heard of that. Hughes-Jones gave a sudden laugh, though he felt far from funny. More like crying, really. He reached out a hand, not for the motor-cycle this time, but for Megan. He touched her shoulder. She didn’t stir. The skirt was back upon her again. Hughes-Jones turned his mind to skirts and what had happened when he had pulled Megan’s off, for she had refused to take it off herself. No, she had said again and again, in the open it is disgusting. Bed is the place, not the forest. A keeper might come, and then what? In any case, she wasn’t willing and that was that. But it wasn’t: Hughes-Jones, at the end of his tether by this time, had snatched at the skirt and had pulled with immense strength, more strength than he had believed he had really. Megan had fallen on the flat of her back, crying out, and he had wrenched harder and she had been literally up-ended and the skirt had come free. And there she was, what you might call ready; and what had happened? He was totally unable to respond after all; everything had been too much for him and there had been a reaction on the flesh and it was no use. Like a piece of string it was.
And Megan had laughed at him. “You’ve lost the knack, in Russia,” she’d said. “And I’m glad. Duw, I’m glad!”
Oh, dear!
It had been terrible, really. Such shame. The whole thing had become sordid — disgusting, in a way. Perhaps Megan had been right, he didn’t know. Really, he didn’t know. In the darkness it all came back to him, cruel in its blinding intensity. And then there was another funny thing: all of a sudden he felt desperately hungry, ravenous for a bite of food. He felt almost like a hyena might feel. He swallowed. Oh, dear, it was bad, his stomach was quite empty by the feel. He wondered if Megan too was hungry … but that was silly really, very silly. Megan was dead.
*
A knock had come on the door, the street door; the whole hovel seemed to shake. Kolotechin, who was having a morning wash in a pitcher of not very fresh water, left his ablutions and brought out his automatic from below the pillow.
“Be careful!” Hedge said in a tizzy. “We don’t want a hornet’s nest, you know.”
“Nor do I wish capture.”
“No, no, but please don’t be precipitate.” Hedge pulled on his labourer’s trousers. Kolotechin had gone to bed fully dressed, but peasants were peasants and Hedge preferred to be a gentleman at all times, and he detested the rough feel of the labourer’s trousers in any case. Then he went to the door and listened intently, inching it open a little way. It creaked, and he felt the ice of fear mount his spine. But he listened on. In fact he could hear nothing until there were further creaks, this time from the stairs. The old crone, he saw round the door jamb, was coming up, not without difficulty: there was much panting and groaning. Half way up she stopped and called out.
Kolotechin came swiftly to the door, pulling back the slide of his automatic. “The old fool!” he said furiously.
Hedge put a hand on his arm. “Keep your head,” he said. “Don’t for God’s sake use that gun! It’s all right … someone’s come for us as expected —”
“It is too soon. There may be a trap.”
“I don’t think so, Comrade Kolotechin. I really don’t think so.”
“Then go and see at once. Remember my automatic.”
“Yes, yes.” Hedge felt annoyed; he was in charge, not Kolotechin, and the man had no right to issue orders. However, he emerged from the room and confronted Mrs Zammit. The man had been admitted, she said, and was in the room at the back by the goat. He had asked for Mr Crowhurst, and that was right, was it not?
“Yes,” Hedge said. “Do you know who this man is?”
“No. But he has the look of a sailor, and he is English.”
Hedge nodded and went on down, almost feeling Kolotechin’s gun in his back. The Russian was a detestable man, very common, but worth his weight in gold if he could be taken successfully to London. If. Hedge shook with all his various apprehensions, remembering couplets about slips, cups and lips. He went into the little back room and first smelled the goat, then saw the man emerge from behind the opened door. Hedge jumped; it was an unpropitious start and the surprise made him angry. He said, “I’m Crowhurst. What is the route to be?”
“By sea to Gibraltar,” the man said. He was tough-looking but didn’t sound like a seaman, Hedge thought, he sounded like a gentleman. Well, of course the Foreign Office would have responded by this time and they would know his preferences.
Hedge asked, “And after that?”
“UK by air.”
“Yes, I see. And the ship — how do we reach it?”
The man smiled. “Not in the Grand Harbour. Not in Malta at all. Too many police and Russians around. All ships have police guards at the head of the gangway and others watching the lighters. You’ll be picked up off the shore by a boat — a lifeboat from the ship, which is the freighter Melford Hall.”
“She’s in the port currently, do I take it?”
“Yes. Unloading a parcel of cargo from Australia, then clearing for Liverpool. She’ll leave with a clean bill, no stowaways. The Maltese police will be the guarantee of that.” The man shot his cuff and looked at his watch. “She’s due to leave at 1800 hours tonight — the rendezvous will be three hours from then, after full dark. I’ll be with you.”
“Oh, dear,” Hedge said, showing anxiety. “Suppose someone comes here in the meantime?”
“I’m assured that’s highly unlikely.”
“It’s a long time to wait. And I’m not sure it is so unlikely, after all. Mrs Zammit isn’t slow to speak of her love for the British —”
“Only to the British. She knows which side her bread’s buttered here in Malta. Anyway, no one knows about you, the Briton — the hunt’s only for —”
“Yes, yes, I’d rather no names were mentioned.” Hedge looked desperate; every minute, in his view, increased the danger. It needed only a search of this wretched hovel and Kolotechin might use his gun; even if he didn’t, they must be found in a search. Hedge shook. “Is there no faster way?”
“Absolutely not,” the man said with finality. “I’ll be here soon after 1800 hours. In the meantime, I’d advise you not to go outside.”
Hedge made a hissing sound. As if he would!
*
In Cardiff Shard consulted with senior police officers: Evan Evans had been questioned, naturally, but was unwilling to say anything at all. As to Hughes-Jones himself, there was still a total blank at the road blocks and everywhere inside Wales. Like a fox, he had gone to earth with his retrieved mate and there was no knowing whether or not she had gone willingly. Shard, feeling that he was wasting his time, took over his allotted car with a full tank of police petrol and a guarantee of co-operation from local forces.
He headed north for Pentreteg, through a dirty Welsh mist that turned to sunshine and blue skies when he reached his target, the office of the Western District Building Society, where he asked to speak privately with the manager. After giving his name, Shard was admitted to the managerial office where a stout man sat behind a desk looking unfriendly.
“Another bloody policeman?” this man asked.
“That’s right, Mr Evans. I’m sorry —”
“Oh, don’t bother to apologise, I’m used to it by now. Sit down if you like.” Evan Evans pointed to a chair, and Shard sat. “Now. What is it? Don’t tell me. Mrs Hughes-Jones.”
Tongue in cheek, Shard said, “Mr Hughes-Jones, really. I’m not concerned with his wife.”
“Oh, well that’s a relief I must admit,” Evans said with a sigh. “It’s been Mrs Hughes-Jones that, and Mrs Hughes-Jones this, until I’ve been driven almost crazy. Anyone would think … well, people who have nasty thoughts have minds to match and that’s a fact I always say.” He leaned forward across his desk. “Anyway, what about Mr Hughes-Jones, then?”
“We believe you to be in danger —”
“Yes, I know all about that and I’m not worried. I can deal with him and I doubt if he has the guts in any case.”
“Nevertheless,” Shard said patiently, “it would be in your best interests to help us find him — just in case —”
“Has he done anything arrestable?”
“Not yet. But he’s wanted in London. Your interests and ours coincide, Mr Evans. If you’ve anything to offer that might help, we’ll be very grateful.”
Evans frowned. “What sort of anything?”
“Leads to where he might have gone. Anything that would help us form a picture and assess his likely movements. The same in regard to his wife —”
“Meaning?”
Shard Calls the Tune Page 15