Shard Calls the Tune

by Philip McCutchan

Shard shrugged. “Meaning, what sort of person is she? How far will she be influencing Hughes-Jones and where would she be likely to persuade him to go if she does have any influence? It’s a long shot, of course, but everything has to be tried.”

  Evans’ face went blank. “I’ve said it a dozen times. I don’t know Mrs Hughes-Jones all that well. Sorry, I can’t help you.” Shard pressed, but to no avail. Evans was a brick wall. He just didn’t want any scandal to touch him. He was a much respected man, a pillar of Pentreteg society. And he had committed no crime.

  *

  Still in the forest depths, Hughes-Jones spruced himself up, for he had things to do. At his feet, now covered with last season’s leaves as dead as she was, lay Megan his wife. There was no blood, for strangulation was cleanliness itself and though it was not very quick it made little sound. Even the birds sang still, their innocent joy undiminished by murder. Whilst sprucing up — this consisted really just of dusting down and straightening his clothes — Hughes-Jones himself sang too. Softly, ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’. He felt light-headed and not really unhappy. As a lay preacher, he was aware that justice had been done although by the law of God and Britain he had strictly had no right to enforce it himself. He found he didn’t love Megan any more; in some ways it was a pity that he had had to compromise his own liberty for someone he didn’t love, but there it was. Too late now; and Megan had to be hidden away for all time. Hughes-Jones had been too long in prison already to wish ever to return. Fifteen years minimum was a very long time, not to be borne. Besides, the judge might be harsh and recommend thirty years, he believed the judges had the power … no, Megan must be hidden, and not only hidden but hidden in such a way that she could not be recognised if subsequently found.

  It was difficult, but there were ways.

  Hughes-Jones seized hold of Evan Evans’s motor-bicycle, then had second thoughts. He was getting cunning, he thought with some satisfaction, he was not a fool. By now, the police might have forced Evan Evans to reveal the number of his motor-bicycle, so it was a machine of danger. Hughes-Jones put it on its side and started to cover it with leaves, then hesitated. Burning? He set the machine upright again and investigated the tank. Damn, not enough petrol, almost dry; in which case he couldn’t have used it anyway. Shrugging, he started burying it again. Burning would only bring smoke, and there was no smoke without a fire, so better not even if he could.

  Wife and motor-bicycle well if temporarily concealed, Hughes-Jones set out on foot.

  15

  After an appalling day, night had at last fallen over Hedge in Malta. Mrs Zammit had continued with the saga of the British Fleet and all the soldiers who had once been in the great barracks, interrupting herself only twice: once when she went out to do some shopping, and the second time when a neighbour called and Hedge and Kolotechin had been stuffed just in time into the outside privy and the door shut upon them. The seat was narrow and they had been forced to sit buttock to buttock with the adjacent cheeks sharing the hole. It was thoroughly undignified and the tethered goat had kept on making an appalling noise which could have attracted attention. Never, Hedge thought during this ordeal, could a British diplomat and the head of the KGB have been so ridiculously sited. However, it had come to a safe ending and then they were back with Mrs Zammit, who produced a statement signed by Admiral Sir William Fisher to the effect that Zammit had been the most honest messman in all Malta; the signature had a forged look about it, but if it were true, then Zammit must have been a paragon. Hedge fretted and simmered and shifted about while Kolotechin looked bored and gun-heavy as to his right-hand trouser pocket. He had almost drawn the gun when the neighbour had banged on the door; if anyone else called, there could be a holocaust. When food came Hedge, thinking with longing of the Phoenicia’s cuisine, was forced by a ravening hunger to eat bread and goat’s-milk cheese washed down by a bottle of appalling red wine that from its vinegary taste must have been corked ever since the good and honest Zammit had filched it from the Commander-in-Chief’s wine store more than forty years before. (It bore the stamp of Saccone and Speed, purveyors from time immemorial of alcohol to the British Navy.) Once again, Kolotechin was appreciative of the fare, and belched. Hedge felt quite sick. He vowed never to go into the field again, Head of Security’s order or no. This was Shard’s job.

  However, the day did end: a light tap had come on the street door a few minutes after 6 p.m. and the man of the morning entered while Hedge watched Kolotechin’s gun-hand intently. After that, more wailing until the dark. They were to head, the man said, with himself as guide, to Marsa Scirocco on the island’s south-east coast where in a bay the boat from the Melford Hall would steal in to take them off. The overland journey would be about five miles. Trouble was not expected.

  “The hunt’s tending to die down,” their guide said. He turned to Kolotechin. “They’re making the assumption you drowned. One day, they say, your body will be washed into the Grand Harbour.”

  “And the Russian party, the mission?” Kolotechin asked.

  “Gone. Flew out during the afternoon. Very, very frigid, largely because of the Hockaway incident. Also because the Maltese waters had enclosed you, Comrade. That was considered unacceptably inefficient. I doubt if there’ll be any Russian presence in Malta after this! I believe it’ll all be left to the Maltese to look after on their own.”

  Hedge preened at this; the baulking of the Russians could be said to have resulted largely from his own presence, his own handling of a very tricky situation. The Russians were not wanted in the Mediterranean; the Foreign Secretary would be delighted, the Prime Minister much relieved. Hedge’s thoughts were pleasant ones until the time came to move out into the hostile darkness and were then replaced by all his usual forebodings. They were bound to be intercepted, the boat would fail to come in time, the Melford Hall would be seen lurking and would be arrested.

  “Not outside the three mile limit,” the guide said.

  “Three miles? That’s a very long way in a small boat.”

  “The only way.” The man looked at his watch and got to his feet. “Right! Let’s go.”

  A flicker of annoyance passed across Hedge’s bloated face. Only Americans said “Let’s go,” and then only in films. Damn the Americans; he had not yet recovered from Hockaway, and a further blight had been cast now. He and Kolotechin thanked Mrs Zammit and set out after impressing upon the crone that nothing must ever be said thereafter about their visit. The small party proceeded on foot out of Senglea, making first easterly to a spot beyond the town where donkeys stood tethered and unguarded. These they mounted, and rode to the south-east along the night-dark roads, which were mere rutted tracks to a large extent. There was no one about, and not surprisingly, Hedge decided, after they had moved closer to the coast and met a blustery wind into which rain was starting to come. There was heavy cloud overhead but later on, just for a few moments, the moon burst through and ahead Hedge saw the boisterous nature of the sea, with white horses breaking and spindrift blowing above the waves, and the waves breaking into the bay to which they were bound. An unpleasant voyage lay ahead and goat’s-milk started lurching about in Hedge’s stomach. On they went, towards the shore. So far as Hedge could see, there was no boat. Malta, mostly very hot till now, had grown cold; Hedge shivered in his wretched native attire. The High Commissioner should have provided him with a coat; he was not so young as he was and a chill could prove serious, it could go to the kidneys and God knew where else. A few minutes later, with the spindrift being blown right into their faces, their guide called a halt and pushed them into the shelter of a sort of cave in a sandstone face fronting the sea. He told them to wait.

  Then he disappeared.

  Hedge gnawed at his finger-nails.

  He brought out his whisky flask, took a nip, then after a frugal hesitation passed the flask to Kolotechin. Kolotechin was not young either and wouldn’t be much use dead. Kolotechin took a rather large gulp and Hedge clicked his tongue. “If I were you, I’d be
careful,” he warned. “You’re probably more accustomed to vodka.”

  “And to whisky. British diplomats drink much whisky and give expensive receptions. Often I have been very drunk after them. I look forward to whisky in Great Britain.”

  Hedge gave a grunt. He shivered again, violently. The wind was very strong now and the spindrift seemed bent upon entering the cave, which was too shallow to provide really adequate shelter. That guide could surely have found a better one. Time passed, as slowly — even more so in fact — as in Mrs Zammit’s hovel. After a very long interval Hedge’s eyes, straining for a sight of the guide, saw three brief flashes out at sea.

  Then there was a shot, very close.

  *

  It was quite a walk before Hughes-Jones came to a small town, more than a village but not so big as Pontymadaw, and when he saw the name in Welsh and English — Tyfan — he knew where he was. Funny, that he had forgotten. Anyway, no matter now, he was re-orientated nicely. He walked into Tyfan and passed by people who didn’t give him so much as a second glance although he had preached several times in the chapel in Tyfan — he realised that of course he had changed a good deal, the years in the Russian gaols had seen to that, but it was still a sad thing that a preacher could go unrecognised in Wales. Currently a good thing too, he had to admit. When he saw a policeman ahead, on a bicycle, Hughes-Jones deviated into safety and then walked on when it was safe.

  He found what he wanted: an ironmonger’s shop.

  He went in and after passing the time of day with a fat lady in an overall he spent nearly all his cash on a nice big carving knife and a wood-chopper and quite a lot of rope, thin but strong. It would do nicely. He remarked conversationally that he had to cut up a carcase for his deep freeze and the fat lady asked humorously if he had to catch it first.

  Hughes-Jones was puzzled. “Catch it?”

  “The rope,” she said.

  He ticked over: it was a joke. He smiled. “Ah, the rope, yes. No, not catch it, tie it up.” It didn’t make sense, but he hadn’t been prepared and now he must leave it at that. He had his purchases neatly parcelled and then he walked out of Tyfan, back the way he had come. It was quite a trudge. The morning was wearing on now, and occasional cars passed; the road was not in fact a busy one, but was not deserted. Hughes-Jones, growing tired under the cumbersome parcel’s weight, took a risk: he started thumbing for a lift, at first without much success, then a car stopped and an English voice, a man’s, asked, “Want to be dropped somewhere?”

  “Dropped, yes, thank you, that is very kind of you. Some way down the road yet, it is.”

  “Right. Get in.”

  Hughes-Jones got in thankfully. The driver was middle-aged and next to him was, presumably, his wife whom he had not felt the need to strangle. Hughes-Jones felt envious and bitter. The driver asked where he was to stop, and was told there was a track into the forest, off left, perhaps two miles ahead. That would do nicely.

  “Live up there, do you?”

  In the back, Hughes-Jones nodded. “Yes. I have a cottage there.”

  “Farmer?”

  “Farmer, yes.” The English were very stupid if they thought a farmer lived in a forest as thick as the one where Megan lay, but no matter. It would do as a description.

  “It’s a long walk into town …”

  “It is, but there is the petrol, you see. It is expensive. There is not much money in Wales.”

  The man was silent, seeing himself perhaps through Welsh eyes as a spendthrift Englishman now rebuked for ostentation. Hughes-Jones was duly dropped and the English people drove away. Hughes-Jones plodded into the forest and found Megan beneath her heap of leaves and undergrowth. It was a gruesome task he had set himself but he was determined to go through with it whatever. First he had to undress right down to the bare buff. There would be blood and he had no means of washing clothes. So he undressed, unpacked his parcel, and set to his dreadful butcher’s work. When he had finished and laid the remains out neatly he was lathered in sweat: Megan had proved tough, the joints hard to separate with the wood-chopper which was perhaps not quite the right tool for the job but had coped with it nevertheless. He was panting like a steam-engine and he was bloody, so was the surrounding earth. But Megan lay now in six pieces: two arms, two legs, torso, head. Carved, she looked small — she had never been a big woman even in life. Dispassionately, Hughes-Jones made his assessments: the head, no, the torso — that was the heaviest part — could remain here, buried. Buried deep. He set about this at once, anxious to get it done. He excavated a hole in the earth, which was damp and soft beneath the leaves, with the wood-chopper and his bare hands. It took a long time, but when the torso was buried and the earth smoothed and the leaves and undergrowth replaced, you would never have known. No one was likely to come here anyway, and soon it would rain again, and the rain would disperse the blood into the ground.

  So far, so good.

  Hughes-Jones next cleaned himself up, scrubbing at his body with great handfuls of leaves which being moist like the ground, proved effective. As he scrubbed, he thought. The head would be disposed of along the way, it was small and neat and could quite easily go down a hole somewhere, not a hole that would be liable to discovery of course but some anonymous hole such as disused mine workings, or a fox’s earth, something like that — something would turn up. The arms, perhaps, in the Clun forest somewhere, it was a large area; a leg perhaps southerly down by Nant-ddu where if he was not mistaken there was forest — he fancied he had stopped there for a pee before preaching one Sunday — and then perhaps the second leg in the Forest of Dean or anyway its fringes on the Welsh side of the border. Goodness, he wondered now why he had bothered to spend money on the rope, really. It was not needed.

  Perhaps when everything was done he would go across into England for a while, and come back later on possibly, to deal with Evan Evans, though he was not sure about that yet. He was not even sure about England, it was a nasty place really, but it might be safer. Anyway, he would be able to think better when Megan was properly buried. Instinct and experience being strong within him, he was about to kneel and utter a simple prayer over the buried torso when he had a sudden thought, what might be called a blinding revelation.

  Damn, no petrol. And even if there was, how could he carry Megan unwrapped on a motor-bicycle?

  It had been stupid, really.

  More thought, more effort, was required now. He had to have a car. It was imperative. And great risks must now be taken.

  *

  Hedge pushed deeper into the cave-mouth, flattening himself so as to appear not to be there at all. There were more shots outside, and then all of a sudden the guide was seen, bent low, running for the shelter of the cave. Making it he gasped, “Three men, all armed. I don’t know if they’ll find the cave — it’s well screened on all sides except to seaward and with luck they’ll have lost sight of me.”

  “These men,” Kolotechin asked, “where are they?”

  “Above us, on the cliff top.”

  “And the boat from the ship?”

  “Coming in — or was.”

  “Was?” Hedge asked in a shaky voice.

  The guide said, “Maybe they’ll have heard the shots. If so …”

  “You mean they’ll turn back and leave us here?” Hedge asked incredulously.

  “I don’t know. I doubt if they’re armed.”

  “But what about us?” Hedge’s voice was high with alarm.

  The guide put a hand on Hedge’s shoulder. “Look,” he said quietly but with iron sounding through. “Once, I was SAS — in Northern Ireland. For months on end I had it coming round the next corner, if you get me —”

  “Yes, yes, but —”

  “And you’re an agent, so I’m told. Both of us know the score — both of us know we’re expendable and liable to face this kind of situation. Well, now we’re facing it, right?” The man’s face was close now, and Hedge, in the faint loom of light off the water, could see the way it w
as set into grim, hard lines. “We’re not here to think about ourselves. We’re here for Kolotechin.”

  Hedge snapped. “It was Kolotechin I was thinking about, only you didn’t give me a chance to say so!”

  There was a sardonic laugh. “I stand corrected, then. Now, I’m going out to, let’s say, deal with the situation … I have a gun. Have you?”

  “No,” Hedge said. “I’m Foreign Office.”

  “Then just stay here and keep quiet. Very quiet. Comrade Kolotechin?”

  “I have a gun.” The Russian pulled it out and Hedge heard the slide go back. “I am ready to help.”

  “Good! Come with me, then. Stick close unless and until I tell you to spread. All right?”

  “Yes,” Kolotechin said. He and the SAS man left the cave, moving slowly and without a sound. There was no more gunfire. Hedge watched the men out of sight, then once again strained his eyes out over the disturbed sea. As always even in the darkest night, there was that faint lightness over the water; but Hedge could see no approaching boat. He felt bitter: cowards! Someone should have armed the crew, just in case. Kolotechin was an important man; he himself was far from unimportant. Better security should have been organised and if ever he got back to Whitehall he would say so firmly. He shivered as the wind blew more strongly, seeming to come in gusts, and from overhead a stone flew down and tinkled outside the cave-mouth, making him jump a mile. That stone had been disturbed by human foot, obviously. Hedge flattened still more, pancaking himself against the wall of comparative safety. His stomach was in a turmoil; he was too old for the field, it had not been fair of the Head of Security to send him, it wasn’t his job. And damn Shard! Hedge longed for his comfortable office and his secretary and found tears pricking at his eyes. He had had a damnable few days. It would take him weeks to recover …

  At last shots came, a whole fusillade of them, and then something fell with the most terrible crash. Hedge shrank, but forced himself to look, since the crash had come right outside the cave. There was a body, lying very still. Having looked, Hedge shut his eyes tight and waited to see, or feel, what happened next. What happened was the fall of many stones, then footsteps coming openly towards the cave. Hedge almost fainted with relief when he heard the SAS man’s voice.