“Not so, Hedge. I didn’t want to pull strings over there and jump queues — in the circumstances, security would have been at risk. The delay was minimal in any case, and talking of security, enough seems to have been blown already.” Shard’s tone was withering. “You might inform Messrs Smith, Jones and Brown that someone rumbled their transport right from the start. There hasn’t been a smell of those phoney coppers since, so I’m told —”
“All right, all right!” Hedge simmered. “Don’t try to duck. I was talking about Cherbourg. Don’t tell me you couldn’t —”
“Hedge, listen.” Shard raised his voice. Hedge was verging on hysterics and Shard, not wishing to slap, shouted. “I got on the first ferry without fuss — they’re not running full just now. I decided it was too chancy to leave the car and risk questions. Now, Hedge: when, precisely, did this boyo, let’s call him the Ulster interest, make contact?”
“With me?” Hedge was only half with it, Shard thought. “Yesterday afternoon, I told you —”
“Precisely, Hedge?”
“Does it matter? I don’t know! Oh … a little after three, I think it was.”
“No clues from where — none at all?”
“No. A call-box, obviously —”
“Here at your home, or the FO?”
“The Foreign Office.”
Shard nodded. “No doubt they’ll contact again. If so —”
“If they ring, Hesseltine’ll be aware. There’s a security tap on the line.”
“Which they’ll guess, so in my book they’ll find another way.” Shard looked closely at Hedge. He was in a poor way all round; untypically, he’d told Shard to report to Eaton Square when he’d called the FO from Southampton — going home, he’d said, couldn’t take any more. And home was already going to seed: with his wife in hostile hands and his butler dead he was coping on his own. Mrs Morton had collapsed with a coronary on hearing of her husband’s murder and had been removed to hospital. Not wishing to have poke-noses around, Hedge had telephoned the daily woman not to report for duty. There was a smell of sardines — Hedge had just made himself supper; and already there was a film of dust on otherwise high polish. Shard said, “So you brought Hesseltine in after all.”
“No option,” Hedge said with extreme bitterness. “That man hasn’t got ears so much as radar. He brought himself in.”
“And?”
Hedge flapped his arms. “He’s spoken to the Home Secretary, over my head. Over the Head’s head too. The word’s come, we’re to take no action.”
“About Katie Farrell?” Shard asked disbelievingly.
“No! About my wife. She’s to be left where she is, Shard, and God knows where that is!”
Shard looked at him with sympathy. “Has there been any news of her? Any word at all from the other side?” As he said it, he was grimly conscious of a poor choice of words. Hedge’s answer indicated no contact with the representatives of the oil interest, even though the assumption was being made that these people would know by now that Katie Farrell had been hooked clean off the blood run.
“The official view is,” Hedge said, “that for the time being she’s safe. My wife, I mean.”
“I go along with that, Hedge.”
“Do you?” Hedge’s tone was glum, doomladen.
“Yes. She’s the hostage, Hedge, the lever. She’s only of use alive —”
“But the lever’s been pulled now, hasn’t it?”
“Insofar as Katie Farrell’s gone for now, yes, I agree. But you mustn’t lose hope, Hedge. I don’t believe that whoever’s got Katie will be taking final action just yet.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, she’s been in the hands of the British Government. I guess they’ll want to ask some questions.”
“It wouldn’t be like them, Shard. Those Ulster militants?” Hedge trembled. “They shoot first, don’t they?”
“Not always, and for my money, not this time. Katie Farrell’s no longer an ordinary bomb-throwing terrorist: she’s got big backing, right? She’s been projected bang into the big time and they may see a use for her. Don’t neglect that aspect.”
“Another lever?”
“A bargaining counter — who knows, Hedge, what they may dream up? And while she lives, so does the hostage.” Shard paused, scanning Hedge’s white, strained face. “We have to get Katie back, that’s all.”
“All!” Hedge gave a bitter laugh. “That’s good, coming from you! You lost her, didn’t you?” He got to his feet and started pacing the room like Shard had paced the Cherbourg cellar the day before. His whole body on the twitch, he swung round. “Where is she, for God’s sake? What d’you think? Would they have brought her back into the United Kingdom, or is she still on the continent? We all know it’s easy enough to bring people in … deserted beaches, that sort of thing, and every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to own a boat.” He paused. “That house — no leads, you said. What about the bodies?”
“Not known in my book, but there may be word through soon from Interpol. I told you, I made contact.”
“It’s not going to help much, though, is it?” Hedge gnawed at his lower lip. “We don’t —”
“It could help. Oh, I know they keep their tracks well covered and the right hand doesn’t often know what the left hand’s doing — that sort of thing. We must hope for a breakthrough, Hedge.”
“The official line’ll still be that we take no action for — for recovery. Of my wife, I mean.”
“Maybe so.” Shard looked at his watch and got up from the chair. “Let’s see first what Interpol comes up with, Hedge. If we get a lead — if we can find out where your wife’s being held — at least we can be ready, can’t we?”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to cut her out, Hedge.”
“Well — yes.” Hedge looked a shade brighter, but it didn’t last. “They won’t be holding her in any one place for long, though. They’ll keep on the move, won’t they?”
“That’s possible. But maybe they’re nicely holed up somewhere they see as safe. In any case, we’re as mobile as they are.” Shard glanced again at his watch. “Hedge, if I may suggest it … we must keep plugging the main chance: we must get Katie Farrell back.”
“That’s what Hesseltine said, blast him!”
“He’s right. Face it, Hedge! That’s the best way to put the hostage in the clear — isn’t it? As for me, frankly, I don’t much care if Katie Farrell gets what she’s asked for, but I’m remembering every minute I have a job to do — and so have you.”
“All right, all right!” Spots of high colour showed on Hedge’s puffy face, pointing up the dough-like white. Suddenly he lifted his arms and shook clenched fists in the air. “The faceless people, Shard … not faceless to us, but by God I’m beginning to realise what that phrase means! They’re a lot of bastards, Shard, single-minded, no feeling! When a man’s wife is involved … how can he stand aside from that, how can he divide his mind? How?”
*
Shard walked through from Eaton Square to Victoria for the District Line, reflecting on Hedge’s outburst. It had been natural enough and Shard had been sympathetic but unable to give an answer to the question. The answer was, simply, a matter of guts. And there was an irony about it that Shard couldn’t help but feel: Hedge was being hoist with his own petard. Not so long ago, Hedge had pitchforked Shard into Russia for an indefinite period at a time when Beth was about to undergo a serious operation, a life and death affair. Appeal against orders had been met with cold adamancy and Shard, faced with an immensely tricky assignment, had had to do a monumental job of mind-dividing. His feelings for Hedge had been precisely similar to Hedge’s current feelings for the Whitehall brass: as a result, he could the better understand poor Hedge now. It would be best if Hedge were given leave of absence. Ascending from the District Line at Charing Cross, Shard walked through to Seddon’s Way to spend the flight on some patient file searching, to see if those dead faces in Cherbourg mig
ht after all ring any photographic bells in retrospect; and also to set in motion a few stirrings of the grapevine that might ripple from London’s bent and semibent circles and, widening, send back an echo of Katie Farrell. But before reaching his office he used a phone box and rang home and this time it was Beth who answered. Shard said, “Back sooner than expected, darling. Everything all right?”
“I’m fine, Simon,” she said, and her voice sounded a shade less than fine. “There have been men hanging around, though.”
“Beth, you’re not to worry —”
“I don’t, not about that.” There was a light laugh. “I’m married to a policeman, aren’t I, and I hope I’m no dumb blonde. What does worry me is why?”
Shard said, “That’s a question that worries us all, for varying reasons. Look, darling, I’m going to be busy most of the night. I’ll be home when I can.”
“What about sleep?”
“I’ll kip in the office when I’m through. All right?”
“All right, Simon.” There was resignation in Beth’s voice: coppers’ wives always had the dirty end of the stick, all wait and no excitement. Probably coppers should be celibate: wives were two-edged; they could be a worry and a distraction. Shard, cutting the call, made a mental note to have a word with Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, whose watchdogs hadn’t sounded too clever at concealment. He went on to Seddon’s Way and spent a useless couple of hours reading the back files: then he made a phone call and went across to Scotland Yard and spent more time fruitlessly. It was like a jig-saw puzzle, as usual, and also as usual none of the pieces fitted. At last he had his kip and then a canteen breakfast. Back again to Seddon’s Way, he reached the door of his office and heard footsteps coming down the stairs from the floor above; he glanced up. Mutton dressed as lamb was on the way down: dyed hair and warpaint and a red blouse heavy with mammary gland.
“Hullo, Elsie. Going out for a rest?”
She giggled, taking it in good part. “You could say so.”
“It’s early in the day for beating the drum. And risky.”
“Never bin copped yet, have I? Anyway, like anyone else, I have me shopping to do. Look, Mr er.” She usually called him that when they happened to meet. “There was a man wanting you … in the early hours, too bloody early, or too bloody late depending which way you look at it. I thought he was someone for me, see —”
“A client?”
“Yes. Stopped at the wrong floor —”
“So you came down?”
“I called down. He said something about stamps and would I tell you.”
“Uh-huh. Did he leave a name, by any chance, Elsie?”
“Yes. Stanley Gibbons.”
He gave her a sharp look: she wasn’t being funny. She was no philatelist herself and the name meant nothing. The joker would have had no difficulty in summing her up. Shard repeated, “Stanley Gibbons. What did he look like?”
“Small,” she said, sounding vague about it. “Sort of sandy … wearing a blue anorak. Mind, I was half asleep.”
“Yes, quite,” he said. “Any message?”
“No.”
Shard nodded. “Thanks anyway, Elsie.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Elsie tripped away on high heels, clickety-click. Shard looked down the stairs at a vigorous behind. Her way of making a living was a damn sight easier and better paid than his, and right now he felt there were other comparisons as well. Katie Farrell left a nasty taste in his mouth. Wondering what ‘Stanley Gibbons’ might portend he unlocked the door and went in and as he crossed the threshold there was a shattering roar and his desk fragmented.
5
“I’M ALL RIGHT” Shard said. His face was streaming blood but the wound was superficial: part of his shattered desk, a sliver of metal, had sliced his forehead. There was a sharp smell of explosive. Shard waved at the faces, among them Elsie’s veneer, crowding the doorway: they’d all come — the man from the porn shop below, an off-duty waiter from a flat above Elsie. There was nothing they could do, and Shard told them so. “Job for the police,” he said, tongue in cheek.
“After your stamps, mate … reckon they meant to blow the safe.”
“Could be. Don’t worry, I’m all right. I’ll wait for the police.” He caught one of the shocked pairs of eyes. “Do me a favour, ring the cops?” He gestured at the remains of the desk. “I’m out of communication, myself.”
“Okay,” the man from the porn shop said, which was big of him: porn and police didn’t mix. He went off, taking the others. Shard pushed the door to, and surveyed the damage — caused, no doubt, by ‘Stanley Gibbons’. He grinned: there had been inefficiency, due perhaps to a degree of rush. Elsie must have caught the culprit on his way out, the door-knocking being merely propagandic. Anyway, the device had gone off prematurely, not waiting for him to sit down and activate the mechanism. The office was a shambles. The safe was scarred and pitted like smallpox, so were the walls and ceiling. And the door. Sheets of stamps hung askew. The metalwork of the desk had contained any outbreak of fire, fortunately. Within fifteen minutes, the bomb squad turned up: the DI in charge was an old comrade from the Yard days and and he knew discretion was called for the moment he saw Shard. No questions beyond the elicitation of the bare facts: he began a careful search and struck gold fast.
He got up from his knees. “You were dead lucky, sir. Had you the door between you and the blast?”
“I had.”
The DI nodded. “You’ve that to thank, then.”
“What was it?”
“Grenade,” the DI said briefly, holding a twisted piece of metal in his hand. “Swedish FFV 542. Very effective. Blasts out upwards of Five hundred splinters. Yes, you were very lucky. Any ideas who did it, sir?”
“Some,” Shard answered, but didn’t elaborate. “How about you? Any trade marks in your book?”
The DI sucked in a long breath, shaking his head. “Hard to say. Could be the Provos, but why? Why you, I mean? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
Shard grinned and said, “I’d sooner you didn’t, Frisby. But you could be right. Except that on the whole the Provos are more efficient, aren’t they?”
“Not always, no. Remember Birmingham? McDade blew himself up, didn’t he?” The bomb squad man took a slow look around: his DS was busy scraping up fragments and another man was dusting for prints, a forlorn task Shard fancied. “What do you want me to do, sir? Lay off, leave it up to you?”
“If I’d wanted that,” Shard answered, “I wouldn’t have brought you in at all. No — carry out your usual routines. There are other tenants here who have to be satisfied, if you get me. It’s just a stamp dealer’s office — nothing more. All right?”
The DI nodded. “Fully understood, sir.”
*
In the Charing Cross Road, Shard hailed a taxi and sat back as it took him towards Whitehall. He thought of the forces of terrorism and their various manifestations: Provos, Red Flag 74 and its updated versions, PLO, Al Fatah, Black September, Angry Brigade, plus a lot more who were not exactly terrorists but, in defence of their institutions, behaved as though they were. One sort of terrorism bred another ad infinitum: you just couldn’t win today. One of the sadnesses was that people grew accustomed to it in a way totally different from the war days. The Coventry and London blitzes, Portsmouth, Plymouth, Glasgow, Liverpool … they had brought good in their bloody train. They had welded the people together into one nation, urgent for victory: now, in the Seventies, that spirit had died the death. Except briefly after some appalling act of savagery against innocent civilians, there was no general sense of outrage; it was impersonal until it happened to you. No cohesion; an ordered society in which each man ploughed his furrow more or less contentedly had yielded place to the squalid disorder in which one group was continually set against another, and the result was that everyone was pre-occupied with increasing his share of the national cake: an uncaring, uncompassionate society had developed, a society of I’m all right Jack, anyway till the
next time … Shard gave a sigh as the taxi stopped near the Cenotaph. He jumped out, paid off the driver, and crossed the road towards the Foreign Office. Going straight to the security section, he found Detective Sergeant Kenwood: Kenwood, at Shard’s request, had recently been transferred to the section from the Yard.
“Anything new?” Shard asked. “In regard to Mrs Hedge?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“No leads in his house?”
“I found a blank. I’ve done all I can there.”
“Anything show in the prints?”
Kenwood shook his head. “Not a thing, sir. Only family and servants inside —”
“Front door?”
“No help. Postmen, tradesmen — you know the sort of thing.”
“Yes. The villains wore gloves!”
“Yes, sir. And the new processes, they’re not all that good yet.”
Shard nodded. Kenwood, who had been staring at the sticking-plaster that Shard had accepted from the porn shop owner, now asked his question: “What happened to you, sir?”
Shard told him. “Currently I’m homeless, workwise. I’ll use this office if that’s all right with you and Mr Hayward,” he added, naming his DI away on leave.
“Of course, sir.” Kenwood looked concerned. “Sure you don’t need stitches?”
“I probably do,” Shard admitted, “but I haven’t had the time. If you’d ring through —” He broke off: on Kenwood’s desk, a phone had burred. The DS answered, listened, caught his breath and stared up at Shard. Placing his hand over the mouthpiece he said, “Surrey Police, sir. The nick at Guildford. They’ve got who they think is Hedge’s wife.”
Blood Run East Page 5