In Worthing, following signs for the town centre, he stopped and asked for the police station.
“Union Place. First left after the next set of lights.” The man he’d asked looked ghastly in the yellow overhead lights: a bloated face. Shard shook himself free of negative thoughts and fancies: it was probably just a beer bloat; the trouble was, disease made everything feel unclean. You couldn’t fight bugs with normal police methods, they were not susceptible! He parked in Union Place and went into the police headquarters at the run. Opposite, a crowd of young people were coming out of the Conservative Party offices, laughing and joking, in high spirits that were due for a damper by morning. At the front office counter Shard demanded the Superintendent and within the minute was talking to him.
“Findon,” Shard said. “People dead in the street.”
“Findon valley,” the Superintendent said correctingly. “It’s different, Mr Shard —”
“Never mind that. How much do you know?”
“I know the score,” the Superintendent said briefly. “The Met’s been in touch.”
“Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine?”
“Right. So what do we do, sir?”
Shard hissed through his teeth: everyone was asking him what they did — but naturally, since he was the co-ordinator. He said, “Locally it’s up to you. Superintendent. This is just the beginning. How do you propose to cope?”
“It’s a big question. I have the CHP coming in any minute, if you —”
“CHP?”
“Community Health Physician, Mr Shard, formerly called Medical Officer of Health. He’s —” The police chief broke off as a telephone rang: he answered, spoke monosyllabically and glanced at Shard. “Not coming — Dr Ferraby. There have been more deaths.”
“Where?”
“Findon valley again, and Worthing Golf Club. Some late drinkers. Ferraby’s making arrangements for collection and isolation. He has his hands full —”
“The golf club — where’s that?”
“Closer in than Findon valley.”
Shard drummed his fingers. “It’s moving in, then. Look, Superintendent. Leave the medical side. There’s plenty of positive action your people can take outside of that. It won’t be popular, but what I’m asking is this: mobiles to patrol all areas with broadcast orders — everyone to remain in their homes until they’re given an all clear. All people off the streets as fast as they can get home. Public houses to be cleared and shut — likewise theatres, cinemas, bingo halls and what-have-you. It’s all we can do.”
The Superintendent looked dubious. “Over-reacting, isn’t it, Mr Shard?”
Shard gave a hard laugh. “Wait till you see for yourself. No, it’s not over-reacting. If you have any difficulty with the Town Hall, quote a directive from Whitehall — you have full authority pending what I shall recommend as the next step, which is a state of emergency that may lead to Martial Law.”
“Troops?”
Shard nodded. “You’ll need them in any case — you won’t have enough men to cope. Just as soon as you feel that need, ring my office in London and men will be sent from Aldershot or Portsmouth.” He paused. “Time’s short … and I have a personal problem. I don’t know if you can help.”
“What is it, Mr Shard?”
“I have a mother-in-law —”
“Haven’t we all!”
Shard grinned tightly. “I’m glad you understand. She’s here in Worthing. I want her out.” Briefly, he explained. “She’s an argumentative old lady and I haven’t the time, or I’d bundle her into my car. I know you can’t spare a mobile, but I’m asking you to just the same. Will you prise her loose from her aunt and drive her up to Ealing?” He added, “As her son-in-law I’m not taken seriously as a copper. Uniform will help. Arrest her, hijack her, do what you bloody well like — but get her out!”
*
Driving back the way he had come, Shard pondered on his own actions and motivations: he could, and he knew it, have consulted by telephone with Worthing nick. He had come in person because Mrs Micklam, or more precisely Beth, had nagged at his mind. A personal talk with the Superintendent had seemed a better prospect than a phone call when it came to Mrs Micklam. So time had been lost, and now Worthing was to be deprived of a police mobile: Shard tried to console himself with the thought that the army would soon be making up the numbers, but he knew he had acted in a way no top copper should ever act. The Superintendent had demurred, and strongly: Shard had over-ruled him on his own patch, and now the taste of it was bitter. By not too great a stretch of the imagination, more people could die as a result. A jingle came into his mind: Oh Mother-in-law, oh Mother-in-law, you’ve a hell of a lot to answer for.
As he took the roundabout for the road back to Steyning a police patrol came up ahead of him, blue light flashing, moving slowly, loud-hailer passing the orders received from HQ on the car radio: “May I have your attention, please. This is a police instruction. All persons are to clear the streets, return to their homes immediately, and remain indoors until a further broadcast. I repeat, this is a police instruction …”
The voice faded into Shard’s slipstream. He kept a watch out as he drove: there was a handful of people about, maybe making for home but not hurrying. As of now, they just didn’t know … it was going to be one hell of a job to give them any reassurance in the morning, to try to keep the knowledge localised. Probably impossible; but before leaving the nick Shard had impressed the need for secrecy still on the police chief. The Press was to be muzzled, was not to give a squeak; the lid was to be put firmly on Radio Brighton’s local information-feed. All this, Shard had said, would be confirmed to the Chief Constable from Whitehall. The longer they could hold the news, the longer they could hold Worthing incommunicado, the better the hope of preventing national panic leading to that next stage of emergency and Martial Law. And national panic was not the best of backgrounds against which to seek out Lavington and his brothers in horror.
Looking out for more bodies, Shard found none. But he felt unclean, and kept his windows tight closed, until he had passed through the roadside straggle of houses that was Ashington on the London road. And all the time he felt the beastliness on the move, creeping up behind him.
*
In the FO the security section was fully manned, even as far as Hedge and, standing by in his own suite, the Head of Department. There was a sense of doom, almost of waiting for fate, for events to take their own course. Full reports of the Worthing deaths had come in, and Hedge was in a bad way.
“No leads to this man Lavington, Shard?”
“None.”
Hedge shook. “We’ll have the PM on our backs. He’s already been through in person, raising Cain.”
“Not surprising! We’re doing all we can. Worthing’s sealed in its various homes. What’s the top view now, on secrecy?”
“To be maintained as long as possible.”
Shard nodded. “As I thought. Troop movements?”
“They’ll be explained away as security manoeuvres, just routine like Heathrow and Gatwick in the past. There’ll be a news item over the BBC first thing, all the early broadcasts.”
“No mention of disease?”
“No,” Hedge said. “Not that the villains will be fooled, of course — but that’s not the point. The point’s to avoid —”
“Panic — yes, I know.”
“This Lavington,” Hedge said after a pause. “No doubt we assume he let loose this — this bloating sickness, but why? Doesn’t the mere fact that he did so give a pointer to where he is, or where he’s been anyway?”
“Been is the operative word. Worthing police are looking out, but I don’t expect much. He only had to go down into Findon and out again — not much time taken — scattering his bloody pepper-pot on the way. My guess is, he’s given us a pre-view. An earnest of what’s to come when his friends blow the lot. He’ll want national panic.”
Hedge flapped his arms, panicking himself. “I wish
to God we knew why, knew what they want!”
“It’ll come,” Shard said. Hedge’s internal line burred, and he answered.
“For you, Shard. Your DS — he wants you in your office. Can’t he talk to you over the phone?” Hedge sounded pettish.
“I’ll ask,” Shard said, and took over the handset. “What is it, Harry?” He listened: it seemed that Beth was on the line, and Shard knew why. Knowing this was something he had to bring into the open sooner or later, he told Kenwood to put Beth through to him. When she came on, her voice accused him of naked abduction: Mrs Micklam, yanked from her aunt’s house by force, by police in uniform, was livid. In what had taken place, she saw dire action of her son-in-law, and she wanted to know why.
“That,” Shard said, “is what she can’t know. Believe me, it’s all for the best. You’ll know in time, Beth dear.” He listened impatiently to yacking in the background of his home, to Beth’s tight voice over it, and he cut in sharp. “No good, Beth. She’s home and you must be thankful. I don’t want to hear any more about it. And here’s an order, all official and red taped: you’re not to say a word. Nor is your mother. Just this: she found her aunt was all right and she came back to you. Night, Beth. I’ll be home when I can.”
He rang off. Hedge was staring as at a ghost or a lunatic. “Shard, what was that all about?”
Shard explained. “I’m sorry, Hedge —”
“Sorry. Sorry! Good God, you ought to be shot!”
“I probably will be … by my mother-in-law.”
Hedge raved. “Don’t joke! You’ve behaved abominably!”
“Family matters, Hedge —”
“Policemen don’t have families. Shard, when it comes to duty.”
“True. I do take your point. But families happen to exist notwithstanding. Some more than others. And I assure you, nothing’s been lost. Mrs Micklam doesn’t know anything and won’t till it’s all over. I admit depriving Worthing of a mobile, but I admit nothing else.”
“You’ll have to explain to —”
“Shut up, Hedge.”
Hedge stood with his mouth open. “What was that?”
“You heard,” Shard said briefly. “What’s done is done, and I’ve had a lousy day. You didn’t see what I saw. In spite of it, I still aim to be a good copper — more so, in fact. But I’m in no mood to put up with pinpricks so just button yourself up tight and bake your wrath for another day.”
Hedge was speechless, face mottled and plumply shaking. He waved his arms again, was brought up short like a fat scarecrow by yet another burr of the internal line. He answered. “For you again,” he said. There was something in his tone and in his eyes that told Shard this was not connected with Mrs Micklam. His voice shook a little with important news. “Kenwood has Dr Lavington on the line, and he wants you.”
Shard grabbed the phone. “Harry, I’ll be right down. Don’t transfer him — hold him and intercept.” He put the phone back. “You’d better come along, Hedge.” They went down together to Shard’s office. Kenwood was holding on; he indicated another line. Shard used it. There was a hush in the room as he spoke. “Shard here. Where are you. Doctor?”
“Never mind that, Chief Superintendent. Just listen.” There was a pause. “You’ve been in Worthing —”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t. It’s an assumption, and evidently justified. You know about the deaths —”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I removed some cultures, and some other things. Ready-use viruses, if you like.” The voice was disembodied, telephone-metallic but utterly threatening and inherently lethal, the sound of dedication that had turned the wrong way. “I’m afraid it’ll spread, Mr Shard.”
“How far?”
“All Worthing is at immediate risk. I doubt if you’ll be able to contain it there. However, this is just a demonstration. There will be others, in various parts of the country, culminating in a wholesale scattering of what we discussed, if you remember —”
“I remember. But why? Who are you working for, Lavington?”
A laugh came along the line, smote Shard’s ear like a knell. There was something crazy in it, an exaltation, and hearing it Shard believed his suggestion to Hedge to have been spot on: Lavington saw himself as power personified, as very God. “I think you know enough to make a guess, Mr Shard, at who I’m working for … but the whys and wherefores are far beyond your level. They’re the concern of government. I —”
“Then why ring me?”
“Ah — you’re my intermediary! You’ve seen for yourself — you’ll even have seen Azzam. You precipitated this by bringing him in —”
“How did you do that, Lavington?”
There was a laugh. “Substitution — you played into my hands! The liquid looked no different from water, did it?”
“I mean the bowl. The knocking over.”
“He didn’t knock it over,” Lavington said. “It had a built-in shatter if you like. It was easy enough to fix.”
“And Azzam trusted you, of course.”
“Of course! But let’s get back to the point, shall we? I say again, you’ve seen for yourself now. So your job as my intermediary is to tell the authorities exactly what can happen next — what is going to happen unless they co-operate. Soften them up, Mr Shard, all ready for when certain people make contact direct with the Prime Minister. You can do it. It’s up to you. If you fail … but I think you know the rest, don’t you?”
The call was cut. Shard looked across at Kenwood, who also rang off and took up another line. Hedge demanded, “What was all that, Shard?”
Shard repeated all Lavington had said. Hedge’s face lost its hunting pink and he began to gabble about rushing Shard off to Downing Street for a personal Prime Minister-impressment session. Shard soothed him, though he felt sick in the guts himself. After a delay that seemed endless the phone on Kenwood’s desk burred. Kenwood answered, looked up at Shard.
“Any luck, Harry?”
Kenwood gestured, listened, rang off. “I’d call it efficiency, sir. And good co-operation —”
“Come on, for —”
“Yes, sir. I’d half expected this, so I asked for an automatic check on all inward calls. They report place of origin, an AA call-box on the A-31, west of Ringwood —”
“Ringwood? Heading west … west for Nancekuke in darkest Cornwall, d’you suppose?”
“Could be a blind, sir. He could go north from there, fast.”
“True. But it’s a chance worth taking. Well done. Harry. Now — get Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, ask for all mobiles in the area — tell him I’m asking him to contact all Chief Constables likely to be concerned — say, from West Sussex westwards to Cornwall and north along that line up as far as Bristol — and along to Oxfordshire. And I want road blocks on all roads in the vicinity of the call-box … all traffic, repeat all traffic, to be stopped and questioned. All right, Harry?”
“Will do, sir.” Kenwood was already on the line to the Yard.
“Now. Hedge.” Shard’s face was tight. “I’m going in myself. I can be contacted on my car radio at any time I’m wanted. In the meantime. Hedge, Lavington spoke of culmination and a wholesale scattering. The way things are shaping, I smell the dropping of bombs. I suggest you make immediate contact with Defence Ministry and get RAF Strike Command in the air from now on out.”
12
A BLIND IT could well be: Lavington would have known his call could be traced; he’d hung on while Shard and Hedge had gone down to take the call from Kenwood and by so doing had given them extra time. There could have been an intent in that. Currently, Lavington could be heading anywhere. He would have had the time to vanish before Shard’s message had gone through. And, despite the efficiency that had produced the tracing of Lavington’s phone call, there had been a distinct lack of observation on the part of the mobiles: Lavington had come a long way from Worthing without being spotted, though his car registration had been notified to a
ll police districts. True he could have switched cars; but there had been no report of his own being found abandoned. Shard, as he drove fast out of London on the M-3 for the A-30 and Salisbury, knew he was taking a long shot, but not too long: Lavington had been in the Ringwood area within the last half-hour and by now the net would be drawing in tight. Shard cursed the traffic as he left the M-3 beyond Basingstoke: even though it was night, there were plenty of cars heading west. The holiday season was getting into its swing, and never mind the price of petrol: during the summer months twenty million people would nose-to-tail it down into Devon and Cornwall. Shard gave a hard smile, a grimace: come morning, if perchance Lavington happened still to be on the road west, he could be picked up at leisure in the ten-mile jam on the Exeter by-pass. Maybe! Lavington was not, in fact, a fool.
Blood Run East Page 13