Shard was met by a uniformed inspector.
“I’m Shard. Who wants me?”
“Foreign Office, sir, a Mr Hedge.”
Shard ground his teeth and hoped the interruption to his flight was justifiable: with Hedge, you could never be sure. With no time wasted, the police car took him through to the station while the helicopter waited further orders. In the nick Shard called Hedge back and a voice high with agitation answered.
“Shard, at last! Thank God! What have you been doing?” Hedge, having asked the question, cut in on the answer. “Well, never mind that. You’re to come back here —”
“Who says?”
“I do. It’s an order. Shard, so please don’t argue. You’re wanted at the centre, you’re the co-ordinator, not just another field man. Besides, there’s something else.”
“What, Hedge?”
“The police patrol outside Guildford — you remember — the one that was shot up —”
“Yes — Azzam’s mates. Well?”
“We’ve picked up two more. The details can await your arrival, but there’s something curious: they appear to check with your description of two of the men who were involved in your conference, the one that originated in the buffet at King’s Cross. Get here, Shard, and make it fast.”
Hedge rang off. Angrily, Shard called him back. “Come I will, but I’m not self-propelled. I’ll helicopter into Heathrow. Make sure there’s a car waiting for me there.”
*
The Launceston nick provided breakfast from its canteen: fried eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade, hot strong coffee rustled up in double-quick time. In the helicopter Shard, who was used to cat-napping in uncomfortable positions, snatched some urgently needed sleep interspersed with nightmares about disease germs. While breakfasting in the nick he’d listened to a BBC news broadcast: nothing had broken, security held good so far. There were widespread military-cum-police exercises in progress leading to horrible delays on the holiday routes west and the public was irritated but that was all. Nothing about overall house-confinement in Worthing — a miracle of muzzling that couldn’t possibly last much longer. Inside Worthing, of course, it would be a different story already and a leak was utterly unavoidable: for one thing, the inward commuters from the country areas, held off by the police road blocks, were going to buzz like bees at any moment now. For Shard’s money, the national panic they all wanted to avoid was about to break and when it did they would be sunk …
On arrival in the Foreign Office Shard found Hedge doing his pink-panther prowl around the room: and on his desk a collection of prophylactics and panaceas, a hypochondriac’s delight. Pills and potions, ointments, surgical gauze mouth-masks and a throat spray: Shard hooted; he couldn’t contain it. “What’s all this, Hedge?” He picked up a tin of ointment. “Cures coughs, colds, sore holes, and pimples on the —”
“Oh, put it down!” Hedge snapped furiously, reddening. “You never know — one must be prepared.” He simmered, prowling still. First of all he had to unburden his mind of things that had been pricking at him. “All this gallivanting!” he said, sounding withering. “You’re not thinking as a top man should, you’re still too much the bobby on the beat, which is ridiculous considering —”
“Let’s stop considering it for now, Hedge. There simply isn’t time. These men: where are they, where were they picked up, and when, and how?”
“They’re in the custody of the airport police at Gatwick, which is where they were picked up early this morning —”
“Why?”
“Acting suspiciously —
Shard said, “Oh, my God! That’s really watertight —”
“Under the anti-terrorist laws, anything’s watertight for five days, as well you know, my dear Shard!” Hedge’s eyes shone angrily. “Allow me to explain. They were observed to be nervous at the security check for Orly, which was the flight they were booked on, and they were hooked out for further questioning. That shook them more. Nothing was found on their persons — no guns, no bombs, no disease capsules — nor in their luggage. But a bright lad from the Home Office staff ticked over very smartly — he recalled the circulated descriptions of your King’s Cross friends. Shard — and he had them held while he contacted London. This was referred to me via Hesseltine, and I ordered a clamp pending your arrival here.”
“I see. Your bright lad was really bright, and I’m grateful. You’ve not been down?”
Hedge bridled. “Not my job. You’re the one who met the King’s Cross lot.”
“Sure. But Hedge … why do you connect them with the villains who shot up the Guildford patrol car?”
Hedge smiled. “My wife. She’s a good deal better, I’m thankful to say. She gave us a description yesterday. That was circulated too. And it checks. Get down to Gatwick, will you?”
Shard nodded. “I’ll gallivant right away —”
“I do hate it when you’re funny, Shard.”
“My apologies. Before I go, I’d like to stress the need to stop any leaks. Worthing must be on the brink of panic.”
Hedge needed no reminders. He said, “That’s been considered by the Cabinet, of course. Paramountly, or should I say, second only to actual negation of the threat. I —”
“What’s been done, Hedge?”
“Directives,” Hedge answered pompously, “to the BBC and ITA, very positive ones. Likewise all newspaper proprietors and editors, national and provincial. The directives are provided with sharp teeth.”
“Well, I just hope it works, that’s all! We’ll never hold it in the Worthing area, that’s for sure.” Shard paused, rubbed at tired eyes. “What’s the news from there?”
“More deaths — forty-three all told. A fast increase.”
“Bloating sickness?”
“Yes. They’re making use of their natural resources — the sea. All known contacts have been told to take a dip, though we don’t in fact know if seawater acts as a preventive. It may be simply a cure or an arrestor once it’s contracted.”
“And the forty-three, Hedge?”
Hedge shrugged. “They weren’t quick enough.”
Shard looked at Hedge’s face: there was a whiteness and a tightness, an unhealthy look, a look of deep fear. Worthing was not so far away and there was, or was normally anyway, any amount of traffic and commuting into London. Victoria Station, for one, might in Hedge’s eyes be already contaminated. In point of fact it wouldn’t be: with everyone in their homes, there was no movement, but Shard could appreciate Hedge’s fearfulness and his instinctive withdrawal-wish from filth. Nevertheless, it raised another point; Shard put it into words. “British Rail, Hedge.”
Hedge looked up. “What about it?”
“At the Worthing railway stations, they’ll know. Even if the police put a stopper on reports to Victoria and points east-west, the receiving stations are going to wonder rather more than a bit when no passengers come in.”
“Yes. That’s been considered too. We’re not fools, Shard. Certain people have to be told, naturally.”
“And other people have eyes. Taxi-drivers, bus crews.” Shard shook his head. “It’s going to break any minute. I hope the Home Office is ready, Hedge.”
“As ready as possible. There’s so much to consider.” Hedge ticked off some of the considerations on his fingers. “The hospital services, ambulances, isolation of contacts — impossible, really! Schools — protection of children, evacuation to safe areas — only we don’t know where the safe areas are.” He raised his hands, let them drop again. “Not our worry, of course. Not directly, that is.”
Shard said, “Personnel in the stock-holding points. Porton and the others. What do we do?”
“That’s Defence Ministry —”
“Sure. But I’d like to know. Are they considering an evacuation or not?”
“Not,” Hedge said flatly, wiping at his face with a linen handkerchief. “No dispersal of personnel or stocks. Too risky — it could leave the stocks more vulnerable to some
other method of attack, some alternative we don’t suspect —”
“Perimeter guards?”
“They’re not a hundred per cent security, are they?” Hedge was shaking; he looked flabbier than ever, soft and badly rattled. Shard left him to his gloomy fears and speculations, and went down to his own office to tell Detective Sergeant Kenwood he was on the move again. “I can be contacted at Gatwick, Harry.”
“Yes, sir. Like me to come?”
Shard paused with his hand on the door. “You’re needed here. Otherwise —”
“Inspector Hayward’s answered his recall from leave, sir. He’s back.”
“He is, is he? All right, Harry. Where’s Mr Hayward now?”
“With the passport section, sir.”
Shard nodded. “Leave a note for him, and we’ll go.”
“Car?” Kenwood’s hand was on the internal telephone.
“No,” Shard said. “It’s quicker by train … or it will be today! And I want to take a look at Victoria.” Going down, they hopped a taxi in Parliament Street and were dropped in the station forecourt. The lack of customers from the Worthing area was not especially noticeable in the forecourt; but once inside the station Shard sensed a difference in the atmosphere. On the arrival and departure indicator boards, Worthing — East, Central and West plus Durrington, Goring-by-Sea and Littlehampton — had been deleted. Trains ran, said the boards, to and from East Croydon, Haywards Heath, Preston Park and Brighton; the mid-Sussex route was open to Littlehampton via Barnham. Crowds stared up at the boards, bewildered, puzzled: as Shard and Kenwood crossed from the ticket hall to the platform for Gatwick, a station announcement came over the Tannoy: “Once again we apologise for any inconvenience to our passengers, delay on trains to and from Worthing due to power difficulties in the Worthing area …”
Shard grunted. “Clumsy,” he said to Kenwood.
“Sir?”
“It’d never wash with a self-respecting train-spotter. But I suppose it’ll have to do. It’s too late anyway. Know something, Harry?”
“What, sir?”
“By tonight, we’ll be in a state of Martial Law.” Shard pushed through the barrier, proffering his ticket: the ticket-collector, unless it was only in the imagination, was tense, looking as if he wanted to make a run for it, wishing he was at Euston so he could hop a train into Scotland. In the carriage travelling Gatwickwards, Shard pondered dourly on Martial Law. Once, it could have worked; today there were not enough troops to enforce it fully. Panic could overwhelm the military power physically. The only safeguard would be to make the penalties so severe that they became a worse prospect than diseases and nerve gases, but such was surely impossible … Shard’s mind went back to Imperial Germany, the Kaiser’s Germany: the Kaiser had had the power to declare Germany belagerungszustand. — in a state of siege. He had been required to give no reason, and once he had made his declaration then any citizen, no matter how eminent he might be, could be given a summary sentence of execution by the military power; and against this there was no appeal, the civil courts and civil authority being stripped of their powers. The rifle and the bayonet ruled supreme. But there was a basic difference between the German and the British peoples, and today was two generations on …
The train stopped at Gatwick: less than thirty miles from Worthing … Shard gave an involuntary shiver, braced himself and walked to the airport terminal to report to the police office.
*
“I think,” Shard said in a quiet voice, “we’ve met before. Right?”
“Right,” one of the men said, meeting his eye. Both had refused to give any names beyond what was on their passports: James Henry Turville O’Riordan, and Sean Conroy Stephens. These could be genuine or not, and a check was being made while Shard spoke to them. He spoke to them in a room guarded as to the outside, and with Detective-Sergeant Kenwood standing with his back to the inside of the door.
“You were booked for Orly. Why?”
The answer was a shrug.
“To put the Channel between yourself and disease?”
A laugh. “It’d be a sensible thing to do. I told you, Mr Shard, this is for real. Didn’t I tell you that, now?”
“You did. Now I want you to tell me some more, O’Riordan.”
Again the man shrugged. “I’ve nothing to say.”
“I think you’ll change your mind shortly. You know what’s in the balance. There’s no time for the niceties. It’s going to be a real interrogation, like what happens in Northern Ireland when the extremists catch up with someone who’s done them dirt. Do you get me, O’Riordan?”
“Sure I get you,” O’Riordan said. He had a hard face and a determined one, with a massive jaw: the other man, Stephens, was clearly the weaker of the two and might well be concentrated upon.
Shard said, “I’m taking you to London, gentlemen.”
“What for?”
“Familiar ground for me. What I’m going to do, I don’t want the airport police to know about. You’ll be held without charges being made, and you’re going to talk.” He paused. “Just a moment, though. I’ve had another thought.” He looked across at Kenwood. “Harry?”
“Sir?”
“Two cars, police cars, and two PCs plus drivers. Right away, Harry.”
Kenwood turned to open the door and pass the word. He asked, “To go where, sir?”
Shard said, “Worthing, Harry.”
There was shock in Kenwood’s face: he had guessed already. Shard, watching the reaction from O’Riordan and Stephens, saw that they, too, had an inkling: he found this interesting. He said, “Go to it, Harry. I want these bastards to see for themselves … and to be handy for a touch of the bloats if they don’t use their God-given tongues.” As Kenwood passed the message for the car, Shard swung back on the two prisoners. “You heard what I said and I’ve an idea you fully understand. I mean every word. If you don’t talk, I’ll find a corpse, God help me, and I’ll bloody well tie you to it.” His eyes blazed with a kind of madness and his hands shook.
*
O’Riordan and Stephens were each handcuffed to a PC and taken out to the cars with Shard and Kenwood in close attendance and with fingers around the butts of their revolvers: on Shard’s personal order, the PCs were armed as well, so were the police drivers. As the procession neared the cars, which were ready with their engines idling but blue lamps not yet on, something incredible, something in the circumstances almost lunatic, happened: Shard might never have noticed had not Stephens jerked his head round, and stopped, pulling back on his handcuffed wrist. Shard caught a glimpse of the reaction in O’Riordan’s face as he too looked and saw Stephens’s expression. O’Riordan was not happy: turning to look where the two men’s interest lay, Shard had the feeling he was going off his head: just entering the main hall of the terminal building was the utterly impossible: Katie Farrell, unmistakable even though she had taken pains to alter her appearance, unmistakable even though she was dead.
The world had gone crazy.
14
“TAKE OVER, HARRY. I’ll be right back.”
Shard went into the building, moving at speed. He caught sight of Katie Farrell, buying a paperback at the bookstall, cool as ice. Dead she was, yet this was her, he would have sworn it. And she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t appeared to notice the prisoners outside either — they didn’t have to be known to her in any case. Shard, about to make a rush for her, checked himself, his mind racing. This could lead somewhere: she might be of more value if she was to be followed. Making his decision, Shard ran back for the police cars and called for Harry Kenwood. “Katie Farrell,” he said. “I’ll point her out. I don’t know where she’s going, but I want you to tail her all the way. I’ll Fix it for you ticketwise et cetera. Come along, Harry.” They ran back into the main concourse: Katie Farrell was moving away, heading for the stairs leading up to the buffets: Shard pointed her out, and Kenwood nodded, moved away behind her, and climbed. Kenwood she did not know, she wouldn’t be susp
icious: there were plenty of people around as usual, much coming and going. Shard left him to it and went for the Home Office section, who contacted airport security: discreet messages went to all departure points. Shard went back for the exit, pondering on Katie Farrell. Substitution of bodies he could take: it happened from time to time — say when someone wanted to collect on an insurance policy maybe, or something similar. Plenty of women had had abdominal operations that left scars. The faking of a birthmark was more difficult, but was far from impossible: the burning end of a cigarette, or a makeshift branding iron might do that. So okay! What Shard did not believe in was coincidence; it was odd to say the least that two shoot-up villains should turn up at Gatwick at the same time as Miss Katie Farrell, alive and kicking. Back in the car, and it was not O’Riordan but Stephens that he chose to travel with, he mentioned the point, casually, after they had moved away onto the A-23 heading south fast.
“Funny,” he said.
“What is, Mr Shard?”
Shard smiled. “As if you didn’t know!”
“Didn’t know what, for Christ’s sake?”
“People show up in funny places, and at funny times … don’t they?”
Stephens turned to the window and stared out. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, “and that’s the truth.”
“Is it? I wonder! You had a good look yourself, and your friend Mr O’Riordan didn’t like that. He wasn’t surprised, though. Not like I was.” Shard paused, whistling softly through his teeth. Pleasantly he said, “I never did tell you — that day after King’s Cross — that Katie Farrell was dead, did I? Not that it matters, what does matter is, who put that body where I found it? Come to that, whose body? That’s going to matter to someone when all this lot’s over.”
“But not to me or O’Riordan,” Stephens said disagreeably.
“No? We’ll have to see, won’t we? In the meantime there’s something else you can tell me, and it’s this: why were you and O’Riordan meeting Miss Farrell at Gatwick, h’m?”
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