Call for Simon Shard

by Philip McCutchan

  *

  “It’s Elbow Twenty,” he said when he came back. Men reassembled from out of the thorns, picking and dusting down: this was a long way from city streets. “But there’s no life. No light anywhere. I took a look all around. It’s a big house. Funny.” Maybe he’d sounded odd, sounded shaken. Hill asked, “What’s up, Mr. Shard? What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not squeamish…or never have been. I’ve seen death, seen bodies. I’ve even smelt them. But this time — and out here…”

  “Out here, what?”

  Shard gave himself a shake. “Oh, I don’t know! Round the back of the house, there’s a most foul smell…like wind off a crematorium. I was in North Africa once…passed close to a bloody great heap of dead — Arabs, who’d died from typhus, an epidemic. Being burned. Similar smell.”

  There was a silence. Someone asked, “So what do we do, sir?”

  Shard said, “Oh, we’re going in. Now.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Quietly up the drive behind Shard, all guns ready to the touch. Three Georgian storeys loomed above the wide stone porch. In the porch Shard found an old-fashioned bell, and pulled hard. Loud jangles sounded, somewhere deep in the house, in a basement. Nothing else happened. Shard’s nerves felt jagged, raw: the whole ambience of this place depressed him. The drive, disdaining common thorn, had wound its gravelly way between high ledges of laurel, smelling damp, thick and enclosing, giving a highly claustrophobic, end-of-the-world feeling, especially with rain and invisible low cloud pressing down.

  Once again Shard pulled and there were more jangles from the depths. Men shifted from one foot to another, uneasy as Shard himself. Then, around the curtains of a wide window to the right of the massive front door, darkness gave way to a faint glow, a glow not like that of electricity but

  of an oil lamp. Then there were sounds: locks and bolts and heavy breathing. The door swung inwards, and there was Tuball, lamp in hand and held high.

  Shard said, “Good-evening, Mr. Tuball.”

  “You!” There was a catch of breath, sharp, frightened now. The door swung to close again, but Shard’s foot was in the way. Shard flung the great door inwards, almost unbalancing Tuball, almost sending the lamp dangerously from his grip.

  “We’re coming in, Mr. Tuball.”

  “No — ”

  “Oh, yes! So stand back or you might get hurt.” They crowded in behind Shard, waiting for action but as yet no guns in sight. Tuball shook and his eyes seemed to blaze madly with the reflected glow of the oil lamp. But he made an effort to command the situation even as he backed inwards from the door.

  “I don’t know why you’re hounding me like this. I’ve a perfect right to be here.”

  “Your house?”

  “A friend's house.”

  “Your friend’s name, Mr. Tuball?”

  “I can’t see it’s any business of yours, Mr. Shard.”

  “I repeat the question, but in a different way: your friend — is he here?”

  Tuball didn’t answer right away: then he seemed to make a decision, seemed to find a certain inevitability now that he should co-operate. “Yes, he’s here.”

  “I’d like to talk to him, Mr. Tuball.”

  “Yes, very well, you shall. You’ll see that I’m here by invitation, not — ”

  “I’ve never suggested the contrary. Shut the front door, if you please, Mr. Tuball.” Tuball did so. The door shut with a hollow sound of finality. Shard looked round in such light as there was: a big square hall, panelled in dark old oak, a broad red-carpeted staircase flowing up from one side, on the other side a green baize door from which in days gone by a staid butler might well have ascended from his basement kingdom. At the back of the hall, another door, also oak, and dark, and old. A beautiful house, hiding something extremely nasty.

  “Now, Mr. Tuball, your friend.” Shard sounded brisk: briskness, a workaday facade, might erode the weird aura of the fenland fringe. “How do you…summon him? Ring a bell, or just shout?”

  “I’ll call him. He’s in the basement.” Tuball and his lamp moved towards the green-baize door, but were halted by Shard. “Just a moment, Mr. Tuball.”

  Tuball turned. “Yes?”

  “We’re coming down. Unannounced.”

  “But I can — ”

  “Move back from the door, Mr. Tuball.” Shard brought out his automatic now. “I’ll go down first. Sergeants Hill and Willoughby, behind Mr. Tuball. Gear stays in the hall. All right?”

  “All right, sir.” Hill and Willoughby closed towards the door to the basement. Gear moved back so that he commanded both the front door and the hall.

  “Now, Mr. Tuball. I advise you to move carefully. The officers behind you will react very quickly indeed to anything, I repeat anything, that strikes them as suspicious.” Shard paused, studying Tuball’s face, which was now grey and tight and held a nervous twitch, a kind of pecking movement of the longish nose. “Before we go down…have you anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Not — for instance — about Petersen and Bunt, in Sydney?”

  “I know nothing of Petersen or Bunt. I’ve told you that before.”

  Shard smiled. “So you have, so you have. Then you won’t know that they’re dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “As mutton, Mr. Tuball. Or as fish…they turned up in Sydney harbour. Strange, is that…isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. Why ask me? I tell you — I don’t know these men!”

  “No? Well, I won’t delay any more.” Shard took the brass handle of the green-baize door, turned it, opened the way to the cellars. Scrubbed, uncarpeted wooden steps descended into darkness. Shard flicked on his torch, which was more effective than Tuball’s lamp. There was a scurry of small feet, mice or rats, a creaking as Shard’s weight came on the top step — and, insidious and indescribably foul, the stench that had hit him when he had made his prowl around the back of the house earlier.

  He brought out his handkerchief and, held it to his nose. “The smell, Mr. Tuball. What is it?”

  Tuball moved, suddenly and very fast. He seemed to leap at Shard, threw the oil lamp towards his face, sending him sideways, smashing the torch from his grip. Behind Shard, Willoughby fired blind: a big flash of light, much noise, the smell of gunpowder temporarily overlaying the other smell: but no Tuball. The oil lamp had missed Shard but the running paraffin was everywhere, catching the bone-dry wood of the basement stairs, licking back around the green-baize door, and making the three men stand out as though floodlit.

  “Down the stairs!” Shard called. “One bloody big rush!”

  Down they went, trusting to luck that there would be another way out: in fact, a safe enough bet. All too likely, Tuball would have taken it himself, so would his unknown friend. But not, apparently, yet. As the dreadful stench increased until the men felt drowned in it, a door, visible in the flickers of fire now taking a firm hold, opened to the right at the bottom of the steps. Shard yelled a warning: briefly a man showed — Tuball: a flash came, and behind

  Shard Willoughby gave a gasp and rolled down the rest of the stairs, gushing blood from his throat. Shard had fired back instantly: the bullet embedded in the thickness of the fast-closed door, and from beyond it they heard a muffled but high, feverish laugh. Shard and Hill cleared the staircase, which was crackling dangerously now.

  Shard bent to Willoughby; dead.

  Hard-faced, Shard picked up his torch, lying on stone slab flooring. Bust. He chucked it down again, peered into shadow, throwing his own shadow as the orange light burned behind him.

  “Door!” Hill shouted suddenly. There was an explosion close to Shard as he turned. The door had opened again, and now stayed open — wedged by a body, not Tuball’s. Hill said, “Got the bastard.” He went forward crouching but at the rush, gun ready again. He examined the body, looked up at Shard. “Dead. Sorry about that, sir.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I meant as to e
vidence.”

  “I know, Alan. Not to worry. It’s Tuball I want alive, Tuball I mean to get.” Shard was thinking not only of Detective Sergeant Willoughby: he was thinking of two small children near Narromine, now filling two small graves. That was down to Tuball. Giving the cold-blooded order in safe remoteness, in the sacred name of money, was worse in Shard’s book than actual execution. The brains, when twisted like Tuball’s, were always nastier than the mere brawn. Shard was thinking also of ruined lives — God alone knew just how many and what the misery. All in the name of money and power.

  Thinking on the move: through the doorway, no Tuball yet — he could have gone behind the gun-cover of his dead friend, or he could be lurking still, with gun. On, along a kind of tunnel: into that appalling smell, and a close but muffled sound of…crackling?

  There was another door. Shard turned the handle: not locked. He pushed, waited, pushed a little more: there was light, and smell so fearfully increased that he knew, now, he had reached its source. Opening the door farther, he saw a window giving onto what seemed to be a trench — the area, around the basement. The window was open, it was big enough to take Tuball, who had no doubt exited through it. But just for the moment Tuball was forgotten.

  Shard knew what it was like to have his hair stand on end.

  The cellar, all stone but for the ceiling which was protected by a clumsy structure of asbestos sheeting held like a canopy by steel supports, was an open crematorium: on a long slate-topped table lay the flaccid wax that was the body of Tanya Gorukin, no longer ice-packed. Deterioration had not in fact proceeded too far: the face was still beautiful, still haunting, still entirely recognisable. Tanya Gorukin’s corpse was being burnt from the legs upward: a blowlamp was still flaring, biting into the left calf muscles, and fat was running like tallow.

  Shaking like a leaf, Shard went forward and turned it off.

  He felt like crying, like babbling hysterical nonsense. Why start at the feet? Why not the face? If you wanted to render a body useless for the declared purpose of sending it back to Russia, wasn’t the face the place to start? Just in case you were interrupted in the middle of the job? In an unsteady voice Shard said, “God, but he’s a confident bastard, is Tuball! Now we’ll go and get him, Alan.”

  *

  Out through that window, leaving the body in situ but no longer burning.

  “Burning!” Shard said. “God, that staircase!”

  Hill ticked over. “Get the body out, sir?”

  “Too right. And into cover till we can spirit it away. No-one’s got to know.”

  They crawled back in, trying to close their nostrils, trying to close their minds. Revolted, Shard took the scarred, bone-bare legs, Hill the head. Afterwards, they couldn’t have said how they achieved it. A process of pulling and pushing, heaving, lifting, of trying very hard to keep everything intact and beat the fire building up fast behind them. They were joined by Detective Sergeant Gear, who on his own initiative had left the hall to seek back exits when the fire started. Gear had a bullet-grazed forearm but was able to lend a hand.

  “Tuball?” Shard asked, breathing hard, sweating like a pig but scarcely noticing his exertions.

  “Gone, sir. Clear away. I’m sorry.”

  Gear was staring down. “My God, what’s that?”

  “Valuable property. Dig in, Gear. We have to get her out of the area.”

  Gear leaned down. The head was eased up towards him. He took a grip and heaved. That way, they got the body up and laid it gently on damp grass. Shard and the others stood up. They were all sick, retching, gasping, tearing their stomachs out. After a minute Shard said, “Into the bushes, don’t let anyone see.” He gestured towards the basement. “Soon, all the neighbourhood’s going to be around, plus fire engines. Get her away, then one of you come back and help me. I’m going in to get Willoughby.”

  *

  The fire lit the sky like a beacon, visible for miles across the fens. As Shard had forecast, everyone turned up to watch: even the vicar. Men, women, children: it was big entertainment. Fire engines came from St. Ives, from Huntingdon. Hoses trailed and men trampled flower beds and grass to ruination. The back part of the house blazed to destruction and fire spread to the front. Shard collected Gear and Hill and moved Tanya Gorukin, covered now with their jackets, farther from danger — danger of fire and prying eyes. Then Shard sought out the one man he could be sure would have a telephone.

  “I’d like to use your phone, Vicar.” He showed his identification. “May I?”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll take you. Come.”

  Shard followed the cleric, a helpful and alert man. In the vicar’s study he rang Hedge’s private number, taking a necessary risk. He said, “Shard. There’s a fire — a big one, just south of Needingworth in Hunts, down by the River Ouse. I want an ambulance and I want it fast.”

  “Great heavens, I — ”

  “Hedge, Hedge! If you let me down, you let yourself down with a huge clang. This is a desperate affair.” He repeated the location then banged the handset down, sat for a moment mopping sweat and recovering. He’d used the word affair with fullest intent to terrify: he knew it would work. God knows how Hedge will cope, he thought, but he will!

  Shard went back with the vicar to the scene. It was like Dante’s Inferno, but the fire chief said he was getting there. Most of the back was gone or would go, but they would save the front.

  “And the basement?”

  “Should do. It’s stone.”

  Shard had a word with the local police: an inspector from St. Ives, with silver stars and buttons reflecting the red fire. “When it’s possible, I’ll want the house sealed off. I’m particularly interested in the basement. I’ll need to take a look as soon as I can get back in.”

  “May I ask why, sir?”

  “You may, but this is top secret. I expect to find drugs.”

  “Drugs, eh? What sort?”

  “Heroin.”

  The inspector whistled. “Nasty! We don’t get much of that sort of thing around here, and thank God for it, I say. Is Mr. Cranbrook involved, then?” He sounded incredulous.

  Shard said non-committally, “Could be. Is he the owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Long?”

  “Not long, as time goes around here. Four, five years.”

  “I see. Do you know a man named Tuball?”

  The inspector said, “No, not that I can think of, Mr. Shard. Who’s he, then?” Shard said bitterly, “The biggest bastard I ever met. He’s just killed one of my men — among others.”

  “Killed?” The inspector looked thoroughly startled. “In that case — ”

  “He’s mine. A general call may go out soon, but he’s still mine and I’m going to get him, though not tonight. Needles in haystacks — you know what I mean. There are better ways — he won’t get away now he’s showed his hand. Meanwhile there’s something even more important, and you can help if you will.”

  “Anything you say, sir.”

  “I’m expecting an ambulance in about a couple of hours…to pick up something of extreme value. National security’s rather heavily involved. Follow?”

  “Well, sir — ”

  “I want security to be the watchword when that ambulance gets here.” Shard looked around: crowds and water, great jets of water sweeping into the house; the fire still flying high, reaching up to the rain-filled clouds that were sheeting down their contents. “Can you clear the place up, Inspector? Move the rubbernecks on, back to bed?”

  “Yes, Mr. Shard, I’ll see to that.”

  “And tell your lads, no talking afterwards. They’ll see the ambulance, but I don’t want it to spread. All right?”

  *

  The crowd, chivvied off by the police, had its uses: amazingly, one of them, a farm worker, found Tuball. He found a man lying on the ground, under a thick hedge. He saw him in the beam of a torch, and he saw a gun. He fled towards a policeman, a young constable not long in the force. When
the policeman approached, Tuball used his last bullet and killed again. After that shooting, the crowd mostly dispersed quickly of its own accord. Shard found Tuball with a broken leg and signs that he’d dragged himself a longish way into cover. Tuball was in a bad way, scared, cold, in great pain, yattering away to himself like a lunatic. With no ammunition left, he had to come quietly. Equally quietly, without flashing lights, without sirens, Hedge’s ambulance came in as the fire died down. Hedge had ticked over admirably: there was even ice. The attendants had been hand picked, men from the department: they knew how to handle death efficiently and without fuss. Efficiently and without fuss, and without any publicity, the corpse was lifted in, settled down, and driven off through the night, resuming its interrupted journey from Bodmin, heading for where it had been meant to go, Hedgewards.

  *

  Next morning: Barts, and news that almost made Shard break down with a mix of relief and reaction. Beth was conscious, would know him, wanted badly to see him. Once again he had a word with the registrar who had assisted the surgeon: Beth had been lucky, luckier than they had thought at first. It all depended, the registrar said, repeating himself, on the actual site of the tumour. Siting was all-important; if they had had to take a devious route, Beth would have suffered a long period of unconsciousness. As it was, Shard now had no further need for anxiety.

  He went in to her, eyes swimming. Only so short a time ago he had looked upon living death, upon just the faintest movement to indicate breath taken and expelled. They had not been alone: Beth was being specialed then. Her eyes had looked without seeing; after a short while he had left because he could take no more. This time there was a touch of colour, and the eyes smiled at him, and the nurse left them together, though whispering, as she went, that the visit was to be no more than five minutes.

  “My darling…”

  “It’s all right, Simon. I’m going to be all right now.”

  “So they told me.” He bent, and gently kissed her cheek. He left the Foreign Office walking on air. Even dirty wintry London looked gay. In the F.O., even Hedge was today a happier man.