The Hoof

by Philip McCutchan

  *

  At approximately the same time as Harry Kenwood reached the police car a man arrived at Heathrow from the United States. The name on his passport, which was fully in order, was Earl Denver Kries. He was aged thirty-seven. He was tall, well-built, had been handsome until a scar, put there by a knife, had riven his face from the left corner of the left eye right down to the lip and beyond. The scar was a nasty one and gave him a mean look. The healing had drawn the flesh together somehow so that the face was awry. Although handsome it hadn’t been a nice face to begin with. Mr Kries had for some years past been in the preowned car trade, in Chicago. During the course of this career he had come up against the law on a number of occasions; but more importantly had never yet been bowled out in regard to his moonlighting occupation, which was that of protection boss and very lucrative. He could have chucked the pre-owned cars, told the hopeful vendors to shove them up their ass, but he was greedy. The more money the better, so he kept the pre-owned car lot on. Currently it was in the hands of his brother, who knew better than to be dishonest, while he, Mr Earl Denver Kries, flew out for the United Kingdom on other business that could prove more profitable even than the protection racket.

  Checked through Immigration, Mr Kries stepped out onto British soil. Not for the first time: he had a fair knowledge of Britain acquired during some six or seven tax-deductible holidays on business and on the very first little holiday he had acquired a girl-friend, the wife of a busy management consultant living in Esher. Her name was Roz Zymo. She ran a little business in Mayfair on her own account, a model and photographic agency, which kept her in London overnight whenever she wished to be, which was handy for Kries. On departure for the States, he always bought her a handsome present accompanied by a handsome cheque drawn on his London account, and anyway he was better in bed than Zymo.

  Striding away from Immigration Mr Kries saw Roz waiting in the arrivals lounge. He made for her, grinning. He lifted her right up and kissed her. “Good to be here again. Got me an automobile?”

  “As requested, Earl — sure. A Granada. That do?”

  Kries nodded. He asked about the documentation; Roz had signed everything and it was all in her name. Zymo would never know. In any case, he was in Scotland and wouldn’t be back yet awhile. Kries picked up his grip and followed Roz out to where the Granada was waiting. Inside, he said, “The other thing I asked for: the gun.”

  Roz leaned over the seat back and brought a parcel across, something heavy wrapped in brown paper and a Dickins and Jones bag. “What do you want it for?”

  He avoided her eye. “Shooting.”

  “Yes. Shooting what?”

  “Oh … guys.” He grinned down at her, sideways, looking arch. “Don’t worry, Roz. I’ve taken it up. Shooting. Back home in the States, see? Thought I might try a shooting gallery here in Britain.”

  “You’d have done better to bring your own.”

  “Immigration wouldn’t think so. Metal detectors — you know? Your cops, they aren’t as broad viewed as ours. Comes of not arming them. Let’s have a look. Where did you get it?”

  She said, “A client. Don’t ask questions — I don’t. On the other hand I might start now.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning why a holster, an ankle one at that?”

  Kries shrugged. “Took my fancy. I use one back home. Added cachet — you know?”

  “Playing cops and robbers?” Roz handed the parcel over. Kries unravelled it and gave a whistle. “Fine!” It was a big job with good stopping power: a Colt .38 detective special, plus the ankle holster. Kries fondled it for a moment like a woman’s thigh, his eyes alight. Guns he loved and he knew how to use them; he was fully experienced, as many persons in the States had cause to know, or their sorrowing relatives had. Roz didn’t know any of this and he wasn’t going to tell her, no sir. She wasn’t a moll, not in that context anyway. Kries bent down and pulled up his right trouser leg: it was flared, which was on the unfashionable side but useful to a gunman who wanted a fast draw and no bulge. He rolled down his sock a little way and strapped the holster in place. Then he thrust the revolver in. He practised the draw.

  “Great!” he said. “Thanks a lot, Roz.” He started the engine. They moved off and headed into central London.

  *

  On PC Hurst’s beat an altercation had taken place at the haulage firm’s depot, an altercation that had attracted the attention of the beat man who had reported in. He was waiting as Harry Kenwood drove up, and he put his head in through the wound-down window. He reported.

  “What sort of altercation?” Kenwood asked.

  “A bloke’s turned up to inspect the tanks, Sergeant. The petrol and diesel storage tanks, above ground.”

  “So?”

  “The boss is objecting. Says it’s out of routine. The other bloke, he’s an inspector from the Department of Energy, insists on opening up.”

  “And the objection?”

  There was a wary look on the PC’s face. He said, “I don’t know, I didn’t hear, but —”

  “How come you heard it at all?” Kenwood interrupted. “There doesn’t seem to be anything going on right now.”

  “No, that’s right. They’ve moved round through the warehouse to the rear of the premises, where the storage tanks are. But it started in the front yard, just as soon as the bloke’s van went in.”

  “I see. How long ago?”

  “Fifteen minutes, Sergeant.”

  “And they’re still arguing?”

  “Yes. So far as I know. The van’s still there, you can see it.”

  Kenwood frowned. A storm in a teacup? Police business or not? He couldn’t see why. Puzzled, he asked, “Why bother? What’s worrying you?”

  The PC hesitated, bit at his lip. He said, “It may sound daft —”

  “Never mind that, it wasn’t too daft to stop you putting a call out. So what’s on your mind?”

  “Jack Hurst, Sergeant! His beat. D’you follow?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Well … petrol storage tanks. And the boss not wanting them opened up. I remember a case somewhere up on the Tyne, a petrol storage tank in the docks —”

  Kenwood smacked a fist into his palm and said, “So do I! A few years back. A woman’s body, wrapped in sacking. Right?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. It’s a dickens of a long shot, I know, but —”

  “Maybe not all that long. It could explain all those metal objects — safer removed, just in case. It’s worth taking a look. First, we’ll need assistance from the nick. Put out another call pronto, right? I know this isn’t my patch, but I’d like two unmarked cars with full plain clothes crews — and a marksman if the Chief Super can get authorisation. No sirens.” Kenwood paused, his flesh crawling at the thought of what they might be about to find. Horror wasn’t going to be the word. He said, “One more thing. Petrol … or maybe diesel, we don’t know … there’s a possible safety hazard. Soaked bodies, if that’s what we do find — and the opened tank itself. All men concerned will need anti-static clothing and we’ll want something to use as a grappling iron — but not made of metal. We can’t risk sparks. Got all that?”

  The PC nodded and flicked on his radio. Then they waited; not talking now. There was too much tension; it affected all three men. Harry Kenwood felt the shake in his hands; he folded his arms to hide it, felt the hard outline of the revolver in the shoulder holster.

  The two unmarked cars came in: fast work, only ten minutes. No-one had yet left the haulage yard. The Department of Energy’s van was there still. There was a detective inspector in one of the cars; Harry Kenwood reported, briefly outlining the situation. The DI was cynical but co-operative. They would go in; for his part he would remain outside in the car till needed, act as a long stop. Kenwood brought out his gun, held it inside the flap of his car coat. The DI raised an eyebrow. “I brought a marksman. You shouldn’t need that. How come anyway?”

  “Foreign Office dispensation,” Kenwood ans
wered. “It’s all in order.”

  “Good luck, then,” the DI said.

  They went in, no more time wasted. They went in fast, with a wide spread. Two men stayed on the gate. Behind Harry Kenwood, the others ran the length of the front yard. They went into the warehouse, came out into the big area at the back, where the storage tanks were. The argument was still in progress. Someone saw the plain clothes men coming in and all the disputing group swung round. Kenwood went forward, his revolver still concealed.

  “Who’s in charge?” he asked.

  A thickset man in a donkey jacket and jeans answered. “I am. So what? Who’re you?”

  Kenwood didn’t answer that right off. He asked, “What’s the trouble?”

  “Nothing to do with you,” the man in the donkey jacket said. He looked dangerous, all set to throw out the intruders. There were six men with him, four in heavy jackets like his own, two in clean green overalls. These two, Kenwood guessed, would be the men from the Department of Energy. One of them spoke, seeming to recognise officialdom for what it was.

  He said, “We came to inspect the petrol and diesel storage tanks. We’ve not been allowed to.”

  Kenwood faced the boss. “Why not?”

  “I said, nothing to do with you.” The tone was belligerent but there was fear behind it. “You’d better tell me who you are, mate. Right?”

  Kenwood smiled. “I’m taking it you have something to hide. Is that right?”

  “It bloody isn’t. I —”

  “Then the inspection goes ahead,” Kenwood said.

  “On whose authority?”

  “Mine.” Kenwood held up his identification. “Police. We stay while the inspection’s made.” He gestured to the two men in green overalls. “Go ahead,” he said.

  One of the men said, “Thanks for the help.” They had some equipment with them, a black metal box with dials and leads, plus other paraphernalia. They moved away towards one of the tanks, a diesel one. One of them climbed a metal ladder to the top. It was freezing cold but sweat was pouring down the face of the man in the donkey jacket. The light was going now; it would soon be dark. A torch flickered along the top of the diesel tank under inspection. Maybe it was enough for the men from the Department of Energy but it wasn’t enough for Harry Kenwood. Nor, it seemed after all, for the inspectorate. One of the men called out to the boss for more light.

  “Get stuffed.”

  Kenwood said, “Do as the man asks, please. Do it fast.” A moment later he saw the boss’s sudden movement and then the glint of metal; he went forward fast just as the boss turned away with his gun aimed towards a valve on one of the petrol tanks. Kenwood took the man from the rear in the same instant as the finger squeezed the trigger: the shot went high, expended into the lowering dark. Kenwood’s weight bore the man to the ground and the frozen snow. One of the DCs bent and slipped the handcuffs on and the man was wrenched to his feet. The other men from the haulage depot had been taken on the run by the rest of the police squad. Kenwood ordered the lot to be removed to the police cars waiting outside. Then he called to the Department of Energy’s inspectors.

  *

  When the word reached Shard from Leeds he went straight up to Hedge to report. He interrupted Hedge in his private cloakroom. The door was open: Hedge was looking at himself in a long mirror. Shard knew why: Hedge had a new suit. He was disconsolate: the sit of the jacket on the shoulders wasn’t quite right.

  “What do you think, Shard?”

  “Nothing wrong with it that I can see.”

  “Then you haven’t a very good eye.” Hedge glanced at Shard’s suit with a hint of disdain. Anyone, the glance said, who wore a suit like that wasn’t really worth asking for an opinion anyway. “It’s too bad — all that money! Savile Row, you know.”

  “Of course, Hedge, where else?”

  “Was that meant to be impertinent?”

  “Oh, no. It’s just that something rather more important’s come up. That’s all.”

  Hedge pirouetted and peered. “Nothing’s any good these days. Falling standards all round. No-one understands any more.” He frowned, came back to earth. “What did you just say, Shard?”

  “Something more important. Barney Peters — Mineworkers’ Federation, remember? The body’s been found.”

  Hedge started. “Good heavens, where?”

  “Leeds. In a petrol storage tank. Some good work by a Leeds beat man — very good thinking. Kenwood’s there, and —”

  “A petrol tank, did you say?”

  “Yes. Very saturated, highly dangerous —”

  “It’s America all over again, isn’t it?”

  “America?”

  “Yes. That man who led the Teamsters’ Union. Murdered —”

  “They put him in a paper shredder, Hedge. Not a petrol tank.”

  “Oh, did they?” Hedge dismissed it from his thoughts. There was no real parallel, not even the method of disposal it seemed — the killing hadn’t been part of a pattern of murdered trade union leaders, it was simply the sort of thing you expected of America, where everyone was in danger of being murdered, trade unionist or not. In Chicago or New York no-one was safe; the New York police spent most of their time stopping travellers eating sandwiches on the subway. Hedge listened to Shard’s report in growing concern, the new suit at last forgotten as he walked through to his desk. A policeman’s body, too, had been found. Questions were going to be asked in all sorts of quarters now, not least the Police Federation — another union. Hedge felt a rising sense of panic, of uncontrollable events closing in on him, though of course that man Hesseltine would have to take a large proportion of the blame. In fact, most of it. He flapped his hands and dropped into his swivel chair, his eyes glassy.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

  Shard said, “I’m going up to Leeds, Hedge. Kenwood made some arrests. Someone is going to sing, loud and clear. I’ll give you my promise on that. When they’ve sung, we’ll maybe see the way ahead.” His voice was hard, almost vindictive, almost vengeful. When coppers got killed the way PC Hurst had, police of all grades from Chief Constable down closed ranks. There after, the hunt became more bitter, more intense personal.

  *

  That night, the night of the discovery in the haulage yard, the vandals and hooligans were out on a very widespread front. A vast mob of skinheads, booted and with their too-short trousers hoisted on flamboyant braces, marched along Piccadilly, shouting racialist and anti-union slogans, and clashed with a group from the Socialist Workers Party. The thing escalated fast and within a matter of minutes Piccadilly was a battleground for some five hundred opposed fighters. A strong force of police arrived with CS gas canisters and water-cannon. Plastic bullets were held ready. The violence raged all night. There was arson and looting; in the morning it looked like the aftermath of a wartime air raid. Recumbent bodies lay everywhere and there was a lot of blood. The ambulances had been attacked when they attempted to come in, so had the fire appliances. The police had suffered nearly two hundred casualties — broken arms and legs, burns from the petrol bombs, concussion and a number of fractured skulls. Eight had died, run down by stolen cars aimed into their ranks, cars that had been overturned and burned when their killing mission was over. There were similar happenings in Balham, where the immigrant population reacted as soon as they heard the advancing yells for black blood and the thump of a big drum draped with the Union Flag. In Chelsea a crowd of punks who had spent hours getting themselves dirty enough to go out in their dustbin liners strung eight Blacks up on lamp-posts, like the days of the French Revolution. In Birmingham an explosion occurred in a hall where some shop stewards were holding a meeting. There were eighty-seven casualties and the hall was burned out. In Newcastle-on-Tyne a gang of thugs wearing black hoods with eye-slits surged into the docks and made for a Russian ship, which they pelted with filth until they were driven back by a concerted rush from the crew. In Glasgow an SNP meeting was broken up, somewhat childishly,
with stink bombs. In Aberfeldy in Perthshire a drunk rolled down the main street shouting filth about wogs; when a police car came in to apprehend the drunk it was set upon by a dozen kilted men who seemed, according to the driver afterwards, to appear from nowhere. The mobile was overturned and set on fire. Down in the West Country a huge bonfire, which had been under construction for some days past although never at any time had anyone seen a sign of human life around it, was lit with an effigy of Mrs Thatcher and another somewhat nebulous one looking like a cross between Michael Foot and Wedgewood Benn, both flaming away merrily while a crowd of youths and girls shouted obscenities and then sang Rule Britannia, a tune that went ill with both their deeds and their personal appearance.

  Everywhere a number of arrests were made but nothing was learned. During interrogations the police got the impression that none of the arrested persons knew just what they were doing. Which made it all the more explosive.

  6

  The Hoof had been on the move almost continuously since landing at Gatwick. There were many people to see, many last-minute arrangements to be made. A big man, it was not easy to be unobtrusive; but the Hoof had managed to keep a low profile, avoiding the places where he might be expected to show. He was fed and when necessary given sleeping accommodation by persons whom he trusted, persons who stood to gain when his plans were put into effect. Most of these persons occupied high places in local government, the law and the professions, and in industry, men who detested union power as much as did the Hoof himself. The top echelons were all ready to move in the moment the present power base began to crack. Although along with his continental links they were the Hoof’s paymasters in the literal sense that they made the cash available, they knew who was the boss: the Hoof’s was a powerful personality and he was treated with respect.