The Hoof

by Philip McCutchan

  7

  The word reached Hesseltine fast because the anonymous caller had mentioned the Hoof. There was no info beyond the fact that an American with a scarred face, a man named Earl Denver Kries, had come in from New York and was looking for the Hoof, reason either not known or simply not stated. The American’s address was not known either but a possible list of hotels had been submitted during the call.

  Hesseltine got things moving. A check was put on the day before’s Heathrow arrivals ex John F. Kennedy airport. Squads were detailed to move in and remain handy for all West End hotels and await the radio-ed word to go in and make an arrest, or at least utter a strong request that Mr Kries accompany them to the Yard. The move would be swift, subject to one proviso.

  With this proviso in mind, Hesseltine called the Foreign Office. As he had expected, Hedge was furious.

  “Damn it all, man, you’ve no right! This is ours.”

  “Not entirely —”

  “It’s just like you — just like Scotland Yard — no damn manners —”

  “Hedge, I —”

  “I shall make strong representations, the strongest, to the Minister himself —”

  “Look here —”

  “It’s utterly damnable, such cheek!”

  “Hedge!” The ACC almost bellowed down the security line.

  “If I might get a word in sideways … I don’t propose to move till you give the word —”

  “You seemed to have moved a long way already!” Hedge snapped.

  “With the best of intentions and in the pursuance of my duty, Hedge. From now, I’ll await Shard’s advice.”

  “Shard! Why Shard? I’m in charge, not Shard. In any case Shard’s in Leeds.”

  “H’m. Any word from there yet?”

  “No,” Hedge said angrily. “And I’ve no idea when Shard’ll be back.”

  “In that case we must reach a decision —”

  “I’ve told you, it’s my decision.”

  “Then hurry up and make it,” Hesseltine said savagely. “If you don’t, I will, in spite of what I’ve just said. There’s an urgency. As I shall inform the Commissioner in a few minutes time if you don’t pull your finger out.”

  “What a disgusting expression.”

  “It depends on the individual mind. Well?”

  There was a silence apart from a hiss of escaping breath from Hedge. Then he said, “Oh, very well. You’d better go in … but more about that call first if you please, Hesseltine. I must be in the picture.”

  “There’s nothing else, except that the caller’s believed to be French — and there was a strong indication of panic, real twitch. He could be got at.”

  “Life in danger, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, it is. He wanted Kries arrested soonest possible —”

  “Are you not taking this caller rather too much at face value, or shall I say voice value? Have you any real reason to place any reliance at all on what he says?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Hesseltine said, “but it can’t be disregarded and you know that as well as I do, Hedge. This is the first break we’ve had and it could lead us to the Hoof. And that’s good enough for me.” He paused, then said, “I’m now about to initiate enquiries at the US Embassy.”

  He cut the call before Hedge could remonstrate. Hedge sat scowling: the US Embassy, all embassies, were his job, not the Yard’s, in a matter of this kind. But he didn’t ring back to say so; Hesseltine wouldn’t be available, guessing what Hedge wanted, and Hedge would be made to look a fool. Besides, it was possibly better not to be too insistent after all: someone just might get his fingers burned over an American national, and if so, then sooner Hesseltine than himself. It would be entirely the wretched fellow’s own fault. A smile came to Hedge’s face as he thought about it.

  *

  In point of fact another break was coming through up in Leeds. As expected, the haulage boss hadn’t liked the proximity of a murder charge and the start of a real crack was obvious after a bit of bluster about solicitors. Smith said they couldn’t charge him anyway without his solicitor being present, since he had already requested that. Shard said that it wouldn’t make any difference and precisely the same charge would be made whether the solicitor was present or not. He added that before making it he was giving Smith the chance to talk some more.

  Smith said, “It’s all a bit funny, isn’t it? I mean, the usual procedure —”

  “Forget the usual procedure.” Shard sat down at the table; the reserve Inspector stood at the side, all ready with his formal charge. For a while there was silence; the atmosphere was tense and Smith was softening. Then Shard started speaking, in a hard voice, his eyes staring into Smith’s face, holding the man against his will, like a rabbit caught in a headlight’s glare. He said, “I’m not the usual policeman, Smith. Let’s say I’m Special Branch … and even that wouldn’t be quite the truth, quite the full extent of it.”

  Smith licked his lips. “I don’t understand.”

  “Before long, you will. And I think you do now, as a matter of fact. I’m trying not to charge you with murder because I may be charging you with something else, Smith. Something even more serious. You know, and I know, that this thing originated outside Britain, outside the realm. I represent the Foreign Office, Smith. And I’m probably going to charge you with treason.”

  Smith’s body jerked. “Treason?”

  “That’s right. It’s a nasty word. And the murder charge would be added afterwards. If we don’t get you on one, we’ll get you on the other.” Shard paused. “If I were you … I’d talk. Don’t try to shield other people. Don’t try to shield the Hoof.”

  Smith reacted at once. “The Hoof. You know about him?”

  “Yes. But we need some help. You don’t want to go down on a lifer for what you possibly didn’t do. Maybe you just assisted — or didn’t interfere. I don’t know yet. It’s up to you to tell me, isn’t it? If I were you, I’d start.”

  The haulage boss did so. Once started, he was hard to stop; it all came tumbling out in a spate of words. The Hoof was in Britain right enough. His intention was to bring about a virtual reign of terror by his murder tactics and by manipulating the various factions — the neo-Nazi groups, the skinheads, anyone who found excitement in acts of vandalism and affray — to cause the maximum chaos possible. The Hoof had seen that British politics were polarising, that the winner would be the side that was physically stronger. He saw the end of the ballot box in sight, everything decided by the fist, the gun and the petrol bomb. He had found no difficulty in gaining support. The sense of frustration, of bitterness, among the unemployed millions had played right into his hands. The unions themselves were in a state of some disarray as a result of Thatcherisation, not to mention disillusion and doubt about their role. There was no longer the march-to-Jerusalem element; all the old idealism had gone. All the business of ‘brother’ … it didn’t mean a thing any more and a lot of people had sensed it. In spite of strenuous union efforts to recruit the young unemployed, the school leavers who had never had a job so had never joined a union, it had in fact been the Hoof who through his agents had gathered them into the fold.

  And Smith himself?

  As a boss, Smith detested the unions but he was fairly independent of them and would remain so until such time as they put the screws on to force him to unionise his haulage business. They hadn’t yet, but they might. To fight them in advance was a kind of insurance. But not only that: times were desperately hard, he did have cash-flow problems whatever he had said to the contrary earlier, and a man had called with five grand in used twenties and fifties. Not a lot, but it had come at an opportune moment when things had been really pressing. Smith had gone along with the suggestion that he might make his storage tanks available. Available to receive something: he hadn’t expected it to be bodies, at least so he said. But after it had happened he’d had to keep his mouth shut. Naturally.

  Shard asked, “Do I take it you knew of th
e Hoof before these men came with the cash?”

  Smith nodded.

  “How?”

  “I’d been approached, a man I didn’t know. Didn’t give a name. About a year ago. I was a member of a Blacks Out organisation … sort of neo-Nazi — not the NF.”

  “Workers’ League of Freedom?”

  Smith nodded again. “Yes, I admit it now. How did you know?”

  “Just a guess. I’ll make another: the members aren’t workers at all. Just would-be Hitlers.”

  “Some are workers, chaps with extreme right wing views —”

  “The Hoof’s cannon fodder, no doubt. Poor, deluded sods. So what’s the Hoof’s ultimate objective, do you know that?”

  Smith shrugged. “It’s just a guess, but it’s what I said. He wants to bring everything down so to give the extreme Right a chance. It’s Right against Left.”

  “And against the unions. Revenge for the past?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And what about you? As an employer, a man running his own business, how do you get helped by chaos?”

  Smith said, “A lot of us have seen it coming anyway, from the Left … all those riots, the looting, the setting fire to factories. Government was already losing control, losing credibility. To me and a lot of others, the extreme Right was a better prospect. We’d have got back on our feet again.”

  There was a lot more; it became a diatribe of self-justification. Shard asked more questions but didn’t get far. Smith was just small fry. There had to be some very big men involved. All sorts of people could have a vested interest in chaos, in bringing the country down to start all over again with a different set in control — themselves. Shard asked where the Hoof was — the 64,000-dollar question, and there was no answer. Smith didn’t know and Shard believed him. The Hoof would be nobody’s fool. One thing Smith did know: the Workers’ League of Freedom was domiciled in Plymouth. No branches, just the one office, under cover. At any rate, so far as Smith knew. There could be others.

  Shard got to his feet. He said, “Something tells me you’ll not be pressing to be released just yet. You’ll feel safer inside and we’ll be obliging you. There’s still the matter of two bodies. And for reasons of security I’m not allowing access to that solicitor of yours just yet.”

  Shard turned away and left the interview room, followed by the reserve Inspector still clutching his file of forms. He had a baffled look; the routine was all to hell.

  *

  Hesseltine’s request to the US Embassy failed to produce very much. Earl Denver Kries was known to the Chicago police for a little bit of dirty work from time to time in connexion with his pre-owned car lot. Nothing beyond that. Once, he’d been in the New York force, an ordinary patrolman, but he’d chucked it because it didn’t pay enough for his tastes. Even this amount of information took time to get, since the Embassy had had to contact their own passport issuing people in the States, and then Chicago and New York; and while it was coming through on the telex Hesseltine’s squads had gone into action, all of them together. They achieved a blank. Earl Denver Kries, walking casually out of the London Hilton at about nine-forty-five to make a telephone call, saw the car waiting in a side street off Park Lane, not too close. It was a plain car, and the occupants wore plain clothes too, but no-one could fool an ex-cop and Kries recognised it in a flash — the easier because the stuffed British dummies inside were concentrating on what was an obvious radio call coming through and they didn’t so much as look up. Playing safe, however, Kries turned his scarred side away from the car and stepped into a cross street, whistling softly through clenched teeth. Organisational details flashed through his mind. The culprit was plain: the god-damn little fag Lacroix. Dirty little swine. Soho must now be avoided and vengeance left till another time. He wouldn’t even ring Soho, not now. He could ring the Hilton and be put through to Roz, but that also held dangers. More dangers if he told her to get the hell out pronto and meet him somewhere anonymous. She might panic; and, if the stupid London cops thought of it, she might be tailed. On the other hand if he didn’t get her out they might go in and confront her, and then, for Christ’s sake, what?

  Cursing beneath his breath, Kries slid back towards the corner.

  The cop car was on the move, turning into Park Lane.

  Kries swore again and moved fast, threading through towards Oxford Street and the nearest subway.

  Behind him, now into Park Lane, the police car headed for the Hilton and pulled into the forecourt. Three men went inside and asked for the manager. They showed their Met passes and the way was smoothed, fast. When they got to the room booked by Kries, or for Kries by Roz Zymo, Roz was in the bath. One of the men knocked at the outer door, loudly. There was no reply; the assistant manager who had accompanied them used his master key. As they went in, Roz came out of the bathroom, stark naked.

  The DS in charge didn’t bat an eyelid while the lady rushed back for a bath towel. When she re-emerged he asked politely, “Mrs Kries?”

  Roz stared. Something very odd had happened. She said, “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Police.” Again the pass was shown. “You sound English, Mrs Kries.”

  “Not surprisingly, since I am. What’s happened, officer?” Her eyes were wide. “Is it — my husband?”

  “You might say so, yes, Mrs Kries. We’d like a word.” The DS looked round perfunctorily. He opened the door of a wardrobe. The room was a room with bath, not a suite. Kries was evidently not in the biggest of money; and neither was he in the room. Or the bathroom, as a check revealed. “I take it he’s in the hotel?”

  “I — I suppose so. He went down about ten minutes ago … I was having a bath. He just looked in to say he wouldn’t be long … look, what is all this about, please?”

  The DS was an experienced man and there was something about the set-up that told him all was not as it was supposed to seem. He said, “English … married to an American, is that it, Mrs Kries?”

  Roz began to shake. Damn! The truth must always be told to the police or worse trouble ensued when they found it out. She said in a low voice, “Not — precisely.”

  “Yes, I see.” The DS sighed. For someone, this was rotten bad luck. He said, “Perhaps you’d better get dressed, madam. We’ll wait for Mr Kries.”

  Roz dressed in the bathroom. The police smoked cigarettes, sitting at their ease but ready for Kries, who didn’t come. After a reasonable interval the DS realised Kries wouldn’t come, that somehow or other there had been a tip-off. He said to Roz, “I must ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard, madam.”

  “Oh, but is-that really necessary?” Roz began to panic. “My husband — my real husband —”

  “Yes, madam,” the DS said. “I know and I’m sorry, really sorry, but this is just one of the snags …”

  They took her down to the plain car and there were a number of gawpers outside the hotel in spite of what should have been the anonymity: there was something about a police escort and Roz’s face looked a mess. She wondered if Zymo would be told and would then come hurrying back from Scotland. At the Yard she was put under the very lightest of grills; even this wasn’t necessary. She collapsed like a house of cards and told all, which was little enough. She knew that Earl Denver Kries was in preowned cars in Chicago and really that was about all. She didn’t know what his business was in Britain but she had a feeling that he could be some sort of private detective as well as being a preowned car salesman. They asked why. She admitted that she had provided him with a revolver.

  They didn’t like that.

  She was pressed into saying how and where she had acquired the gun and was told she would be hearing more about that very soon. When she had told all she knew the call went out for an armed American with a very distinctive scar now described more fully than by the anonymous telephone caller, a tall, broad man who could be driving a Granada car — in point of fact he wasn’t, for the Granada was picked up soon after from the Hilton’s parking lot and dusted
for prints — and with a lurid purple birthmark in the shape of a half moon on his left buttock.

  The buttock might not be evident in the first instance, but the diabolical-sounding scar should be a big help.

  8

  Hedge was making his way on foot to the Athenaeum when Shard, who had come down from Leeds with Harry Kenwood, got out of a taxi in Horse Guards Road.

  They met; Hedge looked daggers when addressed by Shard. He hissed, “Remember security for heaven’s sake!”

  “Sorry.” Exaggeratedly, Shard looked all around. “I see no spies —”

  “The use of my name!”

  “Ah. Well, then, I won’t use it any more. How about sir?”

  “It would be appropriate, I think.” Hedge was being very stiff.

  “Doubtless, doubtless. Shall we walk?”

  “I’m going to the Athenaeum.”

  “To which common policemen can’t possibly be admitted. I understand — sir.”

  “Oh — come on, then!” Hedge was furious. He stalked along, or thought he did; it was more of a waddle. He had an antique look: bowler hat, black jacket invisible beneath the dark city overcoat, striped trousers, shining black calf shoes. Only the spats were missing. He carried a rolled umbrella, held over his left shoulder as though the close proximity of Horse Guards Parade had given him military ideas and he thought of himself as Colonel of the Coldstream or some such. “Do I take it you have a report to make, or what?”

  “Yes, I have —”

  “Briefly, then. And do be careful.”

  “Certainly.” Shard told him — briefly — about Smith in Leeds. Not a lot gained, he admitted, except for one thing: the address where representatives of the Workers’ League of Freedom could be contacted.

  “Ah! Well done, Shard. Where is this?”

  “Plymouth.”