The Hoof

by Philip McCutchan

  “Cop lover,” he said. “Didn’t want to see another one get his lot, right?” The torch shifted, shining now on the policeman. Shard saw that the man was still alive, with blood pouring from his head and from another wound in his back: someone had used a knife.

  Kries asked, “So what now?”

  The Hoof ran a hand over his jaw and said, “No way of getting them out, too many bloody eyes around. But we don’t want bodies here.”

  “How about getting the van back?”

  “No. That could be risky too.”

  “Why? It’s the only way. See sense for Christ’s sake! I can go and get it.”

  “Not with that scar, Kries. It’s been recognised once already. I’m not having you walking the streets.”

  “Send someone else, then.” Kries paused. “You said, bodies — plural. Do I take it you mean —”

  “Him,” the Hoof said, indicating Shard. “No risks with him now, Kries. He’s for disposal. All right, someone go and get the van.”

  13

  The man sent to get the van had been gone only a matter of a quarter of a minute when a familiar facet of the Glasgow scene manifested itself: a Scot lurched along the passage and bashed the door open and got a foot in it before the Hoof could close it. He was as drunk as a lord and he was singing, loudly ‘I Belong Tae Glasgow’. He was not alone; three more drunks came in behind him. A mistake had been made; the flat was in the wrong block, but the Scots would have none of this.

  “It’s Saturday,” The MacSkean said.

  “Football?”

  “Aye.”

  The Hoof snapped, “Get rid of them!”

  “Easier said than done.” Now there were childish voices; outside in the close, the neighbourhood urchins had gathered to watch the fun. The moment was not propitious for killing. Any move that way, and there would be bedlam, bedlam that would bring the police in full strength. The Hoof cursed viciously, his eyes like slits as the drunks massed at the door, singing incoherently. The MacSkean was shouting but no-one was taking any notice of him; his was a voice in the wilderness and the Scots were in full cry. No-one present knew it, but Celtic had won that afternoon, trouncing their old enemy Rangers, and their supporters were celebrating in the traditional way, a way that was given adequate description by a shrill girlish voice, that of a juvenile raised high from beyond the passage.

  “They’re a’ pissed!”

  It was unnecessary to point it up; the Hoof, furious, was in a quandary. He scarcely needed The MacSkean’s warning that Glasgow Scots on Saturday night could change the joviality of their mood in the twinkling of an eye. It was too late now to shut the door; the Scots were firmly over the lintel as it were. One of them saw the police uniform on the floor, and aimed a kick at it. The MacSkean whispered into the Hoof’s ear; the Hoof nodded. They all waited patiently while the football supporters sang and tried to push their way farther in. By now two of them had passed out and lay helpless in the passage. One had been sick; there was a stench of vomit, whisky and beer. Bottles protruded from the pockets of the two still on their feet; one was now brought out and its contents cruelly wasted when its owner smashed the neck against the doorpost.

  “Look out,” The MacSkean said.

  The bottle’s jagged glass was presented at the Hoof’s face. The Hoof’s reaction was swift: he grabbed the man’s arm like a vice, dragged him close, twisted the arm up and round and sent the broken bottle smashing wickedly into a craggy nose. There was a loud cry of anguish and blood spurted. The Hoof finished the job with a heavy fist on the point of the jaw and the man fell in a heap. The remaining Scot didn’t wait to offer assistance; he turned and lurched away, crashing from side to side down the passage into the close, suddenly a good deal soberer. There was no more singing. The Hoof gave his orders: when the van came back, it was to back right up against the entry to the passage and Shard and the policeman were to be carried in. Kries would go with them, lying doggo in the back of the van, behind his gun. Looming large in the duffel coat the Hoof said, “Back in the States, you reckoned you were an expert at disposal, Kries.”

  “Right.”

  “Up to you, then. I won’t ask questions, just so long as they’re disposed of so they don’t show up again.” The Hoof wiped a hand across his face. “What about the drunks — and the kids? They’re going to talk.”

  The MacSkean disagreed. He said, “The drunks will remember nothing in the morning. The bairns’ll not talk — their parents’ll see to that, depend upon it. What’s left of the tenements are a law to themselves. They don’t court the police. They’ll have seen nothing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m certain.”

  The Hoof said, “As regards the drunks, I’m not so sure. They go with you, Kries. All right?”

  “Right,” Kries said.

  A few minutes later the van was driven into the close. Kries went out to supervise. To his orders, the van backed right up; it had to leave a gap of two to three feet in order to allow the lifting of the tailgate. This, as it happened, proved the weak spot. One of the men holding Shard was Ponto, with his strangler’s hands gripping tight. Shard was to be the first in. He was propelled over the recumbent bodies of the two Scots, now snoring loudly. Ponto was on his left. As they reached the gap between the passage and the van something totally unexpected happened. From away to the left of the close there was a small sound, a sort of phut, and Ponto let go of Shard, swung away and clapped a hand to his face. Distantly, a laugh was heard, then a scamper of feet running away. The MacSkean came out fast from the passage with a silenced revolver lifted ready, red face as angry as a bull’s. He aimed towards the scampering feet. Shard, with his left arm free, and wounded Ponto blocking the way for reinforcements, swung his fist into the face of the man on his right and then, as the grip slackened, he grabbed and lifted and slung the man backwards into the passage entry.

  Then he ran for it.

  *

  Panting, Shard found time to send up a prayer of thanksgiving for nasty-minded little Glasgow urchins. One of them had used an air gun and had used it to very good effect. It could have been luck, it could have been skill as a result of long practice on the neighbourhood cats — even on the abounding drunks, who could be considered fair game and certainly an amusing one. As for Shard himself, he had cleared the close at high speed, dodging bullets from silenced revolvers, dodging the physical pursuit of running men until, around the far side of the next tenement block, he’d dodged into a passage similar to the one used by the Hoof, found a bare stone staircase, run up it for two floors, and then waited to see what might happen. Nothing did, except that along the landing a door opened and a slatternly woman looked out with a cigarette dangling from her lips, saw Shard lurking, shrugged and went back in again, slamming the door. Suspicious persons were evidently commonplace. Going to a broken window looking down from the landing, Shard peered out circumspectly. He saw nothing, but heard running feet pounding hither and thither with no result, somewhere around the next block.

  He gave it half an hour after all sound had ceased. Then he went down the staircase into the passage. He looked out, keeping as hidden as possible.

  All quiet.

  He came out, eyes and ears on the alert. A man and a woman passed, hand-in-hand. Farther on another couple, hand in anything but hand. More drunks loomed up; Shard passed by on the other side. No Hoof, no Kries, no MacSkean. He walked on, came clear of the immediate vicinity, trudged through the lying snow and the desolate, bitter cold of the Glasgow night. From somewhere along the river a ship’s siren hooted, two short blasts cutting through the dark. Shard shivered: what had been Kries’ method of disposal? Weighted sacks in the Clyde, just heavy enough to take the bodies down without touching bottom, so that they would drift out eventually with the tide, down past Greenock and the Tail o’ the Bank, on past Cloch Point and out past the Cumbraes into the great, broad sweep of the Firth to be opened and torn apart by fishy jaws somewhere off Ailsa Craig
or the Mull of Kintyre? But that was sheer fantasy. There might have been simpler methods available to an expert in disposal. Shard, moving on fast, found a telephone. His call made, he faded into a doorway from where he could watch the kiosk. Inside five minutes a patrol car came in to pick him up.

  *

  Shard couldn’t be precise about the whereabouts of the room he’d been in but the police assured him that the whole area would be searched, nothing would be missed out. It wasn’t: eventually the blood was found, marking the spot. The Hoof and his colleagues had, of course, gone; so had the van, whose registration number Shard had reported — without much hope: the Hoof would probably carry spare plates for emergencies. As soon as he’d finished with the nick, Shard was driven out to Glasgow airport where, as the result of a telephone call, an RAF aircraft was waiting to take him south.

  He reached the Foreign Office in the early hours. He had tried to contact Hedge from the Glasgow nick, but Hedge had been unavailable: he’d been dining out. However, on reaching his section Shard was given word that Hedge wished him to telephone his home the moment he came in. It was WDC Brett who gave him this message. She was delighted to see him safe; he fancied he saw the sparkle of tears.

  She said, “It’s been a long wait, sir.”

  “Well, never mind, better late than never.”

  Eve seemed to regard the banality as words from the Almighty; Shard made a mental note to watch it. Married Detective Chief Superintendents had to be careful not to give rank a bad name. As she dimpled at him he became formal. He said, “Get me Hedge, will you.”

  “Yes, sir.” She hesitated. “There’s something first. Mr Hedge doesn’t know yet. I’d better tell you.”

  “Go on, then.”

  She said, “I was put on an assignment to find and watch a Frenchman named Lacroix.” She put him in the picture about Roz Zymo’s revelation concerning the long ago phone call from Lacroix. “Last night I thought I’d do some work on my own. I thought I’d see what I could pick up in my own way if you follow.”

  Shard nodded. She would have pretended to be on the game. She went on, “I got a lead. Lacroix is a male prostitute. I didn’t find him. I was told he’d currently gone to ground. Anyway, I was told he knew one of the murdered union leaders. Frankie Locci —”

  “Locci?” Shard gave a whistle.

  “Yes, sir. Apparently Lacroix had talked about him, and in any case Locci had been seen going there — he had a well known face. And we know from Roz Zymo now, Lacroix knew Kries. It could be Lacroix who was the anonymous caller who shopped Kries, though we have no evidence of this. But there does seem to be a three-way link: Locci, Lacroix, Kries.” Eve paused, scanning his face. With a note of disappointment at no apparent reaction she said, “There’s probably nothing in it. I’m sorry to have delayed you calling Mr Hedge.”

  “That’s all right. Everything could help, every thing could fit. You’ve shown initiative, WDC Brett.” Shard smiled at her and patted her on the shoulder; he couldn’t help it. She seemed bucked, he thought. “Now get me Hedge,” he said. “And stand by for a blasting when you get him out of bed!”

  *

  Hedge was never at his best in the middle of the night. In dressing-gown and pyjamas he let Shard in personally. “It’s so late. I couldn’t expect Mellow to get up, or Mrs Mellow either.” Mr and Mrs Mellow were his husband-and-wife team of domestic assistance. They hadn’t been with him long and had to be cosseted; the last couple had left in under a fortnight, thankfully foregoing the balance of their wages. Hedge, that appalling employer, led the way to his study where a decanter of whisky stood reflecting a gas fire.

  “Whisky, Shard?”

  “Thank you. I’m much in need of it.”

  Hedge grunted and poured a small one. Looking as if he’d been over-generous he handed the glass to Shard. Shard took it at a gulp. He wasn’t offered a refill. Hedge took a slow sip and asked, “Well? Where have you been, Shard?”

  “In captivity,” Shard answered in a sour tone.

  Hedge snapped, “I know that. I mean where have you been?”

  Shard told him. Hedge was incredulous. Shard also felt incredulous now it was over. Loch Fermin, the wild highland scene, the killings, the Glasgow tenement, The MacSkean. It had to be a dream but wasn’t, it was for real.

  Hedge pounced snobbishly on The MacSkean. “A clan chief, really, I’m most surprised. Very uncharacteristic I’d say —”

  “Not of The MacSkean. The man’s a bastard.” Shard put on a phoney injured air. “Kicked me when I was down.”

  “No!” Hedge’s eyebrows rose and he cluck-clucked, very shocked indeed. “I must say I’ve never heard of the clan. It must be a sept of a larger clan, I imagine. I’ll check.” He got to his feet and waddled across to a bookcase.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Shard said.

  Hedge looked round. “What?”

  “There’s something more important.”

  “Is there?” Hedge wasn’t really paying attention, being more than half absorbed in a gentleman hunt.

  Shard said in a loud voice, “I overheard something. While I was in captivity.”

  “Where?”

  “In a cellar about level, I should say, with the bottom of Loch Fermin. The MacSkean was laying down the plan of operations. Why don’t you shut that bloody book, and listen.”

  Hedge’s face reddened. “There’s really no need to be rude, my dear Shard. Just like —”

  “Isn’t there? I’m sorry. It seemed the only way. And I’d like another whisky before I go on.”

  “Oh —!” Hedge blew out his breath sharply. “Help yourself then, do.”

  “That’s better.” Shard did so. He said, “It’s big, Hedge. Very big.” He paused, then went on, “I didn’t know this, maybe you did, but the TUC is holding a top-level conference to discuss the killings —”

  Hedge interrupted, “Oh, certainly I knew. Obviously, I need to know, don’t I?” He took another sip of whisky. “Two-thirty p.m. on Monday. Not Great Russell Street, the TUC —”

  “Quite. I know. Transport and General Workers Union HQ at Transport House.”

  Hedge gaped. “How did you learn all this?”

  “Sources by Loch Fermin. You —”

  “The whole idea of making it Transport House rather than Great Russell Street was to give it some sort of cover!”

  “No doubt. But something’s gone and leaked, Hedge. Anyway, you’ll know also that the Prime Minister’s to be there, a very special gesture to the TUC —”

  “Yes, yes —”

  “Last to arrive, like all VIPs. Arrival scheduled for two-twenty-five. Check?”

  “Yes,” Hedge said abstractedly, thinking about leaks.

  “That’s when the PM’s to be gunned down.”

  “Yes. What did you say?” Hedge’s mouth opened like a landed fish. He didn’t believe his ears.

  Shard said it again. Hedge said hoarsely, “Rubbish! Tommy-rot! It can’t possibly be true!” He paused. “Can it?”

  “Yes. As the guns open, there’s to be an explosion in Transport House — while the TUC leaders are assembled there. A charge — maybe charges, that wasn’t precise — are already laid. What you might call moles have been at work, lethal but trusted by the TGWU. Regrettably, no names were mentioned.”

  “The fifth column!”

  Shard gave a mirthless smile. “That’s an old-fashioned word, Hedge, but it fits, I suppose.”

  Hedge was in a terrible state; he shook all over and his face had gone deathly white like ground-rice pudding. “Did you hear,” he asked, “whereabouts the charges are laid?”

  “No. I don’t imagine they’ll be easy to find, either.”

  Hedge literally wrung his hands. “What are we going to do, Shard, for God’s sake what are we going to do?”

  “Plenty, and in a short time. But I haven’t told you the lot yet. As soon as word goes through that the PM’s a goner, the attack takes off on the Scottish oil terminals at Finna
rt and on the Forth. Mobs, backed by the Hoof’s gunmen who’ll be going in from all over. Ditto the bigger power stations — such as those supplying London and the big cities. The Hoof’s all set to go.”

  Hedge banged a clenched fist on the arm of his chair. For a moment he looked martial. “This is war, Shard. War! The Hoof can’t possibly win it. We’ll fight on the —”

  “Yes, Hedge, I know the rest, you’re plagiarising. And the Hoof can win, all right. I’m in no doubt about that. This has been planned for a long, long time and the Hoof has his allies, his plants in just about every Jobcentre queue in the British Isles, undercover men who’ve done their job well. A bloody great army of unemployed will rally to the flag when the action starts. Add to them our neo-Nazi friends, and you have the recipe for success.”

  Hedge was gaping; he was in total disarray. “But what sort of success, Shard? You don’t mean to say he intends to govern? He can’t possibly form a government!”

  “He doesn’t mean to. He just wants a vacuum. He just wants that vacuum to be filled by anarchy — that’s all. He wants, basically, to destroy the unions, as we know. Now he’s got the leadership jittery by means of murder, each of them wondering who’s next on the list … and he can’t help getting what he wants when they’re all finished off. Don’t you see, Hedge?” Shard paused. “Whether you do or whether you don’t, that’s what’s going to happen — at two-twenty-five —”