The Hoof

by Philip McCutchan

  “Nonsense, Shard. Now you’ve got away they’ll cry off, bound to.” Hedge had just thought of that. He looked happier, the bounce returning.

  Shard shook his head. “Not so. They’ve no idea in the world that I overheard that little lot.” He looked at his watch: three-twenty. “We have one day, eleven hours, five minutes precisely. We’d better get moving.”

  *

  It had to be done as secretly as possible. Shard was adamant about that. If a leak became known to the Hoof and he backed down, it would be no more than a temporary respite. He would be around to strike at the next convenient opportunity and in the interval the killings, the individual killings, would continue. Shard knew that already intense and very natural pressure was being put on Whitehall and the police authorities by the TUC to get something positive done fast. The threat had to be met now, head on. His mind busy on planning, Shard went back to the Foreign Office. He knew Hedge wouldn’t be going to bed again now: he wasn’t. Hedge’s day had begun. He’d got on the line to the Head of Security, the Ministry of Defence, the Home Office, and the Scottish Office. Strathclyde and Lothian Police were alerted as to the threat to the oil terminals, so was GOC Scotland. They would leave nothing to chance. Then Hedge rang the Yard. Hesseltine, contacted at his home, went fast to his office and rang through to Shard.

  He said, “Transport House will be under strong guard — would have been anyway, now it’ll be stepped up. There’ll be more plain clothes men than union officials. And I’ve asked for army bomb disposal teams to locate the explosive devices.”

  “Keeping their heads down, I trust?”

  Hesseltine took the point. “Yes. I thought of that too!”

  “How’s it to be done?” Shard asked.

  Hesseltine said, “They go in right away — a good day, Sunday. They’ll look like cleaners and so forth, getting ready for the conference on overtime rates. In the meantime nothing’ll be said to the lower echelons of the staff. Once the army’s in, Transport House will be held incommunicado till it’s over. Telephone disconnected, no-one allowed off the premises. I don’t deny the risk to personnel, but for reasons that I’m sure you’ll go along with, we can’t evacuate. We have to rely on the bomb disposal squads finding everything that’s there.”

  “Someone’s going to smell a rat.”

  “Possibly. It can’t be helped, Simon. We’ll have to hope and pray, that’s all.” Hesseltine paused. “By the way, something’s come in from Highland Police at Inverness, regarding Loch Fermin. Some car registrations checked with DVLC —”

  “Owners’ names?”

  “Yes. Here’s the list.” Hesseltine read it out; Shard scribbled on a note pad. Three names of men who were not known nationally, but whose offices and professions would shake Britain when the list was published: a solicitor, a provost, a prison governor — these were the registered keepers of the Range Rovers and the Aston Martin. Some at least of the Hoof’s backers and operators were respectable men, solid men. Doubtless there would be many others. Later, there would be a witch hunt. For the present, there was little to be done. The known persons had covered their tracks adequately.

  Shard tried to concentrate amid a controlled bedlam of telephones, telex machines and the coming and going of his security staff. At a little after 9.30 his outside telephone, the open line, rang. Eve Brett answered. Shard saw from her face that the call was not only important but that it had surprised her very considerably. She put a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “It’s a brother of Frankie Locci’s, sir.”

  Shard stared; the conversation was resumed. Then Eve Brett put her hand across again and said, “He wants to talk to you, Mr Shard — not on the phone, in person. He says it’s very important.”

  “So fix it,” Shard said.

  “He won’t come here —”

  “I’ll go to him. Make it soon, and make it not too far. Time’s short.”

  She spoke into the telephone. Ringing off she reported, “One hour’s time, sir. Green Park tube station, Victoria Line southbound. You’ll know him because he’ll bring the little girl. Frankie Locci’s … the one who didn’t attend the funeral.”

  Shard said, “The man must be bonkers! All that happened … only a few days ago … what must the poor kid’s state of mind be like, for God’s sake?” There was no answer to that. Shortly after, the nick in Glasgow came through: so far, no bodies from the tenement had been found. Shard didn’t expect they would ever be. Kries would be efficient.

  *

  Watching the scattering of Sunday-morning passengers leaving the tube trains Shard thought about Frankie Locci’s dismembered corpse, the discovery that had started the ball rolling. It was like full circle, Locci at the start and now another Locci as the sands ran out. Eve Brett, after passing the rendezvous, had remarked that the brother’s voice sounded very Italian. A Locci who had remained faithful to his father’s land? So far as Shard knew, there had been no family in Britain beyond the immediate circle of the wife and children and Locci’s mother. There had been no brother amongst the relatives at the graveside when the explosion had occurred.

  Shard looked at his watch. Locci was late; he fumed. Time was passing too fast now; but all the arrangements were in hand. The Prime Minister had been informed, of course, as to what was being planned by the Hoof, but there had been no backing down on the intention to be at Transport House. To do that would tell the Hoof that his plans had leaked. He had to be lulled. The precautions were put in hand under strict security cover but were nonetheless widespread: the army was on a red alert, not just the bomb squads, but the various commands who would be concerned with troop movements, and the Yard plus his own Foreign Office section had their men all set to go. The police in Scotland and those authorities whose areas contained the larger power stations were similarly ready. Shard ran through it all in his mind. It still might not be enough. The Hoof could still insinuate, could still kill. Even if all the devices in Transport House were rendered harmless, plenty of the Hoof’s gunmen could mix with the crowd, with the passers-by as the brass of the TUC assembled. One of the precautions taken, or about to be taken, was a security check on all persons living behind or in any way using the many windows around Smith Square that gave a view of Transport House. There would be plain clothes men watching all those windows, but there was still plenty of scope for slips.

  A train came in ahead of its shaft of displaced air. Once again the platform became thinly busy and Shard looked along the line of carriages. The doors shut, the train pulled out again; but when the crowd dispersed, no-one with a child remained. Shard cursed, flattened back against the wall, hands thrust into the pockets of his anorak. In the event, Locci didn’t come at all; but, by the next train in, the small niece did. Aged eight and a bit, she was extraordinarily self-possessed, just like the boy, Alberto, had been. She looked washed-out but otherwise she was all right: maybe this was an adventure, something that took her mind off what was too terrible to contemplate. She was accompanied by an elderly man in a dark overcoat and a bowler hat, a stranger to Shard. Her hand in the man’s, she dragged him towards Shard when the platform emptied and she could see him waiting.

  She said perkily, “You’re the Special Branch man. I know you, see. I’m Angela. This is Mr Stiles. He told me his name.”

  Shard lifted an eyebrow, quizzically. Mr Stiles said, “She was all alone — such a small child.” He sounded apologetic, almost as though he might be accused of molestation. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I suppose it’s all right. She said she was meeting someone here —”

  “It’s quite all right,” Shard said, and took Angela by the hand. “Very good of you, Mr Stiles.”

  “No trouble.” Stiles went off, looked back once or twice, then turned into an exit passage.

  Shard looked down at the small girl. “Well? Where’s your uncle?”

  “Uncle couldn’t come.” Shard became aware that she was carrying a doll: she began to re-arrange its clothing. “He sent a mess
age. I’ve been remembering it all the way. Uncle said …” She screwed up her eyes, tight, concentrating very hard. “Uncle said when he and daddy had been in America … he took a photograph. It’s this.”

  From her pocket she brought a colour photograph and handed it to Shard. There were three men depicted, in swimsuits by an ornate pool, in front of them a table with drinks, in the background a woman, indeterminate featurewise because she wasn’t facing the camera. One of the men was Kries. One of the others Shard didn’t recognise. But the third man was familiar enough. Better known to the FBI, but known also to the Yard — known to Shard from his own days with the Met. An Italian by origin, name of Luigi Giraldo, a member of the Mafia in the States, and one who made a speciality of impersonal, businesslike murder, on hire purchase terms if necessary. He didn’t do the killings himself; he was the boss. He ran hired hands, expert gunmen and others, and he arranged killings to order just like anyone would do a deal over real estate. And, in that photograph, he looked very pally with Earl Denver Kries. The two men had their arms around each other and Kries, who was not a small man, looked swamped.

  Shard said, “I’d like to keep this. Just for a while. All right?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Why didn’t your uncle come? By the way … where are you living?”

  She said, “Where we always did.” A shadow passed across the small face and she bit her lip. There was a glint of tears behind the deep brown eyes. “My gran’s moved in, my daddy’s one. Uncle didn’t come because a man rang and said he was coming. Uncle said he would have to be there.”

  “I see.” Shard regarded the child gravely. “I suppose you don’t know who the man is, do you?”

  “Yes,” she said, and gave a sudden giggle, then at once blushed as though the giggle had been out of place. “Christ. But I don’t think it’s the one from heaven.”

  14

  Shard found a phone and dialled the Foreign Office. He spoke to Harry Kenwood. “Kries,” he said. “At the Locci home. Get there, Harry.”

  “Right away, sir. And you? Want a pick-up?”

  “No time. And I’ve got a young kid with me. Detail WDC Brett to stand by to act as nanny.”

  He put the phone down and went fast for the FO, with Angela Locci. He asked, casually, about the uncle. He hadn’t been at the funeral, Angela said. Shard gathered that business had had to come first. Shard thought about Luigi Giraldo’s connection with Kries. Syndicated murder — that was a very American business. Giraldo had come to Britain a few years earlier to try to extend his trade, going in for export as it were. He’d been grassed on just in time; and just in time he’d hopped the twig back to New York, one jump ahead of the Yard. But from then on he’d been marked and hadn’t returned to Britain. He had grown bigger in the meantime and no doubt when he wished to operate in Britain he did it by proxy.

  Kries? As proxy?

  It was an interesting thought. It led by easy and obvious stages to trade union leaders, though — as Shard had asked himself so many times in regard to Kries without benefit of his new knowledge of the Giraldo link — why America, why an involvement from over there? It still failed to add up. Locci’s brother might shed some light; he’d clearly thought the photograph would be of value to Shard. Shard, who had been puzzled as to how the brother had got onto him at all, elicited from Angela that her uncle had found his name and telephone number written on a scrap of paper by her mother, Frankie Locci’s widow.

  Reaching the Foreign Office Shard turned Angela over to WDC Brett with a suggestion that the child might be accommodated for the time being in a children’s home, far removed from danger. Then he went up to see Hedge, not expecting much but recognising that Hedge had to be kept in touch.

  Hedge took the photograph as though it carried germs. He asked, “What are your ideas, Shard?”

  Shard put them and Hedge looked pained. “Buddy. An awful word, an Americanism. I’ll tell you what it suggests to me if you like.”

  “Yes, do. That’ll be a help.”

  Hedge glared. What bores the police were — boors, too. Rude. Not gentlemen, reminded him of the sow’s ear. Once, chief constables at least had been retired colonels and the like, and much the better for it. Ran a more disciplined force … he said, swallowing his distaste for the present day, “It suggests to me that Kries was sent over here by Giraldo, sent with intent to kill —”

  “As I’ve just said, Hedge.”

  “Yes, but kindly do me the courtesy of listening to me until I’ve finished, will you?” Hedge’s cheeks wobbled. “Have you not wondered why he should approach Locci, as that child says he is doing?”

  Shard nodded. “Yes. He could intend killing Locci. But if so, why does Locci wait around for him? I don’t know the answer. Maybe we’ll find out, if Kenwood’s squad gets there in time.”

  “I have another idea,” Hedge said complacently. Then he said something surprising. “Why shouldn’t Kries’ assignment be to kill the Hoof, Shard? Had you thought of that?”

  Shard stared. “No,” he said. “I hadn’t.”

  “Think about it now, my dear fellow.”

  Shard was already turning it over in his mind, fast. As an idea it was intriguing; but Kries had already had ample opportunity to kill the Hoof if that was his mission, a mission from Luigi Giraldo to kill for payment. On the other hand, had there really been the opportunity? So far as Shard knew, Kries had never yet had the Hoof on his own. And where did Frankie Locci’s brother come in? If Kries was out to kill the Hoof, he could be presumed to be on the side of the Loccis and wouldn’t be meaning to kill the brother; and why should brother Locci shop a friend by sending that photograph? A possible answer to that might be that, if he knew Kries was in the vicinity, he wanted the photograph out of the way. It could be evidence of a sort and Kries was probably not the man to restrain himself from suppressing both evidence and holder, friend or not. There was still the over-riding question: why should Giraldo want the Hoof killed? No doubt that depended on who Giraldo’s principals might be. Shard spoke of this to Hedge. He asked, “Who do you suppose could be behind Giraldo?”

  Hedge shrugged. “One can only guess. It could even be personal. Something between Locci and Giraldo. Both Italians. Giraldo revenging Frankie Locci, who’d been killed on the Hoof’s order.” He added, “Of course, that doesn’t explain the other union men.”

  “It wouldn’t have to,” Shard said. “Kries and Giraldo don’t have to have any connection with that aspect. Two sets of killings could have crossed along the line.”

  “Perhaps.” Hedge looked at his watch. “I have to get to the Home Office, Shard, another conference. I suggest you dig up something on the Giraldo link and see where that leads you. But don’t forget the first thing now is to safeguard the TUC meeting. The rest can come afterwards.”

  He got to his feet.

  Dismissed, Shard went down to his section. He was grinning to himself as he went. It had cost Hedge something, to say that the TUC was the first consideration. Meanwhile certain wires did cross: Giraldo/Locci, Locci/Kries, Kries/Lacroix. They would have to be made to produce something fast. Shard sent for Eve Brett’s notes on her prowl around Soho in her attempt to get a line on Lacroix. While he was going through these a message came in from Harry Kenwood: the house in Hounslow was a blank. The birds had flown. The old granny hadn’t been aware of any visitor and had never heard of Kries.

  *

  Shard knew a bar in Soho where he’d once had useful contacts. There was no reason why they shouldn’t be useful still.

  He went in, took a stool at the bar, and asked for a Scotch.

  The girl behind the bar was new since he’d last been there. She didn’t know him; but there was a cautious reserve about her as she held the glass to the optic and studied his reflection in the mirror behind. Plenty of officers from the Met came here to glean what they could about all sorts of villains, and Shard was being put down as one more dick on the prowl, which was of course fair enough
for a bit of guesswork. When she had pushed the whisky across and taken the money, she moved along the bar to a door at the end. She opened the door and leaned in for a moment, then came back. Soon after this Shard became aware that he was under scrutiny: he happened to know that there was a peephole above the mirrors behind the vodka, and he was ready. Briefly, he saw a pair of eyes. The place was fairly crowded, but the eyes were for him alone. Two minutes later the door at the end opened and a stout woman emerged. She could almost have come straight out of a public house of the Victorian era. Though stout she was upright and big arms were held across her body, hands clasped below a swelling bosom. The face was severe, as was the hair style, and the hair was grey. She was the picture of respectability and she was also the boss, in fact if not in name. The licensee was her husband but that counted for nothing: he was smaller than her and scared stiff of her. Moving like a galleon along the bar, she stopped in front of Shard.

  “Good morning, Mr Shard. Long time, eh?”

  “Much too long. How’s trade these days, Ivy?”

  She lifted a hand and dealt with a stray hair, casting her severe glance over the clientele. As formidable as the bows of a battleship, the big jaw moved. “Mustn’t bloody complain, Mr Shard,” she said.

  “That’s good. Like a drink?”

  She considered, looking down her nose. “Wouldn’t say no. Thanks.” She moved to the optics and poured herself a large gin. She added tonic and took the money. “Skin off your nose,” she said mechanically, and drank. Then she said, “Well, now. What you looking for this time, Mr Shard?”

  He shrugged. “This and that.”

  “This and that, eh.” She gave a sniff. “Wasn’t what I bloody heard, was it?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “That girl,” she said, sounding disdainful.

  “What girl?”

  “Come off it, Mr Shard. You know very well ’oo I mean. Still wet be’ind the ears she is … means well, I don’t doubt. She didn’t come in ’ere, but things get told me, know what I mean?” Shard said he did. The landlady lifted a hand again and did something to an earring. “Bloody cheap jewellery,” she said. “I could do with something more classy, but it’s all pay, pay, pay these days what with the heating and all. Right, Mr Shard?”