She went to the bedroom and took out two amylozine capsules, went to the bathroom, swallowed them with water, went back to the bedroom and took off her dress. She stretched out on the bed, feeling the warmth of the room, luxuriating in the sunglare, waiting for the amylozine to take effect, to relax. She put her hand behind her shoulders and undid her bra. She stroked her breasts, feeling the skin soft and oily under her fingers, wet with heat.
*
Holmes sat in the car, thinking. He could now see, stage by stage, the Humber drawing up behind the Wolseley on the motorway, then drifting across the road and into the grass verge. He tried to think himself into the mind of the man who had been driving, tried to remember what he looked like, what he had seen him doing. Holmes sat there, attempting to recall each detail and imprint it on his memory. Then, as if satisfied, he drove slowly along the estate road to the shops. There was no sign of the small boy or Rosa Verschoyle.
He parked the car outside the small post office and general stores and went round the corner to a public telephone box. He could stand there and telephone and still keep an eye on the shops and the main street and the road leading back to the estate. He dialled Scotland Yard and got Morrison, asking him to put down the switch for an automatic tape recording and listen in at the same time. Holmes gave his identity, the date, and the time, and the number of the call box and then dictated a meticulous account of the crash, giving the Humber’s registration number. When he had finished, Morrison said, ‘And you’re sure they were following you?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Holmes. ‘I saw the car first in the Mall. I suspect they picked us up in Whitehall Gardens. They were probably watching the ministry. I suspect they followed Mrs Shepherd there and were waiting for her to come out.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At home.’
‘In the bungalow?’
‘Yes. There’s another thing — ‘
What other thing?’ Morrison sounded exasperated.
‘Her sister, Mrs Verschoyle, was not visible yesterday, nor today. She is out all the time with the child. They were said today to be at the shops. I don’t think they are.’
‘We’ll check. I’ll put some men on. Do you think I’d better not see Mrs Shepherd?’
‘The fewer visitors she has at the moment the better.’
‘We’ll watch. It could give us a lead.’
‘It could.’
‘Have you any ideas?’
‘Nothing definite. It’s odd, that’s all. She knows something.’
There was a pause.
Morrison said, tentatively, ‘This accident — ?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it a tyre blowing out?’
‘I don’t think it was a tyre.’
‘There was no tilt to the car — it didn’t go down on one side?’
‘No.’
‘Steering?’
‘If the steering goes, Joe, I think you feel it on the wheel — it doesn’t respond — and so you move the wheel more and more, wrestling with it, trying to get contact. You would see the driver turning the wheel from side to side. He would be visibly agitated — trying to regain control — ’
‘He wasn’t?’
‘He was sitting at the wheel without moving, with no trace of distress, no sign at all he was aware he was driving off the road.’
‘No visible reaction at all?’
‘None.’
‘How far away were you?’
‘It’s difficult to judge from a mirror, but he was right on my tail.’
‘Didn’t he flinch or duck, move the wheel?’
‘No.’
‘When the car was following you it was behaving normally?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not swaying from side to side?’
‘Not swaying at all until it got to the verge. Then it did.’
‘Doesn’t sound as though he was drunk,’ said Morrison. ‘Maybe he had a heart attack. There’s a heatwave on. Lots of people are getting sunstroke. He could have had coronary thrombosis.’
‘He could.’
‘Well?’
‘But he didn’t. He would have fallen over the wheel. He didn’t fall anywhere. I keep on telling you, Joe — he drove straight off the road. He was sitting at the wheel perfectly normally and he drove off the road.’
There was silence. Morrison’s voice came over the line, puzzled and a little resentful. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘A drug on the market,’ said Holmes. ‘Can you meet me in my office in an hour?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Spider that ran Alive
While Holmes was returning to London, Morrison sent for Inspector Post. ‘I want you,’ he said, ‘to investigate a road accident.’
Inspector Post blinked. He looked dutifully at Morrison for enlightenment. Investigating traffic accidents would be a somewhat rare function for a man in the Special Branch.
‘Don’t look like that,’ snapped Morrison. He was irritable. Two men were following Holmes and they were either drunk or doped, or there was a bomb in the car, or the steering went. I want to know what happened, why they crashed, who they were and what they were doing and why. Got it? Oh — ’ he added — ‘take a chemist and an engineer.’
Post nodded. He said nothing.
‘If it’s anything,’ went on Morrison, ‘it’s a lead on the Shepherd case. Put a priority message on the teleprinter through to Reading police. Tell them nothing is to be touched until you get there. Go through it with a toothcomb — look for capsules under the steering wheel, metal corrosion from acids, anything you can think of. Got it? Right.’
Inspector Post departed with his usual air of amiable depression.
Morrison put the documents he wanted into his briefcase and went across to Downing Street to wait for Holmes. He had sounded confident enough talking to Post but he was not. He felt uneasy. Nothing made sense. Ideas chased themselves round and round in his mind and mingled together to cause a growing confusion. He lit a pipe but found no comfort in it. The sight of Holmes arriving was cheering if only because it was a relief not to be alone, to be able to talk, to express doubts.
‘I’ve sent off Post to look at the wreckage,’ Morrison said. ‘I can’t think he’s going to find anything if it’s as bad as you say.’
Holmes went across to the filing cabinet, took out the yellow security folder and spread it open on his desk. Tendlebury’s report on LSD-25,’ he said. He took out some foolscap sheets stapled together, closely typed, and looked through them until he found what he wanted.
‘I thought of this,’ he said, ‘when I was with Mrs Shepherd. I was so intrigued with the idea I am afraid I left the poor young woman rather abruptly. See what you think.’
Together they read the passages Holmes pointed out, describing the properties and possible uses of LSD.
Psycho-chemicals are dangerous to handle. A microscopic grain can contaminate skin, clothing, drinking utensils, and can soon affect a person’s behaviour, even by secondary contamination. A primary contamination could be used as a form of mental assassination. This would be almost impossible to detect because within about half an hour LSD is metabolized by the body and disappears without trace.
‘Mental assassination,’ murmured Holmes. He was excited. ‘Hit for six on a motorway. Eh?’ They read on.
The sequence of events after taking LSD is as follows: For a while, for as little as fifteen minutes or as long as two hours, nothing happens. The subject feels normal. Then, as the drug takes effect, there may be physical symptoms — muscular tensions, rapid pulse, deep respiration, followed shortly by illusions.
The illusions were of colours, patterns, strange faces, landscapes that did not exist, superimposed upon reality with compelling clarity. They read, fascinated, until the final passage which had so excited the experts of strategic studies.
As a mass weapon LSD has uniquely powerful properties. Not only is it water-soluble, but, providing there is a suitable
system of distribution, the particles could soon permeate a large lake or reservoir. A single pound of it in, say, New York City’s or Moscow’s water supply, would be enough to produce a temporary model psychosis in the whole population …
‘Never mind for the moment about the mass effects,’ said Holmes. He put the file away. ‘Joe — ’ he said — ‘to use Pendlebury’s phrase, was Shepherd mentally assassinated?’
‘Shepherd was drunk,’ said Morrison. ‘The doctors said so.’
‘And drunk is not being mentally assassinated. Drink and the devil does for the rest. But what I’m getting at, Joe, is this — ’ Holmes frowned — ‘suppose it was drink and drugs.’
‘Shepherd might have been drugged?’
‘He might.’
‘Before he got to Runnymede, or after?’
‘Before, either at Uplands or on the way. Where did he get the drink?’
‘He called at a pub — The Feathers at Windsor.’
‘Probably there.’
‘Then he went to meet Nina Lydoevna — ’
‘At Runnymede: ten minutes by car. Talks to Nina for, say, another ten. Doubt if they’d risk more. Twenty altogether. The stuff begins to work. He gets queer, gets illusions, hallucinations, sees the river. Bong.’
Morrison frowned. ‘What do you mean — bong? Do be sensible. This is only a theory. There’s no evidence — ’
‘Damn evidence,’ said Holmes. ‘We’ll find that later. It fits in. Both cases. Forty-five minutes from the Mall to the Reading motorway. Perhaps a bit longer. Dear me, I hope not too long.’
Holmes reopened Pendlebury’s file. ‘Ah, good,’ he sounded relieved as he found the reference he wanted. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s it. After taking LSD, nothing happens for as little as fifteen minutes or as long as two hours,’ he closed the file. Two hours is plenty of time. That makes it simple.’
Morrison was filling his pipe. He looked thoughtfully and with a certain bewilderment at Holmes’ eager face, the bright eyes shining, the parted lips; and absorbed with admiration the radiated excitement. But Morrison was sceptical. A Presbyterian background and a policeman’s training were strong influences on him. ‘Do I take it,’ he said, ‘you’re suggesting the men in the motorway crash were doped?’
‘That’s it,’ said Holmes. ‘I actually saw it myself. Every detail. I sat there, you know, Joe, and watched, I actually watched — and all the while I was thinking “this isn’t natural, this isn’t normal,” and there it was happening perfectly normally except for one thing. Their faces. It was that which convinced me. Otherwise it could have been drink. But, a drunken man, even an incapable man, at least knows when he’s driving off the road. He sees danger, even if he only sees it too late. If the steering fails or a tyre blows out he will at least be visibly disturbed. He will respond somehow. He’ll wrestle with the driving wheel. There’ll be at least some movement, some expression. But not in this case. There they were, doing ninety plus, sitting, both of them, like dummies, no sign of fear or of any emotion at all — no sign of anything. They hit the grass, swerved back on to the road, back to the grass again, and they didn’t notice. Their faces were blank. It was terrifying, Joe. They weren’t in the car at all. They were in a trance. They were seeing things. Drunks don’t behave like that.’
‘There’s no evidence — ’ began Morrison.
‘Of course there won’t be any evidence,’ said Holmes. ‘Either in the motorway crash or, as we already know, in the Shepherd case. No evidence at all. The stuff is metabolized After half an hour, isn’t it? LSD goes into the body and is absorbed without trace. That’s precisely why they’re using it. No awkward questions asked at inquests about a deposit on the stomach lining because there isn’t any. Very convenient, Joe, mental assassination. It’s not even murder.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ grunted Morrison. ‘It seems to me, he went on, ‘that it’s worth looking at. I think so. It’s certainly one explanation.’
‘You’re most kind,’ murmured Mr Holmes. ‘Generous,’ he added. ‘Most generous.’
Morrison stared. Holmes took no notice. He was moving round the room, hands in pockets, looking round at things, but not at anything in particular, staring abstractedly into the air, screwing up his eyes, jutting his lower lip.
Morrison recognized the signs. ‘What do you want now?’ he asked.
Holmes came back into focus. He looked across at Morrison. His manner was almost apologetic. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it’s none of my business. Not really. I mean — I deal with policy and all that, and it’s you and Lamb who are, as it were, in charge of the operation itself, but — ’
‘Don’t be funny,’ said Morrison. He was touched by Holmes’ sudden gesture. ‘You know perfectly well.’ Morrison said gruffly, ‘that you and I don’t take any notice of that.’
‘Don’t we? Good.’ Holmes smiled. ‘In that case do you think I could have a look at Shepherd’s diary? It was found on him, wasn’t it?’
‘The exhibit is at the Yard,’ said Morrison, unlocking his briefcase, ‘but I brought the photostat copies. If they won’t do I’ll ring over and get a messenger to — ’
‘They’ll do admirably,’ said Holmes. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
Morrison handed over the clip of photographs and settled back to light his pipe. He had a great admiration for Holmes. He found his presence comforting. Morrison felt that the diary might be of importance. So far it had not revealed much.
‘Most of the things in it.’ Morrison said, ‘are the usual sort. Flight numbers, times of trains, records of hotel bills. He was careful, was Shepherd. There’s nothing in there to incriminate anybody or anything. But there are still one or two entries we don’t understand. Mostly appointments, so far as we know. Just initials and times jotted down. He met a lot of people in Libya.’
Holmes nodded. There was silence during which Morrison enveloped himself in clouds of blue tobacco smoke and puffed contentedly away.
‘Was this an appointment?’ Holmes held up the photograph of the page for July 15th. It was blank except for a pencil note: 3 I D Distbn.
‘It could be an appointment,’ said Morrison. That’s one we’re not sure about. The previous day, for example, we are.’
Holmes, turning back, saw, for July 14th: A. 3.30.
That one we’ve checked,’ said Morrison. ‘It was an appointment with a man called Anderson. Works in one of our consular offices. Shepherd met him at 3.30 and passed on one or two things.’
‘Anything important?’
‘No. Routine. Developments. Gossip. Mostly hearsay, according to Anderson, who doesn’t remember much about it now except Shepherd drank a lot. Said he was living on his nerves.’
‘Did he know where Shepherd was going on the following day?’
‘No.’
‘Pity.’
‘It is a pity,’ said Morrison. ‘It is indeed. I believe if we could find I D who had an appointment with Shepherd in Casablanca at three o’clock on July 15th to discuss what appears to be distribution we would be getting somewhere.’
‘You think it’s a man?’
‘It could be a woman,’ said Morrison. ‘But I doubt it. My guess is it’s a character we know called Ian Dixon who keeps a water-front cafe in Casablanca. Shady expatriate type. Lamb uses him sometimes as a contact and so does the Foreign Office. Useful but not necessarily trustworthy. Runs a couple of lorries and a fishing boat and is frequently away from the cafe for lone intervals.’
‘Ah.’
‘If it was distributing the stuff from the factory,’ Morrison said, ‘lorries and a boat — you see? — might be useful.’
‘So you think 3 I D means Shepherd had a three o’clock appointment on that day with Ian Dixon who has transport which could have something to do with the distribution of LSD from the factory in Libya,’ said Holmes. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘It’s a workable theory,’ said Morrison.
‘Did Ian Di
xon have an appointment?’
‘We’ve been trying to find out.’
‘We haven’t contacted Dixon?’
‘He’s disappeared.’
‘Has he?’ said Holmes. He was intrigued. ‘How very dramatic of him.’
‘It’s not necessarily significant or dramatic,’ said Morrison. ‘He comes and goes, apparently.’
‘A shifty sort of character?’ Holmes frowned. ‘One would have thought — ’ he began.
‘Thought what?’
‘Never mind,’ said Holmes.
Morrison did mind; but at that moment the phone rang. Holmes answered it and passed it over. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘It’s your office.’
‘Hullo!’ snarled Morrison into the phone; and listened. When he spoke again he did not shout, as he had done at first, and he seemed to be depressed. ‘I’ll come over,’ he said and put the receiver down.
‘You know we were keeping a watch on Mrs Shepherd?’ he said to Holmes. ‘Well — she’s disappeared. Walked out in broad daylight. Vanished. Goes out of the back door. Into the woods. Whizz. Seen no more.’ His depression smouldered into anger. ‘I seem,’ he said, ‘to have a blind bunch of bewildered — ’ He searched, or appeared to search, for a word that would adequately describe the luckless subordinate he had put on to watch the Shepherd bungalow. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he said getting up. ‘It was probably my fault for not having two men on the job. That’s for economy. I’d better go and sort things out.’
‘The sister and the child? ‘
They’re not there either,’ said Morrison. ‘Where is everybody getting to? They can’t all vanish.’ He went out grumbling. ‘It’ll probably take hours and it probably won’t mean anything. Damn it, Holmes. What a nuisance it all is.’
Holmes also thought that it was a nuisance and it might be even more than that; only for the time being he was content, and had to be, to leave it to Morrison. He turned to the photostats and looked through them with care. It took him nearly an hour. He was no nearer getting an answer. There were too many things he still didn’t know.
The Shepherd File Page 8