A Very Big Bang

by Philip McCutchan

  Shard protested, questioned, authenticating himself in the eyes of Nose. Nose was entirely philosophic: “It’s to be expected, mate, they don’t like our smell. This, it’s part of tourist Britain and we spoil the bloody scenery.” Peaceably, they were led to the nick. It was an experience Shard had never undergone and one he didn’t like: the crowds, all the searching eyes, the backward looks, the disdain — the fearful wonder in the eyes of children. Growing angry as he was marched along, he felt that the DC could have found a better way.

  At the nick, separation: goodbye to Nose, busily picking. In the charge room with the DC, Shard jerked a hand along the direction taken by his late colleague.

  “Don’t take it out on him. He’s harmless if filthy.”

  “We won’t, sir. A talking-to about the company he keeps, then he’ll go on his way.”

  Shard stared. “Company he keeps? Me?”

  “That’s right, sir. We had word from London to pick you up. Wanted in connexion with a break-in.”

  “That’s what you’re going to tell him?”

  “Yes, sir —”

  “You blow my working base without my say-so. Why?”

  “We have some information, sir, and the DI thinks you may wish to act on it. The DI’s on his way down. He’ll tell you himself.”

  Shard grunted irritably and sat himself down on a hard chair. “In the best Barlow circles, the villain always gets the offer of a cigarette.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Out came a packet.

  “And a cup of tea. Only make mine coffee. And bacon and eggs. It wouldn’t break the canteen kitty, would it, if you were to give that other poor bastard the same before you hoof him out?”

  The DC went off: Shard sat and looked at bareness, featurelessness. Pale green walls, plain wooden table, kitchen chairs. He’d been in more such rooms than he cared to remember, and compared with the cellar of his night’s lodging it was, of course, paradise: but somehow he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling of being, this time, on the other side, the arrest side. It made the room look and feel different. Even the DI, coming in soon after his DC’s departure for food, looked threatening. Stupid! Yet there was, undeniably, an atmosphere. The DI was tight-lipped, white. Shard stood up.

  “I’m told you have something for me, Mr Gleeson?”

  “I have.”

  “Good, or not?”

  “You’ll have to judge that for yourself, sir.” The voice was hard. “Before I come to that, there’s something else. Your car — it crashed on the motorway. My DC was killed, Mr Shard.”

  Shard drew in breath, shocked, shaken. “On my account. God, I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, sir.” The voice shook a little; there was accusation in the air. In today’s climate, the police were always in the front line, but it was never popular when the brass descended out of London and pulled rank: when the bright notions of the brass led to death in one’s own force, the reaction was strong and bitter.

  Shard asked, “Foul play, anything deliberate?”

  “No, sir, apparently not. Foul luck! A wet road, and a skid on overtaking a container transporter. No one’s to blame, but …”

  “I know. Except me … I understand, and again, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, we’ll say no more, sir. What I have to tell you —” The DI broke off, turning as the door opened: the DC came in with a tray of food which he put in front of Shard. “I’ll talk while you eat,” the DI said, and Shard nodded. He sat down and got on with breakfast: it descended into a stomach that didn’t know it was so meths-queasy till eggs and bacon made their entry, after which Shard felt decidedly sick. He pushed the rest away and drank black coffee, and listened. York police had definitely picked up something; it remained to be seen whether or not it was germaine, but it had the initial sound of being tailored to fit at least in part: there was a word in the grapevine, a word that someone was short of a safeblower following a nasty accident to the resident expert.

  “Casey?”

  “Could be, Mr Shard, just could be.”

  “But if Casey was to be their peterman … God, he was after more than that! London underground — it’s rather bigger than a safe, isn’t it?”

  Gleeson shrugged. “Might be a euphemism. They’re not going to advertise openly.”

  “True.” Shard lit another offered cigarette and blew smoke thoughtfully. “It fits, I believe. Who is it that’s put the word around? Dark skinned — or not?”

  “We don’t know the originators. Our informant’s contact was white — British. That doesn’t have to mean a lot.”

  “No, that also is true.” Shard frowned. “If the Middle East’s involved … they wouldn’t be au fait with our home products, they’d need to put out feelers.”

  “No substitutes lined up — that’s what I reckoned, Mr Shard.” The DI paused expectantly. “Do you play on that wicket?”

  “Me, in person?”

  “I’m told you know about explosives.”

  “I do. In broad outline — maybe a little more than that. But I’m not, definitely not, an expert. Like Casey.”

  “Any port in a storm, sir!”

  “Oh, thanks very much,” Shard said sardonically. He drummed fingers on the table, absently. “There’ll be other applicants — it’s a top job! What have you in York, and round about?”

  “Two good petermen, Ferret Yates and Dandy O’Sullivan, known to be in the vicinity. O’Sullivan here in York, Yates in Ripon. No others known to us. But that doesn’t really help much, does it, Mr Shard? The grapevine operates nation-wide.”

  “Yes. How did you get your info — or shouldn’t I ask?”

  The DI said formally, “One of our known snouts, sir.”

  “Reliable?”

  “Usually, very reliable.” Gleeson paused, then went on, “I could always bring in Yates and O’Sullivan, just to have a word … helping with enquiries generally. It’d reduce the competition.”

  “No.” Shard shook his head. “You wouldn’t be able to hold ’em long enough, and it would smell a little high in the circumstances.” He grinned. “Like I do. Can you fix me a bath?”

  “Shower in the washroom, sir. It’s all yours. Does this mean you’re batting, Mr Shard?”

  Yorkshire was a cricketing county: Shard grinned to himself. He said, “Fix me some pads and flannels and I’ll go in and hit the bowling for six — I hope! Yes, I’ll go in, Inspector, but I’ll need to make a call to London first.”

  *

  “Hedge?”

  There was an indeterminate sound at the London end of the security line. “Is that Shard?”

  “Yes, Hedge —”

  “Heard about your car?”

  “Yes. I needn’t say, I’m desperately sorry about the DC —”

  “Did he exist, or didn’t he? You know what I mean. What do I do?” Incipient panic, a heartfelt plea for a firm decision to be made, extended along| the wire.

  Shard said, “He didn’t, I did. Now I’m dead. Listen, Hedge.” As concisely as he could, Shard passed on the York DI’s information. Hisses and gasps smote his ear. He cut in: “Hedge, it’s the best lead I’m likely to get, and time presses —”

  “My God, Shard, you don’t have to tell me that —”

  “Then give me, in your own best interest, your blessing.”

  “Well …”

  “Thanks, Hedge, thanks very much. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll get some of the gen — bound to.”

  “If they’re the right people.”

  “If they’re not, nothing’s lost — except, I agree, a little time. I’ll be fast. Here’s my story, Hedge, and when the check-out goes through the grapevine, I’ll expect confirmation from your end. I was in the army — bomb disposal — Belfast. A big explosives expert … let’s say, Staff-Sergeant Royal Engineers, name … John Pearson. Time expired, and disillusioned — with civvy street and the British in Northern Ireland both. Can’t get the kind of work I want. Sickened by what the British have done — used to
say so while I was still serving.” Shard developed his theme, giving Hedge time to make notes, detailing his service career.

  “Have you,” Hedge asked, “the background knowledge to cope?”

  “Factually, as you should know, I did a course on explosives with the army, while I was still at the Yard, so the answer’s yes, just about — hopefully. There’s one other thing: I’ve done time for GBH, three years in Pentonville, just come out. That checks with something else — I play safe when possible. All right, Hedge?”

  “I suppose so —”

  “Now — Beth. My wife, Hedge. I’m going to ask you to tell her I’m alive and never mind the news when it breaks. Will you?”

  Hedge snapped, “No. If you’re dead, Shard, you’re dead. You know that. No, I won’t!”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Shard said bitterly. He rang off before he added something he might regret, and, thinking of Beth, went for a shower and a change of clothing. This was Mrs Casey all over again, in a revise sense: he sighed as the warm soapy water cleared away the traces of the night before. Coppers’ wives had much to put up with, and real widowhood was the worst possibility. At least Beth’s tears would be brief, would end in happiness: Tom Casey’s widow had yet to learn her state, and from that no release would ever come, any more than it would to that DC’s family, which was something Shard would never cease to blame himself for, the more so as the death had resulted from a stupid and pointless whim.

  *

  Nose, duly hoofed out, met renewed rain as he left the nick: it fell upon the threadbare shoulders of his tattered and torn overcoat, which was paper-thin, first constructed in pre-war days — built to last, but not night and day. Nose picked and coughed and shambled, bereft of his short-while partner. The fuzz had been quite decent: the remains of a fag hung from Nose’s lower lip, increasing his cough but bringing balm nevertheless. Breakfast had fallen from heaven, better than mere nectar. Mistake, they’d said, it was his mate they wanted to question. But he might be some help: he had been just that, telling the fuzz what little he knew about his mate, and no harm done thereby. The fuzz had made a donation: fifty pees. Very welcome!

  Nose moved on, just wandering in the rain.

  *

  Detective Inspector Gleeson had said the grapevine’s indication was that a middle-aged man named Larger would receive applications. Mr Larger, known both to the police and fellow villains, on account of his tastes, as Harp Lager with a hard g, could be contacted most afternoons in a newsagents’ three streets away from the nick, a newsagents’ that had a busy under-the-counter trade in hard porn. But it was another avenue that would provide the path to employment.

  Shard, at two thirty, set foot on that path. There were two people in the shop when he entered, a young man and a woman, both porn-innocent. Shard hung about, looking furtive, till they’d gone. Then he approached the counter.

  “Mr Larger?”

  A nod: “That’s me.”

  “Who they call — Harp Lager?”

  “Aye. What do you want, then?” Mr Larger’s eyes looked down meaningly.

  “Just a word.”

  “Not — pictures?”

  “No. Not pictures. A private word. I believe you sell fireworks, Guy Fawkes time.”

  “Ah … ha! Hang on a tick.” Mr Larger turned away, opened a door behind, and leaned through. “Ethel! Come down a moment, eh? I got some business to do.” He turned back to Shard and served a customer who had just come in. Shard waited again, wandering around the shop. After a while he found his attention caught by the window: flattened against it, with an astonished expression written big, was a filthy whiskery face wildly framed in dank rats’-tails of hair, a familiar face engaged in familiar action: pick, pick, pick. Recognition was only too obvious: as Ethel came in behind the counter, Mr Larger cottoned on to Nose.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  “Seems to know you …”

  “Bloody scrounger.” Shard laughed. “I gave a bloke like that a ten pence piece this morning. Could be him.”

  Mr Larger came out from behind his counter, approaching the door. “Bugger off,” he said sharply. “I’ll call the police else.” He glared: he had a mean face, a dangerous face. Nose shambled off, with a backward look at Shard, who kept his face blank. Mr Larger turned and came back in and lifted the flap of the counter for Shard. “After you,” he said. “Right through to the back.”

  Shard went through with Mr Larger behind, close. There was a strong feeling of danger now, of very burning boats. Something about Mr Larger said clearly that a sanctum was about to be penetrated, and not with impunity.

  Six

  The room was small and dark, with cheap furniture and linoleum on the floor: below a small and dirty-paned window, the Ouse flowed. Shard was told to sit: he did so, in a creaking basket-work chair at a table covered with a multi-coloured patchwork cloth as dirty as the window panes, greasily dirty.

  Larger looked at him narrowly: Larger was a short, square-bodied man with a thick neck and the shoulders of a bison. The face was also square — heavy and pasty, and the head was bald, a dangerous-looking man with a protuberant lower lip. He stood there, breathing heavily, and asked: “Well?”

  “They said apply here.”

  “They?”

  “Two fellas I met.”

  “Where d’you meet these two fellas?”

  Shard jerked his head in an encompassing geographical movement. “Boozer. We got talking.”

  “Names?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Describe them.”

  Personal descriptions could be nicely generalised: Shard gave two, sounding vague. Larger didn’t offer comment on them as such, but asked what had been said.

  “They said someone was looking for a peterman.”

  “Did they now.” Larger’s gaze was steady, searching, weighing. “That fits you?”

  “Well,” Shard said, “not quite it doesn’t. That, I have to admit.”

  “Then?”

  “I can learn —”

  “Learn!” Larger’s tone was acid. “There’s plenty around who don’t need to learn.”

  Shard shrugged. “Okay, okay. It was worth a try, wasn’t it? You could need me sometime, even if not now. I can kind of leave my card, perhaps.”

  Larger kept his eyes searching. He asked, “Know anything about explosives?”

  “Plenty. That’s why I came on the chance. I was in the army.” Meaningly he added, “Belfast.”

  Larger nodded, slowly. “Tell me all about it.” Shard did so, repeating all he had told Hedge on the telephone, expanding on it. Larger listened and was obviously interested in all he heard: Shard knew he had made an impression when at last Larger said, “All right. There’s some people I’d like you to meet.”

  “Whatever you say. When?”

  “Sooner the better. Tonight, if I can fix it. No promises, but they could be interested.”

  “Thanks,” Shard said. “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime, you stay here.” It was pleasantly said, not far off an invitation to stay for tea, but Shard didn’t doubt the score for a moment. Meantime, was the time for the check-out and if it failed to hold together then he was handily adjusted for the drop. He remained seated at the table; Larger left the room. Shard heard the tinkle of a lifted telephone: he got up and put an ear to the door, but could hear nothing. He went back to his chair and waited. Larger didn’t re-appear: he was probably back behind his shop counter, selling newspapers, fags, lollies and porn. Time dragged past in a blank silence. Even the invisible telephone didn’t ring. At six thirty by Shard’s watch, a sound came from the shop and from it Shard judged Larger to be closing for the night. A few minutes later he was summoned to another room for tea, which he took with Mr and Mrs Larger: ham-and-eggs, followed by parkin, mealy and treacly, washed down with strong tea, after which, not seeming to notice the mixture, Mr Larger opened a bottle of Harp for himself. Nobody
spoke much, but Larger, when he did utter, talked about the army: it seemed he had done National Service just after the war, with a local regiment of the line. Private Larger, undistinguished infantryman: ex-Staff-Sergeant John Pearson kept his end up without difficulty — in the interval, the army had in any case changed out of all recognition. Tea finished and was cleared away by Ethel Larger. Mr Larger sat smoking a pipe.

  “These people I’m to meet,” Shard said. “When?”

  “Let you know when I know myself,” Larger said, around his pipe-stem. They carried on waiting and Shard’s nerves began to play him up: the waiting game he detested as much as anyone else. Larger read an evening paper, concentrating on the sporting pages, not appearing bothered about delays. Shard told himself that delay was inevitable and did not have to spell doom: it would take time for Hedge to feed enough into the pipeline to get him by — Hedge with his army-sized network of contact men, snouts, spies, agents provocateurs and what-have-you, the men who talked out of the sides of their mouths in pubs and caffs, in all the right places, listening and giving the right answers, men who were in the full confidence of the kind of people who would be doing Larger’s check-out for him. It was near enough foolproof, but it took time. That night, the telephone rang twice, but Larger was non-committal after, shrugging off Shard’s question. By bedtime nothing had jelled: Shard was given a shake-down in an upstairs room after a cup of cocoa and more parkin; the door was locked behind him. He looked out of the window: sheer brick sides down to the river. A dive could carry him clear, but to what? Unless the locking of the door had been no more than a useless gesture, someone would be keeping a lookout on the river below — and in any case he had his duty. The long night passed: Shard slept uneasily, too conscious of all the possible slips, of the hours passing away towards the big bang in London’s underground system. In the morning the dawn’s light woke him, and he lay and listened — for telephones, for the Largers’ stirring. Someone was up early for the newspaper rounds and the six a.m. workers: Shard heard the creaking of the stairs and the opening and shutting of doors. At seven thirty he was brought down for breakfast by Ethel Larger, a silent meal again with Larger and his wife taking bites between summonses to the shop. Larger brought a paper in, chucked it unconcernedly at Shard, who read and tried not to show interest. A Detective Chief Superintendent named Simon Shard, of the Metropolitan Police — FO cover held even after death — had been killed in an accident on the Ml motorway. Shard convinced himself hopefully that Larger was not showing undue interest in his reactions as he read. Reading, Shard thought principally of Beth.