A Very Big Bang

by Philip McCutchan

  “Keep pressing, sir,” Shard said. “By the way, I’d like a word of advice. How far do we go in protecting Hedge?”

  “What d’you mean by that?”

  “I mean, the opposition could be bluffing to some extent. Hedge may be their card, not the underground. If that emerges, sir, who’s more vital — Hedge, or the two men arriving at Heathrow?”

  There was a pause. “Do you think they’re bluffing, Shard?”

  “No, sir. It was just a point I felt should be made.”

  “It’s noted. But that won’t be your decision. Your job’s to stop anything happening.” The line went off: Shard sat back, thinking: thank you very much! Then the security line went again, this time the Home Office, who had Partington of London Transport with them, to check the last-minute police dispositions and to give telephone time to the top doctor and his fears of disease. After that, the Yard and Hesseltine, in conference with the military command. His head buzzing, Shard snatched a moment at eight in the morning to carry out his promise to Hedge by ringing his wife in Eaton Square: that was easier than he’d feared. Hedge’s wife was used to Hedge’s comings and goings and didn’t ask questions.

  Then Beth, which was far from good. Though she, too, understood the impossibilities of police life, the times when a husband couldn’t drop everything and phone home, her voice held a hint of rebellion. She had decided to stay put in Ealing even if he couldn’t keep on popping home: and today she was going shopping. With her mother.

  “Where, for God’s sake?”

  “Don’t shout, and don’t sound so stupid, Simon. The West End, where else?”

  He lost control: he was dead tired, dead worried, and he couldn’t, when not dealing with authority, hold it in any more. “Don’t you dare!” he said in a cracking voice, more violently than he would ever have spoken to an erring DC. “Don’t you bloody dare!”

  Like once before, she hung up on him; he called back and she didn’t answer. He sat trembling, sweating, arms stiff against his desk. Beth’s West End shopping days followed a fairly rigid pattern: arrive High Street Kensington half past ten, give or take five minutes, coffee at Barker’s, round the shops in the High Street, then farther east and lunch at one o’clock at Swan and Edgar’s. In the afternoon, Regent Street and Piccadilly and back to Swan and Edgar’s for a late tea. After that, home to Ealing via — when her mother was with her — Clapham Common to see an aunt. Always on these occasions she left Swan and Edgar’s at five o’clock, down to the Piccadilly Line, change at Charing Cross for Waterloo and Clapham on the Northern … today, right slap into trouble at near enough zero hour.

  Shard closed his eyes, trying to shut out imagination.

  Sixteen

  Outwardly, London was normal that early morning: the tube trains, with their loads predominantly of manual workers and shift workers, carried also other men: men whose faces were more than usually watchful, but not so as to show too openly that they were not bound on mundane matters. In the booking halls and along the platforms more plain-clothes men lingered, but again not too ostentatiously, spending a while on the subterranean platforms and then ascending the escalators as the men from above, alternating their watch duties, descended into the depths. These men had come anonymously from the various police districts and from London’s military barracks, leaving in ones and twos to merge with the commuters at the widespread stations of the underground network. London was no more depressed, no more anxious than ever it was: the gloom on the faces of the swaying passengers, sitting, and as morning wore on into rush hour, standing, waiting for the week’s end so that they could begin to live, was due to no more than the normal baffled hopelessness of life in continuing shortages and financial crisis. The newspapers carried headlines of threatened strikes and more inflation, of power difficulties, of worsening balances of payments and reduced exports and of outrages in foreign parts: nothing of any top-brass terrorist get-together in Venezuela or of any physical happening about to break here in London.

  *

  After breakfasting early, the Prime Minister had called a meeting of his Cabinet: this meeting took place in Downing Street, with outsiders called in to advise authority. Hedge’s boss was present, to press the Prime Minister for total closure underground — to press again, after receipt of a negative in the early hours of the morning. The Prime Minister, a porcine figure at the centre of affairs, was pale but composed:composed enough to manifest a customary obstinacy.

  “I can’t possibly concede that,” he said, tight-lipped, heavy jowls overhanging his shirt-collar. “Surely you must see that?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, sir. I’ve already said, there’s no point whatsoever in maintaining all this secrecy.”

  “On the contrary!” the Prime Minister snapped.

  “Then may I ask why?”

  “Certainly. I refuse to admit defeat, that’s briefly why.” Small eyes stared round the polished mahogany. “We are not going to let these wicked men get away with their demands, we are not going to surrender to blackmail. These men must be apprehended and punished, made an example of. Any other course would be totally disastrous!” There was a degree of rhetoric now, as though the television cameras loomed. “The people of this country are looking to us to settle this sort of effrontery once and for all. Only by doing that can we maintain our authority, only by doing that can we all sleep easily in our beds at night, and go about our normal business in the daytime.” The Prime Minister leaned forward, staring directly at the Head of Security and emphasising his words with a fist that thumped the table before him. “Closure would be fatal. Our plain-clothes men would not only lose their cloak, but we would be handing the whole underground network to these people on a plate. With no trains running through the tunnels, they could do precisely as they liked — and without a doubt the threat would materialise.”

  “But without enormous casualties, sir.”

  “Agreed — certainly. But in my view it’s a risk we have to take.” The Prime Minister waved his hand. “That is all I have to say on the point, except this, and it’s vitally important: we must not start a panic before the event — or before what must be circumvented, rather — because to do that would be to invite very great public pressure on us to release the two incoming air passengers for their onward flight to Maracaibo — in other words, to give in. Which, gentlemen, is, I repeat, something I refuse absolutely to do.”

  *

  “Flat refusal,” the chief reported to Shard.

  Shard’s stomach twisted. “Has he no feeling at all, sir?”

  “We must see all points of view, Shard. I’ve turned somersaults, looking at the thing from every angle I can. Result, I have to admit a certain logic. It’s cruel, it’s devilish, but in the end it could turn out the best way.”

  “If we can cut them out — yes!”

  “That’s our job, isn’t it? We mustn’t fail, that’s all.” Direct eyes looked into Shard’s. “How’s it going”

  “Let’s say … as well as can be expected! All dispositions made — every man has photostats of the identikit pictures —”

  “What for? When these people approach the crunch, they’re not going to use anyone who’s identifiable, are they?”

  Shard gave a somewhat rueful smile. “Point taken, sir. We were aware of that, but everything had to be covered. So far as humanly possible, it has been. I think — I hope — I can guarantee our friends aren’t going to infiltrate the system unseen.”

  “That’s a big guarantee, Shard. The rush hour figures run into millions.”

  “I did qualify it, sir.”

  “Yes. You’re not, in fact, all that hopeful — are you?”

  “No, sir. I’ve been relying — maybe too much — on getting a line on them again before they went underground. Even now … I doubt if they’ll all be going underground. I won’t be sleeping on this, sir.”

  The chief gave a harsh laugh. “I didn’t think you would! What are your movements going to be?”

&nb
sp; “I have one more line to follow up, sir. If that fails, then I’m going underground.”

  “Whereabouts? A roving commission, all over?”

  “Perhaps. But I’m concentrating on that hunch of mine: the under-river sections. From somewhere around four p.m. that’s where I’ll be — under the Thames, with Partington.”

  The chief nodded. “I wish you luck, Shard, and I admire your guts.” He paused. “This line — can you tell me?”

  “It’s a shot in the dark, that’s all.”

  “Aimed which way?”

  Shard said, “Towards Hedge. I disobeyed orders — I tailed him. I can guarantee I wasn’t seen, but I’ve a nasty feeling I left a stone unturned. I’m going to turn it if I can.”

  *

  It had hit him, shortly after he had telephoned Beth: hit him like a sledge-hammer blow. Hedge, the almost deserted Embankment — almost deserted. What in fact had there been? The cruising police patrol car, a river-gazing dropout, the lovers, and the two street-sweepers, nocturnally propelling their mobile dustbin. Why he hadn’t ticked over … that so-sudden disappearance of Hedge in virtually no time at all, and that perambulating garbage bin on wheels, big enough perhaps to take a man? Shard grinned without humour, with a cold hand gripping his heart: Hedge, shoved in with the street sweepings, bedded down beneath flung-in layers of old cigarette packets, gritty dust and used contraceptives. Hedge was heavy, but he wasn’t tall, he could be pushed down to fit. There were such things as hypodermics to keep a man quiet while he was trundled off to obscurity. It was a possibility: but why not a car, for God’s sake? To interview the two road sweepers might be a sheer waste of time: in all probability, if the theory was right, they wouldn’t be on the payroll in any case, they would just have been dressed up and planted. It probably wasn’t all that hard to nick a hand-cart: that, in itself, could be the starting point. As to why not a car: well — you didn’t normally think, if you were putting a chase in hand, of opening up all London’s garbage carts. Shard hadn’t, for one.

  Neat! And worth a little time.

  From Seddon’s Way Shard rang the Greater London Council, was put in touch with the refuse disposal people. They had had no report of any apparatus missing from Westminster. Yes, they would check, if it was urgent, with other areas.

  “It’s urgent,” Shard said. “Very, very urgent.”

  All right, they said, they would ring back. Just over an hour later, at ten thirty-five, they did so: a garbage collection cart had been reported missing believed stolen from a depot south of the river. It had since turned up again, abandoned in a side turning off Ludgate Hill, and there had been traces of blood on the contents. Shard noted the address of the depot to which the hand-cart had been taken, said his thanks, and rang off. So far, so good — but so what? It looked like it could be the vehicle of vanishment, but it was unlikely it would yield up any leads to its pushers. Fingerprints … no value there! Shard didn’t want identities at this stage, he wanted bodies. He sat irresolute, baffled, sweating: having taken time on this, it could be worth finishing before he linked up with Partington of London Transport for the final throw. He left his office and walked quickly through to Leicester Square underground station, crowded with men and women going about their ordinary occasions, like Beth … he shivered. Better not to think about that hung-up call, the subsequently unanswered line. To go out on a note of bitter quarrel … he shut his mind firmly, kept his eyes on the watch. He identified the other watchers, the police and troops, without much difficulty: to the initiated they couldn’t fail to look the part, however weird the clothing and the hair styles. One bearded layabout with bead hangings and an old lady’s cast-off fur coat he recognised as a Detective Sergeant from the Yard’s heavy squad: they had worked together in the past and the recognition was mutual. And only fleeting: an outsider would have noticed nothing between them. The anti-measures were in gear but they wouldn’t, couldn’t be enough despite brave words to the chief. Shard felt icy cold in the tube’s fug as he rattled away towards the garbage depot, passing beneath the Thames to Waterloo and beyond. The train’s hollow booming sound rang in his ears like a death knell. At Kennington, quite by chance, he saw Partington on the platform, and caught his attention. Partington joined him, and they stood together, backs to the rear-end bodywork of the coach, staring down the gangway — stood and, in low voices, talked. Partington was on a general check along all sections, just keeping an eye on things. Hope was at a low ebb but everything, Partington said, was ready to cope if it did happen.

  “Gas, water and electricity. Sewers. Medical services. They expect epidemics to start within days.”

  “Weil’s Disease?” Shard asked sardonically.

  “And other things, also largely rat-borne or from water pollution.” Partington looked sick already. “How d’you rate the chances?”

  “We just keep our fingers crossed,” Shard answered. Partington didn’t make any response. When Shard got out he left the train as well and walked along the platform, conferring with a man wearing heavy rubber waders like a fisherman, as Shard went up and out to the fresh air. At the garbage depot Shard was shown the hand-cart. He emptied it out, going minutely through the contents like a beachcomber, observing the blood that could be Hedge’s. A load of London filth, which he examined with growing despondency and hopelessness. A waste of time: an old shoe, lashings of grit and mud, the inevitable empty Durex packet ex-Victoria Embankment Gardens, some broken glass that could have accounted for the blood, a discarded paperback, illustrated, entitled Breasts and Bottoms, bus and tube tickets, a glove … all the usual, no doubt, but not perhaps as much as would normally be garnered, in the interest of accommodating Hedge. Despite despondency and the pressures of the time element, Shard did his beachcombing with diligent thoroughness. The break-through, or what could be the breakthrough, came on the inside of a torn-open cigarette packet: what looked at first sight like the meanderings of a spider drowning in blood resolved into a shakily written address. Shard felt a surge of excitement: good for Hedge! Hedge, who could have overheard some talk, had used his blood with useful effect. Presumably in total darkness, Hedge’s blood-dipped finger had managed to bring some light into the situation. The address, short and simple, was 16 Foxton, whatever that might mean, and clearly it had to mean something: people shut in mobile dustbins a-trundle along the Embankment didn’t use their blood and energy just to while away the journey. Shard rose from his knees and demanded, and got pronto, a street guide: Foxton Road, Foxton Court, Foxton Lane and Foxton Buildings were all in the vicinity of Notting Hill, W2. Shard lost no time: back below the river, he went straight to New Scotland Yard and a word with the Assistant Commissioner Crime.

  “Wild goose chase,” was Hesseltine’s opinion, “and heavy on manpower just now. I’m spread to the limit, Simon.”

  Shard pressed. “I agree they may have flown. But Hedge has given us something and we can’t let it go. It can’t do any harm, even taking the worst view, can it?”

  “No,” Hesseltine said, sounding dubious. Then he nodded. “All right, Simon, we’ll have to go in and check, I suppose, but it’s going to mean draining away all my reserves, and I mean all. Do it quickly and let me have my men back.”

  “Will do,” Shard said. “Now for the details.”

  *

  Each possible address had to be gone over simultaneously: it was, Shard said, the only way. To attack one, with only a one-in-four chance of choosing right, would simply risk alerting the others — the area was not large. It would be a biggish operation in the context of the depleted manpower availability: Shard wanted four cars, with four men each plus driver, to cover the four addresses, and he wanted the men armed. To this, Hesseltine made no objection: to arm police was serious, but was clearly demanded by the situation. They would be issued with Model 10 Smith and Wessons fitted with the four-inch “heavy” barrel. Each of the cars would carry a specially trained marksman equipped to kill efficiently. Shard, feeling the heady breath of a
last-minute success despite the chances of the birds having flown — a real enough possibility — asked for, and got, a command car for his own use. He would, he said, remain on the perimeter and be available the moment his radio called him to whichever address proved to be the right one.

  Within twenty minutes of Shard’s arrival at the Yard, the cavalcade was on its way in plain cars and the beat men around the Foxton area of W2 had been warned on their personal radios to keep a distant surveillance on the four given addresses.

  Seventeen

  Rain had set in: even the weather was against them. The underground system would be carrying more people than on a fine, dry day. The police motorcade swished along wet streets, hemmed into the jams: Shard was consumed with impatience now. The lead was good — was first-class if it wasn’t too late. And every second counted: Shard seethed with impotence, hating the guts of joyriders who blocked progress, hindered vital things. He kept, as he drove, an automatic-reflex lookout, the more careful as he neared the area of all the Foxtons. He saw nothing of interest, no familiar faces, not that he had actually expected to. On the fringe of Foxtonia, just around the corner from Foxton Road in fact, Shard stopped and waited. Because there was nowhere else to wait, he waited on a yellow line: just a single one, but a beat man came across after a while to remind him of the twenty-minute loading limit. A helmet descended to window level and Shard told the policeman who he was, adding a warning: “Don’t react, laddie. You know the form?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything happening — you know where?”

  “Not a thing, sir, except the patrol cars’ll be going in now.”

  “Yes. No sight of the birds?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about the nick?”

  Puzzlement: “The nick, sir?”