Shard at Bay

by Philip McCutchan

  The

  Holocaust

  Hedge said, “I don’t follow.” He read the words aloud, then repeated, “Detachment Ex against … It makes no sense.”

  Rushcroft said, “The initial letters form the word death.”

  “Ah, yes — yes, I see. But —”

  “The e of ‘ex’ is put in to complete the word. Now do you see, Mr Hedge?”

  Hedge nodded. “Yes. I think I do. What it really means to convey is Detachment X?”

  “Yes. Convey anything to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Pity.”

  “I thought you said,” Hedge stated accusingly, “that the intruder had nothing to do with the peace women?”

  “Correct. But I never said he mightn’t be CND — or with CND sympathies, that is. Probably as unwelcome to CND as to us, since CND doesn’t carry weapons.”

  Hedge was staring at the notice again. “I suppose he meant to attach it somewhere. How childish — like graffiti. And so stupid — the wording itself.”

  “Somewhat contrived,” Rushcroft agreed, and both the Vice-Admiral and Captain Rubinovitch nodded simultaneously. “But it’s fairly graphic, and it’s an obvious threat.”

  “And that’s why —”

  “That,” Rushcroft said, seeming to have some power to take over Hedge’s unuttered words, “is why the Defence Ministry contacted the Foreign Office, Pippin in person. Hence you.”

  Hedge nodded, wishing he could himself see the Permanent Under-Secretary of State as simple Pippin; it would make such a difference to his daily life. He said, “Yes, I was wondering really. I suppose this is thought likely to come from outside the country. Do I take it the man was a foreigner?”

  “Middle East in appearance,” Rushcroft said. “But I say again, no identification.”

  “So it’s mere supposition?”

  Rushcroft said, “I know an Arab when I see one.”

  And then the viewing of the body, packed in its ice. In its vicinity there were the scarlet-and-gold stripes of a surgeon commander RN; the doctor pointed to the wounds. Head and chest. Death, he said, had been instantaneous. He gestured to a sick-berth attendant and the body was drawn a little way clear of the packed ice and Hedge saw the features. Decidedly Arab. Hooked nose, dark skin, big, bad teeth. Black hair, black moustache across the upper lip and down the sides of the mouth.

  “Well?” Rushcroft asked.

  Hedge said, “I don’t recognise him.”

  Rushcroft shrugged. “I said it would be a long shot, but worth a try.”

  “Yes, indeed. Anyway, there’s no doubt he’s from where you said, Commodore.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Hedge started. The tone was peremptory, naval. Almost as if he were being given an order to get the answers at the double. He dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief and said coldly, “There will be many formalities. Many avenues to be explored. In the Foreign Office one never rushes to conclusions. Consultation, advice from many quarters, so many aspects that need well thinking about … you know the sort of thing, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. Well, I won’t detain you, Mr. Hedge. I shall be in touch with Whitehall again shortly.”

  That was all. Hedge went straight from the ice and the corpse to his car, and went in dudgeon. Not a glass of sherry, not a suggestion that he might be given lunch. Really! He would complain to — to Pippin? Probably better not. And Whitehall … what had Rushcroft meant by his reference to Whitehall? Defence Ministry, or Pippin?

  *

  The peace women and their male attendants were coming back to the base. They came just after Hedge had driven away from the main gate, intending to head for Helensburgh and lunch, which would go down on expenses but might, thanks to Mrs Thatcher’s probes into Civil Service habits, be queried if he indulged too much. He met the advancing peace persons on a bend and was nearly sent into a wall in attempting to avoid them. As he slammed on his brakes they howled at him, no doubt the same sound as Rushcroft had described. It was eerie and frightening, as were the cadaverous faces, with teeth like fangs, as the women grimaced at him through the windscreen. Lank hair and stringy breasts, all of them bra-less. All of them probably Ms. One woman made a long nose at him, both hands, fingers waggling. She looked not far off ninety and vaguely aristocratic.

  He sat fuming, edged the car forward a foot. The howling increased and a filthy baby wearing napkins was dumped on his bonnet. Almost immediately a damp patch formed, turning the dust to thin mud. That was clever: Hedge was trapped and knew it. Only a thoroughly evil man would put a baby in jeopardy by moving farther, and if he did then he would be lynched. He quaked and a thin cry, a sound of incipient panic, left his lips. What harridans, what harpies — what bitches. But he mustn’t yell any of that aloud. They must be humoured. He went into a routine for fighting down panic: deep breaths in and out, fear escaping on the outward breath. Drain the mind of thought, relax, let the tautened muscles fall slack. If the draining didn’t work, and it didn’t, then think of nice things. The approval of the Permanent Under-Secretary if he kept his head, the gratitude of the Foreign Service mandarins if he bowled out Detachment X, even the approval of the Sovereign expressed through the next Honours List … things like that. And machine-guns, turned on the peace women.

  Placate them and they would go away.

  He managed a smile, an ingratiating one through trembling lips. They didn’t go away but after what seemed to be a century the police and navy arrived from the rear. As they did so, the peace women went into their own routine. They lay down on the road in front of Hedge’s wheels, first removing the dirty baby just in case. One by one they were lifted and carried away for dumping, and a policeman thumped on the side of the car and shouted at Hedge to get moving pronto.

  He was bathed in sweat. Goodness gracious, what an experience! He felt hardly fit to drive, but drive he did, and took the right-hand turn for Helensburgh with a screech of tyres, only just surviving a coach that hurtled down upon him from the direction of Garelochhead. Farther along he turned into a lay-by and sat with his engine switched off and his whole body shaking. Those women … they might have murdered him! God alone knew what it must be like to be a policeman at Greenham Common, where there were vastly more peace women than here at Faslane. Or an American serviceman, out on a limb in a strange country, not knowing when it was safe to use his gun, facing a charge if he used it on the wrong person, facing a charge if he didn’t and let in a saboteur. Like Northern Ireland. Tied hands … at least one knew more or less where one was in the Foreign Office. Hedge thought of good things again: soon he would be back in London with his cosy life, and Shard detailed to take over in the field. Where was Shard, for God’s sake? Oh, yes, of course, Wales. Well, he wouldn’t be for much longer.

  Calmer after a few minutes, Hedge drove on. Coming into the outskirts of Helensburgh he saw to his right a large black shape coming round a promontory opposite Greenock. One of the big nuclear-powered submarines, back from patrol. It had a very threatening look, a huge whale out to swallow a number of Jonahs. Behind him, the peace women would no doubt be in full cry again. That sub would have a full load of missiles … Hedge thought again about the dead Arab. There could be no doubt that the Arab and his confederates held a wider significance than the mere putting up of notices about holocausts. They wouldn’t be above creating a holocaust of their own if it suited them and if anybody should tamper with the innards of the nuclear-powered submarines, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. There were plenty of fanatics about these days, men and no doubt women who wouldn’t mind being fragmented for their cause. But of course the Faslane base was very well guarded.

  Or was it?

  That Arab had penetrated. Admittedly he hadn’t got far, but others might. And these days there were so many enemies, not just the Russians. So many weird sects and never mind that they were all lunatics. Sometimes Hedge thought that the very fact they were lunatics gave them a head start.
You really had to be a lunatic yourself to get inside their minds and understand their mental processes and forecast what they might do. All those sets of initials: PLO, INLA, SNLA, Black June and Baader-Meinhof which were not initials but came to the same thing … all of them out to destroy.

  Hedge drove into Helensburgh and found a hotel for lunch. He sat in the bar with a whisky-and-soda, looking out across the Tail o’ the Bank towards Greenock. He’d last been on the Clyde during the war, as a young Foreign Office gentleman at the tail end of hostilities. He still remembered the great concourse of shipping, merchantmen and naval escorts, at anchor off the Tail o’ the Bank. The Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth, too fast to sail in convoy, liners of the Orient Line and P. & O., Furness Withy, Clan Line, Canadian Pacific, trooping or carrying war materials, and the great grey warships, the old battleships — Rodney, Nelson, Warspite and others plus cruisers and destroyers. It had been an inspiring sight but the young Hedge — the old Hedge now remembered — had been glad not to be part of it. The sea was a rough life, often wet and uncomfortable and very dangerous, from both nature and the Nazis.

  But Greenock and its anchorage looked peaceful enough now, the waters standing empty beneath hot sunshine.

  Long may it last, Hedge thought, drinking his whisky-and-soda. He didn’t think much of the lunch that followed: rather tough lamb. The Scots were inclined to be primitive, and the potatoes had come out of a tin. Lunch was followed by a touch of indigestion and after the meal Hedge, feeling sour in the stomach and ill tempered, rang the police in Cardiff and left a message for Detective Chief Superintendent Shard. Shard was to return to London the following day without fail. By that time, via Pitlochry where he would have to return to pack, Hedge would be in his office. He detested the thought of driving through the afternoon and most of the night. At his age, it wasn’t funny. His return journey was made the longer timewise by a spread of recumbent peace women across the road by the turndown for the Faslane base. Fuming, Hedge was forced to wait in a long line of traffic while they were carried away like so many sacks of potatoes.

  *

  Shard got the message when he reported to police HQ in Cardiff just after lunch. As it happened, he’d cleared up his business in South Wales, but he cursed nevertheless. A summons from Hedge could well mean cancellation of his leave, due to start when the South Wales job had been tied up. Hedge, of course, wouldn’t consider leave as anything important, but Shard had made his arrangements some while ahead. Just too bad: you had to be philosophical if you were a policeman in his particular job and had a boss like Hedge. Shard took out some of his frustration next day, belting up the M4 for London, just inside the limit most of the way, largely in the fast lane. He reached Whitehall not long behind Hedge and was kept kicking his heels while Hedge was brought up to date on various matters by his secretary. Hedge had reached London in the early hours, had gone to bed and overslept.

  When he was sent for, Hedge said, “Ah, Shard. I understand you were due for leave.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but a difficulty has come up. A man’s been killed at the nuclear submarine base on the Clyde. An Arab. It’s down to us.”

  “The killing?”

  Hedge glared. “I’ve told you before, Shard. I don’t like flippancy.”

  “If you’d just explain the circumstances, Hedge. Do I take it it’s being hushed?”

  “Yes, of course. For as long as we can hold it from those damn peace women, which won’t be long. The Press has been warned off, but it’ll be all over Greenham Common and so on any minute now I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Unbidden, Shard sat. “Just tell me about it, Hedge. From the beginning.”

  Fuming, since he was tired from a dreadful drive — tourism really ought to be controlled and holidaymaking drivers who in the summer season drove right through the night given police instruction — Hedge told his tale, exaggerating the way the peace women had attacked him at Faslane.

  “Do you know, they really smelled.”

  Shard grinned, “You got that close, did you?”

  “Willy nilly, yes. Well, what are you going to do about it?” He then told Shard about the DEATH message.

  “Found near the body, on a square of plastic. Ready to be nailed up, I imagine. Do we know anything about Detachment X, Shard?”

  Shard said, “It doesn’t come to mind.”

  “Find out, then.”

  “Yes, Hedge. In the meantime, are you asking my opinion?”

  Hedge fidgeted: all policemen were thick. “Yes!”

  Shard shrugged and said, “Another example of the lunatic fringe —”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Shard —”

  “But none the less to be taken seriously, I agree.”

  “Oh, good.” Hedge dabbed angrily at his cheeks with a handkerchief. He was very tired, feeling his age. He was suffering from the blasted economies forced on all departments by the PM: no chauffeur for such as Hedge. In many ways, oddly, life had been happier under Labour.

  Shard said, “So we have a dead man, an Arab, and this message as I take it to be. That square of plastic. There could be prints. Where is it, Hedge?”

  “Oh. Yes. Oh dear. I —”

  “You left it in Scotland.”

  “Yes, I did. I thought it best, don’t you know. Scene of the — the crime and so on —”

  Shard said, “There’s not much to go on really, is there? A dead Arab and a message on a piece of plastic board. Did anybody take prints? Fingerprints I mean.”

  “The body was in a wet suit.”

  “There could still be other prints, Hedge.” Shard got to his feet. “I take it my leave’s cancelled?”

  “Yes, of course it is. National security —”

  “All right, Hedge.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Shard said, “I’m going to Scotland. There’s no other starting point that I can see.”

  *

  Shard, cursing about his cancelled leave, went home by tube to Ealing. He would take the night express north from Euston and in Glasgow would get himself police transport to the Faslane base. The police would have been called in by now, although according to Hedge they’d not been notified up to the time he’d left for Helensburgh: both the Commodore commanding the base, and Vice-Admiral Submarines, had wanted the Foreign Office and Defence Ministry to have the first untrammelled picture and then to authorise a report to the civil power. Frankly Shard was wondering just why there was so much alarm about a dead Arab accompanied by graffiti. But he had to admit the facts were unusual.

  Beth was out when he got home; he’d rung from Cardiff to say he would be back but hadn’t been able to give a time and he hadn’t rung again after leaving Hedge. He pottered around the house: one day, when he got some leave for sure, there would be jobs to be done, painting and papering and so on. Aside from actual leave, there was never time in a copper’s life to get down to much except catch up on lost sleep, which made things hard for Beth. She came in, with shopping, after half an hour; and he had to break the news about the cancelled leave. After the phone call from Cardiff she’d half expected it but the confirmation was cruel and she sat down on the sofa in tears.

  “Oh, Simon …”

  Shard brought out a handkerchief. He always felt inadequate when Beth wept, the more so as he or his job was usually the cause of it. Ideally, coppers shouldn’t get married, especially ambitious ones. Even those who were not attached to the Foreign Office and the whims of Hedge had their crosses to bear in the way of uncertain off-duty: crowd control, football matches, demos, marches, unlawful picketing, there was everlastingly something on in addition to risking their lives chasing armed villains. Everybody had a march now: anti-abortionists, anti-blood sports, anti-vivisection, anti-unemployment — it was always anti, never anything positive. Shard, thinking anti-Hedge thoughts, sat beside Beth and gave her a hug.

  “Sorry, darling,” he said, still inadequate. “Can’t be helped. It’s
only postponed.”

  “Till when?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, do I? Depends …”

  “Where are you going?”

  “North. Tonight.”

  She nodded but didn’t probe: she’d been Shard’s wife for long enough to know you didn’t ask too many questions. Some might tell, but not Simon. He had a strong sense of duty, of loyalty. Besides, she knew, of course, what his particular appointment was, knew it was way beyond even the official Special Branch. Its operatives had to be dependable and had been very heavily screened. Beth herself had been investigated before Shard’s secondment from the Yard had come through; and tucked away somewhere in the files was the information that Detective Chief Superintendent Shard suffered from mother-in-law trouble. This was not considered a security risk. It was a purely personal Shard risk, the risk being to his blood pressure when Mrs Micklem visited.

  And Beth was not without guile. There was one way of gauging the likely length of Simon’s absences. She used it now. She said, “I’ll get mummy over.”

  Shard stood up, went across to a cabinet beneath a television and brought out a decanter, whisky, and a soda-water siphon. He looked round at Beth. “You?”

  “No. About mummy …”

  Shard poured himself a stiff one. He looked down at his hands. Big ones, capable ones … but top coppers didn’t strangle their mothers-in-law. He said without emotion, “By all means — it’s your home as well as mine.”

  It was non-committal. This time, Beth hadn’t got what she wanted. And she knew it would be no use trying to get out of him any firm commitment about the holiday plans. She would simply do what she’d done before: cancel and take the loss of money involved.

  *

  Shard caught the 2330 Inter-City from Euston, which would arrive at Glasgow soon after 0600. He’d been too late for a sleeper; it would be a long night, as long a night as Hedge had had driving down from Scotland. Shard thought about Scotland, a place that beckoned when you had the time and opportunity to appreciate it. The glens and hills, the sharp, clear air, the distant sound of the pipes, the single malt whiskies, the Scots accents … the lochs, which when the sun shone from a cloudless sky could surpass the Mediterranean in their deep, almost purple blue. The heather in its season, the snow-capped summits around Loch Tay and Crianlarich and Glencoe, the latter with its enduring memories of treachery and murder so long ago. The Clyde, the steamers ploughing down to the Cumbraes beyond which the waters opened out into the Firth and the great peak of Goat Fell rose above Aran and Inchmarnock Water and the Sound of Bute. And back up the Clyde again to the Gareloch and Faslane, and the brooding threat of the submerged nuclear fleet, some of it in port, some of it restlessly at sea in its ordained positions deep below, the missiles ever-ready for when the order came. And the people who were out to sabotage Britain’s defence, and dead Arabs bearing stencilled threats …