Shard at Bay

by Philip McCutchan

  Shard dozed uncomfortably as the Inter-City hurried beneath its electric cables towards its first stop at Carlisle. Way behind in London, a man had walked away from Euston station after he’d seen Shard board the train and the train pull out. This man, tall and thin and with a dark jowl and the beginnings of a stomach that would weigh him down when he reached his forties, descended into the subway and took a tube, Northern Line southbound, and got out at Tottenham Court Road. From there, precautionwise, although he had no reason to suspect a tail, he twisted and turned on his somewhat lengthy route and eventually pressed a bellpush beside a sex shop in a side street between Tottenham Court Road and Portland Place. His ring was quickly answered and he was admitted by a small man who looked like a jockey. Behind this man, he climbed a narrow staircase with wallpaper curling down from damp plaster and surrounded by a pervasive smell of leaking gas.

  The two men reached a sitting-room. In it a girl sat with outstretched legs in dirty jeans, her top half covered with a sweatshirt bearing a CND stencil. The jockey-like man said, in an accent straight from the bogs of Connemara, “Well now, Tack.”

  “Gone north,” Tack said. “Glasgow train from Euston. I don’t reckon he’ll get off before Glasgow.” He gave a snigger. “All right, Tim?”

  “Spot you?”

  “Course not!” Tack was indignant; he was good at his job, very professional in his approach. He said so. “So what now?” he asked.

  “Telephone. Box on the corner. I’ll not be long.” Tim went down the sleazy stairs to call a Glasgow number.

  3

  Shard was awake when the Inter-City pulled out of Carlisle, past the Castle to head for the hills of the Southern Uplands of Scotland. He couldn’t get back to sleep; and anyway the scenery was splendid in the early summer dawn’s light. He eased away the cramps, yawned, stretched and thought of Hedge in London. Hedge had been critical of Vice-Admiral Submarines, who in Hedge’s view had had no right to speak up for the wretched peace women who again in Hedge’s view were a menace, a national threat that should be lanced like a boil. CND, Hedge had said, was obscuring any amount of real issues and paving the way for the actual saboteurs. There could, of course, be truth in that. But time would tell what was involved this time. Much would depend on the identity of the dead Arab, if such could ever be established.

  Detachment X. That was certainly a new one. But over the years there had been so many terrorist organisations. There wasn’t anything very remarkable in the setting up of a new one. Shard grinned to himself as the Inter-City ran through a deep cutting in a hillside. It was somewhat akin to the BBC: when some comedian or other TV personality began to run down, the BBC gave him a show of his own, maybe as a sop, maybe as a way of introducing fresh personalities to keep up the endless belt of mindless drug-substitute. It could be the same with international terrorism: when one of the practitioners grew stale, someone dreamed up a new organisation for him and off he went with a fresh image and some nice new initials. It didn’t lessen the danger, though.

  Shard was met on arrival, an arrival that did not go unnoticed by a man waiting anonymously by the bookstall on the main concourse of Glasgow Central. The officer who met Shard was CID. The Foreign Office had been in touch and a car was waiting to take him straight to the Gareloch. When he had been driven away the anonymous man left the station and like Tim the night before, made a call from a telephone kiosk. He had recognised Shard from information passed by Tim; and he happened to know the CID man by sight. It was part of his job to memorise police faces.

  The call went to a terraced house in Liverpool, near the docks on the Birkenhead side of the Mersey. “Shard,” he said. “On his way. Any orders?”

  A voice rattled in his ear, passing the orders. The man assimilated them and rang off.

  *

  Vice-Admiral Submarines had gone back south to Fort Blockhouse. He had other matters to worry about, he’d said. Shard learnt this when he had passed through the peace women who were now forming a more or less permanent body-barrier outside the gates, just as though a missile-carrying submarine might attempt to leave by road. The man from the Defence Ministry, Hocking, remained. By now the plastic notice had been dusted for prints and those of the dead man had also been taken. Photocopies had been rushed to the Defence Ministry in London and after these had been checked both by the Ministry and Scotland Yard a nil report had come back. Shard was given copies in case the FO had them on file. There were in fact three sets of prints on the plastic board, one of them being those of the dead Arab.

  Shard had a look at the man. He didn’t know him and hadn’t really expected to. The face was a nasty one and the expression in death was not peaceful. Possibly he had anticipated a tough time with Allah.

  Commodore Rushcroft had accompanied Shard on his mortuary visit. He said, “I’d rather not keep him here, Shard.”

  Shard lifted an eyebrow. “The peace women, sir?”

  “Well, it doesn’t help. But it’s more a question of morale. Seamen don’t like corpses aboard.”

  “Even in the nuclear age?”

  Rushcroft gave a short laugh. “Time doesn’t change what used to be called Jolly Jack very much. The old superstitions linger on. Besides, we’re all living under a certain amount of strain.”

  “Yes,” Shard said. “I appreciate that, of course.”

  “So get him moved.” Rushcroft added, “Please.”

  Shard said, “I’ll call Glasgow. Have there been any other developments? Press, for instance? I saw some press-like faces outside —”

  “Yes, and cameras of course. Oh, they’re laying siege all right, but they’ve not been admitted. It’s those women, obviously they’ve talked. I’ve had word through from Greenham Common, unofficially. They’re restive down there too. These things spread, you’ll agree.”

  Shard nodded. “You’ll not stop the press speculating or printing what the women tell them.”

  “I realise that. There’s something else that’s worrying me more, though.” Rushcroft stood sparrow-like and perky, hands behind his back, bright eyes staring at Shard. “Those women. They’ve been chanting, on and off. Navy murderers.”

  Shard said, “I saw a placard to that effect.”

  “That’s not good for morale either.”

  “Are the men jittery, sir?”

  Rushcroft frowned. “Not jittery. We don’t have jittery men in the submarine service. First sign of that, out they go, back to general service. But it creates an atmosphere that’s not conducive to concentration and efficiency in what’s becoming our first and last lines of defence. No-one’s job is easy at Faslane, Shard. Every time my chaps go ashore they run the gauntlet of those damn women. That tells, after a time, though I’m not proposing to bother you with my own problems in that direction.” This was a long speech for Commodore Rushcroft; Shard waited, guessing that more was to come. It was. Rushcroft went on, “There’s something else. I suppose it was to be expected. The women are howling for blood now —”

  “So I was told by the detective sergeant,” Shard said in reference to the CID man who had met him. “They want charges brought.”

  “Yes. Charges of murder. Well, until my authority inside the base is superseded by the civil power, no charges will be brought. I’ve confirmed that with the Ministry of Defence.”

  “You’ll have held an enquiry, sir?”

  “Of course. I have all the facts, not that there are many, and they’re all perfectly clear. The man who fired was within his duty.”

  “May I see a transcript of the enquiry, sir?”

  “Yes, certainly.” They left the mortuary, walked through bright sunshine towards the administrative block that housed the Commodore’s office. To their right a big black shape loomed, darkly silhouetted against the blue of the Gareloch, the blue slashed here and there by the white wakes of small boats crossing the loch. That black shape looked immensely sinister, immensely powerful. The sheer size … once, submarines had been small stuff. Not any longer.
That black shape’s displacement tonnage when submerged, Rushcroft said as he noted Shard’s look, was equal to that of a wartime cruiser.

  “And the punch — well, I needn’t elaborate of course. I just hope I don’t see the day the button’s pressed.” Rushcroft laughed suddenly. “I’m a peace man, Shard. I know what can happen. But we’d be naked without it. I only wish we could persuade the peace women.”

  “That’s what we’d all like.”

  “Yes.” Rushcroft walked on, thoughtfully. “That Mr Hedge of yours. Chairbound, I imagine?”

  “Yes, sir. Mostly. Why d’you ask?”

  Rushcroft shrugged. “Just curiosity. Chairbound warrior — so are most of us, come to that. Perhaps it was just those women that had got under his skin and I can’t blame him for that.” He said no more but Shard got the idea Hedge had done some skin burrowing of his own. It would be all in character. It was time Hedge sought early retirement, but he’d never reconcile himself to having no-one to pomp at. In Rushcroft’s office Shard was shown the transcript of the inquiry. As Rushcroft had said, it was straightforward enough. An unauthorised entry had been made and challenged, the challenge had not been answered but the intruder had produced a gun and aimed it and the security guard had fired. When Shard had read the transcript he was shown round the base, together with the Defence Ministry man, Hosking, who had already been taken round once. The security, Hosking said, was very tight and the Arab had been lucky — at any rate till he’d been spotted, and Hosking was confident that anyone else who managed to penetrate would also be spotted before harm could be done. It was the fact of Detachment X itself that was worrying Hosking more than the actual penetration.

  “I’ll be digging,” Shard said. That was his worry. Hosking should be literally mending his fences. “What do you think is behind it?”

  “I’ve really no idea.”

  “But not just the posting of notices?”

  “I doubt if it stops there, certainly.”

  Shard asked, “What can they do, though?”

  “Do?” Hosking stared through pebble-lensed spectacles. “Yes, do. From what I’ve seen, no-one would ever get aboard the submarines themselves, or into the armament stores or silos. Presumably that would be the aim of any saboteur — to cause damage at least if not —”

  “Ah, but there’s also the question of morale, not just here in the base but nationwide. We don’t want the whole country getting an attack of nerves, you know. If there were too many penetrations, here and Greenham and other places — well, think about it for yourself.”

  Shard had. And he didn’t believe Detachment X was in business just to get the country rattled, not that he had anything specific to go on yet. It was just a hunch, based on experience. Arabs were killers, it was second nature. But, of course, this didn’t have to be an Arab organisation. The dead man was no more than an operative, a hired hand maybe. The tour of the base was just about finished when a messenger approached from the direction of the admin block. There was a telephone call for Mr Shard, on the closed line from London. At the other end of it was Hedge.

  Shard went to the Commodore’s office and took the call.

  “Yes, Hedge?”

  A rattle and a thin voice. “Is that Shard?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a terrible line, all crackles.”

  “It’s manageable. Go on, Hedge. I’m listening.”

  “Very well.” Hedge paused. “Something’s come up. How are you getting on, Shard?”

  “I’ve —”

  “Because I want you back here, soonest possible.”

  Shard asked, “Is this urgent, Hedge?”

  “Yes, it is, of course it is or I wouldn’t have … get a car to Glasgow airport, Shard, and fly.” Hedge sounded agitated. Shard asked if he could be more informative; after all, this was a security line. But Hedge couldn’t. Or not very; he said, “I’ve had the Yard on the line, that man Hesseltine. That’s all I can tell you.” Then he rang off. Shard grinned at the instrument. ‘That man Hesseltine’, Assistant Commissioner Crime at Scotland Yard and Shard’s boss in the Metropolitan Police, was a red rag to poor Hedge, who resented Shard’s split loyalties. Hedge was a jealous man and knew Shard had an immense respect for Hesseltine. Hedge had sounded very disagreeable on the phone.

  But orders were orders.

  *

  Trade union members were often no respecters of anyone’s orders: the news came through from Strathclyde Police on the car’s radio. An unofficial strike, one of lightning suddenness, of air traffic controllers at Glasgow airport and at Prestwick. Nothing would move until that had been sorted out and it looked like taking time, far too much time.

  “Back to British Rail,” Shard said. “Will you call Mr Hedge in London, please. Tell him I’ll be there soonest possible.”

  Police HQ would do that. Shard cursed the delay, knowing it would have a poor effect on Hedge. But it couldn’t be helped and in any case the something that had come up might not in fact be all that urgent. Hedge had been known to go off at half cock before now. The police car was now not far off Glasgow. The detective sergeant, who was driving, was glancing constantly into his rear view mirror. He said, “I think we have a tail maybe. A blue Volvo, keeping about two cars behind.”

  “Right,” Shard said. “I’m not going to look round — we haven’t spotted him. See if you can get the registration, just in case.”

  The DS could, when the intervening cars handily turned left. He read it off. Shard made a note. “We won’t try to shake him off,” he said. “We’ll see what happens. Or I will, in due course.”

  The DS glanced sideways. “Watch yourself, sir.”

  Shard grinned. Strathclyde Police wouldn’t want to lose a senior officer from the Met and the Foreign Office, but he would soon be outside their territory. He said, “Nice of you to be concerned, Sergeant.”

  “All part of the service, sir.”

  Twenty minutes later Shard was dropped by Glasgow Central. The blue Volvo, still with them, went on past. A glimpse of two men in it, neither appearing to take an interest. The car vanished into the traffic. Shard walked into the concourse, bought a newspaper. He went for a drink. The train wasn’t in yet, wouldn’t leave for another forty-five minutes. Shard sat with a large whisky, smoked a couple of cigarettes in succession: he couldn’t kick the habit and didn’t really want to. You had to die of something in the end and his was a dangerous way of life in any case and a cigarette often kept tension at bay, which was important. The do-gooders could aim their propaganda elsewhere and ruin someone else’s pleasure. Shard was immune from being got at by propaganda, though never immune from villains … he looked through windows onto the station. Fairly crowded though not overly so, people coming and going, buying tickets. A man drifted up to stand near the ticket office, reading a newspaper. If he wanted, he had a view of the window where Shard sat and of the door through which he would come out. But, apart from the fact that he didn’t shift, there was nothing to say he did want. Shard studied him as far as was possible through the passing Glaswegians. Ordinary enough; but tails usually were. Dressed in a business suit, medium grey with a dark blue shirt, age about thirty-five and very interested in his newspaper. Shard finished his whisky slowly, stubbed out the second cigarette, and went out onto the station. The Euston train was in now, gate number one, and he made for it, not looking round as he offered his travel pass. The train was more crowded, he suspected, than it would have been normally, BR profiting from BA; but half-way along Shard found a number of vacant seats in a coach not far behind the restaurant car, which by some miracle had a crew aboard. He sat down facing the engine, and waited. He didn’t see the grey-suited man and had made a point of not looking down the departure platform for him. As if by another miracle, or as if drawn by the important will of Hedge, the train pulled out dead on time.

  *

  Hedge said to his secretary, Miss Fleece, “What a blasted nuisance Shard is sometimes!” The call had just co
me through from Glasgow and Hedge was very annoyed.

  “Yes, Mr Hedge.” Miss Fleece always agreed with Hedge; but she had a soft spot for Simon Shard and this time she came tentatively to his defence. “He can’t help being strikebound …”

  “Oh, rubbish.”

  There was no sensible response to this. Miss Fleece sat, pad and biro ready still, but Hedge had nothing further to dictate. The day’s memos were over and he said she could go. He would like some coffee, however. Waiting for it, Hedge reflected bitterly on Shard and the wretched Hesseltine who always made him feel inadequate, as though his mental processes were not fast enough for the Yard, which was arrant nonsense since the Yard was never exactly speedy and had access to very many more men than had Hedge: Mrs Thatcher had had a bad effect on the Foreign Office, Hedge thought once again. In any case, the Foreign Office didn’t speed; it was a dignified establishment and moved with measured tread — like the old-fashioned bobby on the beat — in the best traditions of diplomacy. All modern policemen were quite impossible and mostly brash. Insensitive was perhaps the best word — used to dealing with a low sort of person and not understanding the higher echelons of Whitehall. This morning Hesseltine had been rude, by telephone.