Shard at Bay

by Philip McCutchan

  Mandy nodded and used a telephone. She passed the message then looked up at Shard and nodded. “You know the way,” she said.

  He went past the pay desk, held aside a dirty red curtain emblazoned with a yellow dragon couchant, and then went up a steep flight of stairs. The thump of music sounded from behind a shut door when he reached a landing and as he went past this door it opened and a naked girl came out, said, “Excuse me,” and vanished through another doorway farther along. There was a smell of body sweat overlaid with cheap scent that lingered behind her. Shard tapped at a third door.

  “Come.”

  Shard went in. The room was over-brightly lit by an unshaded electric bulb dangling from the ceiling, an air of utility and economy pervaded the office but the man behind the desk, controlling his empire, looked well enough heeled. The suit was expensive if vulgar and the man was sleekly fat. He was smoking a cigar, a big one, with the band still in place, and a glass of whisky was at hand; the fingers showed gold and diamonds. Guts Flambardier, half French, liked people to know he was a rich man, everyone except the taxman that was. Or so it had been said. Years ago, Shard had done an investigation on Guts, when he’d been attached to CO (C6), the fraud squad. He hadn’t found a thing; Guts Flambardier was clean vis-à-vis the Inland Revenue and the VAT and he’d been extremely grateful to Shard for clearing him.

  He got briefly to his feet and waved a hand towards a chair. “It’s good to see you, Mr Shard. And I’m sorry for what I hear. I tell you this: I don’t believe a word of it. You’re straight.”

  “Thanks, Guts, I appreciate your confidence —”

  “The Yard, it must be out of its tiny mind. Suspend Mr Shard? My, my.” Flambardier waved his cigar; Shard was surrounded by the expensive odour. “You’ll have a drop of whisky, Mr Shard?”

  “Thanks.”

  Flambardier heaved his stomach over the desk and went to a cupboard. He poured a stiff whisky and handed it to Shard along with his cigar-case. Shard took one and Flambardier flicked a gold lighter, then went back to his chair. “It is because of this trouble — your suspension from duty — that you’ve come to me?”

  Shard nodded. “I’d appreciate a little help. The sort I believe you can give.”

  “Uh-huh?” Flambardier was cautiously non-committal until he knew more.

  Shard said, “I have some names. You just might know them.”

  Flambardier relaxed. He was not being touched for a loan, something to tide over a misfortune — but of course Mr Shard would be on full pay, at any rate for the time being. He said, “Any help I can give …” He waved the cigar again, an expansive gesture of goodwill. “What are these names, Mr Shard?”

  “Tim O’Carse. Blakey. Tack. A girl who calls herself Joan Smith. I’m trusting you, Guts. You don’t mention those names to anyone else.”

  “That’s understood, Mr Shard. You did me a good turn. I’ll do you one — if I can.”

  “Are the names familiar?”

  “No. To me they are not familiar.” Flambardier leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “But there is someone … someone you’ll remember from the past, who might be of some help, perhaps. No promises, of course.”

  “Who is it?”

  Flambardier said, “Do you remember Charlie Dingo, Mr Shard?”

  “Charlie Dingo … which wasn’t his real name —”

  “No.”

  “Charlie Dingo’s dead, Guts.”

  “Oh, no.” Flambardier smiled, enjoying Shard’s total amazement. “He was assumed dead, yes, because of the circumstances — you remember?”

  Shard remembered, all right. Charlie Dingo had been the objective of any number of villains from the Soho protection yobs right up almost to the Mafia and the Chinese tongs that had come to London over the years. Charlie Dingo, who had done more time inside than anyone else Shard could recall from his Yard days, had been highly prized by the police. In the days before the supergrasses as such had emerged, Charlie Dingo could have been called their first progenitor. He had a very wide range of contacts and the biggest ears in crime. And he had been hounded to his death — Shard had thought — by a gang from London’s East End who had got word that he was in the Midlands. There had been a chase reminiscent of the Wild West without the horses, and Charlie Dingo had run for it, literally, into a moonlit canal. He’d been seen by some youths to lose his footing on an old and slippery tow-path and to hit his head on a rusted, derelict barge as he fell in and sank. The youths hadn’t gone to his assistance: he’d appeared to have mates, who spread out along the bank. They didn’t seem anxious to help and later the youths reported to the police and arrests were made. There was no further sign of Charlie Dingo thereafter and although the canal was dragged no body was ever found; but, as Guts Flambardier had just said, an assumption of death had been made. An erroneous one. Charlie Dingo had got away with it under cover of the dark when the moon had gone behind heavy cloud …

  “You’re sure of this?”

  Flambardier said, “As sure as I’m sitting here. How do I know? Let us say, a little bird, Mr Shard. Charlie Dingo was a good friend of mine, but even I did not know until — until this information reached me. Oh yes, he’s alive all right, under a different name now and a changed appearance, but still in some fear of the gangs — you will have to be discreet. We must trust each other now, Mr Shard. I shall not talk, you will not talk. Do you wish to speak to Charlie Dingo?”

  “He’ll be out of date by now, surely?”

  “No, I think not. Gathering useful information has been Charlie’s life for far too long, the habit can’t be broken —”

  “But he won’t have any contacts, can’t have!”

  “Not the old ones, no. But new ones. I’m told that Charlie’s doing very well in his new life,” Flambardier added, grinning.

  Shard asked what Charlie’s line was. Illegal immigrants, Flambardier said, a network nationwide, providing faked passports, bringing in Pakistanis who disembarked from ships at sea, mostly in the Channel and the Irish Sea and landing them in boats of various sorts in the less frequented coastal areas. Plenty had been apprehended, apparently, but never Charlie Dingo. He was much too fly.

  “Where is he now?” Shard asked.

  Flambardier said, “That I don’t know. I mightn’t say if I did. This has to be left to Charlie himself. I shall send a word through and if he picks it up, then he will decide for himself. I can’t commit him. And another thing: I don’t even know what name he’s using.”

  “How do I contact him, then?”

  “You don’t,” Flambardier said. “I shall let it be known in certain quarters — that little bird of mine — that Mr Shard seeks his help and that Mr Shard was a good friend of mine in the past, and still is. From then on, you wait. If he wishes, Charlie will contact you. Leave me your telephone number before you go, Mr Shard.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or — should I assume your line will be tapped?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Shard said bitterly.

  “Red tape — I understand. Then there must be an alternative. Can you suggest one, Mr Shard?”

  Shard said, “I’ll have time on my hands. Time to sit around in pubs, let’s say. Ones where I’m not known.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Golden Horn in Richmond. Classy, not for criminals — I’m unlikely to be spotted for what I am, a cop.”

  “Tomorrow evening, Mr Shard? Give me time, give Charlie Dingo time. Okay?”

  Shard nodded. “When he rings, tell him to ask for John Dixon.”

  “Very well, I shall pass the word.”

  “I’m very grateful, Guts, I really am.” Shard got to his feet. “One other thing: there’s urgency around. I hope Charlie won’t take too long.”

  “I’m sure he won’t, if he’s willing at all.”

  Flambardier got up to see him out of the office, clapped his shoulder in a friendly way. Shard went down the stairs, had another word with Mandy, and left the premises,
walking back quickly to Leicester Square and a tube home.

  *

  When Shard reached home he found a watch on his house. This was not unexpected. The circumstances were such that the authorities couldn’t really be blamed, but it did give the lie, in a particularly nasty kind of way, to all the expressions of confidence, of disbelief in his guilt. Henceforward he would be tailed. He had no difficulty in recognising the surveillance for what it was, though naturally he didn’t recognise the DC on the job; that DC would have been sent in from some outlying division where Shard didn’t know the faces. He wasn’t worried except that if and when Charlie Dingo made contact, then the tail would have to be shaken off. Frankly Shard’s hopes were low: Charlie would never take the risk, and couldn’t be blamed for that. On the other hand, Flambardier carried weight. He had always been genuinely grateful to Shard for that clean report that had shifted a big load of worry from his mind and his business. He might even lean on Charlie Dingo; with his knowledge that Charlie was alive and working the illegal immigrant racket, he could lean with a considerable amount of effectiveness …

  Shard found the house empty. There was a note: Beth had gone round to the library to change some books. Shard wandered into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, his mind playing around Tim O’Carse, Blakey and Tack, and the girl. If he rang through to the Foreign Office someone might tell him if the Yard had found out anything more, if the girl had been persuaded to dig further into her recollections, but there was that likelihood of a tap and it wouldn’t be fair on whoever answered. Bob Orwin had taken a risk in telephoning through earlier, to tell him of the Yard’s lack of success. But perhaps Orwin had known the tap hadn’t yet been arranged. Proper authority had to okay a tap and it was never a step lightly taken. It wasn’t something Hedge could initiate, for instance. But from now on Shard had to accept that he was out of contact with his section and with the Yard, however many friends he might have in both places. Oddly perhaps, the thought of a tap hadn’t occurred to him until Guts Flambardier had mentioned it.

  Meanwhile time was passing. Shard had no idea whatsoever of the time scale the villains had in mind for whatever it was they intended to do. He might have weeks yet; but this he doubted. They wouldn’t have come to London, left the anonymity of their remote hideout too early in the game … of course they’d been flushed out by that crashed Tornado, but Shard’s guess was that they would have had other ‘safe houses’ in the north. London was always a risk; London was stiff with security and intelligence, with CID men working underground. All of which suggested to Shard that not only must the time be close but also that the target was somewhere in London itself. Something non-military, but what? Like Hedge, Shard racked his brains for ideas, but London had so many possible targets. Again like Hedge, it occurred to him that the papers could have been a plant, that he had been as it were set up to deliver false information, but that was a hard one to swallow — no-one could have timed that makeshift incinerator to burn away part but not all of the paper, and the yellow man had been intent enough on stopping his get-away.

  Beth came back with her library books. She was being determinedly bright. Shard could almost feel the effort that went into it. She didn’t ask him how he had got on; she was keeping off the subject, but he brought it up, said he would have to be out next evening and maybe more after that, but didn’t say where he would be going. He knew she didn’t like it; there was a reaction between them, a scared look in Beth’s eyes, almost as though he was losing her trust. He tried to make up for it, but his efforts were clumsy and she remained withdrawn, giving him searching looks now and again when she thought he wasn’t noticing. But he wasn’t going to tell her where he was going, or why, because at the back of his mind was the fear that Hedge might decide to question her and he didn’t want to put her in the position of having to lie to the Establishment as represented by Hedge.

  *

  That night, well after dark, certain movements from the house in Grays took place, supervised by O’Carse. Heavy packages were carried out to a car in the driveway and placed carefully in the boot. The car was a large one, a Volvo, black in colour. After it had driven away with the HGV drivers, making west and then south into Kent where it rendezvoused with two big articulated lorries, O’Carse used the telephone to call a number in Royston in Hertfordshire. O’Carse was terse. He said, “Bring the gear in first thing tomorrow, all right? Use the van … yes. All’s well here, no worries.” Then he rang off. Then he caught Tack’s eye. Tack was sitting in an armchair and not looking so confident as O’Carse, who asked, “Nerves?”

  “No. Not nerves.”

  “What, then?”

  Tack, biting at his lip, said he’d been thinking of who the fuzz had got that might talk. His girl, Tracy — but they’d been into that, O’Carse said. Tracy didn’t know anything useful except Tack’s address, now closed down. So? Tack said the blokes in Dublin, being held by the Garda. They could be broken, he said. They had only to say who the explosives had been delivered to … maybe that was all they knew, but it would be more than enough.

  O’Carse said, “Too late now. The fuzz still has to find us — and they won’t.”

  “How about Shard?”

  O’Carse laughed. “Shard’s covered,” he said. Tack’s eyebrows went up but O’Carse didn’t say anything further, and Tack didn’t ask. It never did pay to question O’Carse. O’Carse came across with things when he was ready and not before.

  11

  Early next morning an Escort van drove up to the Grays house and made a delivery. The van, which was old, grey and dirty, bore legends proclaiming its owner’s effectiveness at Car Repairs and MOTs While-u-Wait, Hot Water Systems, Plumbing, Fitted Kitchens, all work guaranteed. But it was none of these that were concerned with its presence in Grays. Four large brown-paper parcels were carried into the house and O’Carse opened them for a meticulous inspection before parcelling them up again and stowing them in the cupboard from which the guns and detonators had been removed. The contents were police uniforms, complete and entire, all genuine, all correct for wear by two police sergeants and one chief inspector. They had been made to measure to fit, in the case of the sergeants’ rig, the two ex-army men and in the case of the chief inspector, O’Carse. Other police uniforms had gone to an address in Tilbury.

  As O’Carse put the parcels in the cupboard, the van was heading into London carrying Tack. O’Carse was feeling a surge of preliminary excitement. Just three days to go. And everyone on the ball. Just one more thing to do, and that was up to Tack — and Blakey, already in London and waiting for Tack.

  *

  The van was driven into a builder’s yard in Chiswick and high wooden doors were closed behind it. Tack and the driver got out, went into a hut serving as an office and were greeted by Blakey. Blakey was out of his grey suit and wearing floppy jeans and a T-shirt and the gun in the ankle-holster was unnoticeable unless he sat down and pulled his jeans up. He said, “Now for a wait. Check — any change in the time?”

  Tack shook his head. “No change. We get moving at ten p.m.”

  Blakey nodded and handed cigarettes round then produced a pack of cards. “Fill the time in,” he said. “We don’t leave here all day. Lunch’ll be brought. And supper. No booze. How’s Tim?”

  “Confident,” Tack said. He said it sourly; he still had doubts on his mind. He played cards desultorily, not concentrating. Around nine o’clock another man came in, the builder in person, with newspapers. They all read them. The scare was dying down except for the Americans, still bellyaching about lax security. There was no further mention, directly, of Detective Chief Superintendent Shard. The papers read, the cards were resumed. At twelve-fifty-five Blakey got to his feet and went over to a paper-littered shelf on which stood a small radio, which he switched on. All the faces were expectant now, awaiting the news broadcast: Radio Four, The World at One.

  When it came its content was no surprise to the men in the builders’s yard or to Hedge,
who had had the report an hour earlier from Defence Ministry: there had been an explosion, a big one, in the Rosyth Naval base on the Firth of Forth. A device, remote-controlled, had gone off close to a frigate armed with guided missiles. By some freak there had been no structural damage, or virtually none, to the frigate, but there had been a number of casualties to the ship’s company working on the upper deck, dead and wounded both, and there had also been damage to a warehouse. There had been civilian casualties as well; that was bad, Hedge knew. What would the public’s reaction be now for heaven’s sake? The armed services were one thing, civilians quite another. Civilians didn’t expect to get hurt and now they would shout aloud. The casualties apart, there were similarities with what had happened at Faslane and the Holy Loch: nothing really serious. But in all three instances, Hedge said, that could be no more than luck. He asked, “I suppose no-one was apprehended?”

  He had Hocking on the line, and Hocking said, “No. Clean getaway. A car was found parked outside the main gate of the dockyard — stolen, as has been established. It’s being checked for prints as a matter of routine but nobody expects very much.”

  The car, Hocking went on to say, was believed to have contained the remote-control outfit, but they could be wrong. Hedge fancied they very well could; surely, after an explosion in the dockyard, somebody would have noted a rapid retreat by a man or men outside the gates, and in any case why hadn’t they driven away? Hocking said there could have been another car. There had been a degree of panic, he said, and no-one so far questioned remembered seeing anything at all at the time.

  Hedge said savagely, “There’s one thing certain now in my opinion.”

  “Well?”

  “Shard had it wrong. It’s perfectly clear these people, Detachment X, are after defence targets.”

  “It does seem so,” Hocking said. “You may be sure we’ll be taking due note of it —”

  “And doing what, may I ask?”

  “All possible precautions —”