Shard at Bay

by Philip McCutchan

“I thought you were doing that already, my dear fellow.” Hocking said rather nastily, “Oh, we are, don’t worry. Now there’ll be extra security.”

  Defence Ministry rang off; Hedge sat fuming and tapping fat fingers on his desk. Defence Ministry, Scotland Yard … it was all running away from him now, rapidly passing out of the orbit of the Foreign Office, yet he’d been the first one to be sent in at Faslane — how many days ago now? One lost count of time. The FO had become initially involved because of that dead Arab and the thought that he might represent one of the international terrorist organisations with silly initials. Who could that Arab have been? Perhaps he wasn’t an Arab at all? That had stemmed from Commodore Rushcroft, who had stated dogmatically that he knew an Arab when he saw one. Well, the navy wasn’t always right even though it always thought it was.

  What was really behind Detachment X? If only something positive would come through. Hedge believed it was still a Foreign Office matter, that the influences came from beyond Britain, beyond the Irish Republic too. He mustn’t lose his grip, his control of events. Yet even about that he was in two minds: honour and glory were good, of course, and success meant much to him, but on the other hand if you shed the responsibility then you couldn’t be blamed for other people’s mistakes and, as he had reflected to himself earlier, he was beginning to feel his age.

  He stiffened his back, sitting up straight with something of a glitter in his eye. He was Hedge — Hedge of the Foreign Office. He must never forget that. Responsibility, danger — they were what he had been trained throughout his life to accept. He took up his internal line. “Ah, Miss Fleece —”

  “Yes, Mr Hedge?”

  “Memos, Miss Fleece. Kindly come in.”

  *

  The six o’clock news that evening carried the story in full of the attack on the frigate in the Forth … There was concern in Whitehall and Defence Ministry was reacting. Security in all military establishments was being tightened, the Portsmouth and Devonport naval bases were now closed to the public for an indefinite period, no more visits to the Victory and never mind that it was the holiday season and a number of organisations had been booked to arrive in coaches — Cub Scouts, Brownies, church groups and so on. The guard was being reinforced to keep all persons without authority away from Catterick, Tidworth, Aldershot camps. Extra MOD police were being drafted to these places as well as to Greenham Common and all other RAF airfields, even the ordinary ones. The civil police were assisting as well, the MOD force not being a particularly big one. Henceforward there would be fewer bobbies visible on the streets.

  The men in the builder’s hut, growing bored and impatient with inactivity, greeted this news with wide grins. Blakey gave the thumbs up sign. “Stupid bastards,” he said.

  “It’s what we were aiming for, Blakey.”

  “That’s right. But they’re still stupid bastards. Like sheep really, eh?”

  They went on waiting for zero hour, ten p.m. At a little after six, not so far away in Richmond, Shard entered the saloon bar of the Golden Horn, followed at a distance by a — to him — very obvious tail who looked around for somewhere from which he could watch two doors. Shard heard some of the BBC’s broadcast. Scotland again, and a naval target. And now service and civilian casualties … the barmaid and the few people who’d drifted in early were full of it. There was a lot of head-shaking and sour comment about terrorists and how the authorities never seemed able to cope with them. But a defence target again: had he been wrong, Shard wondered wretchedly? If only he’d been still on the case, got the first reports for himself and knew the real score. It was hard to be in limbo, no wiser than the general public. He acknowledged to himself that he could have been wrong, that he might have picked up a blind after all. But, obstinately, he still didn’t believe he had. In the meantime it was clear from the news broadcast that the Establishment was back to the military and naval targets, concentrating heavily in that direction. Natural enough, if their minds were one-track; terrorism was desperately hard to bowl out before it struck.

  Shard sat on a stool at the bar, propped up on one elbow, looking as dispirited as he felt, and chatted now and again with the girl behind the bar. He drank shandy; he had to keep his wits about him while he awaited the call from Charlie Dingo. If it came at all … he didn’t say to the girl he was expecting a phone call, that would do when she answered the ring and then asked if there was a Mr Dixon in the bar.

  Seven o’clock, no call. Seven-thirty ditto. Shard hoped Charlie Dingo had got the message. But Guts Flambardier knew the urgency, and the grapevine from Soho was always first-class. Shard bought another pint of shandy, not enjoying it, wishing for a large Scotch. The girl was aware of his gloom. Plenty of sad people came and sat on stools, seeking company so long as they could afford it. The bar wasn’t all that busy and she was sympathetic, leaning close to Shard, her long fair hair hanging almost over the shandy. He was one of the sad ones and was good-looking with it, which was sad in itself, a man like that …

  “Cheer up,” she said. “It may never happen.”

  Clichés. But she meant well. Shard responded with a grin that lit his face while it lasted. He said, “No, that’s right, perhaps it won’t.”

  “Terrible, that business in Scotland.”

  “Yes.”

  She was studying him closely, frowning a little and giving her hair a toss out of the way from time to time. She knew just what the trouble was: a row with the wife. Make it up and she wouldn’t be seeing him tomorrow. But she didn’t speak the thought aloud, it might be tactless, though some liked the chance to talk. This one didn’t look as though he would, which was a pity, because she would be willing … she gave a slight giggle at the thought of what she’d be willing to do for him, then blushed, because he had a sudden look in his eyes as though he thought he was being laughed at. She moved away, a little embarrassed and sorry, and as she did so the telephone rang in a passage leading from behind the bar and she went and answered it.

  Shard’s grip tightened on his glass as he awaited the summons. It didn’t come. The girl said, “Oh, it’s you, Marty. Yes, it’s okay, we’re quiet tonight …” A long conversation, with intermittent giggles and oohs, followed. Shard gritted his teeth. Lovey-dovey, and it could block Charlie Dingo. It went on and on until a man sitting in a corner with a woman Shard fancied was not his wife got up and came to the bar and banged a glass on the counter and the girl looked round into the bar and rang off. Time passed, dragging. Beth would be wondering and probably worrying, but she should be used to the lot of a copper’s wife — but just now was different, of course. He wished he could have taken her into his confidence but there was still that thought of Hedge and what he might do. Hedge was like a fat, overfed pigeon, watching with beady eyes.

  Eight o’clock, eight-thirty. Nothing. The telephone didn’t ring again, not even Marty for another conversation. People came and went. After two more shandies, Shard had to go and relieve himself but still didn’t draw attention to himself by saying there might be a call for him. He was as quick as possible but was thereafter haunted by the thought that Charlie Dingo might have rung in his absence.

  Nine o’clock and the BBC broadcast more news, a repeat of the six o’clock really, all about the frigate. By now the bar was crowded and when the news was over Shard caught the comment, also a repeat: it was a wicked state of affairs and it was time the authorities did something about it. All service personnel were at risk and it was a crying shame; and civilians had got it too. At the same time there was a sense of detachment, of remoteness: Scotland was a long way off and thank God they were not near any service establishments in Richmond. They soon got down to the full enjoyment of their drinks again, plus pop music.

  Ten o’clock. Charlie Dingo wasn’t interested, didn’t want to break his anonymity. He could scarcely be blamed for that, but Shard nevertheless thought hard thoughts about him. In the meantime Shard hung grimly on, getting funny looks now from the barmaid as he sat hunched on his stoo
l. She was whispering about him to one or two regulars at the other end of the bar, he could tell that from the way they tried not to show they were looking at him, but they weren’t really interested. Just another bloke drowning his sorrows, it was always happening. Could be hilarious if the bloke fell arse over tit off his stool, that was all …

  The girl was calling time and giving him somewhat cautious looks now as if he might give trouble when ejected when the telephone rang again.

  She answered, said, “Just a minute,” and came back into the bar. “Is there a Mr Dixon here?” she called.

  Shard said, “Yes.”

  “Well! There’s a call for you. Don’t take too long, will you, I’m —”

  “Not as long as Marty,” Shard said. She clicked her tongue crossly and brought the telephone through on a trailing lead.

  *

  Prompt at ten p.m. the dirty grey van left the builder’s yard in Chiswick and headed north-west. They had quite a way to go, in and out, across main traffic arteries and along small streets until London’s solidity of buildings began to thin out a little. Out here the air was fresher and you could begin to breathe. The builder, who knew his way around London, drove. By his side was Blakey, and Tack was in the back, very uncomfortably, bracing himself against the van’s sides and having his bottom jolted. Apart from Tack, there was little in the van’s body, just some clutter to be expected of a repair and plumbing outfit, but what there was of it shifted around and a washbasin hit Tack. He was greatly relieved when at last the driver said, “This is it, Blakey,” and slowed.

  “Doesn’t seem to be any fuzz,” Blakey said.

  “I told you. Stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “Still …” Blakey picked at his nose, obviously uneasy. “Could be round the back, I s’pose.” He knew Shard would be under surveillance. Then he saw the bus shelter, opposite the end of the road as the van cruised past. From it there was a clear view down the road, which wasn’t a long one, and in it a figure was huddled, tramp-like, as though sleeping it off. “That’s it,” Blakey said. “Or I reckon so.”

  “So what d’you want now?”

  “Keep going ahead, turn, and come back past the bus shelter.” Blakey looked round. “All right?” he said to Tack, and Tack nodded. Blakey said, “Right, let’s go.”

  The van pulled ahead, reversed into a side road, and came cruising back towards the bus shelter, where it stopped. Blakey put his head out of the window. “Hey, mate.”

  The figure came to life. It was a girl, a young one. She had spiky hair, multi-coloured, and was dressed in what Blakey would have called an Indian outfit, a sort of sari, but she was white. She could have been anything, a prostitute, a down-and-out, a junkie; but there was something that to Blakey said very positively, and he should know, that this was what he had expected, at any rate apart from the sex — a dick doing obbo on Mr Shard’s house. A female dick; it wasn’t nice but it couldn’t be helped and it was all the fault of the rights for women brigade who had pressured the fuzz into giving women DCs men’s jobs.

  “What is it?” the girl asked.

  “Got ourselves lost, haven’t we?” Blakey produced a street map and thrust it through the window. As he did so, Tack began easing the rear doors open; they’d been left unsecured on the outside. “We’re looking for Bastow Gardens. Don’t happen to know it, do you?”

  “I’m a stranger around here,” the girl said. She hadn’t moved from the shelter. Blakey cursed to himself. When you asked the way in a street, the bloke — or woman — you asked usually came up close, within handy range. Blakey thought fast, leaned back in his seat and spoke in a hiss to Tack.

  “Get out when I get out and move fast.”

  Blakey leaned forward again and spoke through the window as he began to shove the door open. “Look. You may still be able to help. The map —”

  He flourished the map. By this time he was out and on his feet and Tack was moving in as ordered. The girl hadn’t a chance. Blakey reached her first and grabbed for her arms as she came upright fast. He held her tightly and she hadn’t time to yell out before Tack had gone into action. He had a garotte in his hand and this he slipped over the girl’s head, down over the hair spikes until it was around her neck and then he pulled the thin cord taut, like a snare. It was done in a flash and there was no more than a gurgle. Blakey and Tack carried the girl fast into the back of the van and Tack got in with her while Blakey got back in front. The van started up, did a sharp right turn into Shard’s road. Tack kept up the strain on the garotte and the girl’s face bloated. As the van stopped outside Shard’s house Tack felt in the clothing. They’d been spot on and he said so to Blakey. The girl had a two-way radio, very small, very neat. She’d never had a chance to use it.

  “Fine,” Blakey said. “All ready?”

  They all got out, leaving the body. They went together up Shard’s path, solid and official-looking. Blakey rang the bell. After a minute, Beth answered, keeping the door on the chain. She asked, “Who is it?”

  Blakey said, “CID, Mrs Shard.” He pushed a card round, an authentic one. “Mind if we come in, please?”

  Feeling shock, wondering what was in the wind now, Beth pushed the door a little way to and released the chain. The three men crowded in. “Mr Shard, please. He’s wanted.”

  “He’s not in,” Beth said. She was in a dressing-gown, having gone to bed, feeling she just couldn’t wait up for what might be an indefinite period. Then she saw the gun in Blakey’s hand and she felt like collapsing.

  Blakey said, “Not a peep out of you or you’re for it.” He glanced at Tack. “You two, check everywhere.”

  Tack went up the stairs, fast. The builder did the downstairs and then the back garden and integral garage. They reported no sign of Shard. Blakey swore viciously. Tack asked, “What do we do, eh?”

  Blakey’s face was hard, angry. He said, “We take what’s available now, don’t we? We take the woman.”

  12

  Charlie Dingo hadn’t, of course, spoken himself. The man who called said the name didn’t matter but Mr John Dixon could make a fair guess what this was about and might learn something to his advantage if at ten-thirty next morning he was hanging about outside the entrance to Green Park tube station reading a copy of the Daily Mail. Shard would be recognised easily by his contact; there had been photographs in the press recently.

  That was all. No opportunity for Shard to ask questions. He left the Golden Horn, was aware of being picked up again by a tail, a different man this time but obvious enough to anyone who’d ever been in CID. The tail was quite unnecessary; Shard was going home, where he would be handed over to the officer on obbo near his house. It was all a ridiculous performance, Shard thought. They knew he knew he was under surveillance but they had to go through the charade of dressing up in all sorts of different disguises. Getting out at his home station he walked through to Bastow Gardens, the tail some distance behind and not bothering much since Shard’s destination was now perfectly obvious. As he approached his road an Escort van turned out of it, going in the opposite direction and going fast once it had turned into the main road. From the corner of his eye as he turned into Bastow Gardens Shard was aware of the tail crossing the road towards the bus shelter.

  He went up his path, brought out his key and went in. The house was silent; Beth would have gone to bed. He flicked on the hall light. He felt the increased beat of his heart as he found signs of a disturbance: doors standing open, a shattered bowl of flowers and water spilled on the hall floor, the stand on which the bowl had rested lying on its side, a tear in the hall wallpaper.

  He shouted for Beth and there was no answer. Fear for her ripped through him. He searched the house, ran outside, went into the garage. The car was there still. What had happened to the officer on obbo — half asleep, not doing his job?

  Shard went out into the road, looked around, saw the tail from the Golden Horn coming along towards the house. Shard went for him at the double. He said,
“All right, there’s no time for the play-acting now.” He took a deep breath. “My wife’s gone and there’s signs of a struggle.”

  “Gone, sir? That’s funny, because —”

  “It’s not funny to me.”

  “No, sir — sorry.” The DC seemed puzzled rather than anything else. “The woman DC — she’s missing too, sir.”

  Breath hissed out through Shard’s teeth and he said crisply, “Come back to my house and we’ll contact the Yard at once, by phone.”

  *

  A commander crime took the call at Scotland Yard, took it from Shard personally. He said, “But you’re under suspension, Shard, I —”

  “I’m reporting a crime, sir. A kidnap —”

  “Put the DC on.”

  Some people … Shard ground his teeth but handed the phone to the tail, who made a full report. Before he’d rung off Shard said, “Tell the Commander, Mr Hedge is to be informed right away.”

  The DC did so. Shard said, “I don’t know, of course, what your orders are in connexion with myself, but I’m going to the Foreign Office immediately. In my car. You can come if you want — if those are your orders, not to lose sight of me — but I’m going to suggest you remain here. Still on obbo. All right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I doubt if anyone’ll approach, but you’ll know what to do in that event.”

  Shard reversed his car out of the garage, locked the doors behind him, and drove fast through quiet streets to the Foreign Office. He didn’t know whether or not to expect Hedge, but he could call him on the closed line from the security section. When he got there Harry Kenwood was on duty and told him that Hedge had been rung, had sounded sleepy, and had said it could wait till morning. Strictly, it was a Yard job. He would await a report from the Assistant Commissioner Crime before committing the Foreign Office.

  “Balls to that,” Shard said. “Get Hedge again, please, Harry.”

  Hedge was furious at the second interruption in his sleep. “Really, Shard, I don’t know what things are coming to. You’re under suspension —”