“You’re the second person to say that tonight, Hedge. It’s my wife that’s involved, don’t you realise that?”
“Yes, yes.” Hedge was impatient. “I’m sorry, very sorry —”
“Then just listen. I’d say it’s obvious who’s got her, Hedge — wouldn’t you? Detachment X —”
“But why?”
Shard said, “I don’t know. Hostage, perhaps. I aim to find out.”
“You’re under —”
“Not again, Hedge. I’m asking to be put back on duty.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s simply not possible, you must know that. The routines … and it’s even more impossible now you’re personally involved through your wife —”
“I want you to speak to the Permanent Under-Secretary, Hedge, and to the ACC —”
“It’s not the ACC’s affair, it’s mine. I’m sorry, Shard, but I’m saying no.” There was a suspicious pause. “Just where are you ringing from?”
Shard told him. Hedge said in an accusing voice, “I thought so — closed line, it had to be … you’ve no business to be there, Shard … I’m astonished. I advise you to leave immediately — oh.” Hedge hissed angrily into the telephone: Shard had had the impertinence to hang up on him. Police! They were quite impossible. All sleep had gone from Hedge by this time; he bounced crossly out of bed, bare white toes feeling for his slippers. He left his bedroom and went into his study, where he kept whisky handy in a cupboard. He poured himself a strong one. He blew out a long breath. It never rained but it poured. After Kenwood had rung the first time, he’d had the whole story from the Yard … a woman DC disappeared while keeping surveillance on Shard, attached Foreign Office. There had been something in the Yard’s tone that suggested Hedge was in some way to blame via Shard, but he would soon get Hesseltine to sort that out, he wasn’t going to be high-and-mightied by a mere commander CID. He tried to concentrate: the woman DC had obviously been taken before whoever it was had gone to Shard’s house, just to stop her reporting. A natural thing to do, of course. But why the interest in Shard’s wife? That was a puzzle to be sure. A way of getting Shard back in their hands? But there wouldn’t be much point in that, surely? Of course, Shard was the sort of man who would try to pick up the trail even though he was under suspension from duty, but Hedge still couldn’t see why ‘they’ should want him back.
Hostage? Shard had used the word himself. But again, why?
It was all too much; Hedge poured himself another whisky and sat in a comfortable chair staring, without seeing, at a painting of the Forth Road Bridge. After a while the painting came into focus. Down by the northern end Rosyth dockyard nestled, not very clearly, but it was there. Symbolic? Hedge drank up his whisky. That was putting it too strongly; but Hedge believed that this thing, having begun in Scotland, at Faslane, was going to end there.
Would they blow up the Forth Road Bridge?
It could certainly be done by determined men and the results could be catastrophic. And it would link with defence, since the wreckage would block Rosyth. The ships currently in there wouldn’t leave for months, and nothing would enter. Rosyth would be written off. But was Rosyth all that important? It wasn’t Portsmouth or Devonport and it wasn’t the Gareloch. Could they block the Gareloch, and at the same time seal the Americans into the Holy Loch? Hardly both at once … but even that wasn’t impossible, Hedge supposed, two simultaneous explosions.
Hedge got little sleep the rest of that night, his mind was too active. He’d been much upset by Shard’s banging down the telephone on him. As for Shard, he got virtually no sleep: he prowled his house, a prey to a terrible frustration. The tail stayed with him, was relieved at two a.m. by another man, and Shard was glad of the company even though the DC was acutely embarrassed by his duty, a young man overawed by a detective chief superintendent at the best of times. He tried to make the point that he was only there as a sort of protection, a crime having been committed, and Shard let him think he believed the point was valid.
In the end he fell asleep in an armchair in the sitting room, and woke stiff, chilled and headachey. Around eight a.m. a woman DC turned up on relief. She looked like the backside of a bus but she was motherly and insisted on going into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Shard, not hungry, knew he must eat and did so. Cornflakes, fried bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, plenty of coffee. He felt better afterwards though his mouth was like the bottom of a parrot’s cage after too many cigarettes throughout the night.
At nine-fifteen he left for Green Park. He wasn’t, as he remarked wryly to the woman DC, under house arrest. Walking along Bastow Gardens for the station in the main road, he was well aware of another tail, who looked something like a gas meter reader without an official cap and no meters to read. Shard had to get rid of him before he made his contact at Green Park and it wasn’t going to be easy.
In the station he took the first southbound train to enter. He might be able to shake the tail at the interchange.
*
For Beth, the night had been traumatic. In the back of the van, gagged very firmly so that breathing was difficult and with Tack’s gun handy, she had been jammed against the body with its blotched, bloated face. Whenever the van came under a street light, she could see it plain. The very stillness … she had never been close to death until now, in fact had never even seen it. Not even her father; she hadn’t been able to face it, to see the familiar features that would never move again, the lips that would never utter. The van seemed to drive for hours, time passing slowly. None of the men spoke: it was as though they too were dead, even the driver, who sat erect, staring ahead, full of concentration. This would be no time to risk an accident, any brush at all with the law. After they had been driving for around half an hour there was an exclamation from the man sitting in front beside the driver and the first words were uttered. The man twisted round and spoke briefly to Tack.
“Blindfold.”
“Christ, yes!” That should have been thought of earlier. Tack put his gun down and brought out a handkerchief which he placed over Beth’s eyes and knotted it round the back of her head. That made matters worse: Beth swayed and bumped into things, hard things, soft things, Tack’s gun being one of the hard objects, a nasty reminder. Beth worried herself sick about Simon: had he, too, been got at? It had been late and no sign of him. Except when he was on a job, he wasn’t a late bird, not unless they were both out together, dinner in the West End, or a show, that sort of thing. But then she remembered what one of the men had said back in the house: they’d wanted Shard — that was why they’d come, of course — and she was second best. All that added up to the fact that they hadn’t got their hands on Simon. But what would he do now, when he found her gone? He wasn’t the sort to sit back tamely, under suspension when she was in danger, and he would stick his neck out, risking the chop.
At last the van slowed, took a sharp turn, jolted her as a wheel over-ran something like a kerb, then stopped. The back doors were opened up. Tack’s hands fumbled, removing the handkerchief. Beth was pulled out, drawn along the body of the woman DC, and set on her feet. She was in a garage, the doors of which had been closed behind the van. There was a door leading into the adjoining house, and she was pushed through this. It was still dark, and lights were on in the kitchen.
*
Shard changed at Acton Town and again at Earl’s Court, trying to shake off his tail but without success. He left the Piccadilly Line at Earl’s Court, changing back again onto the District Line. He got off at Victoria and hurried into the main line station, which was pretty packed although the first pandemonium of the rush hour was over. He went into the ticket hall, came out again and went down the steps to the gents. Leaving the gents he went in through the back entrance of the Grosvenor Hotel and out through the front. So far, so good — he couldn’t see the tail, but he found a taxi coming empty down Victoria Street for the station and he flagged it. He got in, told the driver to take him to Green Park subway, and then he saw t
he tail again. He knew the tail had seen him, too. And as luck would have it there was another taxi, which the tail nabbed. Shard could imagine the order: follow that cab, real Sherlock Holmes stuff. He had half a mind to redirect his taxi and hope to throw off the pursuit but this tail was obviously a good one and time was passing. If he didn’t keep his rendezvous, Charlie Dingo’s man wouldn’t wait, might smell a non-existent rat.
He had to take a chance now. The tail, of course, wouldn’t interfere with the contact, but would do his duty and report. Shard would have to take that as it came; sitting in the back of the taxi, he swore savagely. Hedge and the Yard … in their eyes he could be showing all the signs of guilt. Even Shard himself didn’t really believe they would lift his suspension. That had just been his first desperate reaction to Beth’s disappearance and was unrealistic.
He was set down near Green Park subway and as he paid the driver he saw the tailing taxi drift past and stop farther along.
Well — so be it.
He had bought his Daily Mail at Earl’s Court. He moved slowly, casually, towards the entrance to the subway, then rested rump and shoulders against the wall, lit a cigarette and shook out the pages of the newspaper. The time was ten-twenty-five. He kept a sharp watch as he made a pretence of reading. The tail was loafing eastwards, looking into the big windows of a car showroom, still looking like a bereft meter-reader. For a moment he vanished into the doorway and Shard wondered if he was reporting in, using his pocket transceiver. He reappeared and began drifting around the windows again, an unlikely-looking sort to buy a Rolls Royce, but these days you never could tell. Shard disregarded him, watched exclusively for his contact to show. Piccadilly was crowded; the tourist season in full swing seemed to have brought the world to London, all shapes and sizes, all colours, every possible accent and language from Texas to Singapore, Amsterdam to Africa. The clothing was incredible but you couldn’t call it drab: this wasn’t the anorak season. And it was a very hot day; Shard sweltered. Used-up air blasted from the subway like some monstrous blower at full pitch. A police car, lights flashing blue and syren in action, tried to thrust its way along Piccadilly towards the Circus. Not looking for him — not yet. Perhaps some junkies, or transvestites in the public lavatories beneath Piccadilly Circus.
Shard glanced at his watch: ten-thirty-five. He would wait till eleven, not longer. Charlie Dingo could have had second thoughts. The tail would be getting more and more interested, no doubt.
People brushed past him, some of them roughly and looking irritated: he was being a nuisance, standing there in the way. It was just after ten-forty-five when a man spoke to him.
“Got a light, mate?”
“Sure.” Shard brought out his lighter and flicked it. The man drew on his cigarette, face close to Shard’s. He was a thickset man and middle-aged, around forty-five, dressed in a worn blue lightweight jacket and green trousers, a sartorial mess; black hair turning grey, solid, respectable, alert, could have been an army NCO once. Not, Shard would have thought, Charlie Dingo’s sort, and perhaps he wasn’t. But he was. Drawing on his cigarette he remarked casually on the Daily Mail.
“Usual stuff, eh?”
“Yes. Strikes in the shipyards. Unemployment up again. Threat of an autumn budget. Four murders, same number of sexual assaults. Baby carved up in Brixton.”
“We live in a lovely world. Brink of war too, I s’pose.”
“Naturally.”
“We’ll take a walk, Mr Dixon. All right?”
Shard said, “I have a tail —”
“Oh, Godalmighty!”
“I couldn’t shake him. So long as we stay here, he won’t come close, but if we move —”
“Yes, I understand.” The man scratched his cheek, looking baffled and angry. He’d have expected better of a top copper, his expression said, “Where’s this tail?”
Shard told him; he swivelled aimlessly, but took a good look without appearing to do so, then nodded. “All right, we’ll talk here. Won’t take long … when we part, that tail won’t know which to follow.”
“He’ll radio in for assistance —”
“Won’t take that long, Mr Dixon. Now. You wanted to know about Tack, Blakey and O’Carse. You’re well vouched for by … let’s say, a mutual friend. You know who I mean. We know about Detachment X. There’s a house in Grays, Essex.” Quickly he passed the address. “Man named Mussuq owns it, brother of a bloke killed up at Faslane on the Gareloch. You suss out that house, Mr Dixon.”
“Do you know anything else? Do you know what these men’s objective is?”
The man shook his head. “That, we don’t know, but —” Very suddenly he broke off. A silenced gun had been used; Shard had seen nothing, heard nothing in the traffic’s sound and the crowd noises, but the man had crumpled and now fell flat on his face and Shard saw the bullet holes in the back. Any single person in the close crowd could have been responsible. There were screams from those near at hand, a surge of people away. As he saw the tail pushing through the crowd, Shard beat it down into the subway.
In the last analysis he obviously couldn’t avoid being picked up: but not yet, not if he didn’t go home. He believed Beth would be in that Grays House. He wasn’t going to have Beth caught up in the cross-fire if the security forces moved in. And apart from Beth he had that other personal business to settle once and for all.
13
Hedge was feeling a looseness in his stomach: sent for by the Permanent Under-Secretary, he was informed of unpleasant duty.
“I think it’d be desirable to have a senior presence in Scotland just now, Hedge. It’s my view that things seem likely to lead that way.”
“Ah.” Hedge, with a flutter in his heart, did his best. “Of course, the Head of Security … being still on the sick list, Under-Secretary, would it be wise for me to be in —”
“That’s all right. I’ve been in touch. He’ll be in his office, you needn’t worry. That gives you clearance.”
“He’s — er — not fit to go to Scotland?”
Pippin frowned. “No. And couldn’t be spared anyway, as you should know.” Hedge spared a bitter thought for the Head of Security: damn the man, up and down like a yo-yo, in one minute, back in bed the next, what a carry-on. Hedge hoped he wouldn’t meet Hocking in Scotland, which was bad enough on its own, always rumbling in its belly about Sassenachs … Hedge felt himself to be a kind of human lode star beaconing the combined effort in the right direction to bowl out a national catastrophe. Wherever he went, he would find Detachment X following, a personal vendetta.
Dispiritedly he returned to his office and set Miss Fleece busy on arranging a flight to Glasgow — the strike had been settled now — and soon after he had done so another blow fell. Hesseltine was on the telephone from the Yard. There had been a shooting in Piccadilly, Shard had been close to the scene, and Shard had disappeared. He had not gone home so far. That was all that was known. Hedge at once informed the Permanent Under-Secretary, who did not countermand the trip to Scotland. But by this time Hedge was feeling quite relieved at being on his way out of the London crisis.
*
Shard left the underground system at Leicester Square and walked through to Soho minus tail. He went again to the strip joint. Mandy was on duty again at the reception desk, and rang through to Guts Flambardier, who said send him up.
“So what is it this time, Mr Shard?”
Shard said, “Shelter, Guts. Just shelter till after dark, that’s all.” He paused, then said, “Charlie’s man bought it,” and explained what had happened outside Green Park station. Guts was rattled, thinking like Charlie Dingo of possible moles in his own organisation.
He said, “You got an address, you said, Mr Shard.”
“Right.”
“Reported it?”
Shard shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Risky for you.”
“I have personal reasons, Guts. Pressing ones. I know the risks but even coppers are human. I’ve got something to
do … I may find I need police assistance, probably will. In which case I’ll report. If I can’t do what I want, then I’ll report anyway. Does that sound confusing?”
Flambardier grinned. “Yes, Mr Shard. You said, personal reasons. The bribery — of course.”
“That, yes. More important, I think Beth could be at that address.”
Flambardier lifted his eyebrows and looked concerned. “They got your wife, Mr Shard?”
“Yes. I’m going in. On my own in the first instance —”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“And you want to hide up here till then, is that it, Mr Shard?”
Shard nodded. “They won’t think of coming here, Guts.”
“No, no. If you’re sure you weren’t tailed here, Mr Shard?”
“I’m sure. So — can I stay?”
Flambardier said at once, “Of course. There’s a room available and you can have it as long as you like — me, I shall be busy, so —”
“You won’t want me to hang about in here. I understand. Thanks a lot, Guts.I’m very grateful.”
The fat man waved a dismissive hand; it was, he said, his pleasure. He flicked a switch in his intercom, spoke briefly, and almost at once a girl came in, dark and slinky, to take Shard over and show him where he could spend what would be a very long day. He found that the window of the room gave him a view down into the street and though he couldn’t see the entrance to Flambardier’s joint, not without opening the window and craning, which might be a risk, he could keep a fair watch on the approaches. He watched for some while but saw nothing of any interest, and this he reckoned was the final proof that he hadn’t been tailed.
*
Hedge reached Glasgow airport in a semi-dismal state of mind. Scotland again but this time in better comfort, by which he meant an MOD car, a chauffeur-driven, plain dark green Rover three-and-a-half litre that met his flight and smoothed his highland path. The urgency had precluded, praise God, a self-drive up the motorway system and never mind government economies this time. Accommodation had been arranged at the Clyde Submarine Base; but first Hedge told the driver to take him to Rosyth, where there had been loss of life and they would expect a VIP. Of course, they’d already had one from Defence Ministry but they’d appreciate another. So it was the M8 for the Forth Road Bridge with the driver wondering why the dickens the old bugger hadn’t made up his mind from the start and flown for Edinburgh rather than Glasgow …
Shard at Bay Page 14