Blood Run East Read online

  BLOOD RUN EAST

  Philip McCutchan

  © Philip McCutchan, 1976

  Philip McCutchan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1976 by Hodder and Stoughton Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  1

  ONE OF THE signs read CHEMICAL DEFENCE ESTABLISHMENT; others, many others, read simply: DANGER KEEP OUT. At times red flags flew. The buildings themselves were unremarkable, just one more group to add to the various defence establishments on Salisbury Plain. Their remarkability lay strictly within the walls, and the security clamp was heavy. Apart from the men who worked there, admittance was for the élite, and needed much high authorisation and examination of documents. The drivers of the two container transporters were heavily screened men from the Ministry of Defence security staff. Each day for the past three weeks they had brought their vehicles to Porton Down, each day they had unloaded nondescript items of equipment: non-chemical stores and office furniture in the main. Each night they had taken aboard the loads for which they had come: packed cases of slides, containers very carefully handled, glass vessels protected by wicker frames and much padding and filled with bacteria-growing materials, jars of liquids similarly protected. The transporters themselves and their drivers and drivers’ mates were given other protection: the protection of cars, plain cars filled with armed security men and police officers in plain clothes. In the early hours of each morning they left Porton Down under a strong cloak of security, turned left out of the gates along a gated roadway that led to the main A-30 road connecting London with the west through Salisbury: on this road they turned left again, lumbering night-shrouded through Stockbridge, Winchester, Petersfield; heading east to reach their destination in the dark hours, unloading beneath a similar security screen in the countryside south of the Downs before returning west.

  *

  Shard was always an early riser: today he got up extra early, waking Beth as he did so. He drew back the bedroom curtains, letting in the sun of a bright, crisp day. Beth protested: “Simon darling, it’s only half past six!”

  “I know that. I feel like walking.”

  “Not all the way to your office?”

  “Not all the way. As far as I feel like. After that, the nearest tube station.” Shard stretched: he was tall and well-built. Beth, idly staring at his silhouette, thought pleasurably of the latent strength of a healthy, active body. “Can you get breakfast early, Beth?”

  “I suppose so. Mother won’t get up for it.”

  Shard just stopped himself saying, “Exactly.” Instead, he grinned out of the window, looking down into the quiet Ealing road with the gardens freshly dew-sparkled and responding to the sun. A walk today would not just be exercise: it would be an avoiding action. Mrs Micklam, staying a week, was all the better for avoidance, especially at breakfast. Momentarily, Shard’s face darkened into a frown: he’d heard it said that in the fullness of time all daughters grew like their mothers, which was a thought better discarded. The frown vanished: Beth would be the exception, and Shard had no time for disloyalty, especially in himself. He turned away from the window, ripped off his pyjama jacket, advanced on the bed and pulled Beth out and up and into his arms. He kissed her on the lips, then pushed her away, turned her round, and gave her bare behind a light smack. “Breakfast!” he said. “Out there, people are being born and dying and committing crimes — and you’re delaying the law in the execution of its duty by lying in bed and —”

  “Shut up, Simon, it’s too early.”

  *

  Work, for Simon Shard, lay basically in the crummy office in Seddon’s Way off the Charing Cross Road where the legend on the door said he was a dealer in stamps — a Commercial Philatelist, precisely. The cover irritated Shard: by training and past experience he was a copper and until a year or so ago he had been of the Met and proud of it. He could see the need for a degree of anonymity where the Foreign Office was concerned, but fancied that ninety per cent of it was sheer bull resulting from a love of play-acting, self-dramatisation, not to mention self-aggrandisement, and a dislike of ever getting vulgarly involved — especially on the part of his immediate boss, the man known to the Department as, simply, Hedge. A very thorny, prickly Hedge, standing aloof guard between the Head of Department, who was never mentioned by any name at all, and his underlings, in which term Hedge always managed by his manner to include the whole of the British public. Shard was frequently visited by an uncomfortable suspicion that a kind of Parkinson’s Law operated in Security: cover, anonymity, intrigue and poppycock increased in direct proportion to the decline of British authority in the wider world. Reaching his office, having taken the tube ultimately from Ealing Common, and feeling slightly ashamed of his subterfuge, Shard glanced up the stairs leading to the next landing. Seddon’s Way he shared with others, some of them as anonymous as he: upstairs lived and worked Elsie, her name inscribed in red felt-tip on a piece of card above a redly glowing bell-push. From her direction there was silence: her working hours were chiefly nocturnal and now she was enjoying repose. Shard let himself into his office, a sleazy room the walls of which were hung with foreign and colonial stamps upon squared paper and shelves filled with Stanley Gibbons catalogues. In one corner stood a massive steel safe in which, though more stamps there were as literal cover, were stored yet more precious scraps of paper, the files that formed the life-blood of Shard’s particular niche in Security; these being chiefly in microdot form and thus unobtrusive to the eye, casual or otherwise: Shard’s experience in CID had taught him how to make the best use of hiding places. He sat in the swivel chair behind his desk; the moment he did so one of his telephones burred at him softly, the closed line from the FO. A sixth sense warned him of Hedge. He took up the handset, eyes rolling in mute appeal to heaven. “Shard.”

  “At last!” The voice snapped and bit. “I’ve tried three times to get you —”

  “I walked, Hedge.”

  “Walked! Why?”

  “Reasons,” Shard said equably, “which would take too long to go into now, Hedge, since I gather you’re being urgent about something. Are you?”

  There was a sound of fuming. “You know I detest flippancy. Yes, the matter’s urgent. Can you come over right away?”

  “To your —”

  “No, no, no! I’ll be walking along the Embankment. Pick me up … that is contact me since you haven’t your car with you, near the President. All right? Fifteen minutes, Shard.”

  “I’ll be there,” Shard said, and rang off. He got up, tried the handle of the safe from force of habit, found it secure, and left the office. Going down the stairs, he sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that Hedge didn’t go in for physical disguise: had he done so, his flair for dreaming up obstacles would have immeasurably complicated life. Shard would have spent his time searching out Red Indian chiefs, bog Irishmen wearing caubeens, poufs in pearls and earrings, off-duty dustmen and God alone knew what. As it was, fifteen minutes later, Hedge was unmistakable in his Whitehall garb, all black coat, striped trousers and bowler hat with umbrella: Hedge, perhaps because he was too old, had never gone for the with-it image. There was a light wind now, blowing up the dust and discarded scraps of paper, and Hedge was clutching the bowler h
at as he leaned over the wall of the Embankment, a little downstream from the RNR drill-ship, staring out over the river and the hurrying strings of barges behind their tugs. The clothes apart there was something vaguely Drake-ish about Hedge’s back view, as though he were staring towards some armada sailing through the mists of time, and regretting the absence of a set of bowls.

  Shard, after a dash through traffic, leaned over beside him. Hedge glanced sideways and grunted. “Well, you’ve got here, praise be.”

  “You look tired. You sound it, too.”

  “I’ve been up all night, that’s why! Not a chance to get home since first thing yesterday morning.”

  “Oh, dear,” Shard said solicitously. “What have you been up to. Hedge?”

  Hedge glared, snapped, “You’re not indispensable. Don’t think for a moment you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know very well … this blasted frivolity! Just a word to Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, and back you go to the Yard.”

  For the second time that morning, and for related reasons, Shard bit off an indiscreet reply. The Yard called him back strongly, in fact, and Hesseltine, who happened to loathe Hedge’s guts, had been a boss he liked to work for. But to Beth, or more precisely to Mrs Micklam, the FO had immense cachet. Mrs Micklam, who, when thwarted tended to take it out on Beth, thought there was something a little common about having a son-in-law who was a policeman and never mind the rank of Detective Chief Superintendent. The last thing Shard wanted to do was to hurt Beth; so he said, “I apologise, Hedge. No more frivolity. What is it you want?”

  “Blood run,” Hedge said briefly.

  “Where and who?” The Departmental term ‘blood run’ was used, inter alia, to cover the export from the UK of embarrassing persons; it customarily involved a good deal of work and travel, but Shard was not too displeased: when he got back to London, mother-in-law might well have folded her tents. “Also when?”

  “I’ll take that in reverse order,” Hedge said, staring gloomily at a tarnished seagull doing its best to pretend the filthy London river was the deep ocean. “When — tonight. Who — does the name Katie Farrell mean anything, or not?”

  Shard’s lips framed a silent whistle. “Belfast?”

  “Right. Shall I summarise?”

  “I’ll do it for you: six murders personally, involvement in dozens more by way of indiscriminate explosions. Wanted here, and in Belfast, and in Dublin. Anything else, Hedge?”

  Hedge nodded. “Plenty! There’s a Middle Eastern involvement. An involvement of an oil-producing country — I can’t be more precise than that.” Hedge paused, took out a linen handkerchief, and blew his nose: the signal was now at go for exposition. Hedge went on, after making a casual 360-degree turn to assure himself of no unwanted audience, and then re-aligning his view over the river. “We, that is the Department, Shard — we know where Katie Farrell is.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On ice.”

  “You mean in custody?”

  Hedge shifted his feet irritably. “Of course I mean that, Shard —”

  “And where’s the blood run to? Belfast, Dublin — which presupposes we’re not charging her here, and I’d like to know why not, Hedge. We know she was responsible for —”

  “Outrages in England, yes, we know all right!” Hedge paused, frowning. “I’m not saying I like this, but I have my orders, and so, now, have you.” Another pause, another nose blow. “She’s to be let through, Shard. She’s too hot to hold and Government won’t take the risk.”

  “Of retaliation?”

  Hedge nodded glumly. “But not the obvious retaliation. I mentioned the Middle East. We have to protect our oil supplies or we collapse industrially — I needn’t tell you —”

  “How are they involved, Hedge?”

  Hedge spread his hands. “The supply line’s under threat if we don’t go along with what these people want —”

  “These people? Who are ‘these people’, do we know?”

  “Not with exactness, no. But we do know what they want — and that’s Katie Farrell.”

  “But for God’s sake, why Katie Farrell?” Shard was puzzled. “What the bloody hell … Look, Hedge, you’re saying the Middle East is behind some of the terrorist moves in Britain, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that!” Hedge snapped.

  Shard stared across the water, seeing nothing. He said, “This stinks to heaven, Hedge. Letting her go … we’ll be breaking faith with all sorts of people, selling them down the river! Our own troops and civilians who’ve died as a result of what the Farrell woman’s done …” He paused, feeling sick in the guts. “And what about her? What happens to her, when she gets where she’s going?”

  Hedge grimaced. “Riches, I shouldn’t wonder. Her friends out there will do her much honour, I fear.”

  “But why?”

  “We don’t know why they want her, if that’s what you mean. It could be a case of standing by their friends —”

  “Which means the Middle East has been behind the terrorists, doesn’t it? So why the cave-in? What about North Sea oil?”

  Hedge made a contemptuous noise, dismissive of the North Sea. “Dreams, dreams! Costs escalating fast, the tax position not helping. There are even rumours that some of the companies are finding each other’s fields, would you believe it? Oh, it’s coming through now, certainly, but the bulk still comes, and will continue to come hopefully, from the Middle East. We shall always need their oil for the right mix. It’s a vital supply line.”

  “So decency — all right, it’s an old-fashioned word — goes overboard.” Shard sent a long breath hissing out through set teeth. “God, what bastards we’ve all become!”

  “Don’t blame me,” Hedge said testily. “I’ve said I don’t like it. We must consider all that’s at stake, though.”

  “Which means you’re asking me to be the stooge.”

  “Not asking, Shard, telling. I’m sorry, but you’ll operate the blood run in person. Obviously, no such hand-over can be made in this country and in fact our Middle Eastern friends have expressly ruled it out. They’ve been precise as to the route in the first stages: no private, clandestine flights, no doubt in case we attempt a double-cross by, as it were, losing the woman. You’ll accompany her through the normal exit formalities, and the officials immediately concerned, that is, the Home Office people and no others, will be briefed and she’ll have full clearance and assistance. You’ll stay with her to the handover point, which’ll be made known later —”

  “Suppose I —”

  “Shard, you’ll have a full briefing on procedures this afternoon. I’m only giving you the outline at this moment — and it includes this: you’ll not go out by air at all. It appears that our, shall I call them our principals, don’t wish the woman to be in close proximity to other passengers in the confines of an aircraft. So you go out by sea — Townsend Thoresen, Southampton to Cherbourg, with car and cabin to ensure privacy. Ship crowds, I suppose, are of themselves cover. I can’t indicate your onward movements from Cherbourg —”

  “Don’t bother!” Shard interrupted. “I don’t want this job, Hedge. It’s too dirty.”

  “Someone has to do it, and you’ve been chosen.” Hedge sounded patronising and pompous to the point of here endeth the first lesson. “As of now, you’re under orders emanating from very high up indeed. You would be most unwise to make difficulties.” He gave a small cough, almost one of embarrassment. “The woman … Katie Farrell. Er … you’re very happily married, of course …”

  Shard stared at him. “Very. Why d’you ask?”

  “Because,” Hedge said ominously, “there are dangers.”

  “To my life?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Hedge said, sounding infuriatingly off-hand. “But there’s always that, isn’t there? I’m referring to something else. The woman’s said to be immensely attractive … and you’ll be travelling as man and wife. She’s really qu
ite something — I’ve seen her for myself. You’ll have to take a very firm grip. Shard, a very firm grip.”

  *

  Shard left Hedge to make his way home at last; Shard went off under orders to make his private arrangements and report at 1400 hours at an address in Knightsbridge, ready in all respects for an indefinite period of field duty. He went off seething with anger: it had been, he considered, bloody impertinent of Hedge to appear to hint that he might be amenable to his sex urges to the point of allowing them to come between himself and his duty: Shard could and would put up his defences as securely as any other experienced officer. Besides, the woman was known to be a multiple killer: his whole instinct was against her … he grinned a little at his thoughts as once again he unlocked the door of his office in Seddon’s Way. Sex was sex: when you were engaged in its practice you didn’t normally run through the crime lists. He was about to call Beth and invent a trip to Scotland or some such when his security line burred: again, Hedge.

  “Shard!” The voice was high, shaking. “Oh my God …”

  “Steady, Hedge! What’s up now?”

  Hedge babbled. “My wife, Shard. My wife, she — she’s gone — gone, d’you hear? There’s blood all over the hall, and my man’s dead. Get here, will you? Get here right away!”

  *

  Hedge’s manservant, Morton, was dead all right: open-eyed, open-mouthed, in a dressing-gown pulled over pale pink pyjamas. The face was blood drained but at the same time blood soaked: the head was stove in like an eggshell, and its fragile pieces reposed in a bloody mess, sticky on the hall’s parquet. More blood spattered the parquet in a line of drops leading to the massive front door. At the rear end a green-baize door stood open, showing stairs leading down to the basement: Hedge lived now in an upstairs-downstairs kind of house: having raised a mortgage which he continually complained was crippling him, he had extended his flat to the entire house, buying back what once his family had owned. Now it not only crippled Hedge financially but crippled Mrs Hedge in running it; but Hedge was too important to live in a flat. He had, in fact, been nudged by the Head of Department on account of the security aspect. In such an upstairs-downstairs establishment, therefore, the open door betrayed, to Shard, a pre-death urgency in the movements of a well-trained servant. The drops of blood stopped at a point four feet from the front door, as though someone had taken precautions before emerging into the public view. Hedge, poor Hedge, was in a terrible state, shaking like a leaf and slopping neat whisky from a crystal tumbler, carelessly allowing it to mix with the blood until Shard took the tumbler away from him. Shard put it down on a silver salver resting on a mahogany chest shining with polish, and squatted beside Hedge’s manservant: clearly a blunt instrument and thus far conventional. He stood up and looked around the hall, at the open green-baize door.