A Very Big Bang Read online

  “Unaccustomed to the truth, Hedge? No, just listen to me.” Shard leaned forward in his chair, staring Hedge into silence. Across Parliament Square, Big Ben struck the hour: ten o’clock. Casey had been dead thirteen hours, give or take a little: Shard had seen the body, a horrible sight, even the face mutilated so that recognition had been almost impossible. Even now, Shard felt sick … a few seconds late on Big Ben, the rather pansy looking French clock on Hedge’s mantelpiece also began its strike, beating softly out over well-polished mahogany and comfortably worn leather. Shard’s voice rose above the combination of bells. “Hedge, this is too big for brushing under any carpets. I reported to you … oh, more than a couple of weeks back, that I was on to this. Casey was an old friend, I’d worked with him in my Yard days on jobs that involved London and the Republic. I —”

  “When you reported, you never once spoke of Casey, Shard.”

  “No. I admit that — and the reason was, at that time I didn’t know Casey had come in on it. Once I did know, well, there seemed no reason for a special mention to you, Hedge. I’m entitled to run the show my way, the details are up to me. Casey had come in virtually by mistake — he was investigating an IRA job, and he picked up something else. He —”

  “Is the IRA involved?”

  “Not in this, no. Casey told me that positively when he first got in touch. The IRA’s in the clear, and I suspect the involvement of Middle Eastern terrorists —”

  “Why do you suspect them?”

  Shard lifted his shoulders. “I suppose simply because they’re the only other logical side of the terrorist coin. Also, of course, the way Casey died.”

  Hedge nodded, said distastefully, “The private parts, yes. Terrible! What a world we live in, to be sure. I believe they’ve even reinstated the old Islamic law — burial to the neck and stoning of adulterers, then the ploughing off of the head with a harrow.” Hedge shuddered, as though in danger himself, then came back to Whitehall. “What do we tell Dublin, Shard?”

  “Officially — I expect you’re going to say — nothing. Aren’t you?”

  Hedge studied his fingernails. “Well …”

  “Unofficially,” Shard said, coming to his rescue, “I’ll go over and see Mr McCrory.”

  “The Garda chief himself?” Hedge looked up, staring.

  “Why not, Hedge? Or do you want to go?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Hedge waved his arms again, almost frantically dismissing the suggestion. “It seems a good idea, I suppose, for you to go, but be careful what you say.”

  “I’ll do that,” Shard promised, “but I’ll also ask some questions, see if I pick up some leads —”

  “Be careful in that direction too.”

  “Of course. But from now on, Hedge, speed’s got to be the keynote. We have ten days — nine, now. I suppose you do realise that.”

  “Yes.” The pink man brought out a white linen handkerchief and dabbed beads of sweat from his forehead. “But surely the situation’s changed now?”

  “Casey?”

  “Yes. He was killed for a purpose, someone knew he’d talked. That being so —”

  “They’ll reshape the plan? Well, could be, of course. We can’t rely on that, though, Hedge, can we? The counter-planning is bound to postulate the only known date … but of course we must also assume it may now come earlier. We’ll have to be ready as of now.”

  Hedge blew out his cheeks. “And are we?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then —”

  “Everything that has to be done, will be done, and as fast as I know how.”

  Hedge nodded, sighed, looked at his French clock. “I shall be seeing the Head of Department shortly. He’ll need to be briefed for his report to the Minister — and the Cabinet, I dare say. You may be wanted yourself — in person.” He looked fixedly at Shard. “Tell me: do you believe this thing is really on?”

  Shard said, “I’ve no doubts at all — none. Casey was positive.”

  Hedge groaned, shook his head. “We must absolutely ensure it doesn’t get out, Shard. The Press, you know!” Hedge, speaking of his number one enemy with bated breath, drummed plump fingers on the opulent leather top of his desk. “We can’t risk that — you can imagine the panic — London would come to a dead stop —”

  Shard interrupted with a harsh laugh. “Dead’s the word, Hedge! A sizeable explosion in the underground network, in a confined space … it wouldn’t be pretty —”

  “And just the thought of it, about to happen they don’t know when — you’ve said it might be earlier … no, they’d all keep out of the tubes and off the streets even —” Hedge broke off. “A thought, Shard: what’s the given date again?”

  “May the fourth.”

  “I suppose we could close the underground that day, a last-minute thing?”

  Shard lifted his hands in the air. “We may have to, if it hasn’t happened earlier, but it would be fairly pointless. We’d have to shut down the system permanently, wouldn’t we, once we started? Unless we put the stopper on at once, they’ll live to blow another day.”

  “Yes … well, what are your proposals for the work-out, Shard?”

  “I’ll go to Dublin, then to York. I’ll talk to London Transport —”

  “Carefully, please. With circumspection. I do not, repeat not, wish anything to get about at this stage.”

  “I take your point, but they can’t be left out, as well you know —”

  “But at this stage —”

  “Even at this stage, Hedge. Oh, I’ll be careful, don’t worry! I’ll feed them some line or other that’ll give me maps and a full run-down on the organisation, the operating procedures and security arrangements. In the meantime, I’ll need Yard and Special Branch co-operation in a search nationwide. I’ll co-ordinate the toothcomb.” Shard paused, eyeing Hedge speculatively. “Anything else on your mind?”

  Hedge looked down at his desk. “Casey.”

  “And again the Press?”

  “Exactly. There are to be no releases in regard to Casey. In the first instance, the Yard reacted splendidly. It’s to stay that way. Get the body to Dublin, Shard, as secretly as you know how.” The eyes flickered. “I’m sure you’ll agree, that’s only wise?” He looked up at Shard hopefully, chin dragging his mouth down: he looked like a sad salmon.

  “As you say, Hedge — only wise.”

  Shard got to his feet and left Hedge flicking a switch in his intercom and looking white around the gills as he negotiated an interview with the next God up the hierarchy. Only wise? Shard grinned without humour, a hard and savage grin towards Hedge’s private fears. Wise it might be in one respect, since the Press, if they got hold of it, would trumpet loudly about any involvement of an Irish copper on British soil and under the aegis of the British Foreign Office; and all security vis-à-vis the terrorists would vanish in a puff of smoke. On the other hand, the terrorists themselves would know well enough whom they had killed … while, on yet another hand, they might not know how much Casey had said before he died. Shard, moving along the quiet dignity of the Foreign Office corridors for the ground floor exit, pondered: maybe a clampdown on Casey had its points, could help to keep the other side guessing. The body could be reported as found but unidentified, which should keep Hedge happy. Reaching his office, Shard called the FO switchboard, asking them to get first the Yard and then Dublin on the security line.

  *

  Hesseltine, Assistant Commissioner Crime, was an old Yard colleague. “On your word, Simon, I’ll do it,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. I’d say, let the Press have the details of — how it was done, where the body was found, and nothing else at all. Just nothing.”

  “A police spokesman said, enquiries were being made. That do?”

  “Admirably, sir.”

  “How about transport to Dublin?”

  Shard said, “I’ll fix, don’t worry. The only other thing I’m asking is that you hold off the Press for at least nine days as of now.�
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  “Right! You’re putting me in a spot over the inquest, though, Simon.”

  Shard grinned into the mouthpiece. “Sorry about that, but I’m sure you’ll find a way out. I’d like to emphasise — and don’t tell me I’m beginning to sound like Hedge — that the national consideration now overrides all else. The coroner will have to lump it.”

  “All right, all right. By the way, how’s Hedge taking it?”

  “Fearfully, as usual.”

  From the other end of the line a chuckle sounded. Hesseltine loathed Hedge’s guts. Shard cut the call and waited for Dublin to come on. When it did so, he informed McCrory personally that he was coming over on a private flight and would appreciate an interview as soon as possible after his arrival, which would be after dark — at ten o’clock approximately. He added, sounding casual, that he would be grateful if a closed van with a plain clothes escort could meet his plane at Dublin airport. This fixed, Shard took himself to St James’s Park station and had a long session with a top man from London Transport’s security section. His approach was cautious, turning the points of the security officer’s probes.

  “It’s a general check,” he said smoothly.

  “Nothing more specific, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Not so far as I can say. Your tracks, your stations — they’re vulnerable. Always have been … no harm in having a preliminary survey, you know. We aim to prevent trouble before it comes, and to do that we need to be genned up well in advance.”

  “Yes, quite.” Partington, the security man, gnawed at his bottom lip. “If there was any direct threat that you knew of … you’d give us the word?”

  Shard nodded. “Yes, we would.”

  “In good time?”

  Shard thought of those nine days and met Partington’s eye. “We would give you,” he said, “all the warning we could and that’s a promise. But even we can be caught with our pants round our ankles.” He paused, then asked reflectively, “Suppose there was some positive knowledge of a threat … say a bomb, its whereabouts not known. What would you do about it?”

  “Well, in the first place, we’d obviously liaise with your people, wouldn’t we?”

  “Yes. But what would your advice be — knowing your system as you do?”

  Partington drew in a long breath, sent it whistling out again. “Our advice … taking it that you would have no idea of any region, however broad, where this hypothetical bomb might be?”

  “Right.”

  Partington said, “A shutdown. A complete shutdown.”

  “And then a full search by police and army explosives experts, which could take a hell of a long time — but I’ve no doubt it would be the only way,” Shard said briskly. “And now, if I could take a look at your network maps, and then go into the security arrangements …”

  *

  Shard’s flight was to be from Shoreham airport in Sussex; he left the Foreign Office in a government car with driver, after a quick visit home to tell Beth he would be back in the morning. Just beyond Lambeth Town Hall, on the A23 Brighton road, Shard’s car picked up the plain van that was carrying the body of Detective Sergeant Casey. They overtook, but kept it in sight in the rear-view mirror as best they could. Turning onto the A24 and making for the Leatherhead by-pass, Shard’s driver slowed to allow the makeshift hearse to catch up. They drove into Shoreham airport at eight thirty, the van going straight into a hangar, where Shard’s plane was waiting. Under cover of the hangar, Casey’s body was transferred aboard and the van drove off, Shard’s car following it fifteen minutes later, by which time Shard was airborne and heading out west and a little north for Dublin. Enfolded by the engine’s roar, alone with the silent body, Shard sat thinking, thinking largely of Detective Sergeant Casey, an Irishman and a Republican who had, in essence, died for England; or anyway, for more Londoners than Shard wanted to visualise. Casey had left a wife and two children — Shard had met them. Casey had been a cheerful man and carefree, happily married, and now there was to be no happiness in the Casey home. Shard knew it was up to him to visit — to visit and if possible comfort, and at the same time to talk of silence. Before leaving London, he had seen the evening papers. Such was the day and age that the finding of the mutilated body had made no headlines — Hedge would be glad about that at all events — and not a lot of mention: some man unknown had met his end in a particularly brutal fashion and the body had been thrown into the Thames. That was that, and no more need be heard — except that some of the Sundays would titillate their readers with the sexual details — until after the whole thing had been bowled out and cleared up.

  Three

  McCrory was, in comparison with Casey, the other type of Irishman: tall and dark, with plenty of five o’clock shadow and a long upper lip, cadaverous where Casey had been round and lively, and introvert where Casey had been extrovert. McCrory gloomed at Shard.

  “It’s my responsibility so far as this end is concerned, Mr Shard. I gave permission — to my regret now. It’s a nasty business.”

  “Very nasty.” Shard coughed: time was too short, or could be, for general comment on beastliness. “The widow, Mr McCrory. What do we tell her?”

  “The truth is no bad thing.”

  Shard, having said something similar himself back in London, thought of Hedge. “We don’t want a common London-Dublin involvement reported in the papers, sir, taking into account the nature of my job. I’m sure a way can be found. My chief would appreciate that, I know.”

  McCrory’s gloom seemed to deepen. “Hedge, Mr Shard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know Hedge. I’m not unsympathetic. I’m not unsympathetic towards England either, as you know. I don’t want to see harm come to London. But Casey was one of my officers, and now he’s left three people in my care, Mr Shard. I have a regard for the truth.”

  “So have I, but …”

  “But what?”

  Shard met the Garda chief’s eye squarely. “On the flight in, sir, it came to me that Casey would — keep. On ice, I mean.”

  There was a silence, then McCrory said, “I think you’re a hard man, Mr Shard — oh, I know we all have to be that at times and it’s London and not Dublin that’s threatened by these terrorists.” He paused. “What do they want, do you suppose?”

  Shard shrugged. “Apparently nothing. There haven’t been any demands so far — they could come, of course, but I’ve an idea they won’t. We haven’t any of their own people in custody, nor anyone else I can think of that they might have an interest in. It’s just going to happen regardless.”

  “So it’s just a kind of large-scale vandalism?”

  “Yes, in a sense, I think it is. Politically linked in the broad aspect, of course. They want to keep the Western nations living in fear, wondering what’s going to happen next, until all their own national problems are sorted out.”

  McCrory gave a tight smile. “You English took on too much, years ago. Now you’re suffering for it from many directions. This time you seem to be saying you don’t suspect the IRA, either the Provos or —”

  “That’s right.”

  McCrory nodded, seeming satisfied, but asked, “Just on account of the private parts, Mr Shard, is this?”

  “Not that alone. Casey had been in touch before. He didn’t know much then, but he did positively confirm a Middle Eastern basis —”

  “But they were glad enough of his help, as a supposed Provo?”

  “Yes. He met open arms and I gather not a lot of checking. These people are rather naïve, you know, Mr McCrory. They think in absolute terms — guns and bombs and the universal brotherhood of terrorism.”

  “Even so, something went wrong for Casey. And now you’re asking me to keep him on ice, by which I take it you’re asking me to keep the news of his death on ice too — and not even to tell the wife. Why, Mr Shard?”

  “Because a sorrowing wife and children will not easily be kept out of the way of the Press, sir.”

  “That could be arra
nged.”

  “With respect, sir, no arrangement could be 100 percent reliable. And so far as possible we don’t want the villains to be absolutely certain we’ve identified Casey. We —”

  “Can you hold back on that?”

  “We shall try. There were facial mutilations as well as the others … and of course he carried nothing to identify him for what he was —”

  “Quite, yes.”

  “We don’t want to react, because we — or at any rate I — have just a notion that our terrorists may not know Casey talked.”

  “But I understood you to say —”

  “I know what I said, sir, but I know something else as well: I knew Tom Casey. Do you follow what I’m trying to say?”

  McCrory’s brows had gone up, arching over the long, dark face. He asked in a controlled voice, “Are we back to the private parts again, Mr Shard?”

  Shard nodded. “Right. I say again, I knew Tom Casey.”

  “He was a good Catholic, Mr Shard.”

  “Agreed. Many good Catholics are also full-blooded men, and some good Catholics are better than others at containment. Tom Casey always had an eye for a dolly bird and it does no good to disguise the fact — nor should we forget that so many Middle Eastern girls are very attractive, physically, to us Westerners. There’s something else we shouldn’t forget —”

  “The private parts?”

  Again Shard nodded. “Exactly. That strikes me as being more personal than in the line of duty. I’d like to find out more about it if I can.”

  “And can you?”

  “I think so. But not from the wife, fairly obviously. And I repeat, I don’t want it known, if it’s not known already, that Casey talked. There’s one person I would expect to be able to trust implicitly.”

  “And he is?”

  Shard paused, taking a deep breath and holding the Garda chief’s eyes in his own gaze. Then he said, “Mr McCrory, I’m going to ask you to give me the name of Tom Casey’s parish priest.”