The Hoof Page 3

  There, the driver put his foot down and kept it flat, fast lane all the way and never mind the weather conditions, which were worsening. The Citroën made Leeds in two hours, having slowed from 100 mph only when fuzz was seen. The driver picked his way through a maze of side streets, derelict slums, bulldozed areas of desolation and new industrial estates, and fetched up by driving through the gates of a small privately-owned road haulage business where he turned into the lee of a large building.

  “Right,” he said. “Get him out. Put the gag on first.”

  The two men in the back with Peters obeyed orders. Gagged and still with the handcuffs on, the union leader was brought out of the car. The light had gone now; the air was cold and damp. There had been snow and it was lying still and the slush was starting to freeze.

  One of the men gave a whistle, then waited. A man in jeans and a donkey jacket came out from a doorway. Light showed briefly behind him till he shut the door. The man who had whistled said in a flat tone, “Here he is, then. All right?”

  “Sure.”

  The whistler was impatient. “So where, then?”

  “Follow me, I’ll show you.” The donkey jacket turned away and went into a warehouse. The two men followed, with Peters, while the driver and his mate in the front seat sat silent in the Citroën, watching till the small procession was out of sight. A light snowfall started again, the flakes drifting sadly across the Citroën’s sidelights. Peters and his escort moved through the warehouse, came out into another yard where there were petrol and diesel pumps and three above-ground storage tanks. Peters’ face, distorted by the gag, was as white as the snow. The man in the donkey jacket flicked on a torch and shone the beam onto one of the storage tanks.

  “That’s the one, Les,” he said.

  There was a nod. “Right. Just a tick.” Peters was roughly handled while the men went through his pockets. They removed a cigarette lighter and a stainless steel Parker ballpoint and such coins as he was carrying. Also keys. The rest was left. Peters began whimpering from behind the gag. He was beginning to see, to get there. He had to be dragged the rest of the way, digging his heels in. They slid across the slippery ground. There was a steel ladder running up the side of the storage tank. One of Peters’ escort said, “Get a bloody rope, eh?”

  “Okay.” The man in the donkey jacket turned and went into the warehouse. The others shivered in the freezing cold; Peters was shaking like a leaf. He went on whimpering. “Shut up,” one of the men said. Peters didn’t; the man’s fist swung and took him hard in the gut and he doubled, and there was a retching sound. The man who had lashed out, laughed. “Stupid bastard.” The donkey jacket came back with a coil of heavy rope slung from the shoulder, accompanied now by another man. The rope was passed to the escort. Peters was lifted bodily and taken closer to the ladder. The new arrival went up nimbly to the flat top of the tank where he began work with a spanner, which he quickly rejected in favour of fingers. The rope was rove round Peters’ body, under the arms, and hauled taut with a bowline. One of the men went up the ladder. At the top he called down, “Right, just tend the bastard till his feet are clear.”

  He started heaving. Peters left the ground’s safety and went up, twisting and bumping against the tank’s sides and the treads and uprights of the steel ladder. The third man went up behind him. There was a foul stench of petrol, very concentrated — the lid was off now. The two men grabbed Peters and removed the handcuffs, then upended him, holding his head over the blank, black space. The torch shone down, glimmered off the surface some four feet below the opened lid. There was a sound of terror, gag-muffled. There was evidence that Peters was vomiting behind the gag. One of the men laughed as the body was lowered. “Drown in his own bloody puke I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Peters put his hands out against the lip of the opening. A boot crashed down, hard enough to crush and pulp. Blood spurted. Peters went down farther. He splayed his legs apart. He screamed again as the heavy spanner came down on his offered crutch. The legs closed together as though by reflex and Peters dropped. There was a splash. At a nod from the man addressed as Les, the lid was shoved back in place and clamped down. There was a short silence, during which a thrashing about could be heard from beneath, and a couple of heavy bumps against the tank’s side. Then, very quickly, nothing but the silence itself.

  When the two men went back towards the Citroën, a police constable was coming through the gateway into the yard.

  3

  By next morning, the news had broken. The early radio broadcasts had it, so had the newspapers. Third Union Man Vanishes, the papers announced. Murder suspected. Less prominent was another item: in Leeds a police constable on foot patrol had also vanished, but, since Leeds hadn’t come into the union picture so far as was known, no link was suggested. Shard listened to the radio, at home in bed with Beth. Hedge heard it too and at once rang Shard. One pyjama-ed figure spoke to another.

  “Three in a row,” Hedge said. He had his clincher now: this was concerted, it was a backlash and God alone could tell where it would end. “I think we can take it he’s been murdered.”

  “It’s possible, Hedge.”

  “Likely. And we’ve no leads — none, beyond the dark blue Cortina … abandoned in Portman Street. It goes dead from there, utterly dead.”

  Shard swore softly down the telephone. “This policeman, up in Leeds —”

  “Quite unimportant,” Hedge said. “Get to the FO at once. I’ll be there myself.” The call was cut, exploding into Shard’s ear. He set the instrument down with a bang, detesting Hedge. Hedge could have put it better than to say the policeman’s death was quite unimportant. Such was Hedge. Shard, moving for the bathroom, looked down at Beth who was still sound asleep. He knew what police work did to police wives, never knowing when their men would be home, never knowing when they might get the news that some family in Leeds might be getting before long. Police work today was front line activity. Once, many years ago, the disappearance of a policeman on duty would have been really big news. Now violence was commonplace, just something else to be accepted in the line of duty.

  Shaving, Leeds nagged at Shard. Leeds and the north, and parts of Frankie Locci had been found leading north. After a snatched breakfast Shard left for the Foreign Office. Hedge, he found, was there before him: Hedge hadn’t so far to go. Hedge could nicely afford central London and a posh address, and then there was the official car. Hedge, however, was in a mood to carp.

  “Damn it, Shard, if I can get up early surely you can, it’s not too much to ask.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shard snapped.

  “I really think you’ve chosen to live too far out. Somewhere like Chelsea … but I suppose on your pay — well, anyway, you’re here now.” Hedge examined his fingernails, putting his Anglepoise lamp onto them.

  “Has there been any further news, any leads?”

  Hedge shook his head glumly. “No, not a thing. I’ve chased that impossible fellow Hesseltine and one can only hope he’ll put his best foot foremost. Now, I want to know what you propose doing. You realise how big this thing can grow?” Hedge stabbed an accusing finger. “I’ve already had Kershaw on the line, a fellow I dislike being at a disadvantage to.” Andrew Kershaw, a truculent Scot from Aberdeen, was the TUC general secretary. “He’s alarmed, not unnaturally I have to admit, that Hesseltine’s man allowed Peters to slip through his fingers. I’ve told Hesseltine I don’t like that. Now, about you.”

  “Yes, Hedge?”

  The finger stabbed again. “The only lead we have is the Hoof. I’m still convinced he’s behind this. Get him. Get him fast, before anything else happens. I’m going to have the Minister at my throat this morning. And there’s something specific I want you to do in regard to the Hoof if you’ve not found him in the meantime.”

  “Yes, Hedge?” Shard said again.

  “Locci. Forensic’s finished with the remains and there’s to be a formal inquest later today according to Hesseltine. He believes the
coroner will sanction an early burial — the various dismembered parts have been around for some while, as you know. The body’s been reassembled as far as possible, that’s to say there’s no head nor torso, but for the family’s sake … anyway, we expect the burial to take place tomorrow afternoon. Not a cremation, a burial. Kindly make it convenient to be there, just in case. In person.”

  Shard nodded. Hedge was aware that he had the advantage of having been present at the Hoof’s trial at the Old Bailey and the man might still be recognisable. Shard didn’t really expect the Hoof to be so foolish as to turn up at the graveside but even the faintest possibility couldn’t be disregarded. Killers did strange things, and there was the time-honoured theory of the dog that returned to its vomit. Hedge began a pontification about the trade unions but Shard cut him short; he said he had things to see to.

  “Such as?”

  “Leeds,” Shard said.

  Hedge looked blank. “Why Leeds for God’s sake?”

  “That policeman.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see. Waste of time in my opinion. Still, I won’t interfere.”

  “Thanks very much. It’s awfully good of you.”

  Hedge shifted irritably in his chair. “I don’t like your tone, Shard. You’re not at the Yard now, you know. We in the Foreign Office do try to hold onto civilised manners.” He paused. “What are you going to do about this Leeds business?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear. Keep me informed.”

  “I’ll do that, Hedge.”

  Shard left the opulence and went down to his own section, which was more functional. He nodded at his DS. “Morning, Harry.”

  “Good morning, sir.” Detective Sergeant Kenwood’s tone was brisk, and he sat momentarily at attention behind his desk as Shard came in. Then he relaxed. “Hedge in good voice, Mr Shard?”

  Shard grinned. “We mustn’t speak disrespectfully of our superiors, Harry.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Get me police HQ in Leeds.”

  “Right away.” Kenwood took up a telephone; within thirty seconds Shard was speaking to a chief superintendent. He made a general enquiry about the missing beat man: the name was Hurst and his beat had been around some new development, a small industrial estate in some cleared ground that had once been slums. Had Hurst put in a call before he had vanished? He had not; whatever had happened had been sudden, he hadn’t even made a preliminary report that he was investigating anything. The search was on and Shard knew that Hurst’s fellow coppers would make it a thorough one. He asked, “Is there any particular property — you know what I mean — anywhere special that you’ve made for first?”

  “Looking for a concealed body?”

  “I hope not, but yes.”

  “Nothing. It’s not an area we’ve ever had any bother with aside from the odd break-in at night. It’s not in any sense residential.”

  “No high rise flats?”

  “No. Not even very close.”

  Shard said, “I’d like to send a man up. Any objection?”

  There was a pause. “This isn’t London’s business — I know what your special parish is, but —”

  Shard cut in. “I’m seeing a connexion with other things, Chief Superintendent. The unions.”

  “That business?” The tone was surprised, sceptical. “I doubt if you’ll find anything … but you’re welcome to add your presence if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Shard said gratefully. He disliked treading on provincial toes as much as they disliked being trodden on. “I’ll be sending my DS to report to you soonest possible.”

  As he rang off, he caught Kenwood’s eye. “All right, Harry?”

  “If you say so, sir. I was taking my girl friend to a show tonight.”

  “Good practice for her,” Shard said. “Sample the lot of a policeman’s wife before she’s damn fool enough to take you on permanently.”

  *

  Harry Kenwood went north by Inter City. He had no special orders; he knew what was required of him and Shard made a practice of respecting his subordinates’ experience and intelligence. He wouldn’t have worked with anyone he didn’t trust to deputise. That trust extended to his various noses, the shadowy men who from time to time were able to pass on items of useful information. There was one in particular, a small man with a big grin for whom Shard had done favours in his days at the Yard: Solly, they called him. Solly had been done in his time for nearly every crime in the book: theft was his basic trade but he had sidelines. Nothing really nasty; no blackmail, no killings, no rough stuff at all. Solly had never, to Shard’s knowledge, carried a weapon. But he didn’t mind, if paid enough, acting as a nose. His weakness was women, and being somewhat unprepossessing except for that happy grin, he had to pay for what he wanted. Trade wasn’t that good; Solly was getting on in years and was being overtaken in the rat race by younger blood, so anything extra was very welcome. And Solly had excellent contacts underground; he heard plenty and kept his mouth shut except when Shard needed to know something.

  Solly was needed now. Shard rang him from Seddon’s Way. Solly took his time over answering his telephone and when he did he sounded bleary: his second weakness was whisky.

  “Hullo,” he said, sounding hoarse.

  “Hangover?”

  The voice was suspicious. “Who the sod’s that, then?”

  Shard chuckled. “Stamps.”

  “Oh! Sure, should have known you. Hangover, yes. Getting too old — for that! Something special, is it?”

  “Yes. Could be worth your while. Are you doing anything this morning? Good. Shall we say ten-thirty … in Hyde Park?”

  “Draughty. Could be snowing.”

  “I’ll use a car. Alexandra Gate — between there and the bridge.”

  That, Solly said, would be okay. Shard rang off, called the Foreign Office for a car from the pool to be waiting for him at ten o’clock.

  *

  In Leeds, news awaited Harry Kenwood. There had been a discovery: right over on the other side of the city from the road haulage business and its petrol storage tanks a traffic warden had seen the tip of a policeman’s helmet in a litter bin. His first thought had been a drunken lark, maybe some students had nicked a copper’s helmet and run off with it. But further probing produced metal buttons, a cigarette lighter, a walkie-talkie, smashed, and other smaller items from a man’s pocket such as keys and cash plus the shoulder numbers from the uniform. The number was that of PC Hurst. The traffic warden, who had radio-ed in, was told to stand guard and a patrol car was diverted to pick up the findings and rush them to police HQ, where Kenwood was given a look at them on his arrival.

  He asked, “Does this become murder, sir?”

  “Don’t ask me, lad,” the Chief Superintendent said. “One thing’s sure, though: somebody wasn’t taking many pains to hide this lot away. I ask myself why … and I don’t hear myself give any sane answer. How about you, Kenwood?”

  Kenwood said, “Well, sir, the same could be said about Frankie Locci down in the smoke.”

  “Yes. You’re saying Mr Shard’s theories could be right?”

  Kenwood nodded. The Chief Superintendent hunched his shoulders, rammed his hands into his pockets and walked up and down like a sea captain on a bridge. He authorised a call to be put through to Detective Chief Superintendent Shard. By that time, Shard had left for Hyde Park: he would get the message on his return. The Leeds chief gave orders for an extra special toothcomb to be run through PC Hurst’s beat. No stone unturned this time, even the plain daft ones, the shots so long that they could end in infinity.

  *

  Shard made his pick-up as planned: the tiny figure of Solly the nose tramped the Hyde Park slush inside Alexandra Gate and Shard slowed and shoved his front passenger door open. Blue with cold, Solly dived in like a fish. Shard accelerated towards the Bayswater Road.

  “Cruel, that’s what you are,” Solly said, shivering until the heater began to warm him through
. “What’s it all about?”

  Shard raised an eyebrow. “I thought you usually talked terms first.”

  Solly put on his big grin. It made his face look like a nutcracker, a real Punch. “I’ve come to trust your generosity, Mr Shard. I know you won’t do down an old friend.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere. This is big so I really will be generous. A ton down, in cash here and now.”

  Solly’s lips framed a whistle. A hundred nicker wasn’t bad, even with inflation. The whistle didn’t materialise; Solly was a good businessman. He said, “Uh-huh. Go on, Mr Shard.”

  “On successful completion, a monkey.”

  Five hundred would come in handier even than Shard suspected; Solly didn’t bargain, Shard was impervious to that. Solly said, “Right, I’m on. So what’s it all about?”

  Shard exited into the Bayswater Road and turned left for Notting Hill. He said, “I’ll come right to the point. The Hoof. Mean anything, Solly?”

  “Mean anything? Yes.” Solly screwed up his face; there was no grin now. “That bugger.”

  “Anything personal?”

  “No, no. Not that. Just his reputation. Going for the innocent, like, and nasty ways with it.”

  “Yes.” That was another good reason to read the Hoof into the recent killings. What he’d gone down for had been nastily done, as Solly had said: the shop stewards had been shot, then virtually disembowelled. The trade marks weren’t quite the same, but similar enough. Shard asked, “Have you heard anything of him, Solly?”

  “Bugger went on the trot, I know that. Heard nothing since … except that he left the country.”

  “He’s come back, Solly.”

  “Never!” The surprise was genuine, Shard had no doubts about that. “Jesus, what for, Mr Shard?”

  “That,” Shard said, “is what I want to know. I want you to find out, Solly. And I want to know where he is, what his future movements are likely to be. Can you see to that?”

  Solly pursed his lips and made a hissing noise through them. He glanced sideways, a brief look at Shard. Shard had sounded dead keen, dead anxious. He might, just this time, be pressed a little. “A monkey, you said.”