Shard at Bay Read online

  “Yes, we have. Simply because it happened to be an Arab at Faslane. In cold blood as it were, there’s no real reason to think the Middle East is particularly concerned with our nuclear defence —”

  “The Irish are more likely, d’you suggest?”

  Hesseltine side-stepped the question. “I’m suggesting the Arab was just a minnow, sir. All terrorism works hand-in-glove and it’s often hard to draw lines. I see no reason why that’s not the case this time.”

  “So the Arab was a red herring — of a sort?”

  Hesseltine grinned. “I don’t know about herring. But red may well be the link, the common ground. Probably — almost certainly — is. INLA’s red enough, anyway.”

  Sir Edmund went to a window and stood looking out at London. He said, “Yes. So the bribery — perhaps it is the throwing of dirt. Show up the British police before the world, show what the Irish are up against in the fight for freedom!” He swung round again. “That’d be Irish enough for anyone!”

  Hesseltine gave a bleak smile. “The stage Irishman — he’s a joke, of course, even a stale one. But he exists. We in the force know that for a fact. Look at some of the damn stupid crimes — small ones, burglary. Total ineptitude very often. The Irishman who breaks in, falls asleep on the job and gets caught — that sort of thing. But not this time.”

  Sir Edmund raised an eyebrow.

  Hesseltine said, “I’ve had the report from the fingerprint section. The man outside Millbank was McMahon.”

  “McMahon? Not the —”

  “Yes, sir. Some of the London bombings, and others in Ulster. He’s wanted, or was wanted, here and both sides of the border. Well, we’ve got him — a little late.”

  “Have you been in touch with the Garda?”

  “Yes. Unofficially. I’ve some good friends over there. We all have the same objective: to stop terrorism.”

  “And what’s the objective of Detachment X?”

  “In basis, terrorism pure and simple. I’m not in the least conned by their professed dislike of holocausts.”

  “Can you be more specific, Hesseltine?”

  “Not yet, sir. Early days … but there’s an obvious connection between Faslane and what happened at Millbank — McMahon’s DEATH tattoo —”

  “And the Shard connection

  “Yes. I don’t want to see Shard suffer. It’s a filthy thing to have to fight, and you know what they say about mud. We have to clear this for good and all.”

  “Without forgetting our principal commitment — Detachment X.”

  Hesseltine said, “I don’t forget it. It’s part and parcel, after all. Bowl out one and you bowl out the other.”

  “I hope so,” the Permanent Under-Secretary said drily. “I hope so indeed.”

  Hesseltine looked up sharply. “Do you mean you think —”

  “It doesn’t really matter what I think. But let’s clear the air, shall we? I believe in Shard — I flatter myself I know the men who work for me, and Shard’s always been as straight as a die. But good men can be got at, have been got at in the past, and money talks, to use a cliché. To use another: every man, it’s said, has his price.”

  “Are you by any chance backtracking?” Hesseltine asked.

  “No.” Sir Edmund’s tone was crisp. “Just facing facts and keeping an open mind. And that’s something I’m bound to do. I hope you understand.”

  *

  “There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about, Beth,” Orwin said. Beth was suffering a bad attack of the shakes and her face was white, pinched-looking, with deep circles under the eyes. “No-one believes it, obviously —”

  “They found money, Bob!”

  “I know. Planted. Good God, Beth, it wouldn’t be the first time!”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know all that. But you weren’t here when C6 turned up. You’d never think Simon was a senior officer of —”

  “Beth! It’s their job, our job. They wouldn’t have been liking it any more than you, but you can’t let sentiment, or — or feeling or any of that stand in the way when you’re on a job. You must know that. Simon would be the first to understand.”

  “If he’d been here … where is he, Bob, do you know?”

  Orwin shook his head, hating himself for obeying Hedge. He took refuge in the use of language. “Can’t say. Just that he’s away on a job, but you’ll know that, of course.”

  “He hasn’t been in touch?”

  “Not that I know of.” Orwin turned as someone came into the room: Mrs Micklem. “Hullo, Mrs Micklem.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Orwin. Another of you?” Mrs Micklem sat down with a bag of knitting. Orwin guessed she would soon begin counting stitches to bring the drawing-room to uneasy silence.

  He said, “A friendly visit. No more than that.”

  Mrs Micklem glanced across at her daughter, a shrewd look. “Beth’s very upset. The whole thing has been very upsetting for us both. I hope Scotland Yard realises that.”

  “Of course they do.”

  “You’d never have thought so.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Orwin said shortly. Shard’s mother-in-law was a real bag and Orwin guessed she hadn’t been much comfort to Beth. He also knew she had never liked Shard from the start. Currently there was a somewhat odd look on her face. She glanced about the room, lips pursed. She said ominously, “They even asked about the furniture. Such impertinence.” Orwin noticed it then for the first time: a brand new suite, sofa and two chairs, expensive — very. The last time he’d been here … more than a month, six weeks … the old suite hadn’t really looked in need of replacement. That was the sort of thing they would look for, as Shard would very well know. In Orwin’s view that was a guarantee of innocence. No policeman would be such a fool. He said as much, but Mrs Micklem just shrugged. She had an expressive face and Orwin didn’t like what he saw. Like the glitter in Hedge’s eyes, which Orwin had interpreted correctly. She wouldn’t want Shard to be guilty, it would rub of f on her daughter, but if the worst happened she would find a lot of comfort in a string of I-told-you-sos.

  Orwin spoke to Beth. “They’ll have taken the money, of course.”

  “Yes. And the box of car things.”

  “And dusted for prints, all round?”

  She nodded. “It was horrible.”

  “I know. But do try not to worry. The absence of —”

  Mrs Micklem interrupted. “If you’re about to say that the absence of my son-in-law’s fingerprints on the notes will prove he’s innocent, well, I wouldn’t be too sure, Mr Orwin. He could’ve made sure he wore gloves — couldn’t he? After all, he’s a policeman.” Her fingers moved lightning-like, the steel knitting needles flashing back a ray of afternoon sun.

  Orwin couldn’t hold back. He said bitterly, “Whose side are you on, Mrs Micklem?”

  She wasn’t ruffled. She said, “Oh, I’m not saying I think he did, certainly not. But facts have to be faced. We mustn’t be ostriches. That’s what they’re going to say, isn’t it — that my son-in-law could have worn gloves? None of this is very nice. It’ll be a relief to hear what my son-in-law has to say to it all himself.” Then she asked the question direct. “Has he been arrested, Mr Orwin?”

  Orwin felt like committing an act of GBH. He said, “No, he hasn’t,” and left it at that. Neither Mrs Micklem nor Beth asked any more questions, probably because they knew he wouldn’t answer them. He was thankful for that.

  *

  From Carlisle station the estate car, a fairly elderly Volkswagen, having laid the red herring towards the hospital and subsequently left the M6 at the Penrith exit, drove fast along the A66 towards Scotch Corner. Shard, fully conscious but still unable to move or speak, had been blindfolded and handcuffed and covered with a car rug soon after the vehicle had left the built-up area and he had no idea where he was, except that the easing of the speed and the swaying as the Volkswagen took the turn off the exit road told him they had left the motorway. An estimation of the time elapsed
and the speed led to a guess that they’d left by the first exit after Carlisle, north or south, he didn’t know which. That was so far as he could go. Now he was lost. There was a curious feeling throughout his whole body, a sort of jitteriness, with everything tingling and feeling as if he was about to drop apart, but otherwise he felt all right, no feeling of sickness or anything of that sort. From time to time the men in front spoke, but in low voices and monosyllabically. Shard gleaned nothing except that he believed there was an Irish accent from one of them. He couldn’t be sure even of that. The car was being driven very fast and was swaying as the driver overtook from time to time and swung back in again. It seemed an eternity before the speed eased for a sharp right-hand turn. After that the driver took it slower and there were many bends and turns and after another seemingly interminable drive the Volkswagen slowed further and finally stopped with a wrench of the handbrake and the engine died.

  The front doors opened, then the back was lifted. Shard was dragged out and carried a little way. He heard a door being opened, then another, after which he was dumped down on something hard. The floor. So far neither of the men had spoken, but now one of them did, the one with the Irish accent.

  He said, “Journey’s end, Mr Shard. You’ll be able to talk soon. In the meantime, be assured the injection’ll have no lasting effect.” A moment later the blindfold was untied. He saw that he was in a small, square room with a dirty window covered by the open slats of a decrepit Venetian blind. The light was dim but he could see the two men, one of them a thickset man with a beard, the other the grey-suited man from Glasgow Central and the train. They were looking down at him but nothing more was said until they both turned away, when the bearded man said, “We’ll be back.”

  Then they left the room and the door was locked on him. He thought: why bother? The handcuffs were still on his wrists and he still couldn’t move. But of course he would move soon by the sound of what had been said. When he did, there was the window. That, however, was out. Beyond the Venetian blind and the dirt of the pane, Shard saw close-set bars.

  *

  The first report that had gone through to the Yard from Carlisle nick had been an early one to say that nothing was known at the hospital of anyone brought in off a train. It had taken time to establish this, hospital routines and medical red tape being what they were, and after this nothing at all had been picked up. The police were working in the dark, nothing to go on, a trail without a starting point. Not even the estate car’s registration number was known. No-one at Carlisle railway station had thought about that. Indeed, why should they? A CID man from the Yard had already tried to contact the guard from the Glasgow express but this too had taken a long time. The guard was not at home and because he wasn’t at home he was going to face trouble from his wife. His wife was on the simple side and it turned out he’d pulled wool over her eyes about his schedules; as a result of some questioning of his mates he was discovered much later that day in bed with another woman. When at last this discovery had been made the guard was able to give a description of the grey-suited man and of the sick passenger and the latter description fitted with that of Detective Chief Superintendent Shard. This was reported to Hesseltine after his return to the Yard from the FO. Hesseltine now had something but it was fairly negative. Shard had been kidnapped. His captors were not known. He could be alive or dead.

  It was a blank, and frustrating. Hesseltine paced his office, deep in thought, getting nowhere. How did this link with the alleged bribery? Were Shard’s captors the ones who’d paid in that draft or were they some other outfit? Were they Detachment X? The prints from the train toilet compartment had proved nothing, and hadn’t really been expected to. So many passengers used lavatories. But the routines had been gone through, and all the prints had been checked with CRO, Shard’s own FO files, and with Defence Ministry. Result, nil. Many of them had been uncheckable, too smeared and blurred and superimposed. So nothing had been proved either way. Even Shard’s couldn’t be identified.

  Hesseltine was about to call the Foreign Office and leave a useless report for the Permanent Under-Secretary in Hedge’s absence when one of his telephones burred and he answered.

  It was Dublin, his contact in the Garda.

  5

  Hesseltine put down the telephone thoughtfully then took it up again and dialled the Foreign Office security section direct. He got Harry Kenwood, who recognised the voice straight off. “Yes, sir. Kenwood here.”

  Hesseltine asked the question routinely, though he would have been informed if the answer had been affirmative. “No word of Mr Shard?”

  “Not a thing, sir.”

  “I want to contact Mr Hedge, Kenwood. Where’s this dinner, do you know?”

  Kenwood said, “Yes, sir. Athenaeum.”

  “Call him, please. Have him rooted out — as discreetly as possible. I’m coming over.”

  “Here, sir?”

  “Yes.” Hesseltine cut the call and sat for a few moments staring at the handset. Hedge wasn’t going to like being dragged back from a convivial occasion and would very likely be already a little tight, but he was going to have to concentrate. Not so far away in Whitehall Harry Kenwood was calling the Athenaeum and having similar thoughts about his boss. Hedge came bad-temperedly to the telephone and grumbled that if it was really important he would walk across to his office. This he did and reached the Foreign Office shortly after Hesseltine, whom Kenwood had taken up to wait in Hedge’s room.

  “What’s this all about, Hesseltine? In the middle of —”

  “I apologise for the necessity. I’ve had a call from Dublin.”

  “Oh. Oh, very well.” Hedge moved towards his desk and sat heavily in the swivel chair, motioning Hesseltine to sit as well. “You’d better tell me, then. I assume it’s important.”

  “I think it could be. It won’t take long. The Garda’s got two friends, associates, of McMahon’s.”

  “Associates?”

  “INLA. They were arrested only about an hour ago — largely a matter of luck for the Garda. An incident similar to what goes on in Belfast, a fast car and some shots and a man killed, an Englishman normally domiciled in Northern Ireland —”

  “Known?”

  Hesseltine said, “Yes. Not important, not to us anyway. He was a member of the UDA, hence the shooting. Anyway, the killers were unlucky this time. An unmarked police car happened to be passing and the killers’ car was rammed and there was a shoot-out. The Garda came out on top. The two men are damaged but alive.” He paused, staring at Hedge, who was dribbling a little from one corner of his mouth. There was quite an aroma, mainly whisky. “One of them had a briefcase. In it was — literature. Three guesses, Hedge.”

  “Detachment X?”

  “Spot on. And the men are known, as I think I said, to be friends of McMahon.”

  “Anything about Shard, the bribery?”

  “Not so far as I was told. I think those men could do with questioning, Hedge. By us. The Garda’s willing to cooperate.”

  Hedge asked, “They’ll send them over?”

  “No, of course not. But they’ll make them available in Dublin. I can send a man over. It’s up to you, though — your pigeon, Hedge.”

  Hedge gaped. He was surprised at Hesseltine. He had been all ready to stake his personal claim, believing Hesseltine would want to hog the show. He said, “Er — yes, quite. Yes, it’s in our hands. Pity about Shard. He could have gone. I’ll have to send Orwin, I suppose, but he’s not terribly experienced in our particular aims as yet.”

  “I say again, I can send a man.”

  “Totally unnecessary.” Hedge wasn’t going to let go if he could help it. He could be tenacious in his own interest and had always wished to end his career when the time came with something better than a CBE. What better way to that end than by frustrating some dastardly assault on Britain’s military and naval establishments? As Hesseltine waited impatiently for him to make some further pronouncement he said importantly, �
�I think I should refer this to the Permanent Under-Secretary, Hesseltine. He’s been taking a personal interest.”

  This, Hesseltine had expected. It was seldom Hedge took decisions upon himself. He waited while Hedge used his scramble line to Sir Edmund’s private address. Sir Edmund answered himself and quickly. Hedge passed the report and there was some talk about Detective Inspector Orwin followed by a number of yesses and noes, obsequiously uttered, and then obvious consternation on Hedge’s face and some spluttering. Hedge hung up rather abruptly. Hesseltine believed he had in fact been hung up on.

  Hedge said unbelievingly, “Sir Edmund’s also doubtful about Orwin’s lack of FO experience. He said I must go.”

  Hesseltine repressed, with difficulty, his desire to laugh.

  *

  Hedge had once been a field man, for quite a long time too, but hadn’t liked it. He had withdrawn with immense pleasure into the safe decorum of the Foreign Office itself, where he could sit like a fat spider in his web and manipulate things, manipulate other people. There had been occasions since when he had gone willy-nilly into the field again and he congratulated himself on having achieved some quite considerable success — he was easily able to disregard a certain element of sheer luck — and this no doubt was why the Permanent Under-Secretary wanted him to go this time, it wasn’t just Orwin’s lack of experience. Sir Edmund had made much of the need to show Dublin how importantly the intrusion of Detachment X was being treated in Whitehall. The diplomatic approach and all that. Well, naturally, Hedge saw the point about the ham hands and big feet of Scotland Yard, which accorded with his own view — not that Sir Edmund had said all that in so many words, but the inference had been obvious. It must remain within the Foreign Office and Hedge was the only man available, though Hedge didn’t dwell more than a fraction of a moment on that aspect.