Blackmail North Page 8

  “Prime Minister, if the Embassy hasn’t heard anything, surely there can’t be anything in this?”

  “I wouldn’t put too much reliance in embassies. Cast your mind back to just pre-war: our Ambassador in Berlin was unaware of so much that Hitler was doing.” The Prime Minister leaned forward heavily, shook a finger towards his audience. “Let’s have clear minds about this. I agree, there may be nothing in it, but if there is! What then? Our oil … total disruption … I go further, total destruction. What happens then to full employment, to the Welfare State, to our balance of payments, to our whole way of life and our living standards? What happens to everything — literally? Do we accept that? Do we sit back and then complain afterwards to the United Nations? I don’t need here and now to break down the effects in detail, you all have enough knowledge of your departments to visualise that for yourselves. I repeat, I’m not asking for an air strike without full reconnaissance first. I realise all the repercussions as well as you do. One of them would undoubtedly be a stop on oil exports to the United Kingdom — but at least we’d be left with our own.”

  *

  “Do you know,” Hedge said back in his own room at the Foreign Office, “he was speaking for more than an hour? Seventy-three minutes, I timed him. He put it too strongly, I’d say.”

  “I thought he put it well, Hedge.”

  Hedge made a sound of annoyance. “No, he didn’t. He’s too much of the bull at the gate. Can you imagine any of that bunch so much as considering an air strike against the Third World? If he hadn’t stressed it so much, he might have got some measure of agreement!”

  “To what?” Shard asked innocently. “To an undercover air strike, a secret one?”

  “Don’t be flippant!” Hedge snapped, prow ling the room. “As a matter of fact, I don’t disagree with the Cabinet, not wholly. We’re in no position to chuck our weight around, are we?”

  “Only because people keep telling us so. In the end, we come to believe it. Anyway, I take it everything now hinges on Mackintosh, right?”

  “Yes, that is the case.”

  “Then I’ll be looking for Uthman.” Shard paused. “It’s a funny thing, but no-one at that meeting so much as mentioned a handover of Mackintosh. Perhaps they’re not so bad as they look. Or could the precise opposite hold good?”

  Hedge stared. “What opposite, Shard?”

  “They’re all such bastards that a hand-over was so obvious to them as a solution it didn’t need to be talked about? All except the PM, that is. I wonder if he knew that too.”

  “Knew what too?”

  “Oh, never mind, Hedge.” Shard got to his feet. “I’ll find Mackintosh for you, because he’s in danger where he is. But maybe I’ll be doing some bargaining of my own —”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Shard grinned. “You’ll find out. In the meantime, it appears, everything goes on as normal: holidays, strikes other than air, demos, pop festivals fiddling while Rome awaits the spark —”

  “Why not for God’s sake?”

  “— even massage sessions.” Shard moved for the door; when he looked back, Hedge’s face was scarlet. Down in the security section Shard rang through to the Yard and spoke to Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine. He said. “You’ll have had the word, sir. We wait and see.”

  “I didn’t expect more, Simon.”

  “Neither did I, really. Maybe something’ll come through that’ll jog them into a sense of reality, hopefully before it’s too bloody late! Meanwhile, I suggest we go ahead and relieve the Chief Constables: call off the road blocks.”

  “Agreed. They’ve done no good.”

  “And now they may act the other way. I fancy a degree of lulling is wanted now.”

  “Care to tell me,” Hesseltine asked, “what you propose to do? It’s your show, of course, but —”

  “That’s all right, sir. As a matter of fact I’m going home. That’s not dereliction of duty, it’s commonsense. I need sleep and I say again, lulling’s got its uses now. Uthman’ll keep — till he gets impatient and gives us a lead. He hasn’t uttered yet — but he will.” And that, Shard said to himself as he rang off the call, is when we move in. Masterly inactivity was a Hedge phrase and very often a gambit when he hadn’t an idea in the world what to do next. Right now, Shard felt, ruefully, that that just about summed up his own state. He was about to go home to Ealing via Seddon’s Way where he had some details to clear up when the closed line from the Yard rang again and he answered personally. It was Hesseltine again.

  “Urgent, Simon. There’s a report just in from North Yorkshire police. Can you postpone that sleep?”

  “Let’s have it, sir.”

  “An aircraft appeared to blow up or something early this morning, off Robin Hood’s Bay. It took a dive into the sea — this is a coastguard report. Something shot out of the fuselage and floated. It was found half submerged and recovered. It was a coffin. There’s the body of a coloured man in it and the description fits Mackintosh.”

  “I’ll go right up,” Shard said. “Keep the muzzle on the press on this one meantime.”

  Seven

  FROM TEESIDE AIRPORT Shard was driven fast in a police car through the Cleveland Hills to Robin Hood’s Bay. The car wound down a steep hill, through narrow twisting streets. At the bottom, by the shore, was an ambulance and more police vehicles: a mobile and a frogman unit. A pub was nearby, a handy grandstand for gawpers. Constables were keeping the holiday crowds at bay. A uniformed inspector met Shard as he got out of the police car.

  “Inspector Goodhayes, sir —”

  “Right, Mr Goodhayes, let’s have the facts.” Shard gestured towards the ambulance. “In there, is he?”

  “Yes, sir. Still in the coffin.”

  “How come it stayed afloat?”

  “A fishing boat in the vicinity — just got to it in time and got a line round it.”

  “And the aircraft?”

  “Total loss, sir, sunk without trace —”

  “Recoverable?”

  “It went into deep water, Mr Shard, or as deep as you find off the coasts here. But I reckon naval divers should be able to salvage something.”

  “If the spot can be identified again.”

  “That’ll be all right. The fishermen launched a marker buoy.”

  “We’ll get the Navy here, then, pronto.” Shard looked around: the day was bright and sunny, no hint anywhere of rain as yet. “Markings?”

  “British, sir. A small aircraft, not identified, but almost certainly private. We can only guess at what went wrong.”

  “And the guess, Inspector?”

  Goodhayes shrugged. “Coffin broke adrift and took charge.”

  “I understood there was an explosion?”

  “Not an explosion, sir. Except maybe just as a figure of speech, that is. The coffin bursting through the fuselage broke something vital en route, that’s my opinion for what it’s worth. According to the eye-witnesses, the plane took a dive after the coffin was seen to fall from it.”

  Shard nodded. “The pilot went down with it?”

  “Evidently, yes. Trapped, I reckon. No sign of him, anyway.”

  “And no others?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So we don’t know how many were aboard.” Shard narrowed his eyes: suppose that plane had contained Uthman, accompanying the corpse … but no, probably not. Why should Uthman kill Mackintosh? Mystery upon mystery. “This fishing boat, Inspector. Did it go first for the coffin, or the plane?”

  “The plane, in case there was life in the vicinity. But there was just no trace and they made for the coffin. It wasn’t far from where the plane hit, as a matter of fact.”

  Again Shard nodded, then said briskly, “Right, I’ll take a look at the corpse.”

  *

  There had been damage: the impact with the sea had broken a number of bones, including the neck. The head lolled grotesquely, like that of a puppet smashed by a spoilt child. What could scarc
ely be attributed to the sea landing was the fact that both hands were very badly burned, so badly burned that there was no flesh left, just bone-ends for finger-tips. The body was big; the face bore a small, neat moustache, the head was bald, the nose was not especially flat. It appeared to be the face Shard had seen sweating under interrogation in Hans Cresent. The man, according to forensic who had come in from Wetherby in West Yorkshire, had not been long dead: twenty-four hours maximum. Shard sweated himself, not entirely from the heat of the day or the close atmosphere of the ambulance with its waterlogged corpse and broken coffin: dead, Mackintosh had lost his value to the possible fainthearted ‘tenth-timers’ of the British Cabinet. That was good so far as it went, but in its going it passed over a number of vital considerations: everything might now be at imminent risk. Until now, Mackintosh just might have been used by Whitehall in some way short of a hand-over; but not any more. Equally, he was no use now to Uthman.

  So why kill Mackintosh?

  Jamie? It would suit Jamie’s book to do away with Mackintosh: dead men didn’t ever give in to pressures. Death was even more certain a tongue-stopper than threats to a wife. But Jamie hadn’t had his hands on Mackintosh — at least, not up to the time he’d left Glen Etive. And somehow Shard didn’t believe Jamie had meant to go in for a kill; he’d had those other means, and he would have used them first even though they just might not prove as effective as a sudden death. Death by silent knife: Mackintosh’s throat had been slit from ear to ear. Once again: why kill Mackintosh, a man of much value to whoever held him and to the whole of the oil industry? Perhaps, after all, this body was not Mackintosh. There were those burned fingers — no prints. Perhaps this was a gimmick on Uthman’s part, a gimmick to get the pressure taken off. Maybe Uthman had been living a nice, convincing lie into Libya. Maybe this was part of the double-cross suggested by Hedge. Maybe many things: a senior detective’s lot was not a straightforward one. Shard glanced at Goodhayes: Goodhayes had said he was from the police sub-division at Whitby, which covered Robin Hood’s Bay. Shard said, “I don’t want the body to go to Whitby. I want to throw the villains as much as possible. This is irregular, of course, but I’ll take full responsibility. Deliver him to Malton subdivision — coffin and all. And stay with him yourself. On the assumption it’s Mackintosh, contact the oil company he worked for. Their medical department will have full records. I want a detailed check made. Exact measurements — personal identification marks if any — illnesses — scars — teeth. All right?” He addressed the last words to the man from Wetherby forensic: forensic said everything would be done. Shard stressed the necessity for fast answers and said he would accompany the body himself, riding in the ambulance.

  “Morbid,” Goodhayes said, grinning.

  “Prudent,” Shard corrected. “Bad news has a habit of spreading quickly, and as I indicated when I said I didn’t want the body in Whitby, there’ll be villains around who won’t want it left in police hands at all.”

  “The escort’s strong enough to cope with a hijack, sir.”

  “So is the opposition. If it so happens the ambulance gets cut out, I want to be with it personally.”

  Goodhayes nodded. “As you wish, sir, of course. If there is an attack, what are the orders?”

  “Distant surveillance. It’ll be an armed attack and murder’s been done already. Your men are not armed. I am.”

  “But —”

  “I’ll drive myself. I don’t want to risk the driver’s life. Your lads must play it cool. The moment anything happens, report on your radio, pass my orders and maintain contact with the ambulance. I’ll want arms issued, and police marksmen to be present. Once armed — and the Foreign Office will see that that’s authorised — you can go in. Not before. Understood?”

  *

  The convoy formed up with one police car in the lead, then the ambulance, then the frogman unit, finally the second police car bringing up the rear. They ground out from Robin Hood’s Bay in bottom gear with blue lights flashing and sirens sounding, amid a throng of gawpers all the way up the long hill. They turned right towards Whitby on the A171 then almost at once headed left onto a by-road that would cut them through to the A169 for Malton and the sub-divisional station. They moved fast; Shard, with his Chief’s Special revolver handy, heard the coffin sliding around in the back with its cold, wet corpse. It was a grisly progress south across Goathland Moor, drought-scorched and asking for a heathland fire; the day’s brightness had dimmed as though in sympathy with the dead, and heavy black cloud was rolling in — maybe rain at last? The traffic came in bunches; it was a lonely road for much of the way, but even so it would be hard for anyone to carry out a hijack without interruption and Shard, as they dropped south, fancied his fears had been overdone; the chance had come and gone back along the by-road between the two highways. And in the event no hijack developed; they drove safely into the nick yard in Malton and Shard rang through to Whitehall. Hedge was absent and he got his DI. He reported the position as known, indicating that he was not entirely satisfied the body was that of Mackintosh but was having a check put on. In the meantime he was remaining handy. He had, he said, a feeling that he was reasonably close, in a physical sense, to his target.

  “Just a feeling, sir?” Linton asked.

  “Just a feeling, John. Newer disregard hunches.” He rang off. He’d missed out on lunch and was feeling hungry, and lunch time was now well past: the Chief Inspector sent down for hot coffee and poached eggs from the canteen. While he ate, wheels turned: efficiency was in the air. Mackintosh’s full medical history was passed by telephone from Aberdeen and turned over to forensic. It didn’t take forensic long to pronounce: the body was not Mackintosh’s. The differences were slight but positive: teeth, and distinguishing marks, and signs of certain past diseases from which Mackintosh had never suffered. Uthman or whoever was responsible had done remarkably well to find a virtual double, but not well enough.

  “Makes one think,” the Chief Inspector said.

  Shard looked up. “Think what?”

  “Well, sir, that this Uthman isn’t all that clever. Mackintosh had been some while in Libya, right? They’ll have records, too.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The theory is, they were more concerned with the mind than the body! Indoctrination was in the air. And Uthman’s working for Voice of the Arab Nations, not the Libyan Establishment. The two don’t see eye to eye. If he was delivering the body, it could have been to VAN. In fact, if he’s out to double-cross them, as seems likely, it would positively have been to VAN.” Shard rubbed at tired eyes. “We’ll know more — perhaps — when the Navy’s got its diving teams down into the North Sea. There could be prints around the aircraft that’ll help to point the finger at who killed the corpse.”

  “Prints,” the Chief Inspector said reflectively. “The body hasn’t any, not now it hasn’t …”

  “Exactly. The Libyan authorities would have had prints, whatever else they wouldn’t have had. Uthman would have taken that into account.”

  “But this other group, Voice of —”

  “Yes. It’s doubtful if they’d have prints, I agree. But they’d have had ways and means of taking a look at the official files. They’ll have their boyos planted where they can best help, you can bet on that.”

  “And the Libyans wouldn’t have got suspicious, the Voice lot I mean?”

  “They might, of course. But they couldn’t be certain, could they? And in the meantime, Uthman would have had sole possession of Mackintosh. The real live one.”

  “But for why, Mr Shard?” The policeman ran a hand through thinning brown hair. “What would he do with him?”

  “That’s what we have to find out. I’ve a feeling we’ll start getting somewhere once Uthman reacts to the fact that the corpse changed direction in mid-air.” He added, “Then there’s the wife, of course. She would have known whether or not it was Mackintosh — wouldn’t she?”

  The Chief Inspector lifted an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting som
ething, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” Shard answered abstractedly. “I just don’t know, as of this moment.” He turned as a constable came in with a report for the Chief Inspector: the Navy, it seemed, was reacting promptly to the request for assistance. A diving team with full equipment was already in the air, being helicoptered from Rosyth Dockyard on the Firth of Forth to Robin Hood’s Bay; and a requisitioned diving boat was en route from Whitby. It was hoped that operations could begin at 1800 hours that evening and these would, if necessary and subject to continuing fair weather, be maintained under searchlights throughout the night.

  The Chief Inspector caught Shard’s eye. “Want to go along, Mr Shard?”

  Shard nodded. “I’ll do that. It might be interesting — to others concerned as well as myself.”

  *

  Shard left a report of forensic’s findings to be passed to the FO; then he headed back north for Robin Hood’s Bay as the sun moved lower on its westerly course across the North Yorkshire Moors. The hills stood out majestically, bleak and lonely and covered with sunset colours; the heather of the moorland stretches seemed to glow with a purple fire that reached back all the way to the distant peaks of the Cleveland and Hambleton ranges. Shard found something almost symbolic in those blazing colours and the overall loneliness: there was a suggestion of some monumental explosion, and its aftermath of devastation and a stillness of widespread death. Shard forced such images down: melodrama didn’t help-except maybe to concentrate the mind on the risks attendant upon failure. In the police car with Inspector Goodhayes, he said little; from the drought-parched moors they came once again into Robin Hood’s Bay: by the time they reached the hill’s summit, the naval party had already arrived, put down by the helicopters in the car park. They had three vehicles with them, two for personnel and one for their gear, and shortly after the police party had made contact and continued down the hill, the divers followed on behind. The boat from Whitby was already lying off, silent on a dead calm sea but heaving a little to a swell that surged against the surrounding rocks of the bay. When the naval team, under a lieutenant-commander who had introduced himself as Peter Mason, was sighted a boat came off from the diving vessel and approached a stone jetty. Mason got his men and equipment aboard and the boat made back for its parent vessel with a word from its coxswain that he would return for the police party. Shard put a hand on Goodhayes’ shoulder. “I’ll stay ashore. I’ll take your report later. If I’m not here, I’ll be in touch with you from Malton.”