Blood Run East Page 9

  “I’ve got a cold coming, darling.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  “Of course,” he said, laughing. Quickly he undressed and got into bed. She hugged him with a kind of hunger, and he knew why: senior security men spent a lot of time away from home, and they often met attractive women at very close quarters: Beth, he was well aware, had always been worried, even before his secondment from the Yard. There was a basic insecurity in her, due entirely to his life as a copper: always the chances were there — death and injury and stolen love. Tonight it was really bad: already Porton Down was casting its shadow. He had been too close to that dreadful, ravaged corpse and try as he would he could not relax into his wife’s arms. In the morning, when he awoke after only some four hours’ sleep with his mind on Lavington’s expected report, he got the reaction from Beth. She was hurt. He was in no position to give explanations, to calm her fears. He kissed the unresponsive top of her head, ruffled the long fair hair and felt totally inadequate. Trying to make conversation he made a passing reference to Mrs Micklam and then Beth dropped the bombshell.

  “You needn’t get uptight about Mother any more. She’s leaving today.”

  That surprised him. “Today? I thought she was staying a week?”

  “Well,” Beth said flatly, not meeting his eye, “she’s not. Aunt Edith —”

  “What about Aunt Edith?” He sat up sharp in bed, looking down at her, guessing the rest of it and starting to worry badly. “Well, Beth?”

  “She isn’t well, that’s all. Mother’s going down.”

  “To Worthing?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a wide-eyed look now. “Why the odd tone, Simon?”

  “I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant to be.” He got out of bed and stood in pyjama trousers, tousle-haired, staring down out of the window. Mothers-in-law … surely top coppers had a right not to have to be bothered with them? Music-hall jokes, perennial trials and tribulations of young married PCs and jacks. Somehow you didn’t associate detective chief superintendents with mothers-in-law, not until, young for your rank, you found yourself stuck with one of them. Shard turned glowering from the window and banged into the bathroom: and while shaving, and later over coffee and a cigarette, worried with a degree of real despair about Beth’s bombshell. Worthing he considered to be at some positive risk right now; and if and when the blow-up threat materialised against the germ and gas dumps no-one would survive, surely, down there in the south-east. But he couldn’t warn Beth, couldn’t give her so much as a hint. It would be totally uncharacteristic for him to urge Mrs Micklam to stay on when she had announced what would normally have been heaven-sent departure. Mother-in-law would go down to Worthing, right into the heart of the horror that might come, and if it did come, she would die. Shard had never been noted for any warmness towards Mrs Micklam: she was the sort who interfered and wouldn’t be told. Once, returning from absence on a case, Shard had found she had been to stay and had shifted the sitting-room furniture around: it had gone back double fast within minutes of his arrival, and there had been a monumental scene from which she had never fully recovered. Shard had said a lot he didn’t mean; the scar had remained with Beth. Now, if Mrs Micklam should die when a word from Shard could have saved her, he was going to be accused virtually of murder, and even of remaining silent with deliberate intent.

  Breakfast finished, he kissed Beth goodbye, a remote kiss on the top of her head, a safe kiss. He called up the stairs to Mrs Micklam, feeling his voice like a summons to the grave.

  *

  He had just reached his temporary office when the security line burred. He snatched at the handset. “Shard.”

  “Lavington —”

  “Yes?”’

  “All correct, Mr Shard. No leaks that I can detect.”

  “Security okay?”

  “Absolutely, yes.”

  Shard sent a breath hissing out. In a sense this was relief, but only in a sense. It would weaken his case for extra precautions, and he felt in his bones that worse was soon to come. “Then where the hell did it come from, Dr Lavington?”

  “I’ve no idea. We could try Porton, the main establishment.”

  “Can you go over right away?”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. Or phone.”

  “I’d rather you went in person. You’ve been in on this from the start.” Shard paused. “The road transporters. Could anything have happened there?”

  “No, no. They all came in intact, no trouble reported and loads precision-checked with Porton’s lists.”

  “No more on the way, or delivered in the last few days?”

  “No. The last came in before the weekend. Anyway, they were all checked — I told you —”

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you, Dr Lavington. Call in again when you’ve been to Porton, will you?” He cut the call and sat back, worried sick. No leads, just deaths: Hedge’s man, Katie Farrell, the five nameless bodies plus Paul Legrain across the Channel in Cherbourg. Hedge’s wife still on the danger list. If only a lead would come in to the car-borne villains who had shot up Mrs Hedge and the Guildford mobile, then they might get somewhere. In the meantime, all he could do was to follow the slim clue given by Mrs Hedge and talk to the manservant’s widow, Mrs Morton. He was about to call Hedge and ask about Morton’s widow’s availability when his internal line went: the Head of Department.

  “Ah, Shard.”

  “Yes, Head?”

  “I’ve talked to Hedge. I’m in the picture. I gather you’re asking for special precautions in the Worthing general area?”

  “I am, sir. From, say, Horsham to the sea, and Brighton to Chichester. That’s for a start —”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sir?”

  The Head of Department had the coldest voice Shard had ever known. “The answer’s no. Full security holds and is incompatible with precautions at this stage. Too many people would be involved. Come up with something specific to point to imminent attack, and I’ll authorise the lot. Until then — no.”

  “Sir,” Shard said, matching coldness with coldness, “a body’s been found with —”

  “I’m fully aware —”

  “Then you shouldn’t take the risk, sir — with respect.”

  “With equal respect, Shard, I have no intention at this moment of advising the Cabinet to order special precautions.” The tone hardened even more. “Now there’s something else: it’s come to my knowledge that you’re personally involved. A relative by marriage is not —”

  “I’m afraid it’s gone beyond a great-aunt by marriage now, sir.”

  “What’s that, Shard?”

  “My mother-in-law, sir.” Shard did his best to explain, but his explanations cut no ice with the brass. He listened with fists clenched as the Head of Department firmly put him down.

  “I pay you the courtesy of knowing that personal considerations would never affect the performance of your duty, Chief Superintendent.” There was more in similar vein: equally, Shard must not allow personal considerations sub-consciously to affect his judgment, blah, blah, blah … Shard seethed. His mother-in-law must go to Worthing unless he could find other reasons, first to be submitted to the Head of Department in person, to stop her. “That’s all. Shard. Except for one thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The Cabinet has met and has given us the responsibility for co-ordination. That means you.”

  8

  MOTHER-IN-LAW, it seemed, was now a vital link: strange but true! Her movements were of national importance … Shard cursed savagely. He shouldn’t have opened his big mouth to the Head of Department, perhaps: one could be over-conscientious. The trouble was the basic friction between himself and Mrs Micklam; Beth’s sensitive antennae would have detected something amiss without any difficulty had he tried to circumvent her mother’s journey, and Mrs Micklam, circumvented, could not have been trusted to remain silent. She had friends in Ealing and parts adjacent. Yet of all people, Beth herself could be relied upon impli
citly: he should have taken that into account.

  Too late now? A rush of blood to the head put him in the frame of mind to disobey orders and disregard the Head of Department. He took up his outside telephone and dialled his home number.

  “Beth, your mother —”

  “What about her, Simon?”

  He took a deep breath. “She doesn’t feel … unwelcome? I wouldn’t like that. Is Aunt Edith really bad?”

  Beth said, “Yes. Mother’s gone already. She caught … What’s the matter, Simon?”

  “Nothing,” he answered. “See you when I can, darling.” He rang off. One way out would have been for Beth herself to plead illness, and Mother-in-law would have come rushing back, aunt or no aunt. But, at this point, that would have taken too much explanation and a rat would have smelt very strong indeed. The matter was out of his hands and must be pushed to the back of his mind. Using his security line he called Hedge in Eaton Square and asked about Mrs Morton: she was better, Hedge said, but still in the Intensive Care Unit at the Westminster Hospital. Certain visitors would be allowed; he was going round himself.

  “When, Hedge?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll see you there, then.”

  Shard left the Foreign Office and walked past St James’s Park into Storey’s Gate and on for Great Smith Street and Marsham Street. He walked fast, faster than a taxi would have taken him through the crawling, fume-enveloped traffic. In the foyer of the hospital he met Hedge. Hedge, pompous as ever but looking hungry, was making a fuss about something, harassing a thin woman behind a desk. Seeing Shard from the corner of his eye, he turned.

  “Ah, Shard. It’s doctor’s rounds, I’m told. Confounded nuisance.”

  “She’s not in a private room, Hedge?”

  “No!”

  Shard lifted an eyebrow. “They’re not all phased out, and when there’s a security aspect —”

  Hedge danced. “Sssh!”

  “And a retainer of long standing, Hedge.” Shard sounded reproachful.

  “Not all that long — but I would have paid, of course. Coronaries, however, go into the Intensive Care Unit. And there’s no real security aspect in regard to Mrs Morton!” Hedge, rejecting the accusation of meanness, fumed frustratedly. He hated being treated like an ordinary member of the non-paying public: he was clearly bursting to say who he was but knew he couldn’t. Shard almost laughed: the bowler hat, black coat and striped trousers plus slimly rolled umbrella didn’t, even in the post-Castle-ised days — and never mind that the Westminster’s catchment area was largely still opulent and classy — fit the aura of the public ward. The thin woman broke into Hedge’s anti-democratic rumblings.

  “The Intensive Care Unit is a very special place, you don’t seem to realise. As it is, I’m stretching hospital rules —”

  “Very good of you,” Hedge said frigidly, caught Shard’s eye and turned his pupils heavenward. He and Shard drifted up and down, waiting upon the convenience of the medical profession. Hedge asked, “How long have you?”

  “Not too long. I’ve a lot to do.”

  “Is Mrs Morton important?”

  “She could be. I told you, Mrs Hedge —”

  “Yes, yes. She said the same to me. It didn’t help. I don’t know the people the Mortons know, after all. And if Morton was up to any jiggery-pokery, there’s no guarantee Mrs Morton knew anything about it.”

  “D’you think he was … up to any jiggery-pokery?”

  “No,” Hedge answered crossly. “I don’t, not for a moment.” Nor, somehow, did Shard: he recalled Morton as a typical family butler from the old days, a grave, reserved man born to service and, as such, born out of his time. He wouldn’t be bent and wouldn’t act against his master and mistress: for the 1970s, a freak. With Hedge, Shard continued perambulating, cursing the wasted minutes. Eventually, however, the thin woman summoned them.

  “You can go up now, but it’s still up to Sister ICU.”

  Hedge gaped. “Sister I see … oh yes — I follow.” His face slightly red, he turned away in obedience to the thin woman’s directions. Outside the Intensive Care Unit he and Shard were met by a girl in sister’s uniform, looking absurdly young for her accolade. Hedge stated, “We wish to see Mrs Morton.”

  “Well, I’m —”

  “A woman downstairs said we could come up. It’s vital. I’m her employer — you know what happened, of course.” Hedge indicated Shard. “This is a police officer.”

  The sister nodded. “Yes, of course, I understand. Follow me, please, and be as quiet as you can.”

  They went into high polish, medical smells, and past very sick people mostly as still as death. Mrs Morton was at the far end, propped on pillows and wearing a bright pink woollen bed-jacket. Hedge looked down at her and spoke sombrely. “Well, well, Mrs Morton, I hear you’ve made progress. I must say you look very fit considering the shock and your — ah — attack. I’m more sorry than I can say about Morton.” Hedge coughed, glared, gestured peremptorily at the sister. “Screens, Sister. And I’d like the adjacent beds moved farther away.”

  Sister ICU’s mouth opened, as did her eyes: she was having difficulty in holding her tongue, stopping herself asking what the hell speciality Hedge was consultant in; Shard moved towards her and pressed her arm and gave her a wink. She grimaced but understood: beckoning a nurse she gave her orders and then moved away, warily, out of Hedge’s immediate orbit. With the screens in place and the patients on either side shoved carefully on their wheeled beds out of hearing, Hedge sat on a hard upright chair and loomed forward over the bed. “You know Mr Shard. He has some questions, Mrs Morton.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Hedge glanced at Shard, who took over. “Mrs Morton,” he said, then stopped. She was doing her best not to cry. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “Your husband was a good man. But you may be able to help. Will you try?”

  Dumbly, she nodded.

  “The people — men or women, we don’t know for sure — the people he let into the house … the other night. We believe he may have known them. I say them, because we believe there would have been more than one to do what they did. Do you understand, Mrs Morton?”

  “Oh yes, sir, I do.”

  “Then have you any ideas as to who they may have been?” Shard paused. “I’ll give you some leads: we suspect they may have been either Irish or from the Middle East but we can’t be positive. That they’re bent of course we do know, and we know that Mrs — Lady Felicity didn’t know them.”

  “Why do you think my husband did, Mr Shard?” High colour showed in her cheeks. “He wasn’t crooked, never!”

  “We know that too. That’s not in question. The fact is he let them in — in all innocence, of course. We think, if he hadn’t known them, he wouldn’t have admitted them during the night hours.” Shard, sitting on the side opposite Hedge, leaned forward urgently. “Please think hard, Mrs Morton. Was there anybody to your knowledge who could fit, however loosely?”

  She didn’t respond right away: she closed her eyes. From beneath the lids tears rolled. She was fighting for control, Shard saw. In a low voice she said, “There was a man, but I don’t know as it helps.”

  “Tell me. Just tell me. Anything could help, believe me.”

  She moistened her lips a little. “A dark-skinned gentleman. I don’t know about the what was it, Middle East. That means Arabs, doesn’t it? Or Jews.”

  “Broadly, yes,” Shard said. “But go on in your own words, Mrs Morton.”

  She said, “He was from one of the embassies in Kensington Palace Gardens. Some sort of clerk, I think, but I don’t really know for sure like …”

  “Yes?”

  She swallowed, and moved a hand on the bedspread in a nervous gesture. “My husband used to talk to him over a drink.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Catherine Wheel. That’s a public house on the corner of Kensington Church Street and —”

  “I know it. Did you meet him there your
self?”

  She shook her head. “No, I never. I don’t go to public houses, sir. My husband … he brought him back once, to Eaton Square.” She looked at Hedge, looked away again. “The mistress knew, sir. My husband asked permission.”

  Hedge’s heavy face reddened. “My wife — did she see this man?”

  “No, sir, she didn’t meet him. My husband just asked her, that’s all.”

  The eyes of Hedge and Shard met: there was a feeling in the air of gold having been struck. Shard asked, “Do you know his name, Mrs Morton? Or which embassy he was from?”

  “No, sir, that I don’t. I heard the name, mind, but it didn’t register if you know what I mean. One of them foreign names …” She was frowning, doing her best. “I couldn’t even get anywhere near it, nor the embassy either, not now.”

  “No idea at all?” Shard asked.

  “Not really. It could have been … Iranian, Iraqian … or Arabian, but I can’t say. He didn’t look Arab anyway, not to me. Dark, but not hook-nosed or hawky, see?”

  She was being honest, Shard had no doubt of that: genuinely she didn’t remember. A passing acquaintance of her husband’s, a man who had been just the once to Eaton Square … she probably hadn’t paid much attention. The downstairs brigade in Hedge’s house would be kept pretty much on the hop workwise, if Shard knew Hedge, and it was a big house for two servants to cope with. Once, there would have been half-a-dozen in the servants’ hall. Shard made another attempt: “Mrs Morton, can you think of any reason why this man might have called during the night, and if so why your husband should have let him in?”

  “Not really, sir, I can’t. Except that my husband did know him.”

  Hedge came in on that, brutally: “Or — any reason why he should have killed your husband and abducted Lady Felicity?”

  She shook her head but she couldn’t answer in words; soon after that, they left her alone, crying still. Hedge said he would look in again. Once outside Shard said, “That last question of yours wasn’t fair, Hedge.”