Shard Calls the Tune

by Philip McCutchan

  She took his arm and squeezed it. “Thanks, Mr Sams, you’re a gentleman.” In return he patted her hand and smiled, and together they went back up the stairs, past his philatelic office and on up to Elsie’s room, which was as sordid as any prostitute’s parlour, curtain-hung, almost no light, with a cardboard carton from Tesco’s beside a sleazy bed that sloped sharply down towards the foot, worn that way by constant use. A gas fire burned despite the day’s heat, the principle being that the warmer you were the quicker you got sexy, which increased the turnover even if it didn’t keep down the unit cost to the client. A door led from this apartment into another room and Shard, deciding to reconnoitre in case of later developments from the boot boys below, asked what was in there.

  Elsie gave one of her giggles. “That’s where I’m cruel to them,” she said. She led the way in, flicking on a light as low-powered and shaded as in the main consulting-room. Shard looked at whips and lengths of rope and another bed and a wooden construction like a pillory from the Middle Ages. Cruel was the word: it was a veritable torture-chamber, but evidently not to all men. Shard crossed the room and dragged the curtain aside from a window. He saw roofs and chimney-pots and a couple of tomcats spitting at each other between the television aerials. The roofs sagged with age and all the chimneys looked as though they would crash down in the next gale. A cheerless sight, but it was a way out so long as whoever took it could clear the gap between this building and the back of the next street. Short of that, there was a long drop to the back yard of the Sex Supermarket, a horrid place to die.

  Turning from the window and letting the curtain fall back into place, Shard gestured Elsie back into the other room. “Cup of tea?” she offered brightly.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re terribly good to stay.” She hesitated. “You sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Quite sure. Just keep quiet, that’s all, and we’ll listen.”

  She nodded, and sat in silence on the bed while Shard took a basketwork chair. The bed creaked, as he knew it would: often, he had heard it through his ceding, very rhythmic. By his watch, they sat for a little more than half an hour and then there was sound from beyond the door: footsteps climbing the stairs, not trying very hard to be quiet. The footsteps stopped at the floor below: his floor. Faintly, he heard a knock. That seemed to clinch a point: the boot boys wanted him, not Elsie, as he’d suspected. He glanced at the girl’s face: it was taut and scared. After a while the footsteps came on up the stairs, stopping outside Elsie’s door.

  There was a loud and very peremptory bang.

  3

  Shard whispered to the girl, “Open up. I’ll vanish into the next room for now. I’ll come through if I seem needed.”

  She was panicking now. “What d’you mean, seem?”

  He said reassuringly, “They may just want their oats after all. If so, don’t feel inhibited by my presence.” He slid away into the torture-chamber, closing the door quietly. He heard Elsie opening up the outer door.

  “Yes?” she said clearly. “You didn’t phone, did you?”

  “No,” a voice said.

  “You could’ve rung the bell downstairs. I don’t see clients unless they phone first.”

  “You do us,” the voice said roughly. Shard heard many things in quick succession: a gasp from Elsie, the scrape of boots, the slam of the door. After that the male voice came louder. “We don’t want your body, ducks. Least … not as a first priority.” There was a coarse laugh. “Mr Sams, right? Mr Sams the stamp bloke. You know who I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not in his office or doesn’t answer the door if he is. We saw him come in, didn’t see him go out. So he’s in the building, right? Know where he is, do you, eh?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said breathlessly. She was playing up like a brave girl; Mr Sams was willing to help her, the boot boys had come to rough up Mr Sams for reasons unknown to her, she wasn’t going to rat. “He’s not here, I know that much.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we take a look round.”

  Shard heard her gasp again and begin a useless protest: by this time he had his automatic out and loaded, though he would try not to shoot and bring a hornet’s nest around his ears. A moment later the door crashed open and the dim light came on, with a large man outlined in it. From the shadows Shard snapped, “All right, hold it. I have a gun. No moves, just stay where you are.”

  The man turned towards him, face ugly with anger and surprise. Then, risking the gun, he charged Shard like a bull, head down and immense body hurtling under full power. Shard, who happened to be standing before the window, went down like lightning on the floor. The big man failed to stop himself in time; he crashed right through the window, taking the curtain with him. There was a desperate cry, followed in seconds by a dull splat. The Sex Supermarket’s yard had claimed its victim. Shard, who had got back on his feet, swung round as the second man closed in behind him, then went down flat again, this time beneath a heavy body. He felt his ears being seized; then his face was banged again and again into the dirty, threadbare carpet. His nose felt pulped. Then rescue came, surprisingly, from Elsie: there was a loud scream from the boot boy and Shard’s ears were let go. The boot boy was clasping his bottom, from which hung a huge steel pin. Shard didn’t give him time to clasp for long: he threw himself on the man, pinioned his arms as he struggled like a tiger, and shouted to Elsie.

  “Open up your pillory or whatever it is, quick!”

  She did so. Shard propelled the man forward and forced his head and arms into the slots of the bottom half, not an easy task but one he accomplished. Elsie locked down the top half and that was that. Breathing hard, Shard stepped back and admired the pin, which had been driven home almost to its pearl top. He pulled it out, to the accompaniment of shrieks. Blood dripped.

  “Hatpin,” Shard said. “Where did you learn that one, Elsie?”

  “My gran. My gran give it me when I was a teenager. She said if a man tried anything funny, I was to shove it in.”

  “Bad for trade.”

  “I hadn’t started on the game then, had I?”

  “I shudder to think what your gran would have said. Anyway, there we are. Any minute now, the manager of the sex outfit’ll be up.” Sex being more profitable in the evening, the Sex Supermarket was a late opener. “I’ll deal with him. Elsie, I want you to mount guard over chummy in the pillory while I go for the police. You won’t come to any harm now.”

  “How about the bloke?”

  “He’s secure enough.”

  “Yes.” Elsie giggled. “I was wondering if he’d like some correction, that’s all!”

  Shard shrugged. “They’re your whips, but I wouldn’t advise it. Assault on the person when not willing — that’s a crime.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Look, do I have to have the fuzz in here?”

  “It’s inevitable, but don’t worry. I have good friends in the force … stolen stamps get pushed around the dealers just like any other stolen property.” Shard left her to it and went out on to the landing and down to his office on the next floor. Never mind what he’d told Elsie about the police, it was his own section at the Foreign Office that he intended to bring in. But when he reached the next floor he found three people coming up, fast. One was the manager of the sex shop, one was a scared-looking person unknown being hustled along by the third man, who was a beat copper from the Met.

  Shard asked, “What’s all this?”

  The policeman answered. He said, “I heard a scream and found a body. I’m asking you what it’s all about.”

  “Come into my office,” Shard said, “and I’ll tell you.” He indicated the scared-looking man, who was small and dirty and somehow foreign-looking. “What’s he been up to?”

  “Acting suspiciously —”

  Shard grinned. “In the sex shop?” He turned to the sex manager. “Right, leave this to me if you don’t mind —”

  “Now look,” the police
man interrupted, belligerently. Shard cut him short with a peremptory gesture and opened the door of his office. The policeman went in, propelling the small man before him. Shard shut the door and briefly showed his Foreign Office pass in the palm of his hand and the policeman’s manner changed. Also, he was intelligent: he’d read Shard’s cover name on the office door and he said apologetically, “Sorry, Mr Sams.”

  “That’s all right. Upstairs you’ll find a villain in a pillory with a bloody bottom. He’s all yours. Go easy on Elsie. She’s a good girl at heart. I’ll be in touch with Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine shortly, all right?”

  “All right, Mr Sams.”

  The policeman left; boots thudded up the stairs, and then, after a pause, across Elsie’s floor. Shard turned to the small man. “Right,” he said briskly. “I take it you have some connection with two big bastards who’ve just stormed into Elsie’s place of work. If you hadn’t, I doubt if that policeman would have brought you up here. Any comment?”

  The small man licked his lips, then said, “Yes, this is so.”

  “Start talking, then.” Shard looked at his watch. “I want to get home, so hurry.”

  *

  The man’s name was Svetislav Babic and he was a Yugoslav. He insisted he was no criminal himself even if he had acquired criminal associates: the man who had fallen to his death, and the man who’d been so neatly hat-pinned, were such, the dead one being a genuine boot boy nicknamed The Toad and not long out of Dartmoor after a sentence for GBH. Babic had picked up these two when making enquiries as to the whereabouts of Seddon’s Way, where it was known that a British agent calling himself Sams had his habitat. The Toad and his mate, who were short of cash, had uttered threats to secure their own participation, for a fee, in the search for Sams. Babic was small and scared and had agreed.

  Having pumped Babic dry, Shard made some telephone calls. One was to Beth, to say he’d be home late; the next was to Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, who had not yet gone home from the Yard. Passing a brief explanation, Shard asked Hesseltine to keep the vice squad, and anyone else who might be interested, off Elsie. She’d been a big help and was often useful to him and was doing no harm to anyone. Okay, Hesseltine said, she would be kept in the clear and what else was worrying Shard? Shard said he had a guest, and when the Yard van collected the body out at the back of the sex shop, would they bring in Babic for his own protection? Someone just might try to get him. To this, Hesseltine also agreed. The policeman came down from Elsie’s room to use Shard’s phone to the Yard, then took Babic over. After that, Shard made another call on the closed line to Hedge.

  Once again he passed explanations. “Babic and his informants made a slight cock-up,” he added. “They had me confused with you … thought I was the man in the Inter-City. Which all goes to show that cloak-and-dagger is bunk and none of us is as bright as we think we are —”

  “All right, Shard, all right! What did this man Babic have to say?”

  Shard said, “It was brief enough. He’s passed word that our friend’s route to freedom’s been altered —”

  “Damn —”

  “He’s not going to where you were told, Hedge. He’s flying out on official duty, part of a delegation. The act’s to take place in Malta.”

  “Oh, my God!” Hedge sounded frenzied. “What a confounded nuisance, Shard! I’ve made all my arrangements, hotel and travel … and I don’t much like the idea of Malta I must say, they tend to be unfriendly from all I hear —”

  “Yes, indeed. Touchy about British interference these days. You may have a pretty rough ride, Hedge —”

  “Yes, and why Malta? For heaven’s sake, why an island?”

  “I suppose, because it suits his purpose — the official delegation aspect, you see. It’s good cover. No doubt even our friend has a need to be careful.”

  “Yes. I still don’t like it, though. Are you sure this man Babic’s genuine?”

  “No guarantee, but I believe he is.”

  “That’s not very reassuring, Shard.”

  “These things are never cut and dried, are they?”

  An angry sound came along the line. “Don’t teach me my job, Shard. Where’s Babic now?”

  Shard said, “Transferred to Yard custody — just for his own good —”

  “Not that man Hesseltine?” Hedge loathed Hesseltine’s guts; he sounded beside himself.

  “The very same, Hedge,” Shard said. “But —”

  “I won’t have Hesseltine in on this!”

  “Don’t you trust him?” Shard asked innocently.

  “That’s not the point!” Hedge shouted, making the phone ring with fury. “This is a Foreign Office matter and I won’t have a Yard involvement —”

  “They’re involved because —”

  “It’s my show, mine alone. Ring Hesseltine yourself and tell him that. He’s to keep well out.”

  The slam of Hedge’s receiver sounded like a thunder-clap.

  *

  At 1000 hours next morning, Shard reached Heathrow for the Moscow flight. As later the Foreign Secretary with his entourage was met and escorted to the VIP lounge, the security was immense: policemen everywhere, plain clothes men from both Shard’s outfit and the Yard mingling more or less unobtrusively, though to Shard’s professional eye they were all instantly recognisable for what they were. From the British Airways Boeing 707 waiting on the stand men came back towards the airport building, carrying instruments used for checking out the plane’s total safety against concealed explosive devices. Newsmen and the TV cameras were much in evidence as the Foreign Secretary left the VIP lounge for embarkation. The last to board, he stood for a moment to wave from the upper platform of the ladder and say a few words to the TV about the importance of his mission and his hopes for continuing detente. Before he had reached the end of his remarks there was a mild diversion: one of the newsmen was heard to ask, what about Hughes-Jones? Was the Foreign Secretary going to raise the question of the Welshman’s arrest, and imprisonment?

  The Foreign Secretary smiled, a trifle acidly at indiscretion. “No comment,” he said, and ducked down into the body of the airliner. Then, as if upon some pre-arranged signal, singing started up from the spectators’ gallery, which was thronged with men and women, many wearing gaily-coloured scarves, some of them University of Wales, some of them UWIST, some of them bearing the Welsh rugby colours. There was something very touching about it all. The whole lot sang, emotionally, ‘Calon Lan’ and then ‘Men of Harlech’, some of the older ones standing at attention, if their rigidity was anything to go by, like ex-soldiers. It was clearly not spontaneous, but it was impressive. The Foreign Secretary heard it before the door was shut, and Shard saw him bite his lips and flush a little as he began a conversation with an aide. The airliner moved away for take-off; clearance came from flight control and, smoothly, they were airborne. As the South of England twisted and soon vanished below, Shard was addressed by the lady on his left, a severe-looking woman of middle age who said she was Miss Brown.

  “I’m always so relieved when that’s over.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Shard’s mind was in Wales still.

  “Take-off. But then of course we have to fear landing. The two most dangerous times, you know.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Well, we must be thankful for small mercies. It’s all right while we’re in flight, isn’t it? What did you say your name was?”

  “Richard Meldon.”

  “I see. And your department?”

  He told her, and she seemed surprised. “I’m Eastern European and Soviet. I wonder why they wanted Protocol and Conference.”

  “It’s to be a conference, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but still.”

  “Perhaps,” Shard said cheerfully, “they made a mistake in sending me.”

  “Oh no. We don’t make mistakes.”

  She sounded like Hedge. Shard hoped she would soon stop talking, but it was a vain hope. Wound up, she talke
d all the way to Moscow. She had rather strong BO, which was unpleasant, and her voice grated. Oddly enough, she was a football fan; so, of course, was Meldon, and Shard played up for the sake of practice.

  “Whom,” she asked, “do you support?”

  Data sheets rose before Shard’s eyes. “Leeds United,” he said.

  “Oh. How dreadful.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Brown.”

  “Hooligans,” she said fiercely. “I support Celtic.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m one of the Scottish Browns.”

  “The gillie family?”

  “I don’t follow?”

  Shard said solemnly, “Queen Victoria’s sex life. John Brown, gillie.”

  “How disgusting,” she said, and was silent for a minute or two, thus raising Shard’s hopes, but it didn’t last. Miss Brown’s pince-nez fell from her nose, and in the ensuing retrieval sex and dirty talk became overlaid and she was off again, non-stop from there to arrival. The arrival at 1620 local time at Moscow’s Sheremetievo airport was a relief, even an anti-climax; and just before it Shard had excused himself and contacted one of the security men, a Detective Sergeant Fisher.

  “Sergeant —”

  “Yes, sir.” The plain clothes man had been briefed in advance. “Can I help, Mr Meldon?”

  “You can.” Shard passed over his brief-case, which contained his automatic and holster. “Take this through the check-point for me. You’ll be expected to be armed, I won’t. I’ll take it back after, all right?”

  “All right, sir.”

  Shard rejoined Miss Brown as seat belts were fastened and cigarettes extinguished. Her thin face had a taut, nervous look and as the aircraft lost height she clutched Shard’s left arm in a vice-like grip. He patted her on the shoulder, gallantly, but she didn’t like that: it was too intimate. However, she survived the ordeal of landing; and then survived the welcome, which was headed by the Chairman of the Council of Ministers accompanied by the Minister for Foreign Affairs. Russian plain clothes and uniformed security men abounded, and very up-tight they all looked as they peered watchfully about for bombs and assassins. There were also a number of lesser officials from the Foreign Affairs Ministry and a great amount of hand-shaking took place before the speeches. The first of these was made by the Minister for Foreign Affairs who applauded himself vigorously when he had finished. When a squat and beaming Russian accompanied Miss Brown through the checking-in routines, Shard became separated from the good lady. In a number of official cars plus a coach, the whole party headed for the British Embassy at Naberezhnaya Morisa Toreza 14. During that run Shard stared from the windows of the coach at gloom and austerity; gloom because the weather over Moscow was damply clouded, which had the effect of adding to the aspect of austerity. The people looked drab, the cars were few, plenty of uniformed police were seen. This was not Shard’s first visit to Moscow, but each time he had come the feeling had been the same: freedom in the British sense was behind him, and there was a curious foreboding in the air, a feeling of being totally under the awful domination of the Kremlin, that city within a city where the might and authority of the Communist state lay along with the embalmed body of Lenin, and a feeling that from henceforward until departure even his thoughts would be known to that grim authority. And if that should be true, it wouldn’t bode particularly well for Hughes-Jones.