Shard Calls the Tune

by Philip McCutchan

  “All’s well. We got them.”

  Hedge opened his eyes. “Are they dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Hedge issued an ill-tempered reprimand. “We’re not supposed to kill Maltese! There’ll be very serious repercussions —”

  “Not Maltese,” came Kolotechin’s voice. “The men were Russians, ones I knew, left behind in Malta. Now they are dead, and it is more important to me than ever that Hughes-Jones is available to be returned to Russia.”

  Hedge was about to comment when the SAS man grabbed his arm and said, “The boat’s coming in — see it?”

  Hedge looked, and saw seaborne salvation. The relief was immense; he blew out a long breath and mopped his face with his handkerchief. “Brave fellows,” he said magnanimously. “British seamen never fail, do they?” He got to his feet with extreme rapidity and started down the beach. One should never keep people waiting; punctuality was the politeness of princes.

  16

  As a result of reports received, Shard was in the village of Tyfan. The fat woman in the ironmonger’s had proved helpful.

  “Nervous, he was,” she said. “A bag of nerves to be honest, and that made me uneasy, see. And his hat pulled right down over his ears. And funny things he said, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “That the rope was to tie up the meat. You don’t tie up meat in a freezer with rope, not unless you are mad that is. And then I always read the papers, see, always, every day … and so many dreadful murders. People being cut up. It worries me, see, does that. They ought to hang them.”

  “And you recognised —”

  “Well, I don’t say recognised, see, not recognised. A feeling, it was, more like, because Mr Hughes-Jones, he’d been in the papers as being wanted for questioning, see, and that was funny, and I knew the name, naturally, he being put in prison in Russia, and all the fuss. And he’d preached in the chapel, too, at least I think so.” She shuffled about in a drawer full of nails of different sizes. “So all in all, see, I thought I’d better tell the policeman, Eiris Roberts the police he is —”

  “Yes. You did right, Mrs —”

  “Miss. Miss Roberts, no relation.”

  “I see. Thank you for your help, Miss Roberts. I’m grateful.”

  “It is all right, I am glad to help.” She started again about ropes and meat and Shard cut her short. She had told all she knew; now the net could begin to close. The local bobby could not be expected to cope on his own; Shard went to his car and used his radio to call Cardiff police, the co-ordinators who would direct the local force’s net. Within minutes that net was being spread: all roads around Tyfan came to life with police mobiles on the look-out for men with parcels containing possible murder implements. On the perimeters other forces were coordinated into the search, a wide area of Wales being set up for the toothcomb. Shard decided, for the time being at any rate, to remain in Tyfan and listen to his radio; in Tyfan he was at the apparent centre and he could be called in within minutes of a finding. He sat in his car reflecting on Hughes-Jones; all in all, it sounded as though Miss Roberts had been right and they had a madman to deal with. Megan Hughes-Jones was at imminent risk and already it could be too late: Miss Roberts had not in fact been all that fast on the ball. She had served a number of customers, the shop being short-handed because the boss was poorly, and she had dithered as to whether or not she should bother the police with her ‘feeling’. And then P.C. Roberts had not reacted fast either: his mind was largely on foot-and-mouth and the great importance of the dip, at which he must by law be present, and all the farmers getting at him without cease. Then, to cap it all, there had been a temporary breakdown of police communications due to a vital link having left his car to rescue a sheep marooned with a broken leg on an almost sheer hillside. Wales was Wales … and even Shard was feeling the spell, feeling rustic. There was undeniably something in the atmosphere that slowed things down, a kind of mañana found in Spain and Ireland also. And when at long last the call came in, cutting with its urgency through the Welshness of Tyfan, it turned out to be a false alarm. Shard had started on his way towards Pentreteg, expectant of an attack upon Evan Evans in working hours, when an apologetic voice came on the air to say that the man suspected of being Hughes-Jones, stopped near Pentreteg in a fast-driven car by a police mobile, was a quite innocent vet on his way to deliver a calf.

  Once again, the Hughes-Jones trail seemed to have gone cold.

  *

  It was cold, too, in the forest, for rain had started, very heavy rain that lost no time in penetrating the trees. It soaked into the ground and Hughes-Jones, his coat collar pulled up around his ears, watched Megan’s blood begin to seep satisfactorily away off the leaves and down into the good earth. This, at least, was progress, but it was far from enough. Hughes-Jones looked at the hump of leaves that temporarily concealed the head, the arms and the legs: what was he to do? A lot of the blood had now gone from the rest of Megan and that would be a help, of course, but how was he to find transport?

  A fat lot of good it was, just sitting here! Transport would not come to him, that was for certain sure. Mahomet must go to the mountain. Hughes-Jones got to his feet in his wet clothing and walked out of the forest again, back along the track to the road. It was late afternoon now. Instinct told him not to return to Tyfan; his guiding principle was the old saying that the dog returns to his vomit, the criminal to the scene of his crime. No, not Tyfan, but for the life of him he could not recall what lay in the opposite direction. He would have to trust to luck, that was all. He set out, plodding in the rain along the road. Cars passed but this time no lifts were offered; perhaps he looked too dirty, too much like a tramp and all wet. He grew dead tired too; so little sleep, no food — it was terrible. Then, hey presto, there was luck! Not much, but a little. He passed a roadside rubbish dump, an unofficial one it must be because there was a large sign saying that a fine awaited those who dumped rubbish. But no matter; he had struck gold of a sort. In amongst all the rubbish, the worn-out tyres, the bicycle wheels, the discarded three-piece suites, clothes washers, oil cans and such was a pram. Not much of a pram, but one that worked and could be pushed, however ricketty. Hughes-Jones delved around a little more and found an old carpet; a little more and he found a pair of light brown corduroy trousers and a blue blazer, as wet now as his own clothing. Duw, all this could be made good use of!

  Hughes-Jones piled the tattered carpet, not a very big one, and the trousers and blazer, into the pram. Then he heard a car coming and when he looked up he saw it was a police car, still distant along the road, and he left the pram and hurried behind a great sofa that must have taken a pantechnicon to dump it. The police car drove slowly past; Hughes-Jones caught a glimpse of the faces inside. They had a sour look, one that said they were fed up and didn’t want to get out into the pouring rain; anyway, they didn’t stop to check the rubbish dump. When they had gone, Hughes-Jones thought he should take every precaution possible, just in case, so, behind the sofa, he took off his outer garments and put on the corduroy trousers and the blue blazer. They didn’t fit, they had been made for a bigger man, but no matter, they would do as a disguise. He left his own suit behind, stuffed down the arms and back of the sofa.

  Then he started back with pram and carpet for the forest to pick up Megan. Damn, he had gone only a few hundred yards when a wheel came off! But this was only a temporary setback; he soon had it on again and the nut screwed up tight.

  *

  Aboard the Melford Hall, now well to the west of Malta, with Hedge and Kolotechin and the former SAS man embarked, a signal was received from the Rear-Admiral, Gibraltar, indicating that a helicopter was being despatched for pick-up. The master of the Melford Hall, apprising Hedge of this, said that the helicopter would hover over the poopdeck and the passengers would be winched up. Hedge spent a wretched few hours during which he visualised tragedy and his being dropped down the Melford Hall’s funnel, but in the event all went well. A naval airman was winched down
and in turn clasped Kolotechin and Hedge, leaving the ex-SAS man behind, and they were hauled up singly into the helicopter’s belly. The machine flew at once for Gibraltar and an easy disembarkation on the airfield.

  Thence a comfortable flight in an aircraft of the Royal Air Force to an RAF station on London’s outskirts and a fast car to the Foreign Office. Kolotechin was smuggled in with a coat thrown over his head, a very cloak-and-dagger prelude to what awaited him and Hedge once inside. It was red carpet treatment: the Foreign Secretary was present in person, with his principal Minister of State, the Under-Secretary and Head of the Diplomatic Service and a host of lesser persons all staring in polite awe at the defected head of the KGB ex-Moscow.

  “You are very, very welcome, Comrade Kolotechin,” the Foreign Secretary said. “On behalf of —”

  “I formally request asylum,” Kolotechin broke in.

  “Yes, indeed. You have my government’s assurance that this is granted, of course —”

  “And there is the man Hughes-Jones,” Kolotechin stated flatly, staring around at Western opulence. Even though he had come in by the back door, the Foreign Office was a place of splendour, strongly reminiscent of the days of the Empire.

  “Yes, Hughes-Jones.” The Foreign Secretary caught the eye of Hedge; then he looked away again. “Naturally, we understand.”

  “And have agreed.”

  The Foreign Secretary coughed gently. “I think you’ll find us willing to co-operate, Comrade Kolotechin.”

  “It must be done soon. By now my defection will be known in Moscow. You will have heard that men were killed in Malta.” Kolotechin’s voice rose. “It must be done at once. I insist upon this.”

  “Quite. I do understand, I assure you.” There was something in the Foreign Secretary’s tone and manner that indicated, at least to Hedge, that he was very well aware that it was now much too late for Kolotechin to withdraw his defection — the threat of that now stood very empty indeed and a few boots had changed feet. That might save Hughes-Jones a trip to Moscow; or again it might not. The British Government usually stood by its promises unless it could get out of them without being seen to do so. Not that it mattered very much to Hedge, certainly; he had done his duty and effected the safe delivery of Kolotechin. He said as much within the next fifteen minutes to the Head of Security, making a point of bringing it to official attention since it had not in fact been commented upon.

  “I agree,” the Head said. “You’ve done very well — quite splendidly in fact —”

  “In the face of much difficulty,” Hedge put in. “I really had a very trying time, you realise.”

  “Surely the Phoenicia was comfortable enough?”

  “Yes. Mrs Zammit’s wasn’t. But I wasn’t referring so much to that.” Hedge sounded indignant. “I was in danger of my life for much of the time! I don’t think it was right to send me, really.”

  “Never mind, you’ll get your OBE or whatever.” There was a grin lurking around the Head’s mouth and it widened a fraction when he saw the look of keen disappointment on Hedge’s expressive face. An OBE was chickenfeed. He turned the screw a little, unkindly. “That’s if we bring this thing off to a finally successful conclusion, and you know what I mean by that, don’t you, Hedge?”

  Hedge glared. “Hughes-Jones, I suppose. Where is he?”

  “We don’t know! That’s the trouble. That’s why the Foreign Secretary was being cautious towards Kolotechin.”

  “But Kolotechin’s in a cleft stick, isn’t he? He has no option now.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure, Hedge.” The voice held a warning, and Hedge asked why. The answer was a nasty shock: it was not beyond all possibility that if Hughes-Jones was not produced Kolotechin might plead force majeur, and demand repatriation.

  Hedge’s mouth opened, as did his eyes. “Kidnap?”

  “Yes —”

  “But that’s ridiculous!”

  The Head said sardonically, “I’m glad you think so. Please explain why.”

  Hedge started to babble, the words of indignation tumbling about like confetti. “For one thing, that SAS man — I never did get told his name, I don’t see why I couldn’t be trusted — he knows the facts and can testify, can’t he? It’s a wholly ridiculous suggestion! There’s the High Commissioner, too, for God’s sake —”

  “Who must not come into it. He is not, repeat not, to be quoted. Ever. You know that, Hedge. Nor must Mrs Zammit, for her own safety. As to the SAS man, the same applies. He’s useful to us. He must not be jeopardised, compromised, call it what you will —”

  “But Kolotechin will blow it all!” Hedge almost screamed.

  “No. That he will not do. We shall see to that. We have certain pressures … I won’t specify just now. I’ll add only this: if we’re forced to comment on force majeur we shall naturally deny it since it’s not true. But if Kolotechin gets support from the Kremlin, who just might believe his story, then we shall have to … let’s say, shall we, narrow the field down?” The Head of Security paused, weightily. “Do I need to spell it out, Hedge?”

  Hedge’s face was like that of a ghost, all greenish white. He licked his lips; they had gone very dry. In a strained voice and sounding on the verge of tears, he said, “All that work and worry, all that danger! I’d shown initiative, I thought. Without me, it couldn’t have been done at all …” His voice trailed away as he realised he’d now said it himself and set a personal seal on his own possible fate. What beasts there were in the Foreign Office, utterly unprincipled men. They would find it convenient, perhaps, to make false admissions and he was to be the scapegoat and would be fired out of the Diplomatic Service in disgrace by some evil sleight-of-hand and double-talk, the man who had tried off his own bat to kidnap the head of the KGB. However preposterous … Hedge groaned. He knew the way things went, none better! He left the Head of Security’s room with the words of doom ringing in his ears like a trumpet call: “Get Hughes-Jones, Hedge.”

  *

  Shard rang in that evening from Cardiff and was unable to get a word past Hedge till Hedge had relieved his feelings and unloaded all the blame. It was Shard’s fault; why had he not found Hughes-Jones? Was there any helpful news?

  “No,” Shard said, and listened again with the handset at full arm’s stretch. When the fresh tirade ended, he went on. “He’s vanished. All stops are out, but there’s not a lead anywhere. But I have an idea that just might work out if you’re prepared to listen.”

  The receiver rattled at him. “Yes, yes, go on.”

  “Kolotechin.”

  “What about him?”

  “There’s been nothing in the evening papers. When will it break, Hedge?”

  “Not as long as we can sit on the Press. Kolotechin doesn’t want a word in public till we’ve got Hughes-Jones.” Hedge added, “There’s still been no reaction from Moscow, you know. It’s all very worrying. But what’s this idea of yours?”

  “Why not use Kolotechin as a magnet?”

  There was a startled sound. “How?”

  “A calculated Press leak — and never mind what Kolotechin wants or doesn’t want. He’ll certainly want Hughes-Jones, we do know that. He —”

  “But what’s the point, Shard? What’s the point?”

  Shard said, “We’ll have to assume Hughes-Jones is reading the papers. Once he knows Kolotechin’s safe in British hands, he might show.”

  “Rubbish, my dear fellow! I’ve read your reports and Cardiff’s. He may have committed murder by now. He won’t give himself up!”

  “I think he may. He got along with Kolotechin —”

  “To the point of being sent back to Russia?”

  “Which he doesn’t know about yet.” Shard’s voice was sour. The dirty dealing grated and would never stop doing so, yet it was vital to find Hughes-Jones. “If the word’s dropped that Kolotechin needs him, reason unspecified, he might respond. It’s worth a try.”

  “I doubt it very strongly indeed. And I’m sure Kolotechin w
ould never agree.”

  “Don’t ask him, then. Just organise a leak. It’s been done before.” Shard added a clincher: “I believe Hughes-Jones may commit suicide if he’s already committed murder on his wife. He has a conscience … I’m sure of that. He could be suffering regrets, Hedge.”

  There was a silence on the line while Hedge digested what was certainly a forlorn hope but might well be a last one if Shard was right. Suicide was not unlikely, and time could be very short now. Shard seemed to believe that there might be a result, and his reports had included an assessment of Hughes-Jones as a man. Hedge mentally reviewed those reports: Hughes-Jones had reacted oddly to the killings near the Russo-Hungarian border, but he was not by nature the sort who would kill without compunction. Compunction — if he had indeed killed — might now be taking charge. A little more thought, and Hedge passed the buck. He said, “Oh, very well, I’ll put it to higher authority and let you know. But do remember that my neck’s on the block already, won’t you?”

  *

  After a night’s sleep in the forest, and a dawn start, Hughes-Jones had pushed the laden pram many a weary mile towards the Forest of Clun without being remarked upon. There was no reason why he should be; many tramps pushed prams, and each time the police came in sight Hughes-Jones always managed to fade into the countryside in time. The towns had been difficult; they could not always be avoided, and they could hold danger from curious bobbies on the beat, but his luck had held: not a bobby about. Still with his hat pulled well down to conceal his head, he had seen familiar sights so well remembered: the groups of old men sitting about on public benches, just nattering — it had usually been on Sunday afternoons, in their Sunday best, and today wasn’t Sunday, but it was nice to see them again. In one town Hughes-Jones had bought a Mars bar which was real manna to a hungry man and enjoyable too, and in another he had borrowed a bottle of milk from a handy doorstep, feeling that it served the housewife right, really, for not taking in her milk much earlier in the day. After the next nightfall he reached trees in plenty, and roughed out a hole for an arm. He slept for several hours after that, till daylight in fact, and when the sun was up he plodded on and when he went for a pee behind a hedge south of the forest area he found quite by chance what looked to be a very deep hole. It could be a pothole, perhaps. Down went the head. It was followed by the carving-knife, the wood-chopper, and the unused rope. Hughes-Jones pushed onwards behind the pram; only two legs and an arm left now and Megan would be gone for ever.