Shard Calls the Tune

by Philip McCutchan

  “There’s no option,” Hedge said, looking down from the ceiling at last. “Not for you, not for the British Government. A promise has been given.”

  Hughes-Jones said, “That is as maybe, but you cannot send me, and shall I tell you why?”

  “If you wish,” Hedge said irritably.

  “Because I am a bloody murderer, man, that’s why! I have killed —”

  Hedge got to his feet. “That’s enough. That’s not been said.”

  “My wife Megan —”

  “Silence!” Hedge roared. Hughes-Jones sat with his mouth hanging open in utter astonishment, wondering why the dickens they didn’t want to hear the truth. Well, if they didn’t, they didn’t, so he shut up. Hedge pressed a bell on his desk and two plain clothes men from Shard’s section came in and each took one of Hughes-Jones’s arms and led him away, still looking astonished at so many sudden turns of events. When he had gone, Hedge spoke to Shard.

  “He’ll talk again, of course. But he won’t be listened to. He’ll be examined and his mind will be found to have deteriorated under stress. I suppose you understand?”

  Shard nodded. “I understand, all right. You wouldn’t be able to export a murderer, as I once said. Right?”

  “Orders from above,” Hedge said. “Very explicit.”

  “And when the body turns up?”

  “The police will have certain orders,” Hedge said. “It’ll remain unidentified. Nevertheless, Hughes-Jones is to be out of the country as soon as possible, just in case.” He paused, then added, “Moscow’s been in touch. We’re still awaiting the full details, but it’s expected he’ll be flown out tonight for the Hungarian border.”

  *

  At about the same time as Hedge was speaking a call was received by Abergavenny police from a furniture warehouse in the town, and a mobile was despatched immediately: a terrible discovery had been made. A human leg, concealed in a sizeable carton, had been found behind some crates. There was no knowing how long it had been there, though it was reasonably fresh, nor how it had arrived. After the staff had been questioned, and one had mentioned that he had seen a dilapidated pram in the back of a lorry in from north Wales to deliver a part load, the police were provided with a list of all transport that had loaded or unloaded at the warehouse over the last week and immediate calls went out nationwide for the various drivers. The pram one was found almost at once; he gave a description of the Welshman he had picked up. This checked with Hughes-Jones as he had appeared on his arrival at police HQ in Cardiff. The next step was Evan Evans in Pentreteg, to whom was shown the leg; on the inside ankle was a semi-circular birthmark, a sort of red new moon. Evans tried bluster; he would never have been likely to see the mark. The CID man reminded him that this was a murder enquiry and he had better think very carefully about his answers. The tone was threatening, and Evan Evans saw the red light. The police would have other methods of establishing the facts, no doubt, and he didn’t want the scandal of being charged with an offence.

  “It’s Mrs Hughes-Jones,” he said.

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a little after 2100 hours that Cardiff police rang through to Shard in the Foreign Office where he was standing by to take Hughes-Jones to his air passage out: the news was rivetting to say the least. Reaching a quick decision, Shard said, “Send it through. Fastest route to Whitehall. And never mind any earlier orders from Mr Hedge.”

  “The train will be the fastest now, Mr Shard.”

  “Train it is, then. I’ll arrange for the escort to be met off the next train arriving from Cardiff.” Shard slammed down the handset. The Inter-City would leave Cardiff Central at 2130 and would reach London at 2320 hours, bringing evidence: evidence that Shard was not going to suppress. He called Hedge, who was waiting in his room until Hughes-Jones had been reported as safely despatched. He said, “There’s been a development, Hedge.”

  “Well?”

  Shard said bleakly, “A leg.”

  “Leg?”

  “Megan Hughes-Jones’s leg, positively identified by one who knows, is coming to Paddington by Inter-City. It’s too late to interfere now, Hedge. There are a few cast dice around tonight.” He cut the call, leaving Hedge to come to the verge of a stroke. No knighthoods now, only sharp rebukes from above for making a cock-up of it. As for Hughes-Jones, it would be prison here in Britain. He could hardly be despatched now; Kolotechin was the real loser, but defectors had always faced the risk to their families. Shard, still regretful for an innocent woman and her son, rang Beth to say he would be home that night, late. Probably more like the dawn.

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