Blood Run East

by Philip McCutchan

  “What about the rest of the staff, Hedge?”

  “Staff?”

  “You have a cook,” Shard said remindingly.

  “Oh — yes. Mrs Morton, the wife.” Hedge gestured down towards the corpse on the floor. “She’s away … a sick sister in Leeds.”

  “Due back when?”

  “I don’t know — tomorrow, I think. My wife —” Hedge broke off. “My wife’s gone, Shard. And she’s hurt — that blood near the front door.” He covered his puffy fat face with his hands and his shoulders shook more than ever. Shard murmured words of comfort and reassurance, but thought his own thoughts. The man, Morton, was in pyjamas: forensic would give the time of death in due course, but for now sometime during the night would have to suffice. During the night, Hedge’s wife could be presumed to have been in bed — at any rate, not out and about and unaccounted for. Hedge’s wife wasn’t the sort for night-life while Hedge was working. If this had happened within, say, the last couple of hours, then she might well have gone out for some early shopping — but since Morton was wearing pyjamas it hadn’t: so something rather nasty had happened to Hedge’s wife. Shard asked, “Any ideas, Hedge?”

  “Nothing specific. My job — this sort of thing has always been on the cards.”

  Shard nodded absently, murmuring half to himself, “Someone who came in — right in, was admitted … someone known to your wife and to Morton?”

  “I don’t see —”

  “I could be wrong. Hedge, the door to the servants’ quarters: it’s open. Did you open it?”

  “I went down to look for my wife, of course. But the door was open when I went down and naturally I left it as it was. Nothing’s been touched —”

  “Fine. Where do the Mortons sleep — not in the basement?”

  “Attic.”

  “Sure. Well, the front door bell rings and Morton comes down in pyjamas. He doesn’t go down below first — or I presume he doesn’t — he goes straight to the front door and answers it. He lets someone in and calls your wife. Then he goes down to the kitchen to wait till this visitor leaves. For some reason — maybe when he hears sounds of departure — he comes up to the hall again.”

  “And is killed.”

  “Yes. Think hard, Hedge. Someone known, trusted, but with a reason to … do what he, or she, has done.”

  “I can’t. I’m not in a fit state.” True enough, Hedge’s usually pink face looked ghastly, a sort of dead white around the gills with a high flush over the cheek-bones. Suddenly, he slumped into a chair by the side of the mahogany chest. “You could be all wrong, Shard. There could be plenty of reasons for Morton going to the basement before answering the door … he could have been down there already, couldn’t he?”

  “He could, I suppose. A cup of tea — anything. But I’d say a well-trained servant usually shuts doors behind him, wouldn’t you, Hedge?”

  “Is it important?”

  Shard said quietly, “It could be, for the reasons I’ve given. It could narrow the field. But after forensic’s been, we’ll have more to go on time-wise. I suggest you call Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, Hedge.”

  “I’m not having that man here, poking and prying.”

  “But —”

  Hedge got violently to his feet, shaking, his face more than ever livid and his voice high again. “You heard what I said, Shard. This stays with us. We have more know-how … more finesse than Hesseltine’s people when it comes to this sort of thing —”

  “You mean you think there’s a Security aspect, Hedge?”

  “Of course!” Hedge snapped.

  Shard shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but it could still be wiser to let the Yard cope from the start. We’re going to need their network anyway before it goes much farther.” He hesitated. “Tell me how your mind’s shaping on this, Hedge.”

  Hedge stared, licked his lips, swallowed, then sat down again, looking huddled and old. “All right. I’ve no idea who, none at all — I can’t say if you’re right or wrong about someone trusted in my house. But I believe it could connect with —”

  “With the blood run — Katie Farrell?”

  Wordlessly, Hedge nodded.

  “A hostage, by Christ,” Shard said between his teeth. “Your wife, to guarantee nothing untoward happens on passage?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, yes.”

  Shard turned away, feeling sickened afresh as he looked at the dead man and at the drops of blood leading towards the front door. Maybe he was too soft for his job, but he had never got used to the idea of the suffering innocents who had become a feature of the day and age — the day and age of varying kinds of terrorism and hatred. When troops or police got hurt, it was bad enough, but at least their involvement was of a different kind, and they knew what they faced: not so the hijacked, the kidnapped, the peaceful beer-drinkers in the pubs, the commuters at the railway stations. And now Hedge’s wife: she brought it closer home even though she had always been a shadowy figure in Hedge’s background, seldom met in the flesh and seeming timid in company, well-connected and a little bovine — an aristocratic cow … Shard caught himself up: God knew what the poor woman was facing now! He turned back to Hedge.

  “Do you want me to take charge?”

  Hedge looked up, staring bleakly. “You’ve a job to do already. I want you to stay with it more than ever — I’ll be relying on you absolutely now, Shard.”

  “I’ll not let you down.”

  “I know. You’re a good man, Shard. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but —” Hedge broke off, seemed to make an effort. “I’ll speak to the Head of Department myself. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you’d, put things in motion, you know what I mean.”

  Shard nodded, thinking about ambulances and fingerprints and, more importantly perhaps, overall discretion. “My detective inspector’s on leave, but Kenwood’s a first-rate DS. I’ll get him round at once. I’ll use your closed line if you don’t mind.”

  *

  Back in Seddon’s Way Shard cleared his desk for what could be a longish absence and then rang Beth, feeling on edge as he did so. What Hedge believed had happened to his wife could also happen to Beth. When his home telephone was answered it wasn’t Beth, it was Mrs Micklam.

  “Oh — Mother-in-law. Where’s Beth?”

  “She’s gone out, Simon.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t cross-examine her. I’m not a policeman.”

  Shard held onto his temper. “I may not be able to call again. I have to go north this afternoon and I expect to be away some days, a week, maybe longer — Beth’ll understand.” He hesitated. “Gone shopping — has she?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Well — give her my love.” He added, before ringing off, “And tell her to take care of herself. Don’t forget that.” He cut the call on the beginnings of a long rattle from Mrs Micklam: the only way to preserve discretion with Mrs Micklam was to be decisive and then face the music later. After he had rung off, Shard sat for a few moments in thought, frowning, then with a sudden movement of determination took up his security line and called the Head of Department direct without going through the normal Hedge-screen.

  “Shard, sir. Do I take it Hedge has been in touch by now?”

  The cold voice, cold like gunmetal, said, “You do. What’s this about?”

  “My wife, sir. I’m asking for protection in my absence on duty.”

  “A little extreme?” The voice was colder than ever.

  “I don’t think so, sir. I think she could be at risk. I stress the word, risk. Personal considerations apart, we don’t want to be hamstrung twice over.”

  There was a pause, then: “Point taken. She’ll be under surveillance, if that sets your mind at rest.”

  “It does. Thank you, sir.” The call was cut; Shard’s face lightened a little. He checked through the hand-case that always stood ready in his office for sudden journeys, opened his safe and took out an automatic.
He checked the slide, removed his jacket and pulled on a shoulder holster. Then he went out for a pub lunch in the Strand, an early snack; at 1355 hours a taxi dropped him and his hand-case in Knightsbridge, one street away from his notified destination. Lighting a cigarette as the taxi pulled back into the traffic, he looked around, sharp-eyed but casual, and moved off. No tail that he could identify, but no amount of experience could ever absolutely guarantee safety against good tails. At 1400 hours on the dot he rang a bell in a block of flats in Hans Crescent, feeling curiously glad, never mind the address, of the hard shape of the automatic beneath his arm-pit.

  2

  SHARD WAS ADMITTED by an elderly man, straight-backed and moustached like an ex-sergeant-major. He was taken along a thickly-carpeted hall, moving soundlessly on the pile, and ushered into a large room, a drawing-room furnished in leaf green with immense, comfortable arm-chairs, and heavy velvet curtains of a darker green beside two tall windows, double-glazed: nothing of London’s traffic could be heard in this gracious, elegant apartment. Three men were seated, talking in low voices; all got up when Shard was announced. The first man to greet him underlined the military aspect initiated by the doorkeeper: small and perky, bright-eyed, clipped moustache, soldierly bearing, grey hair cut short back and sides.

  “Colonel Smith,” this man said briefly. “So you’re Shard. I don’t envy you your job, I must say, but we’ll go into all that shortly. Meanwhile let me introduce these gentlemen.” He waved a hand at a tall, thin man, clean shaven and bald, with a face that was vaguely familiar to Shard. “Mr Jones,” he said.

  Shard took Mr Jones’s hand, just familiar enough with the face to know that he was no Mr Jones; and his suspicion that Colonel Smith was also using cover was confirmed when the third man was introduced as Mr Brown. Smith, Jones and Brown: he, Shard, was clearly to know no more than that. It intrigued him: three nameless men, men of an obvious if quiet authority, the men of power and decision who normally lurked, faceless as well as nameless, behind the scenes of Whitehall.

  Smith gave a small cough, and gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit down. Relax. Drink?”

  Shard nodded. “I could do with a whisky, thanks.”

  “Coming up.” Smith went over to a walnut table, on which stood decanters, tumblers and a soda siphon on a silver tray. Shard sat, sinking into the chair’s enfolding comfort, the last comfort, probably, he would know for some time — if things should go wrong. He met Smith’s eye as the Colonel came across with the whisky. Smith seemed to be a mind-reader — or just a man of much experience.

  “Worried, Shard?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “No more than usual, I’d say.”

  “Good! I must warn you, we expect opposition. Strong opposition.”

  “Not surprising,” Shard said. “May I ask who from, in particular?”

  “You may indeed.” Smith stood with a straight back, one hand behind his rump. “We expect opposition from certain gentlemen who’ve formed themselves into one of these private armies we hear so much about — and because they disapprove most strongly of what we’re about to do with Miss Farrell.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Shard said bluntly, “so do I!”

  “And so say all of us,” Smith murmured, his eyes glinting a little. “But what has to be done, has to be done, and that’s all about it. The facts of life have undergone a change, Shard. The country cannot, I repeat cannot, do without oil and expediency is king. My heart bleeds for all our consciences, but there it is. Oh, I know we’re all bastards, no point in denying it! The opposing gentry have their heads well and truly in the sand as regards our oil position and that’s no help to anybody, is it?”

  Shard didn’t respond; he said, “So there’s been a leak already, has there?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “D’you know where from?”

  “If we did, the long knives would be out by now. No, of course we don’t. Nor — although they’ve contacted us — do we know who’s involved in this private army. All I can say is, it’s not the known ones, they’ve been checked out.”

  “Is there an Ulster overtone?”

  Smith shook his head, brought out a pipe and began to stuff it with Three Nuns, dribbling curly fragments onto his trouser-knees. “We think not. That is, we know not — the various set-ups there are among those checked out. But I wouldn’t entirely rule out some unofficial connexions — some splinter groups acting independently perhaps, although I’ve no evidence that points that way. Any way, come to that!”

  “But it would add up, wouldn’t it?”

  “Very much so, which is why I’m keeping an open mind. You’ll need to do the same, Shard. And a sharp lookout as well. I’m afraid it’s going to be a case of enemies on every hand. You won’t be able to let up until you make the hand-over — there could be an attempted snatch at any time. By the way — your friend Hedge.”

  “What about him?”

  “His wife.”

  “You know about that?”

  “We know more than you do, currently. A telephone message, anonymous and from a call-box, reached his office on the stroke of 1300 hours, and I was informed. They’ve got her, Shard.”

  “Which side?”

  “The oil interests. The ones we’re in effect working for, God damn ’em! If anything stops our woman reaching the hand-over point, which by the way is yet to be announced, then Hedge is a widower. His good lady is the oil men’s safeguard.”

  “Unless she can be cut out.”

  “She can’t be.”

  “You’re not going to try?”

  “No.” The Colonel’s voice was crisp. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know better than that. Risks have to be calculated, and this one’s not on. Your success is the only guarantee.”

  Shard took a gulp at the whisky: he felt a sinking sensation in his guts, one that the whisky failed to assuage. Less and less did he like the sound of this job. Danger was around him always, everywhere — danger to himself; this, with a natural degree of reluctance, he could accept. He’d known the score when he’d accepted secondment from the factory, as the Yard was known in his circles. But the knowledge that any slip on his part could kill off Hedge’s wife was a big load in itself and could result in over-reaction, in over-edginess: Hedge was a strain at the best of times … Shard put Hedge from his mind as Colonel Smith, speaking with a quiet emphasis, passed his route and pick-up orders. The route orders were incomplete, adding little to what he had already been told by Hedge: Southampton-Cherbourg and at Cherbourg a man would make contact in the Hotel Sofitel, a man named Paul Legrain, a Frenchman. Shard’s guess was that the Cherbourg contact would merely hand him on down the line to the next check-point as it were. He said, “I suppose a Cherbourg hand-over’s been tried out on them, Colonel?”

  “Of course. They insist that’s not on. One can see their logic, one must admit. They’re not naïve.”

  Shard gave a sardonic smile: they would be far from naïve! Britain was Britain; but France was France and while the French — and anyone else whose territory was to be crossed by the blood run — might choose to wink at what the British Government was doing, they could conceivably decide to block the crossing of frontiers once Katie Farrell was no longer a British liability but their own. When that happened, they would have their own problems. Shard accepted another whisky while Smith, with occasional comment from Messrs Jones and Brown, went on talking. Katie Farrell’s past, or such of it as was known, was filled in — the bombings and shootings and political affiliations that had led to her recent and unpublicised arrest by the security forces inside Britain. Her mother had died some five years earlier — she had been an Irishwoman living in Birmingham and a staunch IRA supporter. There were no other living relatives. The mother had been unmarried, and there was no information as to the identity of Katie’s father: Farrell was her mother’s maiden name. She maintained that she had never known her father and had no idea who he had been.

  “It doesn’t real
ly matter now, does it,” Shard said bleakly. “We’ll be rid of her — for a while, anyway — and she’ll be richly rewarded by the oil sheikhs, as I gather from Hedge.” He lifted an eyebrow at Smith. “I accept that I’m just the blood-run operator this time, but I’d like to know a little more about the Eastern involvement. Colonel.”

  Smith glanced across at Mr Brown: Brown gave a nod. Smith said. “Petrodollars, to use a convenient phrase. Recycling.”

  “But not through the banking system?”

  “No. To subversive elements — any elements subversive to Britain’s interests. The oil revenue surpluses are right behind Katie Farrell, Shard, and in broad basis. I’m ashamed to say, it’s those surpluses, plus of course the threat of tap-turning, that’s getting her out now.” Smith used a phrase that Hedge had used earlier. “I’d prefer to be no more precise than that. Shard. I’m sure you understand.”

  *

  The sergeant-majorly man came in with China tea and biscuits: after partaking, Brown and Jones left. Shard knew that their anonymity was safe, that the flat would be equally anonymous, totally unconnected, and would after his own departure be vacated by all the cloak-and-dagger brigade. A passport was produced by Colonel Smith, a double passport in the names of Mr and Mrs Garrett — Andrew and Jill. Shard stared at his photograph, at Katie Farrell’s. Passport photographs were passport photographs, but she looked sexy just the same. Her life had been a waste of natural talent, Shard thought, she was built more for bed than for the bullet and the bomb. He scrawled his signature in the space provided, then studied the signature of his temporary wife: it was bold and vigorous and full of character. He was going to have his hands full … he looked up at Colonel Smith.