Blood Run East

by Philip McCutchan

  “Out from Worthing. They cluster there from all over, just to die.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s flat the other side of the Downs. So in fact they don’t die. They linger and proliferate — I don’t mean sexually, of course! They get added to from year to year — quite a problem, they say.”

  Shard followed him out of the car park and along a muddy, rutted track climbing Ringwards. He said, “I have a great-aunt of my wife’s there.”

  Bentley laughed again. “My God, who hasn’t! I ask you! I’ve travelled the world … and I’ve never been anywhere that you don’t find an Englishman who has, or has had, an elderly relative living in Worthing. It’s almost a conversation starter …” For his part, Bentley had come to the end of conversation; he began to puff. The climb was steep, all right, even for Shard who was a good deal younger. After some twenty minutes, Bentley uttered again: “There. See it?” He waved an arm ahead at a flatfish concrete-slabbed structure, overgrown and with two of the slabs smashed in. Bentley was livid. “Vandals!” he said bitterly. “Security-wise it’s not important, but …” He looked aside. In some trees nearby was indication that not all the area was geriatric: a couple sat in oblivious fondle, long-haired and in jeans, doing everything but the sex act itself. Bentley gave a sniff and said, “Damn! We’ll have to keep our voices down.”

  “They’ll never, never notice! All the same, I’m with you.” They closed the crummy structure’s broken-down concrete, incongruous cover for what was breeding below. Leaning over the gap in the roof, Bentley said, “Water-tank. It’s deep. Not used now, of course.”

  “Relative position?”

  “Smack on top of the upper lobby.”

  “Secure?”

  “Yes. Lavington won’t have his damn germs drowned if that’s what you mean. It’s been reinforced from below.”

  Shard nodded. “Positively no way in?”

  “One can never quite say that, but they’d have to cut through metal.”

  “A bomb?”

  Bentley shrugged. “Oh, a really sizeable one would go through anything — you know that! A typical terrorist bomb would hardly cut much ice, I’d think. I’m not unduly worried.” He paused, gave an exclamation, peered closer, then put a hand on Shard’s shoulder, and Shard felt a tension coming through from him. “I say, Shard … we’re not alone, I rather think! D’you see?”

  “They’re paying no attention to us, Major —”

  “No, no! Not those uninhibited louts. Down there.” He pointed through the shattered roof. “There’s a body!”

  “What!”

  “Look for yourself.” Bentley moved aside, and Shard peered down, focussing through gloom and a rising smell of putrid water. After a while he saw it: something floating, face down he fancied, clothing bagged out, ballooned with air — or decomposition gas. Staring intently, he saw an arm.

  “It’s a body right enough,” he said.

  “Do we get it out?”

  “It’s very dead. It’ll keep a little longer.” He inclined his head back towards the concupiscent couple in the trees. “If we bring it out now, it’ll register even with them — perhaps. I’d sooner not risk it.”

  Bentley glanced at his face. “See a connexion with you-know-what, do you?”

  “I don’t know, but there just could be, couldn’t there? We’ll leave it, Major. I’ll have a word with the local police and get it brought up after dark.”

  “As you say, Shard. In the meantime, what?”

  “Back to Wiston House. I’ll call my chief from there, if I may.”

  “Of course.”

  Shard stood up straight. “In the midst of life …” he murmured half to himself, but Bentley heard.

  “There’s always replacements coming along,” he said in a tone of disgust. “Just look at that!” Shard looked: the loving couple had been unable to wait and were deep in copulation. Bentley nodded towards the thing in the water-tank. “Some conception ground,” he remarked witheringly, “for some poor little bastard to look back on in years to come!”

  *

  At full dark Shard and Bentley accompanied Sussex Police on their macabre journey, squelching through greasy, slippery mud made worse by rain in the interval, rain that was still falling. The police Land-Rover had made it higher up than Bentley’s car, but it was still a longish haul behind the torches, and a weird one as the light flickered through the trees, throwing trunks and branches into silver relief. At the water-tank a frogman went in with a line: his job was quickly done. The corpse was hauled up: it was bloated and horrible. A good deal of the clothing had gone and in the torch-light there was a full frontal view: Shard, even though his mind had begun to work along certain lines that had their origins more in fantasy and a vivid imagination than in strict reasoning, had a considerable shock: the corpse was female and the damaged, bloated face held a familiarity … and when the police surgeon moved the lower clothing a little more he saw scarring and a birthmark that were still recognisable.

  In a voice he scarcely knew as his own he asked, “How long, Doctor? How long dead?”

  “That’s very hard to say with any accuracy. My first impression is that death wasn’t due to drowning anyway. There are indications, but I don’t know, I don’t know at all.”

  He looked up. “A snap opinion, Mr Shard: she’s been dead for more than a week, maybe much more. Will that do?”

  “But —” Shard broke off, biting his lip.

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind, Doctor. Let’s get her away. I want to get her to Wiston House — but that’s not to be talked about afterwards. I’d like every body to come with me, including you, Doctor.”

  Amid a curious tension, and in growing fear on Shard’s part, the corpse was wrapped first in a polythene bag and then in heavy canvas and placed on a stretcher: Shard, obeying his instincts, had restricted the handling of the body to the police surgeon, the frogman and the two constables who had hauled it up from the tank. The bearers trudged down through the mud to the Land-Rover, slipping dangerously from time to time. In the light from the torches the bundle was put into the back of the Land-Rover; the policemen clambered in, those who had not been in contact keeping clear, to Shard’s repeated order, of the canvas. The Land-Rover was reversed down the track, turned, and driven fast for Wiston House. No-one seemed inclined to speak. On arrival Shard ordered the men to get down and muster clear of the vehicle and await his orders. Then he turned to Bentley. “A word in your ear,” he said. They walked a little apart, and Shard said in a low, tense voice, “I identify the corpse, Major. Timewise it can’t possible be — but it is! The operation scars and the birthmark on the fringe of the pubic hairs. I’ve seen them before.”

  Bentley’s tone was dry. He sniffed. “Really?”

  “I’d rather say no more for the moment. I’ll be in touch with the FO right away, but first there’s something else, Major.”

  “Well?”

  “The time factor. What the doctor said — and you’ve seen the body for yourself. Even the doctor was stymied for what killed her, but I have a pretty fair idea myself —”

  “What, Shard?”

  Shard said, “You’ll have to send for Lavington and any more of his team you can muster. We’ll all have to be checked out now. Don’t go inside — ring a bell or something. And have it disinfected after.”

  His face like that of another corpse as realisation came to him, Bentley gave a gasp of horror and ran for the front door.

  7

  LAVINGTON TURNED UP in his car: behind him two more of the scientific staff arrived, followed closely by the establishment medical officer. Lavington kept his headlights on, beamed towards the group of policemen and the canvas-shrouded corpse in the back of the Land-Rover.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  Bentley gestured towards the corpse. “We found her in the water-tank — you know where I mean. She didn’t die from drowning. Or from gunshot. Or anything else like that.”


  “What are you saying, Major?” In the glare of light. Shard watched Lavington’s face: there was caution in it rather than fear or worry. Natural, perhaps: he was, as Bentley had said, the inside boss and he would need to be cautious in all he said in front of outsiders, even policemen. “Are you suggesting …”

  Bentley nodded. “Shard seems to think so.”

  Lavington said, “My God, no!” For a moment he seemed irresolute, then moved aside with the medical officer and held a hurried consultation. Coming back towards Shard he said, “We’d like you to wait here. Keep everyone just where they are now. Have they all been in contact with the body?”

  Shard said, “The frogman, the police surgeon, and two constables touched the body. That’s all. The rest of the men are clear.”

  The medical officer asked, “And you?”

  “No contact.”

  The doctor nodded. Lavington asked, “Why do you suspect —”

  “A question of time. I happen to know the woman.” Shard felt positive enough to say that with assurance: though the face had been unrecognisable, the evidence of the scarring and the peculiar birthmark was in his book conclusive. “I know she was alive the day before yesterday.” He paused. “You’d never think so now.”

  Again Lavington nodded. “Hold on. I’ll go and scrub up.” He turned away and went inside the building at the run, followed by the other new arrivals. Shard waited with Bentley and the police party: no-one spoke. Although the PCs didn’t know the score, had no knowledge of the facts of likely disease, they couldn’t fail to be aware of something way out of the ordinary about the death that lay shrouded in the Land-Rover. As they waited, more rain began to fall, blown into their faces by a rising wind. Shard’s thoughts rioted: why had Katie Farrell been brought here to die? Her killing he could understand, though it had happened much sooner than he would have predicted — than he had so confidently predicted to Hedge. But why here? And why, and how, the apparent disease? If his theories were confirmed by the experts, from where had the leak occurred, and how? He walked up and down in the blaze of Lavington’s headlights, trying to think things through, disregarding Bentley, oblivious of the cold rain and the wind sighing with eerie persistence through the trees. If the creeping filth was out into the world, in public circulation, where was it going to end?

  Lavington and his team came back: they hadn’t wasted time. They looked now like something from space, clad from head to foot in rubber overalls, with goggle-eyed helmets on their heads, and wearing long rubber surgical gloves. Lavington led them to the Land-Rover and they lifted the body out, laid it on the ground, and very carefully removed the canvas outer cover and the polythene bag. Lavington and the medical officer, Dr Andrews, made an examination, conferring together in whispers, probing the body entries, pressing the distended stomach, making much use of instruments, taking swabs that were sealed carefully in glass bottles and, finally, taking two samples by means of hypodermics, drawing off liquid from needles inserted at a flat angle into the stomach-lining.

  Andrews stood up with his samples, and gestured to Major Bentley. “That’s all for now, Major,” he said. “She’ll be wrapped up again while I make some lab tests. I’ll not keep you long.”

  “Any idea what it is?” Bentley asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Not yet. When I’ve done some work, I’ll know.” Andrews paused. “Did you touch the body at all?”

  Bentley said, “No, I didn’t.”

  “Positive?”

  “Positive. Shard, too. Does that mean we’re in the clear?”

  Andrews said, “It may. I don’t know that yet either. You’ll have to wait.” He moved towards the door into the building, then turned. “The body. What do we do with it?”

  Bentley glanced at Shard. Shard said, “I’d like it kept here. Have you the facilities. Doctor?”

  “Yes, we have, but I’m not too sure of the legal position.”

  “Just leave that to me,” Shard said. “All I ask of you is safe stowage and total silence.”

  Again they waited as Andrews and Lavington went back inside, waited with the rain falling along the wings of the restless wind: one of the worst waits of Shard’s life.

  *

  From Hedge, Shard, back in London, accepted a large whisky, neat. It went down fast. Hedge refilled the tumbler; Shard took the second more slowly, beginning to feel better. Sitting in a comfortable chair, he said, “It had some dreamed-up Latin name, but colloquially it’s known as the bloating sickness. The victims just — swell.”

  “And that causes death?”

  “The skin bursts. Hedge. Everything comes out. Yes, it causes death. It can be arrested by immersion.”

  “That was what happened, was it? To Katie Farrell?”

  Shard shrugged. “Apparently. I asked myself why they immersed her, why they bothered if she was meant to die anyway. Why undo their own work?”

  “But they didn’t undo it, since she did die anyway.”

  “I know. The mystery deepened. I came up with two theories, and they’re only guesswork really: one, they threw her in and stood around to observe the reactions — just an added bit of nastiness, of sadism. Or two, she was left up there to die, managed to move around, saw the water-tank, and dropped in to try to save herself, and died in the act.”

  “Pre-supposing she knew the facts?”

  “Yes. They could have told her … just for the gloat.” Shard blew out a long breath. “None of this explains why they did it there — sort of drawing attention to the area — or how they acquired the disease germs. It explains the initial assumption of the police surgeon that death had taken place a week ago, which I knew was impossible even though there was all the appearance of the body having been dead that long.”

  “These germs … they’re strictly Porton?”

  “Very! It’s one of Lavington’s cultures. Not, as it happens, the most persistent, though —”

  “But always lethal?”

  “Unless immersion takes place quickly, and even then it leaves its filthy traces behind — what’s been ravaged stays ravaged. Once caught you’re never the same again — that is, once it gets a grip. An injection, a painful one, within three hours of exposure is totally effective.”

  Hedge grimaced. “I trust you’re in the clear. Shard?”

  “You needn’t start feeling for bloat. Hedge. I didn’t touch the body. I was in the clear from the start, but I insisted on the injection just to make it one hundred per cent positive. That’s how I can vouch for the pain, which is bloody.”

  “And the water — the tank on Chanctonbury Ring?”

  “That’s okay too. Water doesn’t conduct it, or whatever the medical term may be. On the contrary, as I said, it inhibits it.”

  “Ah, yes, yes. So climbers, picnic parties — they’re quite safe?”

  “Yes. For now anyway.”

  Hedge raised an eyebrow. “For now?”

  “I think the whole area may be at risk. Hedge. There’s been an obvious leak and we don’t know how far it went. Other things may have leaked at the same time, mightn’t they?”

  Hedge’s face whitened. “I presume you had a check made?”

  “Yes, I did. Lavington reports no tampering, no shortfall that he can see, but you can’t see shortfalls with cultures and what-not that are self-proliferating, can you? Lavington’s checking the other stowages around the South Downs — he’s OC the lot. He’ll be working through the night and has promised a report first thing in the morning — this morning, now.” Shard looked at the clock on Hedge’s chimneypiece — French, all gilt and blue enamel and faintly pansy, like the one he had in his room at the FO. “I can’t do any more now. Hedge. I’m for home and bed unless there’s anything else you want to know.”

  “No.” Hedge got up and gloomed around the drawingroom, looking lonely: he’d told Shard his wife was showing signs of some improvement but it was clearly going to be a long while before she was allowed home. In the meantime her description of her
kidnappers had been too vague to be useful and although she had been able to talk she had no further information about the threat to Porton Down and its products: just a snatch of overheard talk about a bombing, no details, no times or dates. Hedge had said, rather pathetically, “You were wrong, Shard. She did talk to me.” When Shard had pressed, he’d said his wife had positively no more to give and he didn’t want her bothered again. Now, Hedge, from the depths of his gloom, said, “When you hear from Lavington, we’ll talk again.”

  “Right.” Shard got to his feet. “We’ll have to consider protection for the general Worthing area, I think.”

  “Won’t that depend on what Lavington says?”

  “Yes, up to a point. I still think even Lavington can’t be sure. What we know is that the bloating sickness has been on the loose. We have to reckon with that, Hedge.”

  “Security still has to be preserved. We have to catch these people.”

  Shard gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t I know it! We still need to be — humane. Hedge.”

  “Well, it won’t be up to us, will it? All I can do is make recommendations.” Hedge took up the whisky decanter. “Another before you go?”

  “No.” Shard gave a humourless smile. “It’s sleep I need above all else.”

  *

  The Ealing house was in darkness, all long gone to bed: Shard, opening his gate, was approached by a long-haired young man in flared trousers.

  “Just a moment. What do you want in this house?”

  “Bed, just bed.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  Shard gave it, briefly palmed his official identification.

  A small torch came out, was flashed in Shard’s eyes: the okay was given, with apologies. “It’s all right,” Shard said, “I’m delighted you’re alert. Goodnight, and thanks for your trouble.”

  “A pleasure, sir.”

  Shard went up the path and put his key in the lock. Inside, he crept upstairs. When he got to the bedroom, Beth was awake. “Simon!” she said, not surprised: she was used to his movements.

  He grinned and bent to kiss her: but remembering, he held back just before their lips met. He felt unclean, and never mind Lavington’s assurances, so positively uttered. Looking down at Beth, he saw Katie Farrell in the water-tank: a brief image, but unutterably horrible. He drew away.