Blood Run East
Page 22
“What is it, Hedge?”
“Lavington.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead. A sudden and massive heart attack. It was too much for him — last night, you know.”
“He’s no loss.” Shard rubbed at his eyes: they were stinging with tiredness and reaction. “Hedge, the fact that he was Katie’s father. Security’s got a lot to answer for there.”
“Yes indeed,” Hedge said smugly. “Defence security — not us! A bad show, of course, but it’s happened many times before. Lavington was clever — so was the girl. Even your friend O’Riordan didn’t know! Naturally there’ll be an enquiry and heads will roll.” Hedge pondered, pulling at his chin. “As a matter of fact, Shard, Lavington did a little more talking before death supervened. About —”
“About Power of Islam — this Mullah character?”
Hedge nodded, frowned, his pièce de resistance spoilt. “I got it out of him —”
“You, Hedge? On your own?”
Hedge flushed. “Actually I sent for your friends Smith, Brown and Jones — remember? The flat in Knightsbridge? They were a help. I regret to say the Mullah’s safely in the Middle East, but his wings are to be clipped shortly. There will be … intense diplomatic activity, shall we say.” He was full of self-satisfaction now, resilient as ever. “There’s certain work I shall turn over to you — I have names and addresses, meeting points — it was a biggish organisation and we should net a full bag. I do believe I can say the threat will not recur, Shard.”
Shard said, “There’s still Katie. We have to think what to do with her.”
“Not our concern, my dear fellow —”
“Ah, but your recommendation will go a good deal of the way! Along the line, I made proposals about her father … if she talked. She did talk, Hedge. She saved the day — remember? I think my proposal should hold good for her, now.”
Hedge fidgeted. “What are you suggesting?”
“After the questioning, back on the blood run — if she wants to. In the circumstances, she just may not. But she must have the chance. I want you to recommend it, Hedge.”
“Well, I don’t know that I shall.” Hedge was frigid, drawing himself up. “After what’s been done —”
“Oh well,” Shard said, sounding casual. “Let’s change the subject, shall we. Hedge?” He paused. “How about you?”
“Me?”
“I’ve no doubt you’ve put a report in already. Have you, by any chance, had any advance reactions — about you personally, I mean?”
“Oh — I follow. Yes.” There was the hint of a smirk, of more preening self-satisfaction and thoughts of glory. “As a matter of fact, the Head of Department did say … not too precisely, of course … something about recognition in due course. An honour. You know the sort of thing.”
Shard nodded. “Oh, yes. Courage, adherence to duty — conduct beyond the call of duty. Heroism, remarkable endurance, an unwillingness to admit defeat, thus ensuring the nation’s security. Right, Hedge?”
Hedge evidently felt obliged to deprecate. He looked coy. “Oh, that’s going perhaps too far.”
“It is, isn’t it.”
“And naturally — in view of my position, my role — it would have to be ascribed to something else.”
“Yes, indeed,” Shard said pleasantly. “Such as moans about chills and mud … having to be half carried … and you almost had a nasty accident when Lavington started screaming, didn’t you. Hedge? Then there was your pharmaceutical pack. You could become a laughing-stock if people were nasty-minded enough. I was there, remember?” He added, grinning, “So was Katie Farrell, Hedge.”
Hedge’s mouth opened and shut again, his face went from pink to violent orange, and he simmered. He swung away and went out, slamming the door behind him, hard. Shard grinned again, stretched and telephoned for a cup of coffee. Later, when he went up to Hedge’s office. Hedge was busily making out a claim for a new Savile Row suit, cost four hundred guineas, and a pair of hand-made town shoes from a bootmaker in Jermyn Street.
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