Blackmail North

by Philip McCutchan

  She shook her head. “Positively no mistake. He had a scar, a deep one, right the way from forehead to chin. Fizz was positive. He was even wearing the same gear, a light blue safari jacket with sort of gold trimming on the lapels, and black flared trousers. And there was something about his eyes … kind of piercing and — and nasty.”

  “Did this man recognise Fizz?” Shard asked.

  “No. That is, we’re sure he didn’t. No reason why he should, she’s ordinary enough to look at.”

  “Okay. And after? Did you follow?”

  “We tried to. We went out, but he’d gone. The pub was on a corner and there were lots of turnings off both streets. After that we walked back to where I’d left my Mini.” She paused, then added “That’s when we saw him again.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In a car, a Lada, one of those Russian-made Fiats — you know? Nothing too out of the ordinary to look at — not expensive or flashy. But there was something funny about it, a scrape — funny to me, anyway. It wouldn’t have registered with many people, taking the country as a whole.” Aurora drank the remains of the orange juice and went on, “There was this bad scrape on the roof of all places. It was pretty deeply scored, and it had particles of schist sticking to it.”

  Shard lifted an eyebrow. “Schist?”

  “Schist. It’s rock basically, usually of a fissile character — it’s made up of thin films, or folia, of various minerals. Schists belong to the metamorphic series, you get them mostly in parts of the world that are made up of very old and much disturbed strata … the Scottish highlands, in Anglesea, in the Green Mountains in America … Canada, Norway, the Alps. Right?”

  “I don’t really get it, or am I thick?”

  She leaned forward. “Here’s the point: Schists are bloody uncommon in the Pennines. In Scotland, you get them by the roadsides, the rocks are full of them in, for instance, the country around Loch Laggan. The most usual variety is mica-schist, which has layers of mica alternating with quartz and felspar, and quite often it’s contorted, or crumpled. Chloriate-schist, horneblende-schist —”

  “Yes, quite —”

  “Talc-schist, graphite-schist, I could go on all night —”

  “I’m sure, but —”

  “They differ from the gniesses — you know?-in being much more finely foliated, or banded. They don’t usually have fossils —”

  “Aurora!”

  “I —” She broke off. “Oh — sorry! I get kind of carried away. I’m interested. I’ll get back to the point. In Scotland anyway, you could touch your car against schist-bearing rock beside the road and get a scrape. You don’t normally scrape your roof, not unless you’re a bloody awful driver. Get it?”

  “No. How do you scrape your roof?”

  She said, “This has made me do a lot of thinking, and the only way I can dream up of getting a schist scrape on your roof is this: in a cave, mate! Are you getting warm?”

  Shard had given a whistle of sheer surprise. He said, “Hot as hell! Go on. This interests me.”

  “I thought it might. Well, the way I see it, this Arab had driven his car into a cave mouth and gone a bit too far. Why does a man drive his car into a cave? It doesn’t make sense — but that happens to be how I see it.”

  “It could make plenty of sense to me,” Shard said. “But you’re saying this cave isn’t in Yorkshire, but in Scotland or —”

  “Not so. I said schist was rare in Yorkshire. Rare, not totally absent. There’s just one line of it, with one deep series of caves on it — you don’t normally get caves where there’s schist, that’s to say a cave wouldn’t be formed in schist. Schist isn’t worn away by water, you see. The cave is under a layer of schist — the roof is schist —”

  “You know where this is?”

  She nodded. “Yes. And the entry, once you’ve found it, could take a car. I’ve been there, I’m an enthusiast, you can’t keep me away. Not many people know about it, as a matter of fact, because of the rarity value the geologists play it down and hope to keep the tourists away. They succeed, too.” She paused, frowning. “Something tells me you’re about to ask me to take you there. Right?”

  “Right,” Shard said in a crisp tone. “Are you willing?”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “Aren’t all caves?”

  “Well, yes. They vary. They all need to be treated with respect, except perhaps the tourist spots like Ingleborough — and even there you have to watch out for Gaping Ghyll if you’re walking around up top — and White Scar and Blue Cross. But this one, it’s called The Hangman, is bloody dangerous at certain times —”

  “What times?”

  She said, “After rain. There’s an underground waterfall and the place can fill very suddenly. There’s been enough rainfall the last few; hours to put hell out.” She hesitated, scanning Shard’s and Kenwood’s faces “You still want to go, don’t you?”

  *

  Shard had told her not to feel forced but any help would be welcome and would play its part in the arrest of the men who had killed her sister. She said she would do better than just lead them direct to the main cave: there was a secondary entry, a pothole high up that gave devious access to the system providing you knew the way to it in the first place and were able thereafter to thread through the drops and passages and tunnels. They got back in the car and headed for the nick in Barnard Castle as a first call. Shard rang the Foreign Office and got his duty DC, passing full details. “Inform the Head of Department,” he said, “and say I’d like Defence Ministry contacted — pass them the map reference and request supporting troops and vehicles to be moved closer but not too close. No aroused suspicions at this stage. No closer than, say, Hangman’s Level and Mucker Top to the north and west, Bewthwaite Tarn and Garside Moor south and east. All right?”

  “All right, sir.”

  “And the helicopters not, repeat not, to take a special interest in the area but to be ready to move in for the kill the moment they get the word.” Shard rang off and went into conference with the station officer, who shook his head dubiously but lost no time in providing Shard with a potholer’s feast: artificial-fibre ropes of a high breaking strain, and electron ladders — light-weight, wire-cable ladders with alloy rungs; proper boots for himself, Kenwood and the girl; pulley blocks, karibiners, helmets, extra torches, Thermos flasks of hot coffee, a survival kit and a surface party of a sergeant and two constables, all of them experienced potholers, who would follow in another vehicle with all the gear. Within half an hour of reporting they were on their way, heading south to the girl’s directions. Shard questioned her about the cave formation, fixing an image in his mind. She repeated her warning: “It’s bloody dangerous. Specially once the rain gets down the gullies and begins to fill the watercourses.”

  “Scared?” he asked, grinning in the darkness.

  She showed a flash of impatience. “Don’t be bloody stupid, mate, of course I am. But having dropped into it this far, I’ll stay.” The night grew worse if such were possible: rain bucketed down in torrents and the wind took the car in a mighty grip, making steering hard work. The car appeared to be a ship at sea, throwing up its bow wave to be dashed back over the bonnet and windscreen, a torment of almost solid water that from time to time overcame the wipers.

  Fourteen

  “GET UP AND MOVE.”

  “Oh, dear. I can’t see any reason why you should hold on to me, I really can’t.” Hedge, flabby cheeks wobbling, stared up pathetically at his tormentor and stayed put: all movement was effort.

  “Get up.”

  “I’m no use to you. You haven’t —” Hedge broke off; he had been about to say they hadn’t even questioned him, but decided in time that there was no point in bringing the fact too closely to their attention. “I mean to say, I’d have thought I was in the way, really.”

  “Yes. Get up.” Uthman aimed a kick at Hedge’s ribs as he lay soggily on the cave floor, upon which small pools of water were already forming. Hedge
gave a sharp cry, but scrambled up with surprising agility, only to sag back against the rock wall, his chest heaving. Water dripped onto his head from the roof. Uthman prodded him with the muzzle of an automatic. “Now walk ahead of me. Do not worry about being in the way. Use will come soon.”

  “What use?”

  “Patience, and you will see.”

  The steel pressed harder and Hedge got on the move, feet sliding on the smooth rock base until they met an unseen projection, and Hedge fell. Uthman’s torch, as he got up again, showed a bloodied face, badly torn. Hedge, who was not wearing well at all, stumbled on with a whimpering sound. This was appalling treatment: in the Foreign Office hierarchy he ranked with an Assistant Under-secretary of State, no less; he was suffering lèse majesté. He went on into the darkness so inadequately lit by the torch in Uthman’s hand. From the distance he heard sounds, a mixture of them: a hollow booming sound — terrifying, that; the caves had stood for millions of years, true, but the day might come when the hundreds of feet of rock and earth overhead could sag and crumble — and crush. This had indeed happened in the past and had been responsible for the emergence of the big, deep potholes, the grandfather potholes like Gaping Ghyll in the Ingleborough complex, big enough in its hollowed-out section below ground level to take St Paul’s Cathedral. Other noises: a sound of water falling, and occasionally the disembodied voices of men being fed through invisible cracks and tunnels like ghost-sounds from another world. Hedge felt stifled, dreadfully claustrophobic, and filled once again with overwhelming self-pity: he should have been in Edinburgh, repairing after his work session to the dignified comfort and splendour of the North British Hotel or dining at Holyrood House, or at the Officers’ Mess in the Castle, attended by deferential colonels. Instead he had Uthman and this frightful cave: fear and claustrophobia began to affect his breathing. He panted like a stag at bay, sucking in great gulps of air that seemed to do no good at all. Distantly he heard what sounded like a scream. His claustrophobia increased; the end was going to come soon, and never again would he see the light of God’s day. Ever since his first entry into the cave network the darkness had been absolutely total where the torches were not; darkness more total than anything Hedge could possibly have imagined. But all at once it seemed to go beyond totality: Uthman had switched off his torch and left a sudden darkness that was beyond the grave, a darkness that would never be lit again, and Hedge, giving an indeterminate sound, fainted. Uthman remained still, in an invisible attitude of listening.

  *

  The cars carrying Shard and his party were waved down at a roadblock as they approached the perimeter of what had become a military zone. Automatic weapons were being held ready for use as a sergeant of the Green Howards examined the leading car’s occupants in the light of a torch. Shard identified himself, showing his police pass, and the sergeant stepped back. “All right, carry on.” There were noises off, and through the mud and the rain strode an officer in combat dress under a cape; he and the sergeant conferred, and the officer bent his head through Shard’s window.

  “You’re Mr Shard, I understand. Delighted to meet you. I’m John Sharpe, major on the staff of General Eastham. Can you tell me your intentions?”

  “I can. I’m going in, major. I have a guide — I’m going to enter The Hangman by a different entry. You’ve been given the details, I expect?”

  “The theory about our man being holed up in The Hangman, yes. D’you want any help?”

  “We’ll manage. All I’m asking of the Army for the time being, is not to become too obvious. When the time comes, I’ll get a message through and I’ll make it as explicit as I can.”

  The major nodded. “Right. I’ll let Division know you’ve passed me. Good luck to you — all of you.” He stepped back, and Shard gave the word to the police driver to move on. They went past the upraised pole barrier; the headlights brought dull gleams from military transport and equipment, from mud-spattered tanks and other tracked and armoured vehicles bearing the insignia of the King’s Division and that of their own regiments within the Royal Armoured Corps. Mud was now everywhere, the flooded earth being washed down onto the roads to make driving more and more hazardous. Nevertheless, Shard kept the speed up: he had to make his move, his entry, before daylight. In Barnard Castle police headquarters he had collected Ordnance Survey maps of the area and whilst en route south had gone through them in detail, again and again, with Aurora Lindeman: now it was all there in his head, almost rock by rock, and in any case he would have the girl with him. He had no worries about missing the secondary entry: Aurora knew the ground too well, though she confessed she had never made the trip in darkness before. She had indicated a track where they would have to leave the cars and walk; it was quite a distance, but even so Shard decided to increase the foot slog in the interest of concealing the approach.

  “We’ll walk it from here,” he said, indicating a spot on a secondary road that was more than just a track, a road fringed in places by clumps of trees. “In cover if possible. I doubt if we’d have been able to take the car much closer in anyhow. We’d have bogged down.”

  Aurora said, “I don’t fancy walking, but I take your point. It’s a climb to the entry anyway.”

  “Why,” Shard asked, “is this cave called The Hangman? Or did it just grow?”

  She shook her head, staring through a windscreen that could have been a porthole in a submarine if submarines had had portholes. “It didn’t just grow, mate. A long time ago some potholers got themselves in a twist, literally. They were missing for years, they never did turn up, not alive I mean. It was they who discovered this entry, the one I’m aiming for now.”

  “You’d better explain,” Shard said.

  “All right. They went down this pothole on plain ropes, not rope ladders, and without a surface party. The theory is, they just secured the end of the ropes around a handy jag of rock, that’s all. Amateurs, no preparation. They were found at the bottom, or the bones were. Skulls all smashed in, fractures everywhere. Two of them had the ropes looped round their necks. As though they’d been hanged.” She said no more; Shard thought about what the station officer in Barnard Castle had said: potholing was like mountain-climbing in reverse and in pitch darkness. It was dangerous and you didn’t tackle the hard jobs until you’d served a long apprenticeship, and never mind Miss Lindeman’s personal expertise. The extent and quality of the equipment made the thin difference between life and death — very often literally. And normal potholers didn’t have to worry about the chances of Uthman’s mob waiting at the bottom of the shaft with guns pointed upwards.

  *

  In the main part of the cave, deep now into the hillside, Uthman flicked on his torch again: he had heard a false alarm, perhaps some water movement, perhaps a distortion of his own men’s voices. He put the beam on the heap that was Hedge, diagnosed the faint and rolled the body over with his foot, grinning.

  Hedge moaned, then mumbled something unintelligible to Uthman. Uthman said, “Get up. There is farther to go.”

  Hedge pulled himself up till he was half lying against the rock side of the tunnel, the tunnel scored out by rushing water over millions of long past years. He opened his mouth, but shut it again when the backglow of the torch showed him Uthman’s eyes, filled with cruelty. Hedge felt his cheeks go pale: Uthman was a dreadful man, capable of anything. He dragged himself up the rock, using it as a prop to regain his feet. The abominable walk continued, and Hedge nearly brained himself on a sinister pale greenish stalactite thrusting down from the roof. After a while the roof came lower, and Hedge had to bend. Then it came much, much lower and Hedge had to go down protestingly on all fours, and crawl. It was a terrible experience. Later again, though the roof remained terrifyingly low, the tunnel widened out and a channel appeared alongside the raised floor, a natural channel that was starting to run with water, crystal clear in Uthman’s torch. In fact the water sounds were increasing … but the walk went on again and on, and the sounds faded as the ro
of lifted and Hedge was able to rise upright again. It was most mysterious: Hedge liked the sounds of water, for they could mean that he was not so far from the surface, or at any rate that he was reasonably near some exit from this hell, this torment. When they faded his alarm increased again. He stopped, despair bringing him a determination not to move another step that might take him into something appalling.

  The automatic pressed. “Move, fat pig.”

  “No. Shoot me. I’d rather die. I can’t stand this any more.” Hedge’s voice rose to a scream. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  “I see. Turn round, then.”

  Hope leaped salmon-like. “Does this mean —”

  “Certainly.” Hedge turned, putting on a propitiatory look. He wondered if promises would help, promises of a safe conduct if he were to he released. Hope died when Uthman, without changing his expression, lashed out with the butt of the automatic, smashing it hard into Hedge’s face. Both lips split and a crown went in the front of his mouth, flying inwards as it broke from the root so that he almost swallowed it. Fears of pain, rage, fear and frustration started; Hedge didn’t wait for the order. He turned again, and lumbered on, shoulders sagging, feet dragging. He was not to die other than by degrees. What a foul, utterly abominable man Uthman was! It was all Shard’s fault; Shard was as bad as Hesseltine. Shard was supposed, wasn’t he, to be a detective? Shard should have picked up some clues, surely! A man with the equivalent rank and standing of an Assistant Under-Secretary of State couldn’t just vanish. Someone must have seen something; the wreckage of the dormobile — just to mention one thing — would have been found. Hedge muttered angrily, finding it helped to fix the mind on something positive and of the outside world: Shard was a poor policeman. He would have him posted back to the Yard — when he got out. When he got out. Oh God have mercy … Hedge shook, and ploughed on.

  *

  “Stop.”

  Uthman’s voice boomed and echoed. Hedge shambled to a stop, teetering on the brink of another collapse. His feet ached, the soles must be raw. The cave must extend across half Britain. There had been more low sectors, and the bending had been ruinous for his blood pressure: his doctor had warned him about bending. It was safer to squat, but a man couldn’t squat with Uthman behind him.