Hedge fumed. He was completely dumbfounded. Shard asked, “What about Barclay and Elgood?”
“What about them, blast you?” Hedge’s voice was thick.
“Do they get out?”
“I would doubt it.”
“In other words,” Shard said scathingly, “they won’t. In spite of having their hopes raised in the meantime, I suppose.”
“There have to be some sacrifices!”
Shard gave him a long, long look. “Once, I called you a bastard. I’m doing so again, Hedge.”
As in Cherbourg, Hedge had brought his private aircraft. They quarrelled all the way back, in the cabin behind the pilot. Shard half expected the sack, but knew Hedge would never really risk it and wouldn’t even like Shard’s resignation…on his own staff, he could keep better tabs. Shard knew he had won about the body when Hedge, on arrival at Hurn, pulled him physically away from a group of pressmen awaiting some minor local VIP: they hadn’t in fact given Hedge or Shard a second glance, but Hedge wasn’t risking anything now. Shard left Hedge to battle with his awful anxieties while he found a telephone and rang Barts. They confirmed what Hedge had said: the improvement continued.
“Tell her I’ll be with her inside a couple of hours.” Shard said. He felt a shade weak at the knees as he put the hand-piece down. He went in search of a very large Scotch.
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Call for Simon Shard Page 19
