by Duncan Kyle
I forced a grin. 'An address Alsa promised me, that's all.' `She doesn't set up dates for me.'
Ì'll speak to her about that,' I promised. He smiled and wandered off. I found Alsa's contact book in the right hand top drawer, where most people keep them, and leafed through it without taking it out of the drawer. No Aggie Waggie. No myopic. No Society for the Short Sighter. It may exist, but it wasn't listed. I began to take out notebooks and 'work through them. There were twenty or more, all dated, all full of the usual miscellany of shorthand notes and phone numbers from Batley to Bognor that fill all reporters' notebooks. After a few minutes, though, it occurred to me that Alsa wouldn't have pointed me in the direction of twenty notebooks. It would be something a damn sight more positive than that.
But what? I sat drumming my fingers on the desk top, wondering. She'd aimed the information specifically at me, no doubt about that. Therefore she intended me to look somewhere specific. Somewhere I'd look because I knew her and knew the way she thought. I glanced round the office. Willing-ham's angry face was still pressed gargoylelike against the glass partition. Telephones were ringing, reporters were typing, gossiping, using telephones. The tea boy was wandering round with a big enamel teapot. A messenger was carrying a cuttings file from the library to the news desk. The library? Surely not. It held literally millions of cuttings and pictures, harvested for half a century and carefully filed away. But there could, I supposed, be a file labelled Aggie Waggie in there. I half rose to go and look, but changed my mind, because an idea struck me then. It wasn't the library cuttings I wanted, but Alsa's own cuttings. That might be it ! She'd kept cuttings of the stories she wrote since she was a beginner – her father's idea, and perhaps a bit old-fashioned these days, but .. . I found them in the bottom left hand drawer. Three fat volumes. I was careful to be casual as I lifted the top one
on to the desk top, careful not to glance towards Willingham. I began to turn the pages, reading each story carefully. After forty minutes or so, I'd worked back in time to the point where she'd joined the Daily News. Before that she'd been on a woman's magazine for a while, doing production, not writing very much except a weekly books' page. All the same, I felt the cuttings book was the likely place. Somehow I was certain the clue lay somewhere among the carefully pasted-in pieces Alsa had written. The reviews were the usual women's magazine stuff, memoirs of a country midwife, flower arrangement, dressmaking, medical and pseudo-medical stuff, how to bring up kids. None of them more than a few paragraphs. There was an office style, a way of setting out the salient details: title, author, publisher's name in brackets, price, in that order.
Perhaps I saw it because the name was unusual. I don't know. Perhaps my senses were just sharply tuned. Anyway, a name suddenly seemed to stand out in a mass of type: Opie. I looked at the book's title : Children's Games in Street and Playground by Iona and Peter Opie (Oxford University Press) £2. I kept turning the pages for Willingham's benefit, but I was thinking furiously. My Opie? Myopie? The word had been handwritten, and c and e are easily confused in handwriting. See myopic made no sense at all; See my Opie might. The intervening capital letter needn't be important. What I needed was a sight of the book. Would there be a copy in the library?
I put my head round the door and told Willingham I was having no luck and that if he didn't mind terribly, I was going to the gents. He scowled at me and watched me go.
`Have you,' I asked the librarian quickly, 'a copy of a thing called Children's Games in Street and —'
He said, Òpie. Up there. The blue one.'
Thirty seconds later I knew about Aggie Waggie. It was, naturally, a children's game. But it was more than that; the game was played all over Britain, under various names. It was called Aggie Waggle is only one place, and a remote
one at that; in the Shetlands.
I returned to Alsa's desk, trying hard to look relieved and frustrated at the same time, and picked up the cuttings book again. There'd been a story in there about the Shetlands, and those islands rang a tinny bell in my mind for another reason. Alsa had taken a holiday or two up there and she always came back shiny-eyed and enthusiastic talking with a kind of laughing provocation about strong, silent Vikings, so somewhere inside me a worm of jealousy had long tunnelled around. In the cuttings book were two pieces she'd done. I read them carefully. The first was about the first impact of the discovery of North Sea oil on an isolated community, the second about a local character who spent his life among the islands' sea birds, climbing wild crags to count eggs and so on. Maybe he was the Viking type, I thought sourly, but it was his name that made my scalp tingle. Anderson. James Anderson. Anderson, Jarlshof. Sandnes G . B .... Norway? But where did Norway come into it? The coincidence of the names was too strong to be ignored, but Norway was completely inexplicable. I looked for a while but the cuttings book contained nothing about Norway and the other two books pre-dated the one I was looking at. Finally I put the stuff away, all except the contacts book, and went back to Willingham. Ànything?' he demanded sourly.
`Not that I can see. Here's her contacts book. Let's see if it means anything to Wemyss.'
He grunted and rose and we walked together to the lift. On the way down I needled him deliberately and hard about his clothes, his manners and his appearance. He didn't reply, but he was visibly fuming. Just as the doors were opening at the ground floor, I kicked his shin hard.
`You bastard!' he said loudly. He was red-faced with pain and anger and Tom the commissionaire looked round interestedly.
`Tom,' I said. 'We're having trouble with this one. Wants to horsewhip Mr Scown. Don't let him through again, will you?'
`Course not,' Tom said. 'This way, sir' He took Willingham's elbow with a large firm hand and blocked the furious Willingham's punch deftly. As I ducked back through the doors, he was saying, 'Now we don't want any trouble, do we, sir?'
I raced downstairs, through the machine room, quiet at that time of day, and out through the despatch bays where the papers are loaded for distribution. Two or three minutes later, I was cutting up Chancery Lane across High Holborn and into Bedford Place, heading for the Holborn Library. I'd have preferred the available resources of the Daily News, but Willingham had been at only a, very temporary disadvantage and the Daily News building would be dangerous for me now.
I went up to the second floor reference library and helped myself to a book, the telephone directory for Northern Scotland. Andersons weren't exactly uncommon, and there were numbers of James Andersons, -several of whom could have been the man in Alsa's story. I put the phone book away and searched the shelves until I found the Survey Gazetteer of the British Isles. There was an interesting entry under T: Jarlshof (Earl's Court) ruin, in S. of Mainland, Shetland.' Then I tried Sandnes, and there it was, 'pl, 8 mi NW of Walls, Shetland, PO. TO.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
I stared grimly at that formal little entry in the Gazetteer. It was true that at last things were coming together, but it was happening in a faulty kind of way. For a start, Sandness in the Shetlands wasn't spelled the same way as Sandnes, Norway. Anderson, oddly enough, was a name common to both countries. I got out an atlas and found that Jarlshof and Sandness were a long way apart. I tested the breadth of the library's available material and found a Norwegian
Trade Directory to see what the letters G.B. meant. They meant nothing at all. G.B. was not, as I had supposed, an indication of a company's legal set-up. I was standing by the window, which overlooked Theobald's Road, with the book in my hand, when a pair of white police cars appeared outside. Shutting the directory with a snap, I headed quickly for the door and stairs and went down to the street, startled that the Metropolitan police had been called in so quickly. I emerged from the library. cautiously, only to realize I needn't have bothered. If I'd thought before moving, I'd perhaps have remembered there was a divisional police HQ almost next door, but by now I was decidedly jumpy and simply hadn't thought. I decided not to go back inside. The police would certainly be asked to loo
k for me. Wemyss already suspected I had facts I hadn't told him about, and it was clear enough from what I'd done with Willingham that I'
d picked up more in the Daily News office. If this was as big as he and Elliot believed, they'd now want me very badly indeed.
So what next? Christ, there were three places I ought to be : Gothenburg; Sandnes, Norway; and Sandness, Shetland! Of the three Gothenburg was the one that called most strongly, simply because that was where Alsa was. But she'd fixed things so the lens case would be sent to Sandnes, Norway, then deliberately pointed me in the direction of the Shetlands. Why? The only answer I could see was that she wanted me to go and see this man Anderson. I wondered where he came into it : an ornithologist working in wild and remote islands; one of 'those dedicated, away-from-it-all people who find satisfaction in the simple life. That, at any rate, was the picture Alsa had painted in her piece about him. I soon realized it was all very well thinking blithely about heading for the Shetland Isles, and a lot less easy to do it,. They were nearly a thousand miles away and accessible quickly only by air. I had no doubt, either, that there would be people watching for me at Heathrow.
I kept walking, trying to think what other arrangements
Wemyss and Co. might be making to get their hands on me. Tapping the wires into the Daily News for a start, though that alone would keep them busy : there were sixty general lines into the switchboard and private phone lines all over the building. The first one they'd tap would be Scown's. I wondered how long it took to tap a telephone. Probably not long if the job were being done officially, so it might be dangerous, now, even to try to speak to Scown. The realization that I was completely alone hit me then and I felt momentarily slightly sick. On one side there was Wemyss, with the resources of his immensely powerful department ranged against me. Plus Elliot, and his agency. On the other side were the Russians, determined to recover the thing that had been smuggled out. In the middle, two tiny, insignificant figures in the giant pincers, were Alsa, and me. Of the two of us, only I had liberty of action and even that liberty was rapidly being curtailed. ,
I came to the corner and glanced along Gray's Inn Road at the Sunday Times building, its metal cladding gleaming dully in the cloudy sunlight. I thought about it, and dismissed it. I had one or two friends on the Sunday Times, but none was close enough for me to seek help there.
But what about the other papers? I knew plenty of people in Fleet Street, for Heaven's sake, and there'd be somebody among them, surely .. . Walking up Gray's Inn Road, I thought of names, some of them powerful names in the business, and dismissed them one by one. What I needed was a plane, and there were plenty of people I knew who could charter one with a phone call. I could myself, normally, but this time I daren't risk using my own name. The trouble was that all the people I knew would want to know why. They'd be after the story. And the story couldn't be told. All right, then. Did I know anyone who could fly? Plenty, of course, who'd flown years ago, but I needed someone with a valid, current licence. Then I remembered a little Australian on the Daily Mirror. What was his name? Hinton, that was it. Bruce Hinton. It had to be Bruce, all Australians of his generation seemed to be called Bruce.
, I found a phone-booth near the top end of Gray's Inn Road, close to King's Cross, and rang the Mirror. When the switchboard put me through to features I put on a fake Australian accent and asked for him.
`Just a sec,' said a busy voice. I swore softly to myself. Hinton was actually on duty, damn it, I'd hoped it might be his day off and that I could persuade somebody on the Mirror to give me the home number.
`Bruce Hinton.'
I said carefully, 'I think we may have got something that might interest you. Can you meet me?'
`Who is it?'
`John Sellers.' I hoped he'd think it was the offer of a job coming up.
`S'pose so. Where?'
Ì'm up near King's Cross.'
`Bloody hell, mate!'
Àll right,' I said. Ìf you feel like that.'
`No, no ! I'll come. 'Bout twenty minutes, okay?'
`Right.' I told him where to meet me and filled in the waiting time buying myself a blue donkey jacket, a cap and a pair of sunglasses at an army surplus shop nearby. I had talked to Hinton, or more accurately been one of a drinking group that included him, a few times. I didn't know him well, just well enough to be aware that flying was his private obsession. He had a one-third share in a small Cessna. He'd have a fair salary, but nothing like enough cash to indulge a hobby like flying as much as he'd like. I was banking on that.
A few minutes before he was due to arrive I went looking for a taxi, cruised round in it for a couple of minutes, then went to the rendezvous. He was there, waiting. I shouted his name and he came across and got in. As he closed the door, he said, 'This is bloody mysterious!' Ìt gets worse. Is your plane flying today?'
He blinked at me. 'It was this morning. Not sure now. I think it will be free. Why?'
`Because I want you to fly me somewhere.'
`Jesus, John. I'm not licensed for bloody charter! They'll have my licence so fast it –
Anyway, I'm on the desk today.'
`Pity. I thought a couple of hundred quid might tempt you to give an old friend a demonstration.'
He looked at me quickly. 'It bloody well does, too. Where d'you want to go?'
`Lerwick.'
His eyes widened. 'You joking?'
`Sure? You're not pulling the old Pommie – '
Ì'm sure,' I said. 'Two hundred in cash. Plus fuel and maintenance charges.'
He grinned suddenly. 'What the hell you up to?' `My business.'
`Yeah. Jesus, if they heard at the Mirror!'
Why should they?' I said persuasively. 'Your old Auntie Rainbow just blew in from Woolloongabba. Wants you to show her round London.'
`So she did. Good old Auntie Rainbow.' He thought for a moment. 'Listen, it's not Lerwick, you know. The airport's • at Sumburgh. Christ, it's five, maybe six hours!'
Àre you on?'
`Have you two pence for the phone?'
I gave him some coins. 'Better check the plane's there, too.'
I waited in the cab while he phoned his office and the airfield from a pub. When he came out his walk was spring-heeled.
Àll right?' I asked.
`They don't think it's funny, but I've still got my job, I think.'
Ànd the plane?'
Òkay.' He settled back in his seat. 'Better than work, sport. Tell him Elstree. I'll direct him when we get there.'
I made one phone call from Elstree: to Scown on his private line. I didn't care now who overheard. I said, 'Tell the official circles to look for Anderson, Jarlshof, Sandnes, Norway,' and hung up.
We were off the ground within an hour. His flight plan was accepted straight away, which was a bit of luck, and I watched the metamorphosis of a slightly boishie Australian journalist into a hard-nosed precise pilot. He seemed to my untutored eye to have a lot of experience. I said, 'How many hours?'
`Five-fifty. Five fifty-six to be accurate. Average cost about fifteen quid an hour, I reckon, by the time it's all in. Comes expensive. That's why this trip's tempting. What in hell did you say you're doing it for?'
Ì didn't say. But not for fun.'
`Not at that price, sport. Must be a good story. Maybe I'll hang on. Work myself back into favour at the Mirror.'
I said, 'When we land, you get a cup of tea and turn round. If you have to stop over, do it in Scotland somewhere. You're not staying on Shetland.'
He laughed, 'Okay, blue. Now do me a favour. Shut up and let me fly.'
Obediently, I shut up and watched the cloud patterns beneath us. I also thought a good deal, to no great purpose. After a while I took out the layout photostats I'd made at Strom Brothers and stared at them hopefully for a bit. Nothing emerged, though, and I put them back in my pocket again; but the feeling persisted that there was something there, if only my purblind eyes could see it. We came down to refuel at Dyce, Aberdeen, t
hen flew on. The clouds had disappeared as we crossed the Pentland Firth. Once we'd passed the Orkney beacon, Brucie Hinton talked to Sum-burgh control then turned to me looking pleased. 'There's a twenty-knot bloody crosswind. Have to be bloody careful, sport. Glad I came!'
It must be nice, I thought sourly, to have nothing on your mind but the challenge of landing in a dangerous crosswind. `Well be careful.'
'I've got a one-third share of this bastard. You watch how soft I put her down.'
But he didn't. He came in one-wing low and didn't ease her across properly and we bounced sickeningly four times.
But he was happy.
`Well, I tried, sport. I'll do better next time.'
Ì hope there won't be a next time.'
`Pity.' He pocketed the two hundred and I told him to send the hangarage and maintenance bills to Scown. He said, 'Now there's a useful guy to know.'
Ì'll introduce you, one day,' I said. I hoped I'd have the chance.
`Do that!' He climbed back into the Cessna, yelled, `Thanks, sport,' and started the motor. While I walked across to the airport building, he roared off south. There was a four-sheet Ordnance Survey map of the Shetland Islands pinned up in the terminal building and I stopped for a minute to get some idea of what the place was like. I'd intended to take the first available transport to Lerwick, the island's capital, but something I saw on the map stopped me. There was the single word Jarlshof, in the Old English typeface used on Ordnance Survey maps to indicate antiquities. Furthermore, Jarlshof was no more than a mile from where I stood.
I' left the terminal buildings, looked around me and set off walking down the road. After a while it forked. The main road led away to the east, but a smaller road signposted Jarlshof. I followed it and quite soon the archaeological site came clearly in view. It looked deserted. The day was dying and the tourist season probably over. Overhead a small twin jet screamed down towards a landing at Sumburgh, incongruous in the stillness. I swore to myself, turned to walk back and in doing so noticed a car. Well, 'at least somebody was here. I began to walk round. Notices set out the history of the place, and I read one cursorily. Excavations had revealed habitation there from mediaeval times right back through the Viking Age and the Iron Age to the Bronze Age. But I was wondering where this collection of ancient stones came into my own problem. The place was well cared-for, grass neatly trimmed to the bases of the walls, paths carefully marked and I walked
