Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  `Thanks.' I took a swift swallow. 'He wasn't there.'

  `No? That's funny. I was sure that's where he'd be.' He looked at me shrewdly, reading my face, my weariness, the anxiety I couldn't have concealed if I'd tried. Then he said flatly, 'This must be a hell of a story. Big-name features man tear-arsing round at this time of night with the features pages all locked up and gone.'

  Ìt's important,' I said. 'That's all.'

  Ì can see it is.' His eyes didn't leave my face. 'This is a funny day. Something's on.'

  `Funny?' I said.

  `Two stories. Both Sandness way.'

  `What's the second?'

  `The post van was attacked this morning. Out by Walls. Same parish as Sandness.' He let the words come slowly, watching their impact on me.

  I made myself sound like a suitably detached newspaper professional as I digested it. '

  Anybody hurt? How much stolen?' But I had no doubt at all about who'd done the attacking, or why.

  `Somebody flagged the van down, then coshed the driver, and searched the mail. Didn't take anything as far as I know. There wouldn't be much. Small bundles of letters to mum and dad, that's all.. It's an elderly population, what there is of it, in West Mainland.'

  I said, 'But they got nothing?'

  Ì told you. There were four or five registered letters, apparently, maybe with a bit of money in them. They weren't touched. There's no way of knowing about the rest. What's going on, Mr Sellers?'

  I said, 'Don't ask me. I'm here to talk to Anderson. Flow well do you know him?'

  He shrugged. 'I know most people who might make copy. I have to. Birds make copy sometimes.'

  I forced a smile. 'Snowy owls?'

  `Don't knock 'em. They bring in the tourists, and I've done a few pieces about the snowy owls on Fetlar.' `Where's that?'

  Òne of the islands. Good distance north of here. Not many people. I expect that's why the owls are there.'

  `But Anderson's found some more, hasn't he?'

  Àh, come on! You're not up .here about snowy bloody owls!'

  `Has he?'

  'So they say.'

  `Where?'

  Àll right. You're paying me. But don't wreck my livelihood. I was saving this one.'

  `Go on.'

  `They're on Noss. That's another island. They're actually on the Cradle Holm. Anderson and another bloke have been keeping observation for weeks, turn and turn about.'

  `Who's the other man?'

  `Dunno. Some volunteer from England. In December and

  January! These bird men are bloody mad !'

  Ànd what's the Cradle Holm?'

  'No you bloody don't! That's a bloody good story. Worth money. Picture story in colour.'

  I said impatiently, 'It's not what I'm interested in.' `You would be.'

  `Look, I swear–`Fleet Street promises! Not likely. I've had some.'

  I heard myself sigh involuntarily. 'Do you want me to write it down? I John Sellers solemnly swear on behalf of the Daily News that we won't print a line about the Cradle Holm without the permission of Jack Lincoln. If we do, two hundred quid. Is that what you want?'

  Ìt'd set my mind at rest.' His face showed he meant it.

  I wrote on a page of his notebook. I'd resigned, of course, so the thing was not valid. But he wasn't to know and I didn't want his story anyway.

  He folded the paper and put it into his wallet. 'It's proper name is the Holm of Noss. It's a sea stack, nearly two hundred feet high and absolutely sheer on all sides. Right?'

  `Go on.'

  `The whole of Noss is a bird sanctuary. The Cradle Holm is at the southeast corner. There's a gap of about sixty feet between the cliffs of Noss itself and the sides of the Holm. Dreadful spot altogether. Well, there's an old tale about it. The top's flat and there'

  s more than an acre of it and in the old days, eighteenth century some time, one of the local landowners didn't like to see an acre of good grazing go begging. So he brought in a clever climber from one of the islands – Foula, they say – and promised him a cow if he could climb up the Holm.'

  Ànd did he?'

  `So the story goes. He started by climbing up the mast of a boat to get past the overhang, then shinned up. Then they threw a hammer and some stakes across and he knocked them in. Then a rope, and he fastened it to the stakes his end while the other end was secured on Noss itself. You follow?'

  `Perfectly.'

  `Well, they slung a wooden box cradle from the rope and from then on the shepherd used to put sheep in the cradle one at a time, climb in alongside and pull himself across by the rope.

  `The climber. Did he get the cow?'

  Lincoln shook his head. 'Would have, but he was too cocky. Wouldn't go back across the rope. Said he'd climb down the way he'd come up. He didn't make it.'

  Ànd?'

  `Fell. Killed.'

  Ìs it still in use?'

  `No. Not for donkey's years. It's all gone n(4— stakes, rope, cradle.'

  I nodded. 'Fascinating, I agree. But what's the point?'

  `Point?' he said. 'I'll tell you what the point is. Jim Anderson did the climb again a few weeks ago. Solo. Must be nuts. Then when this other bloke came to help with the observations, they fixed up a rope contraption called a Tyrolean traverse. They go back and forward now like ping-pong balls.' He shuddered.' You should see it. Like a hole down to hell.'

  `Worth two hundred any time, with pictures,' I said. `Keep it for us.'

  He grinned. 'Told you.'

  `You can tell me something else. Do you know Miss Petrie? I mean reasonably well?'

  `Yes.'

  `What's she like?'

  `Nice old soul. Taught generations of 'em. She made 'em work, but they liked her. She's a kind of monument.' `Does she trust you?'

  Às far as anybody does. Yes, she knows me well enough. I've started being local you know. After ten years I've just started. They trust each other up here, but not outsiders. Or not much.'

  `Then do me a favour, will you? Tell her I'm all right. If looks could kill I'd have died on her doorstep. I need to talk to her but she won't talk to me.'

  Ìt would come better from the minister.'

  Ì haven't got the minister,' I said. 'Just do it'

  `Tonight?'

  `Tonight.'

  He thought for a moment, then nodded. Ì'll be ten minutes or so. I've got to check all's well with the TV boys and so on. Wait for me.'

  `Thanks. And –' I pointed to the bottle in his pocket.

  `Want a lot for your money in Fleet Street,' Lincoln said. But the bottle came out and I took a pull at the whisky. `Where will you be?'

  Ì'll wait outside.'

  Òkay.' He vanished down the wooden steps, busy and energetic, enjoying his life, making for the people at the far end of the big shed. I followed a moment or two later, but turned the other way at the bottom of the stair and went out into St Sunniva Street. There were still plenty of people there, talking good-naturedly; a community engaged in community pleasure. I leaned against a wall and waited for Lincoln to finish inside. I had just bent my head to light a cigarette, cupping the flame against the wind, when a voice said, 'It really does seem to be Mr Sellers.'

  I raised my eyes and found myself looking at the broad face, with its cap of tight, fair waves, of Willingham. I began to turn, to try to get away, but the way was blocked. Elliot was standing at the other side of me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I blinked at them, looking from one to another in amazement and something close to despair.

  I'd been so certain I'd got away clean, so certain nobody could know where I was! I'd been sure that message about Norway would send them off on a wrong tack. Elliot, grim-faced, looked at me briefly. Then he said, Come with us. Don't try anything.'

  I stared at him, still finding it almost impossible to accept the evidence of my eyes. 'How

  ?' I said. 'How the hell–'

  `You're so damn smart,' Willingham sneered. 'All clever tricks.'
>
  Elliot said sharply, 'That's enough ! Let's go, huh?'

  They had a car at the end of the street. Not that it was needed. We went only a few hundred yards, then drew up outside a stone-built, square Victorian building on the hill overlooking Lerwick harbour. Outside hung the familiar blue lamp with the word Police reversed out in neat white lettering. They led me inside in silence. The duty constable raised a heavy oak counter flap to admit us to the deeper recesses. After that we went upstairs to a quiet room on the first floor. Willingham closed the door behind us, locked it and put the key in his pocket.

  For no particular reason I strolled across to the window and looked out over the busy little harbour. Behind me, Willingham said, 'Not this time. There's no way out now.'

  I turned to face them, two contrasting men : the thin, saturnine Elliot, grim-mouthed and watchful; Willingham red-faced and angry, square and squat as a bad-tempered boar. Elliot looked at me steadily from behind his heavy spectacles. 'It's no game, Sellers. Nobody's playing around.' I took a deep breath. 'Least of all me.'

  `You sure act that way. This isn't some ingenious newspaper story you're chasing. Not fun and games and a big by-line.'

  I returned his stare. 'You'd better tell me what it is, then. As I remember, this morning you didn't know.' God, was it only this morning! London this morning? Gothenburg only this morning?

  He said, 'We still don't. We knew the plan. We knew how the information was coming out. You know that. But we don't know what that information is.'

  `What makes you so sure it's important? It could be some crazy misunderstanding.'

  He nodded. 'Sure it could. But it isn't. Reaction's too fierce. It had to be something big or that bunch of Russian Jews couldn't use it to twist the Soviet Government's arm. And if it's that big, we've got to know, understand that. We . . . have . . . got . . . to . . . know. Your government and mine.'

  Ànd you think I know?'

  `More than you're saying,' Willingham said harshly. 'A hell of a lot more.'

  `Let's cool it,' Elliot said. 'There's no mileage in hate, for any of us. Who've you come to see up here?'

  I said, 'Great Aunt Gertrude.'

  He looked at me stonily. 'We'll find out, Sellers. Just like we found out where you were.'

  Ìn time?'

  `Maybe not.'

  I said, 'Maybe your friend could beat it out of me.' Willingham was staring at me angrily.

  'Don't think I couldn't.'

  `Who did you come to see?' Elliot asked again. `Sorry.'

  `Look, Sellers, you're an intelligent man— '

  Ì know the penalties, if that's what you mean. Obstruction, withholding information. You'll find other things. I don't much care. It's the other penalties, to other people, Alison Hay for one, that I'm thinking about.'

  'I know it.' He gave a little sigh. 'Okay, let's tackle it from another angle. Let's forget the guy you came here to see. Let's find out what else you know. See if we can get any closer.'

  Ànd then?'

  'And then we see. You found something in her room at Gothenburg. What?'

  `Sorry.'

  `You found out something else in London. It sent you chasing up here. What was that?'

  'Sorry again.'

  He said, 'It's a simple line of questioning. It can go on all night. It can get rough.'

  'I can imagine.'

  'I doubt it,' Willingham said. 'I doubt it very much.'

  'Nice man and nasty man,' I said. 'I'm familiar with the technique. I watch TV. A punch in the kidneys from one, then a cigarette and kindly words from the other. You're on my side. He's not. Etcetera.'

  Elliot gave a thin smile. 'It even works. Believe that. But we don't need it, Sellers. Listen, we finally got to the papers in the girl's room. The Swedish police didn't like it. It took time. High level talking, but we did it. There was nothing. Nothing for us. But there was something for you, right?'

  I didn't answer.

  'Okay, so keep talking. We wanted you in Gothenburg in the first place because you know the girl well.'

  'You wanted me there?' I said.

  'That's, right.'

  I stared at him. 'It was only by chance I was there at all.'

  'Sure,' he said. 'You were in Vegas. You told me. It wasn't too convenient. Not when we needed you in Gothenburg.' There was a tinge of complacency in his tone. I was beginning to see it, but I didn't believe it. Not at that moment. I said, 'Get out of town? Those cruisers on the lake?'

  Elliot nodded. 'Neat, wasn't it?'

  'Christ, you—'

  'Sellers, we had to get you out. Right? You're a name correspondent, we couldn't just kick your ass the hell out of the United States. Too much grief that way. Bad news for everybody and maybe you wouldn't have gone to Gothenburg. You see, I'm levelling.'

  I said angrily, 'I was bloody near killed!'

  'Quiet place. Few guys with rifles and orders to miss.,

  Couple of phone calls. Then you're on the plane. So am I.'

  I was thinking about that desperate chase in the ghastly

  heat of the Valley of Fire. The way I'd been shepherded, hunted, turned into a shaking bundle of sweaty fear, crouching exhausted among those hellish rocks. He said, 'We wanted her found.'

  `Not her,' I said savagely. 'You don't give a damn for her. You want what some bastard loaded on to her.'

  Elliot simply watched me for a moment. Then he said, `There's a half-dozen big questions about the Soviets that need answering right now. Big ones. I'm not going to give you a lot of mullarkey about world peace. But they matter. All of them. And there's something halfway out in the open here, Sellers. We've got to know what it is. When we do, if we can, we'll help you. Nobody wants innocent victims.'

  `But it's just too bad if somebody is the innocent victim, eh?'

  He hesitated and then committed himself. 'That's right. It's too bad. But I said we'll help you if we can. What alternative have you got? You're here. You'll be held here. You're helpless. There's nothing you can do. Right?'

  I nodded wearily, knowing what Elliot said was true. I was in a little box at the end of the road and nobody was going to let me out. There was no way for me to reach Anderson now.

  Elliot said, 'Help us. We help you. A deal?'

  Ìt's a bloody awful deal!'

  He thought he was winning and gave a satisfied little nod. `Not the best. It's a sticky world.'

  `What happens,' I asked, 'after all this? Do I stay locked up?'

  `We'll cross that when we have to. What do you know, Sellers?'

  `Very little.'

  `Great. It's gonna be a long hard night.'

  Willingham said, 'You can't play it soft with one like this.'

  Ì can try. What did you find in the girl's room, Sellers?' `Nothing.'

  Elliot sighed softly. 'Oh, Jesus! I thought— '

  I said, 'I'll tell you why I'm here, though. She's got a friend up here.'

  `Who?'

  Ì don't know,' I lied. 'I just know she's got a close friend in the Shetlands.'

  Ìt's not enough. You didn't fly up here just because she has a friend.'

  À close friend. She was out of the hotel quite a while. You think and I think that she got, rid of whatever it was she was carrying then. I think the fire in the hotel letter box had scared her off that and she posted it elsewhere.'

  Willingham said, 'Who's Anderson, Jarlshof, Sandnes, Norway?'

  `Who knows?' I said. 'Who's Brown, Smith Street, Cardiff, Wales? I was sending you in the wrong direction.' At least they hadn't discovered yet that there was another Sandness, another Jarlshof. They were in the police station but not using the knowledge it contained; playing things too close to their chests. If they'd mentioned either word to one of the local coppers . . . but the instinct for secrecy was too strong. Willingham grinned. 'You were pathetically easy to follow. That call from Elstree. From Elstree! You were tracked on radar the whole way. Bloody amateurs!'

  I said to Elliot. 'Are we talking seriousl
y? Or is your dog going to bite me?'

  `Go on,' he said softly.

  `She's got a friend in the Shetlands. You can't get much more remote than this. Nobody'd look here. You wouldn't be looking in this direction if I hadn't led you here. Nor would anyone else.'

  Elliot said sourly, 'I don't think I believe you, Sellers.'

  I shrugged. 'You told me I'd no alternative. Neither have you. But there is something else.'

  Òkay?'

  I fished in my inside jacket pocket, pulled out the wad of photocopies I'd made and begun to unfold them.

  `That's why there was nothing,' Elliot said. 'You took those papers from her room.'

  I shook my head. 'This wasn't in her room.'

  `Her desk, then.'

  `Not there either.' I was straightening the folds, sorting out the photocopy I remembered. I put it on the table and flattened the creases with my hand. It wasn't a particularly good copy; the folds had shaken off some of the black xerox powder, and my hand brushed off more. 'This was at the printing works.'

  Elliot came and stood beside me to look at it. The title Russian Life was blocked in sketchily across the top of the rough layout.

  `Front cover, right?'

  I said, 'Alsa didn't draw this one'

  He glanced sideways at me quickly. 'You sure?'

  `You can see the difference. The others are her own roughs. This one was done by an artist.'

  `So?'

  `So who drew it and why was she carrying it?' I said. `She didn't have an artist on hand in Sweden, so she brought it out of Russia with the rest. Maybe she didn't even know she'd got it. It's another thing somebody loaded on to her.'

  `Mm.' He was studying the design, frowning. 'Those flags. What d'you reckon they mean?'

  Ìt's a layout gimmick, I should think. You see the flags are only drawn in outline. I'd guess the idea was to put a picture inside each flag. It's not original and it's not brilliant, but that's what I think it is.'

  Elliot studied the paper in silence for a while, then straightened. 'Maybe there's something. I don't see what. It looks like a layout. No more than that.'