A Very Big Bang

by Philip McCutchan

  He did: back to cloak-and-dagger, Shard and Hedge had a casual meeting in the National Gallery, that crowded, anonymous place of wondering eyes and murmuring adulatory voices. Beneath a splendid nude Hedge went from pink to purple, gasping for breath.

  “Me?”

  “You, Mr Hedge.”

  Hedge didn’t even notice the cruel Mister. “How did they find out about me, for God’s sake?”

  Shard shrugged.

  “Anyway, I’m not the you-know-what.” The voice brightened. “It’s not me they want —”

  “They said they did. By phoney name, Hedge.”

  “But I say again, I’m not —”

  “All right, all right. Point taken! The thing is, they appear to think you are.”

  “Didn’t you say I wasn’t?” Angry eyes stared: it was like a loudly sounding cry.

  Shard said reproachfully, “Hedge, Hedge! How could I do that?”

  Hedge fumed frustratedly: he blew his nose and there was a shake in his fingers, very noticeably: fear was striking home. Shard moved him on: they had lingered long enough by the nude, Hedge was beginning to look like a dirty old man. They paused again, more appropriately perhaps, near scenes of battle and gory horses. Londoners gazed with them, plus foreigners: all sorts and all ages, respectfully admiring the past. Hedge said suddenly, “Well, they’re going to be disappointed. I’m not going! D’you hear?”

  “Yes. It’s understandable, of course. And I doubt if anyone can make you.”

  “I don’t care for the way you said that, Shard.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry,” Shard said politely. “It just crossed my mind that it might be wise to co-operate … in the interest of the many, you see.”

  “Put my life at risk?” Hedge’s voice was an angry hiss.

  “I’ll be taking care of that, Hedge.”

  The answer was a snort: Shard grinned inwardly. Hedge didn’t say any more, he was too occupied with his thoughts. Pregnant with their combined cerebrations they stole around the National Gallery, Hedge seeing nothing but a coffin filled with fragments, ignoring the masters. They circled back to the entrance and Hedge retrieving his umbrella from the custodian, marched down the steps with Shard, shaking like a leaf now. In Trafalgar Square Shard risked a question: “Well, Hedge?”

  “I told you I’m not going.”

  “But you are going to report this to the chief — aren’t you?”

  “Yes!”

  They walked on. The silence was not a companionable one. Shard said cheerfully, “Well, perhaps the chief’ll go instead, Hedge.”

  “How I detest your stupid jokes. Kindly be serious, Shard. This … thing that will start the action — that was what you said they said, wasn’t it? Have you any ideas?” Hedge, as a few drops of rain started to fall on London, hoisted his umbrella. “I must confess I haven’t any.”

  “Nor me. It’ll be a case of watching out, that’s all.”

  “A kind of spot the ball contest!”

  “You could say that. But when it does come, it’s going to be recognisably big. They’re not, as the Americans say, in this for peanuts.”

  “Quite.” Hedge brooded on, circling Nelson’s Column down towards Whitehall, then asked, “When are you going underground?”

  “I’m not sure — now — that I am. Not yet.”

  Hedge seemed put out. “Why the change of mind?”

  “Just a hunch. I like to keep flexible.”

  “Oh. This hunch … what is it, Shard?”

  “Just a hunch — no more.” Shard sighed. “All right, if you insist — you’re the boss. Yesterday I talked of working from the inside out. I’ve a funny feeling these people mean to work from the outside in. Do you get me, Hedge?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I get myself either. But I’m going to wait, and watch, a little longer —”

  “The deadline’s only three days off —”

  “I know, I know. Not to worry too much! We’re going to get warning now. Patience, Hedge! And for now, goodbye. I have work to do, people to see.” And so have you, Shard thought as Hedge proceeded across the junction and down Whitehall beneath his spread umbrella. Shard had an idea the FO’s Head of Security might expect a degree of co-operation from his Hedge. Hedge was, after all, the screen — and could scarcely expect not to act as such when faced with the supreme moment, the whole raison d’être, as it were, of his screendom!

  Thirteen

  Hedge’s trumpeted Press clamp-down had failed to work: the early editions of the London evenings had the full story, plus embellishments, of the killings in the York intensive care unit: the prime victim, the newspapers said, was a man who had been helping the police with their enquiries. There was an insinuation, however nicely put, that methods used during the “helping” had contributed to the heart attack that had put the man in hospital. Although he was not named, this was a clear reference to Simon Shard and it made him seethe with a terrible hatred for crime reporters. As ever, they seemed more inclined to impugn a hard-working police force than to inveigh against ruthless killers. Not that there wasn’t a degree of inveighing as well; but even this had been neatly turned against the police: how had it been possible for anything like this to take place within the precincts of a hospital where a Detective Constable had been on continuous guard? Worse: the keen amateurs of the Press had been busy, noses fast to the ground. Somewhere, somehow, said the reports, national security was involved: there was a big stick around and it behoved authority to break it across its knee. Dearly Shard would have liked to know where this leak had occurred. And Hedge was going to break a bloodvessel.

  Shard did his newspaper reading sitting in an unobtrusive car provided by the Department — during his earlier talk with Hedge he had fixed this, and the response had been nicely immediate: an incoming call to Seddon’s Way had announced a Rover 2200 waiting for him whenever he cared to collect. Shard had let it wait a while, until certain reports had reached him from the Yard, mainly negative in the event, pointing the way nowhere: the Austin 1100, as expected, had been stolen that very morning from Gunterstone Road in West Kensington and word of this loss had not reached the Yard’s Stolen and Suspect Vehicle index until after its subsequent abandonment near King’s Gross railway station. Whopper Thurgood’s premises had been done over by the Special Branch, but there was no sign of Thurgood and the only positive result had been a pending porn charge and, ipso facto, a lot more porn magazines. But one thing more: the name of a friend of Thurgood’s, a name well known to Shard, which accounted for Shard’s current activity. Of Nadia Nazarrazeen, of her staunch retinue, no hint. The whole lot had gone underground: at this thought, Shard gave a very hollow laugh. He looked at his watch: his contact was late. Irritably, anxiously, he drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, then flicked on the car radio for some soothing background music. Pop, however, exacerbated rather than soothed. Shard lost Radio One, got the news headlines on another channel. Much as usual, never any happy news: there was another miners’ pay claim coming up, inflation was running at 22 percent, the balance of payments was worse than ever, there had been another hijack, a British VC10 this time, at Athens.

  Hijack?

  Shard listened intently: anything, almost, could be the trigger-point. But, he fancied, not this: the hijackers’ demands were specific and didn’t concern Britain. They wanted two gunmen imprisoned in Greece, two members of the Palestine Liberation movement. They would probably, Shard thought with anger, get them. And thus world authority gradually was eroded …

  Like now? Shard broke out in a cold sweat: what did the bastards want? Surely, not just Hedge? Sympathy for Hedge came in a sudden wave: half the time Hedge was a bastard too, but this time he was in a real spot. Shard reached out and switched the radio off. A few moments later his contact showed: a tall, thin man in a fawn raincoat, knee length, moving fast through the crowds, eyes watchful. Meeting his glance, Shard lifted a hand and reached to open the passenger door.<
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  The man got in, puffing and wheezing.

  “Sorry I’m late. Had a spot of bother.”

  “Coppers?”

  “Not the coppers, no, the wife.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  The man looked sideways. “You too, Mr Shard?”

  Shard stifled a sigh: Beth, and Mrs Micklam, were still in Ealing, couldn’t be shifted. He said, “I haven’t much time. We’ll get down to business.”

  “What d’you want, Mr Shard?”

  Shard said, “We share an interest: porn.”

  “Eh?”

  “Just currently, for my part.”

  The thin man giggled, an unpleasant sound, high-pitched like a woman. “Trouble an’ strife away, want a genuine inflatable bed-mate, all parts guaranteed to —”

  “Shut up, Puckle, or I’ll throw you out, no deal. This is serious. It concerns a man called Whopper Thurgood — whom I happen to have discovered is a friend of yours —”

  “I know him.”

  “Supply him, do you?”

  Puckle said, “Now look, Mr Shard, I’m not —”

  “All right, I won’t press you towards self-incrimination, but you know as well as I do, this is off the record. So cough as much as you can, understand?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “The cash won’t interest a porn merchant, and you know that too. I’m not saying more than that, but I’m sure you get the drift, right?”

  “You’d pull me in?”

  Shard laughed, quietly threatening. “We both know the facts of life, don’t we? It’s not strictly my patch, but I get around, get to know things. Yes, I’d pull you in, so bloody fast your backside wouldn’t be seen for dust. Porn, poncing, male prostitution — you name it, the court’ll send you down for it.”

  Puckle’s face was sour. “Scratch a copper and you find a —”

  “That, we’ll take as read. Start coughing, Puckle.”

  “About what?”

  “Whopper Thurgood, his business, his friends — social and trade — his contacts, especially recent ones —”

  “I supply him, I don’t bloody share his pad —”

  “You’re a personal friend. I want the lot, and I mean the lot. Any recent changes … anything that’s been on his mind, journeys he’s made, people who’ve visited … anything at all, everything. I want Thurgood to be an open book, and after you’ve coughed, I want you to keep your trap shut tight. Don’t even breathe if you can avoid it. Is all this clearly understood?”

  “It’s a bit much!” Puckle was indignant. “I can’t —”

  “If you fail me, I’ll bring joy to the heart of a certain Detective Chief Superintendent at New Scotland Yard, a friend of mine … he already has the charges typed, and he can’t wait. You’ll be ripped apart, no chance. You’ll be out of circulation for years, and you know as well as I do, ponces always get a rough ride from the other cons.” Shard paused. “As a matter of fact — this is a funny thing, Puckle — I said something rather similar to someone else. Only yesterday, it was. In York.”

  He waited, not seeming to watch Puckle’s face. In any case it remained blank, though Shard believed he sensed a stiffening of the body alongside him. He went on, “That man’s dead now. I expect you’ve read about it.” He thrust his newspaper at Puckle. “Front page stuff. Name of Larger, porn merchant in a nice way of business.”

  Puckle whistled. “Dead! In bloody hospital!”

  “It happens, but not normally this way. You didn’t know?”

  “No. Hadn’t seen the paper yet.”

  Shard said, “You’re a liar, Puckle. Get a grip on the facts. Larger’s dead, Thurgood’s vanished. You’re a link of a sort —”

  “Ah — of a sort, maybe.”

  “Don’t bank on the tenuousness of that link. Just take a look at the facts. You don’t want to be murdered, or even to risk the possibility. So start talking.”

  *

  At the far end of the station buffet at Victoria, Shard drank a large Scotch and talked quietly to Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine. “We sweated it out together,” he said. “I got Puckle in a tizzy. He’s not a strong-minded man. So far as I can see, there’s absolutely no reason why anyone should want to kill him — or anyway, there wasn’t — but currently he’s a very convinced man in fear of imminent murder.”

  “Does this help — and if so, how?”

  Shard grinned. “Oh, it helps! I’ve promised him protection, a shield against murder —”

  “Does he believe in us that much?”

  “Probably not, but he sees it as his only hope — especially since he talked.” Shard toyed with his glass, now empty. “Larger and Thurgood were in contact, two or three times over the last couple of weeks. And a woman came to see Thurgood one night, when Puckle happened to be delivering stock unexpectedly.”

  Their eyes met: Hesseltine’s eyebrows were lifted. Shard nodded his answer. “As ever was,” he said, “by Puckle’s description. And of course she knows of Puckle’s existence now if she didn’t before. That could be bad for Puckle — at any rate, he now believes it could.”

  “Under the influence of Shard?”

  Again Shard nodded. “Dead right, sir. I told you, he’s a weak man, very susceptible to suggestion.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m setting him up. I’m dropping word into the grapevine that he’s been questioned along relevant lines —”

  “But will they care? Does it matter now?”

  “You mean, seeing they’ve approached me direct?”

  “Yes. Hasn’t Puckle been by-passed?”

  Shard shrugged. “It’s possible, I agree. But it’s worth a shot. They won’t know just how much he picked up from Thurgood, even maybe from Larger. They won’t be sure how much he’s said, how much he hasn’t. There’s a whole lot of need for secrecy still, from their angle — those Arabs only told me as much as I had to know.”

  “Yes, true.” Hesseltine frowned, lit a cigarette, blew smoke thoughtfully over Shard’s head. “So they go out to get him — you hope! How’s he taking that?”

  “He doesn’t know he’s being set up, exactly,” Shard said. “I didn’t go into that bit, the deliberate bit.”

  “It’s dirty, Simon.”

  “Very dirty. I don’t pretend to like it any more than you. But this thing has to be beaten.”

  “Well, you don’t belong to me any more, so it’s not for me to give orders. You’ll have to make your own decisions. What about Hedge?”

  Shard looked down again at his empty glass. “Hedge has other things on his mind just now. I haven’t had an opportunity of telling him. I’m discussing it with you instead, sir.”

  “Why?”

  Shard grinned. “Question of availability, and I wanted to clear my own mind. Also something else.”

  “I thought there might be! Well?”

  “Obviously, I’ll be watching Puckle like a hawk — this, he’ll be expecting as part of the protection promise. I want assistance.”

  Hesseltine objected. “I’m Yard, you’re FO. Use your own mob, Simon.”

  Shard shook his head. “Again, there’s a question of availability. I have a lot of men on tube duty and I have a sick list — injuries, two of my best DSs. And I’ve not been long with the FO, as you know, sir. I still tend to work best on this sort of job with men I’ve known from the beat up. Will you bear with me, just this time?”

  Hesseltine blew out a long breath, irritably. “Thin end of the wedge, and ultimately all for your horrible master! Who d’you want?”

  “Thanks,” Shard said gratefully. “I’d like Detective Sergeants Williams and Kenwood. No personal contact for now. I’d like them to check in on the security line to my office.”

  *

  Hedge, as it transpired later, had indeed had a bad time. His report to the Head of Security had been made with trepidation and yet with hope. And with a deprecating laugh, as though they had the sheerest lunacy to deal with.
/>   “The most extraordinary effrontery, sir!”

  Silver-haired elegance, urbanity, excellent tailoring that made the most of a well-kept waistline, sat easily in a luxurious armchair: easily and, Hedge thought with sudden disloyalty, safely. And all because of a mistake! With rising anger at being forced to make the running himself, Hedge underlined the mistake angle: “Especially since it appears it’s you they want, sir.”

  “Yes …”

  “They’ve had too much encouragement in the past, of course.”

  The elegant face looked vague: light blue eyes, shrewd eyes, focused on Hedge. “H’m?”

  “They mustn’t have it this time, sir.”

  A shrug: “Well, I think it rather depends on what it is they’re proposing to put London at risk for, don’t you? We don’t know yet what that is. We must wait and see, my dear fellow.”

  “But really —”

  “You know as well as I do, these people have to be kid-gloved up to a point. The days of gunboat diplomacy are over — even in police terms. Regrettable, but true, and we must face it. The authority of force has already passed to the other side. I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?”

  Hedge glowered, the pink of his face deepening. “So you want us to play along with them, sir. Is that it?”

  “Come, come — not all along the line! But up to a point, certainly. We have no alternative. We’ll talk again, of course, as soon as they’ve been in contact — that’ll be the time for decision. In the meantime, I’d be obliged if you’d hold yourself in readiness, Hedge.”