"Thank you, Nelson," said Malone, pocketing the tape. "I'll see that a receipt is sent to your HQ."
Faraday smiled thinly. "Consider it a gift, Mr Malone. I hope you enjoy it. I wouldn't want to deprive you of a chance to see some naked girls."
Malone resisted a powerful temptation to carry out his threat by turning on his heel. He signalled to the radio reporter and moved towards the radio gig, out of Faraday's hearing.
"Some story, Mr Malone," said the radio reporter. "Claire Lake was one of them. The one Roscoe was offering a reward for.”
"He's not now," said Malone shortly. "You know who the other two were?"
"Ellen Duncan and Vikki Taylor, of course. Good to see that they're alive."
"Listen, Ted. I want you to do me a favour. By all means file your report about seeing the siamese and that sabre tooth, but don't mention the women."
The reporter looked doubtful. "It's a big story, Mr Malone. You're asking a lot."
"I know that, Ted. I wouldn't ask but the lives of those three women are at stake. Give me 48 hours and I'll give you the full story. Every detail. But I want your promise that you'll sit on any mention of the women until then. Don't even leave your tape lying around the studio."
The reporter had a good working relationship with the senior police officer and had considerable respect for him. He nodded and pressed the rewind key on his Uher. "I'll wipe the tape and record a new report. I'll do it now. That's a promise."
That was good enough for Malone. He spent a few minutes giving an interview about the time when he had seen a Farside family of woolly mammoths before thanking the reporter and returning to the Range Rover, well-aware that Faraday's hostile gaze was following him. He was far from happy with the situation but he had done his best. If anyone had seen the women, at least the resulting stories that circulated would be treated as rumours. Pentworth had plenty of rumours. The hard evidence of the bizarre events he had just witnessed was in his pocket. Another consolation was that he now knew for certain where Ellen, Claire and Vikki were. The trouble was that Roscoe would now know, too. Although the three were safe from Roscoe, they were hardly safe from the world of Farside as he had just seen. He recalled David Weir's words when they had been drinking outside the Crown: that despite the Visitors' undoubted scientific skills (the latest demonstration being their mass killing of the foxhounds) they seemed to be incredibly naive about some things. He needed to talk to David Weir about these latest developments.
Chapter 46.
"STOP! STOP!"
The two men working the winch to lower the bathyscaphe didn't need Tony Selby's yelled warning because they had seen what was happening to the splice that joined two lengths of steel cable together. A protruding snag of the cable's plaited strands had caught on the "I" beam pulley and the strands had started to pull apart. The six men on the pontoon held their collective breath, expecting the cable to part but the weakened splice held.
"Back up," breathed Selby. "Nice and easy."
The winchmen reversed their cranking. The damaged splice moved towards the take-up drum. Harding pulled on an industrial glove and helped Selby steer the second turn of the cable over the splice to trap it. Only when the joint was safety pinned under several turns did Selby allow himself a succinct, heartfelt, "Bugger."
Harding could barely hide his disappointment as the winchmen continued winding in the cable. It was early afternoon -- the entire Friday had been one setback after another and still they hadn't completed an unmanned test dive to 120 metres. First the telephone hadn't worked, then the gasket for the new porthole-hatch had leaked after only reaching only 30 metres and a new one had to be made, and now this -- a major cable problem when the bathyscaphe had been lowered only 50 metres from the pontoon into the depths of Pentworth Lake.
"Keep going," said Selby wearily. "She'll be secure now."
The bright yellow craft emerged into the sunlight and was rested on planks laid across the opening in the centre of the pontoon. At least they hadn't lost the bathyscaphe but it had been a near thing.
Selby and his staff pulled the cable off the winch's drum until they reached the damaged splice. Being a man who never took chances, Selby pulled off more cable until he came to the next splice and discovered that that one wasn't in a safe condition either. He swore bitterly.
"How about cleating the cable, side-by-side at the join?" Harding suggested.
Selby pointed at the overhead pulley that was hanging from the "I" beam. "It would never go though that. That block's the biggest we've got."
"Could you weld the cable ends together?"
Selby avoided looking contemptuous. "What would you say would be the disadvantage with that, Mr Chairman?"
Harding realised that it was a stupid suggestion. "I'd say that welding is rigid, that the whole point of cable is that it's flexible, and the welding would most likely crack and fail when the joint passed over the pulley."
"And you'd be right," said Selby, banging the winch drum angrily. "This is the only steel cable we've got."
"So how about using rope?"
"Ordinary hemp rope?"
"Yes. Have you got any?"
"Four thirty metre lengths back at the factory. Old stuff. Now look--"
"What size?"
"About the same as this cable -- six-strand I think, about 70 mill circular." "Sounds like ten tonne rope," said Harding. "So let's use that."
Selby looked despairing. "Why do you think there's a saying `money for old rope'? I'll tell you why -- because old rope is worthless. It's dangerous. Jesus Christ, I can remember the stuff kicking about the yard when I was a kid!"
"So we test it," Harding reasoned. "Isn't that what the unmanned test dive is for?"
"There's another problem. It's in four lengths. Splicing manila hemp rope is a skilled business. It's got to be done properly otherwise it won't go through the pulley block. The last bloke I knew who could splice hemp rope was an old bargee. And he's been dead twenty years."
"I think I know someone who could do it," said Harding.
"Who?"
Harding looked at his watch. "We can't do much here today. You need to get over to the generator site. I've got a lot to do. Let's call it a day. I'll phone you this evening if I've found someone and you could bring those lengths of rope here first thing."
Selby spat into the water. "Whole bloody day wasted. And it's carnival tomorrow."
An hour later Bob Harding pressed Roger Dayton's door chimes button and discovered that they didn't work. He guessed that the yachtsman had been one of the few to think of handing over its batteries. He used the knocker. Roger Dayton answered the door and was a little taken back. "Yes -- it is a good afternoon," he said in answer to Harding's opening pleasantry. "I'd thought you'd be needing the echo-sounder for much longer."
"Actually we still using it, Mr Dayton. I've come to see you on another matter."
"Which is?"
"Can you splice hemp ropes together?"
Dayton was surprised. Harding repeated the question.
"Well of course I can splice ropes! All ropes. All sizes. Even modern rubbish. For God's sake, man! I'm a sailor! I'm not some green-as-grass arsewipe, ditch-crawling, floating gin palace weekender who thinks a chart is something that pop songs are listed on, too scared to poke his nose outside the Solent in case his GPS receiver gets wet."
"In that case," said Harding. "I've got a big favour to ask of you."
Chapter 47.
MALONE TURNED HIS RANGE Rover into Baldock's Field and parked near Brenda. Two armed police officers at the foot of the slope guarding the well-head enclosure returned his wave. The Centrax generator was roaring flat out as near as Malone could judge as he slid from behind the wheel. Two engineers were watching it critically. All the overhead wiring work appeared to have been completed.
The showman's engine was running surprisingly smoothly other than the rhythmic spitting of the steam exhaust and the regular snick-snick of the broad, leather dri
ve belt taking power from the flywheel to the dynamo. The venerable machine was certainly quieter than the Centrax even though the big mobile generator was 100 metres away, stationed downhill, a safe distance from the enclosure. There was no smoke billowing from Brenda's smoke stack. The loudest noise from the showman's engine was the dull roar of its methane-fuelled firebox. David Weir was too intent on his work, completing the burial of a heavy power cable, to notice Malone's arrival.
"It all looks very professional," said Malone admiringly.
David straightened. "A flat out test run. No load, of course, but it's all looking good. Anyway, you're just the man we need. Find yourself a spade."
"That's not the sort of digging that's to my taste," Malone replied.
"Maybe this is?" David queried, producing two mugs and a bottle of beer from his pony and trap. He now knew Malone well enough to know when something was his mind. The two men sat on the railway sleepers that served as chocks against Brenda's front wheels and talked for some minutes.
"Microwave cooked?" said David softly when Malone had finished sketching in recent events. "All 35 hounds? The radio said that some sort of disease was suspected."
"Makes you think, doesn't it? All that power packed into the spyder."
"Looks like your theory's holding up, Mike. The Visitors decided to move the three girls somewhere safe until they'd zapped the foxhounds. Except Farside isn't so safe, is it? The Visitors screwed-up. All I heard on the radio was that a sabre tooth tiger had been seen Farside."
"The radio station are sitting on all mention of the girls."
David shook his head in disbelief. "Ellen chucking rocks at a sabre tooth..."
"She scored a direct hit on its nose just as it was about to pounch on Vikki. That made it decide that taking off was the better option."
"God -- that woman's got balls," David murmured.
"I'll drink to that. Vikki managed to stand her ground which seemed to confuse the sabre tooth. Trouble is that Faraday and his bloody camcorder saw the whole thing as well. I threatened him with a broken arm unless he gave me the video tape. Quite illegal, of course but I'd couldn't stand the thought of those sickos at Pentworth House drooling over it. Not only that, but anyone not wholly convinced that Vikki's a witch, certainly would be after seeing that tape. She was naked, covered in body markings like a shaman, and wearing a skull on her head."
"Why?”
Malone smiled. "You haven't got a daughter. My guess is that she was just horsing about when she had to chase after her cat. The unanswered question is why are the Visitors so keen to protect the three girls, albeit, in their own peculiar fashion?"
"Vikki says that she's the key," said David. "They can talk to her. Or she says they can."
"She's telling the truth," said Malone seriously.
"Oh, come on, Mike. She probably imagines she is. All that talk when I went to the cave about her meeting this Dario guy and being pregnant. You said yourself that you'd seen a poster in her bedroom of a Zulu warrior she called Dario. A young girl's fantasies can be pretty bloody potent. Strong enough for her to mix them up with reality and to convince herself that she's telling the truth. After the horrors of what she's been through, it's hardly surprising she's turned to her fantasies as an escape. I would've been gibbering by now."
"I don't think young girls fantasize about being pregnant. Anything but, I would've thought."
"I don't know," said David. "She seemed so rebellious in the cave that maybe she was just saying that to shock. Anyway, if the Visitors and their spyder can pack the sort of punch that cooks dogs, why didn't they use it to save Vikki when she fell into Adrian Roscoe's clutches?"
"I don't know," Malone admitted.
The two men talked for another ten minutes. David listened attentively to Malone's plans. They were refinements of the rough idea that Malone had outlined during their von Stauffenberg discussion. David had some grave reservations, not least being a reluctance to take on the spyder on the not wholly unreasonable grounds that anything that could microwave 35 foxhounds to cooked meat was worthy of respect. Eventually he was persuaded to go along with Malone's outlandish scheme. The two men crossed to the Range Rover. Malone was about to start the engine when he asked David how much power that Brenda and the Centrax could produce.
"The best part 300 kilowatts," David replied. "Although we've not had a chance to test them under full load."
Malone whistled, eyeing Brenda and the big mobile generator. "Nearly a third of a million watts? That's quite something. I've had a thought. Tomorrow night at the switch-on, instead of turning on a few street lights and some floodlights, why not light up the whole of Market Square? All the shop fronts, the offices and flats? And plenty of extra floodlights. Last year's Christmas lights. Make it a real blaze. Could you do that?"
"I can't see that it would be a problem. But what would be the point?"
"A psychological point. It would bring home to everyone that the skids are under Adrian Roscoe. That Pentworth doesn't need him anymore."
David grinned. "That's not a such a bad idea. Bob Harding's supposed to here be soon when he's stopped messing about with his bathyscaphe thing. I'll put it to him."
Malone's parting words to David were an admonition to get a couple of hours sleep because they might have a long night ahead of them.
Chapter 48.
MALONE'S OPERATION CANCER differed from the surveillance operation of previous nights in several respects. This time he had a much better idea of the spyder's likely movements if it appeared, and had been able to distribute his one-man lookouts more effectively. Pentworth House had been code-named Warren Farm. There was a real Warren Farm therefore anyone turning up there without good reason was liable to find themselves held under suspicion of listening to police frequencies. Pentworth House and its estate and been ringed with lookouts -- nothing was going to move in and out of that place without Malone knowing about it. The major difference was that this time Malone was not in the operations room at the police station. He and David Weir were sitting in the Range Rover that was concealed in the clump of trees in the field bordering Sister Mary's property where they had a good view of the field's entrance and the expanse of grass. The two men had cut some rhododendron fronds and propped them around the Range Rover. To their left, across 100 metres of grass, were the Wall's marker poles. It was the field where the extraordinary scene between Vikki, Ellen, Claire and the sabre tooth had taken place. Silent lightning spikes of a gathering storm blazed across the Farside sky, illuminating the humped horizon of the South Downs.
Shortly before midnight David slipped out of the passenger seat and stood in front of the Range Rover's camouflage. Despite the greenery, he could feel the warmth radiating from the engine. He returned to the car and said to Malone, "Still damned hot. If that spyder can see into the infra-red, then we're going to show up like a beacon. This camouflage isn't going to hide us."
"Let's deal with that problem when it arises, if it arises," said Malone.
"It's a wonder the damn thing doesn't sink into the ground."
Malone made no reply. His reason for using the armoured vehicle was that its radio had a high-gain antenna on the roof, and the radio itself had greater sensitivity than the handheld PMR sets. It was essential that he could hear the exchanges between his scattered units and the operations room without Carol Sandiman having to break radio silence unnecessarily to keep him posted on what was going on.
The two men sat in silence. The Farside lightning was intensifying, heavy clouds were coalescing although the sky within the Wall remained clear. Malone commented on the fact that there were no matching crackles from the police radio each time the Farside sky was lit up.
"We can't hear the thunder either," said David. "Yet the storm's getting closer."
Like many before him, Malone pondered the strange filtering characteristics of the Wall. They could see Farside yet hear no sounds from it. Sunlight, the light from the stars and the moon, even Farside sc
enes penetrated the Wall but not radio signals. The unearthly powers that the Visitors possessed had never worried him so much as they did now. Mindful of the massed slaughter of 35 foxhounds by the spyder, he had issued instructions to all his men at the evening briefing that they were to "run like hell" if the spyder showed any interest in them. Such was his concern for their safety that he had been in half a mind to cancel the operation. David looked at his watch and muttered, "Midnight."
Malone switched on the broadcast radio and kept the volume low. "Stayin' Alive!... On eight-seven point five!" Radio Pentworth's identification jingle, mixed with the Bee Gee's song, was hardly necessary because it was the only station on the band. But the song was now Pentworth's unofficial anthem. It was played to mark the opening of the monthly discos and children's parties that had been held in Market Square since May, two months after the Wall had appeared. The brash, confident number symbolized the mood of Pentworth and the way its resourceful people were coping with the extraordinary crisis that had overtaken their community.
"Looking forward to the carnival?" asked Malone.
David considered his answer. "If it means ending this impasse with Roscoe -- the answer's yes. If it means bloodshed, then no."
The midnight news bulletin included a recorded interview with Bob Harding explaining what had gone wrong at the lake with his plans to dive down to the Silent Vulcan.
"Silly old fool," David muttered. "We should never have voted him that funding."
"At least you had the chance to vote," Malone observed. "More than you would've had with Prescott running things." He turned the broadcast radio off and remarked that the food David had brought smelt promising.
David retrieved a shoebox from the back seat and passed Malone a sandwich. "Ham!" said Malone appreciatively, sinking his teeth into the fresh bread. "I'd forgotten what it tasted like." He opened the sandwich and inspected the contents. "My God! Look at the thickness of these slices!"
"I never was much good at carving," David admitted.
The Silent Vulcan Page 20
