Terror's Cradle

CHAPTER FIVE

Òff the face of the bloody earth,' Scown said. He was staring at me angrily, but the anger wasn't for me.

My whole body seemed to tighten, then shrivel.. Alsa? Vanished? Where?',I demanded.

`She was in Gothenburg,' Scown was a Scot but the accent was usually neutral. At moments of stress he reverted a bit, and he was reverting now; the o of Gothenburg was contemptuously emphasized.

`When?'

`Night before last.' That was when she'd phoned me.

Scown knew what he was telling me, and what I was feeling. Alsa was something special in several people's lives, including both of ours. Her father had been Scown's only real friend and Scown had worked him into an early grave by way of gratitude. But long before that Joe had plucked me off the Yorkshire Post and opened his kingdom and his home to me. Like his daughter, Joe Hay had been the special kind, with heavy emphasis on the word kind. Though there wasn't much humanity left in Scown, what trace there was had been directed at Alsa since Joe's death. But he had weird ways of showing it, like sending her to Russia.

`What happened?'

`She phoned me. When she got in from Moscow. She .was okay then. Night before, last, fairly late, she rang the local police.'

`Why?'

`She said . . He paused. 'It's bloody stupid. She told them she was in danger. Asked for help. When they got to her hotel, she'd gone. No message. Nothing.'

Ànd nothing since?'

No.' He exhaled hard through his nose in exasperation, nostrils widening. 'Not a bloody word.'

`What do the police say?'

`What do they ever say? Bugger all!'

It was rare to see Scown looking and feeling helpless.

Another time I might have enjoyed the sight; now, somehow, it underscored the nastiness. 'Who's over there?' `Nobody.'

`Why not, for God's sake?'

`Because the police said no. That's why.'

Ànd you're supine? You just say "yes, inspector."' `Don't bloody well talk to me like that!'

I stared at him, astonished that I'd done so already. All right then, I'd go on. I said, Àlsa Hay. Joe's daughter. And some copper says keep off and you do! Jesus Christ!'

Scown was angry now, too. Those pale blue eyes were very hard. He said, 'That's how it is.'

Not for long.' I turned and headed for the door. `Where d'you think you're going?'

I said, 'Gothenburg,' over my shoulder and kept walking. He said 'No!' The familiar monosyllable with the familiar sound, like a steel shutter dropping. At the door I turned angrily. 'There are two secretaries out there,' I said. 'One of them can type out my resignation.'

`Come here.' He sat behind his big desk like a not too-quiescent volcano. The habit of obedience to Scown was strong, but this time not strong enough. I didn't reply, just reached for the door handle.

Behind me Scown said, 'We're warned off.'

That stopped me. I turned to face him.

`By whom?'

He stood up suddenly, prowled over to the big floor-toceiling picture window, and stared coldly at the dome of St Paul's. 'Official circles.'

I set off back across the carpet. 'Which ones?'

`Big ones.'

Ànd you're —'

Ì'm doing as I'm bloody well told. I don't like it either.' Òtherwise you don't get your knighthood!'

He swung round at me, furious, but for once I got in first I said. 'The resignation stands. You do what you like. If you think you're bound, you're bound. But you don't bind me. Not where Alsa's concerned.'

Àccepted!' He was boiling. But he was also Scown. was outside dictating the letter of resignation to Secretary One when the door opened again and he said mildly, 'Come back in, John. You'd better know.'

I followed him and waited.

He said, 'She told me something on the phone. When she

left Moscow there was some kind of panic. They stopped her and searched her stuff. Very polite and proper, she said.' I went suddenly cold. 'She was carrying something?' He shook his head.

`She thought it was just funny. She'd got a pile of pictures and a lot of them were transparencies. The Russians said they thought she'd picked up the front cover of one of their magazines by mistake.'

Ànd had she?'

`She said not.'

Òfficial circles,' I said angrily, 'means MI6 or somebody, doesn't it? You let them use her?'

He didn't reply. Instead he walked to the wall, slid back a teak panel, opened a safe and took out two bundles. He always has a pile of tip-off money to hand. 'Here's five hundred. Let me know.'

There wasn't much information to be had, but I got what there was. She'd been staying at a hotel called the Scanda, and the printers were an outfit called Strom Brothers who apparently did good-quality work reasonably cheaply. Scown was trying them out on this to see whether it worked out good and cheap; if it did he planned to switch one of the women's magazines there, because Sweden was relatively free of labour troubles and he'

d been strike-bound twice in a year.

After that I went back to my flat to collect a clean shirt or two and ring SAS. The next flight was a nonstop, just before five, which would do nicely, and it left me time to nip round to the bank the Daily News used and turn some of Scown's five hundred into kroner.

I landed in Gothenburg around six-thirty and took a cab to the Scanda, a straightforward modern rectangle of the type that adds nothing to the character of any city and very little to the pleasure of the visitor. I registered, went to my room, and sat down to think, which wasn't easy; I'd spent too many hours in aeroplanes for my head to be full of ideas, or indeed of anything but clogged cotton wool.

The first problem was that Scown had been warned off and I didn't know whether the Swedes knew that. If they did, there'd be no help. On the other hand, there had to be some sensible basis for the questions I was going to ask. I decided, in the end, that the best place to begin was with the hotel staff. If there was a clamp on them, it would show fast enough.

I went downstairs and into the square sideshoot that passes, in hotels like the Scanda, for a lounge, and ordered some coffee. The girl who brought it looked at me in a worried kind of way when I mentioned Alsa's name, and said that I should talk to the manager. The proffered kroner were accepted but unproductive. Simple enough; the staff weren't talking and my problem was clear: it was no good being unofficial. I went to reception and asked to see the manager.

His name was Pederson and he was as neutrally modern as his hotel: a medium-sized Swede, the darker side of fair, with the kind of bland, smooth public face which kept his difficulties decently out of sight.

`How may I help you, Mr Sellers?' He'd come to the counter. I said, 'Do you mind if we use your office?'

Ìs it necessary?'

Ì want to talk about Miss Hay, Alison Hay.'

Àh. Of course. This way, please.' He had my registration slip in his hand and glanced at it quickly. I'd left the Business or Profession space blank. He sat me in an angular chair upholstered in. French

mustard, then sat formally behind his desk, instead of taking my chair's partner. `May I ask who you are?'

Ì'm a friend of Miss Hay's.'

À journalist?'

Às it happens, yes. But I'm not here as a journalist.' `You have some authorization?' he asked carefully. `Do I need any?'

He shrugged. Ìt helps. Always it helps.' Then he smiled. `We are a slightly bureaucratic people, Mr Sellers.'

So I showed him my passport, my Cable and Wireless card, _ my Press card and my Diner's Card. The Diner's Card seemed to impress him most. At least I existed and was credit worthy.

He handed them back to me politely. 'I know so little. Miss Hay had a booking for ten days. She slept here one night. On the following night she apparently telephoned the police, said she was in grave danger and asked for immediate protection. The police sent a car without delay. When it arrived, she had gone.'

`The phone call,' I asked. Was it made from the hotel?' Òh, yes.'

`You're sure?'

`Certainly. It was put through the hotel operator.' Àt what time?'

Àt five minutes past eleven, I believe. The list can be checked if it is important.'

`She didn't tell you she was in danger?'

'No.'

'Or any of the staff?'

`What about her room. May I see it?'

Ì'm sorry.' He shrugged again, but with a touch of irritation. 'The room is locked. Instructions from the police, you understand. If you get their permission, then naturally .

.

I said, Was there any commotion?'

`No.'

`What about her things. Were they disturbed?'

`By the police, inevitably. They spent much time in the room.'

`But there was no sign of a struggle?'

He sighed a little. 'These are questions you must ask the police, Mr Sellers. I am simply the manager of a hotel. We prefer — '

`Not to get involved?'

`Naturally. No hotel likes these affairs. If I can help, naturally I will. But I have told you all that I know. I really think you should talk to the police now.'

I nodded. 'I will, Mr Pederson. Thanks.'

He showed me out with the same neutral courtesy, trying to mask his distaste for the whole business, but it showed all the same.

Òne more thing,' I said. 'She tried to phone me that night. I'd like to know what time that was.'

Òf course. I will ask the telephonist.'

I learned that Alsa had made, or tried to make, three phone calls that night. The first was to London, to the Daily News, but not presumably to Scown or he'd have mentioned it. The second was to me, the third to the police. It seemed likely she'd rung London to find out where I was, tried to reach me and finally, nearly three hours later, she'd called the police. What had happened in those three hours?

I'd have to get on to the police. I went up to my room intending to ring them but changed my mind and decided to go in person. d was putting on a raincoat when the phone rang. An Inspector Schmid was downstairs and would like to see me. I told them to send him up, removed my mac and waited. Pederson had clearly called the police the moment I'd gone.

When the knock came on the door, I opened it and two men came into my room.

`Mr Sellers?' the first one asked. He was surprisingly small, no more than five feet six or so. I nodded. The size of policemen is in reverse ratio to the prosperity of a country. Ì am Inspector Schmid. This is Sergeant Gustaffson. I understand you are here about the case of Miss Alison Hay.'

`Sit down,' I said. Schmid sat. His sergeant apparently preferred to stand.

`How much do you know, Mr Sellers?'

`Not much. What the hotel manager told me.'

`We ourselves know very little more.'

`No news, then?'.

`None.'

I said, 'People don't just vanish. Do you know how she left the hotel?'

`We are concerned,' Schmid said, 'because this lady had just returned from the Soviet Union.'

Ì know she had. Why do you think it's relevant?'

He smiled. 'I prefer to believe everything is relevant until it is eliminated. May I see your passport?'

I handed it over and he flipped through the pages, then looked up at me. 'I see you have been to the Soviet Union recently, too.'

Not too recently. Some time ago'

`Yes.' He gave the passport back to me. 'I know, of course, the reason for her presence in Gothenburg. But not in detail.'

I said, 'The company she works for is producing a magazine about Russia for sale in Britain. She went to Russia to collect material and came here to put it together. The magazine's being printed here.'

`Why is that?'

Ùsual reasons. Suitable printer at a suitable price.' `Yes.' He looked at me for a moment.

'Why was a woman sent?'

`Because . . I hesitated. I didn't fully understand Scown's reasons myself. 'I suppose because she was the right person to do it. She knew magazine production.'

`But it would be unusual to send a woman?'

À bit,' I said. 'We're male chauvinist pigs in Fleet Street.' `You're what?'

Ìt's a man's world,' I said. The thing is, it wasn't just

"a woman" who was sent, any more than they'd send just any man. She went because she'

s damn good.'

Ànd very attractive? I have seen her photograph.' `Then you know the answer.'

Àlso, she has charm?'

`More than most,' I said. More than any was what I meant, but I was keeping things deliberately fiat. Police forces the world over send worried lovers and husbands home for a cup of tea. It's a conditioned reflex.

He saw through me though. 'Your relationship with Alison Hay?'

Ì've known her a long time. Her father was a friend. So is she. And we worked together for a while.'

He nodded, glanced down at his fingers, and muttered something I didn't quite catch.

`Sorry?'

He looked up, met my eyes deliberately and said quickly: `Why did you go to Russia, Mr Sellers?'

If I hadn't been so worried about Alsa, I'd have laughed. The old interrogator's punctuation trick ! I said, 'On the same thing.'

`The same magazine?'

`That's right.'

`Why? Why was it necessary to—'

I interrupted. 'Because I made a mess of things and they

threw me out. She apparently did the job properly.' Schmid nodded and rose. 'Thank you. If we have any

news, you will be informed.'

Not so fast,' I said. 'There are things I want to know.' `Well?'

Ì'd like to see her room.'

`No.'

`Why not?'

`We want nothing disturbed. It may be important, Mr Sellers.'

`There may also,' I said sarcastically, 'be something there that will help.. Something you wouldn't see and I would. That could be important, tool'

`Possibly. However, that is the decision. As I said, you will be informed a any development.'

I wanted to hit him, instead I made myself speak quietly. Ìt's forty-eight hours now, Inspector Schmid. Are you really telling me you've discovered nothing? Don't you even know where she went, who she saw, why she was afraid?'

Schmid said, 'One possibility, Mr Sellers, is that she was carrying something out of the Soviet Union. Had that occurred to you?' He was pulling the same trick again, looking me suddenly hard in the eye.

I said, 'Sure she was. She was carrying articles and pictures. Enough for six issues of the magazine. She was a journalist, not a spy.'

Ìs the distinction always so clear?'

`She wasn't a spy,' I said. 'You can be quite certain of that. If she was carrying anything, it was planted on her.'

Schmid nodded. 'We are aware of that possibility, too.'

Then he slid out, without looking back, and the big sergeant followed. I watched the door close. Appropriate. I faced a closed door, all right. I picked up the phone and gave the operator Scown's phone number, the line that wasn't intercepted by secretaries, and listened to the assorted clicks as the call was routed.

`What is it?' Other people give their names or numbers, or at least say, yes? Scown assumes the worst.

`The police aren't very co-operative,' I said.

`Who's that?'

`Sellers.'

Àre they ever?'

`They've closed the door,' I said. Tut I want to check one thing. She phoned the office that night. To whom did she speak and what did she say?'

`Your number?'

I told him and he put the phone down.

Miss ,Harrison, the editor's secretary, rang me back ten minutes or so later. She said, '

Miss Hay spoke to me the

other night, Mr Sellers.'

`What did she say?'

`She wanted to know where you were. Whether I had a number for you. I told her where you were staying in Washington.'

`How did she sound?'

There was a pause. 'I don't quite see what you mean.'

So Miss Harrison didn't know! Scown was keeping the whole thing to himself ! I thought angrily about those bloody official circles. 'Did she seem worried?'

`Well, I don't quite know. She just said she wanted the number. I don't remember anything unusual.'

I thanked her and hung up, wondering whether she'd gossip in the ladies'. But she wouldn't. Editors' secretaries are hired because they won't gossip, in the ladies' or anywhere else. I stood at the window, brooding, for a while; wondering if Alsa was somewhere among all those lights. A couple of times another question flickered in my mind. Was she even still alive? I tried not to think about that. Instead I tried to think what I could do next. In the face of police non-cooperation I could do precious little, and my mind was now so weary and leaden I was incapable of thinking clearly. I hated the idea of going to bed and leaving it till morning, but knew I had to.

I woke at four. No, that's not quite accurate. I was awakened at four. There was no intermediate, dopey stage. One minute I was fast asleep; the next I was awake, alert and tense, and wondering why. Someone in the room? I lay still,. listening hard, but I could hear nothing except my own heartbeat. I reached for the light switch, but carefully. If someone were in the room, bed was not a helpful place to be. With my thumb on the switch, I hesitated. Somewhere in my mind there was the memory of a small sound. Had I heard it, or had it been part of a dream? Was it the sound that had awakened me?

I switched on the light and looked round the room, blinking. Nobody there. Nobody in the bathroom either. Odd. I had a feeling it was a sound that had awakened me, but the silence was complete; few things are quieter than a hotel at four A.M. I began to prowl round, looking at things. Maybe it had been one coat hanger banging against another, something like that. I looked, but they all seemed still enough and there was no draught in the wardrobe to set them swinging. Then my bare foot touched something moist on the carpet. Water? I glanced at the ceiling, but there was no sign of moisture up there, so I bent and rubbed the carpet with my fingers and found the moist spot. All right; where had the water come from? Was it, for instance, raining? I pulled back the curtain and it was raining cats and dogs. But it hadn't been raining when I went to bed, had it? No. I crawled round on my hands and knees wondering if there were other drops of water, and there were, several of them, half a dozen single drops more or less in a line from the door across the room, and two or three close together by my bed.

It was no longer a question of whether somebody had been in the room, but of who? And why? My scalp was still prickling; my heart thudding. There's nothing quite so alarming as the knowledge that somebody broke through and found you defenceless, even if he did nothing.

I thought about that for a moment. The intruder, whoever he was, hadn't come here to do nothing. He'd come to do something. What? My bag lay on the stand. I lifted the lid and looked at the contents, but they hadn't been particularly tidy to begin with; there was no way of knowing if he'd been through them, and it didn't really matter, because the bag held only my clothes. My passport and wallet, then? Hotel thieves like to have passports and wallets, not just for the money, but because there may be credit cards and almost certainly things like driving licences and letters, and documentation of a personality can be useful to criminals.

But both were still in my pockets, so it wasn't a hotel thief. Those drops of water beside the bed puzzled me: had the intruder just stood there, looking at me— the thought made me shiver involuntarily — or was there something else?

The Bible lay in the drawer with the telephone directory; the phone on the bedside table. The phone. I picked it up, not just the receiver, the whole thing. Then I turned it over and looked carefully at the screws that held on the base plate. Steel screws, and in two places there were small, shiny scratch marks on the screw heads. Fresh scratch marks.

I've been through the experience before, in one or two places. I'd been bugged.