Terror's Cradle

Alsa! That phone call. Damn! I said, 'Why? What's she done?'

He looked up at me for a moment and there was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. He said, 'Christ only knows. She's vanished,'

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 hoteclass="underline" 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.