gns.theplutopact-第19部分

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　　Three　youths：　two　of　them　carrying　home…made　coshes。　The　third　held　an　open　flick…knife　in　his　right　hand；　an　unopened　handbag　in　the　other。　Muggers。　They　were　breathing　heavily　after　their　fast　sprint　from　the　scene　of　the　mugging　in　nearby　St　Philip's　churchyard。
　　
　　All　four　pulled　up　abruptly。　The　one　with　the　handbag　acted　first。　His　knife…arm　went　back；　then　plunged　forward　swiftly。　Richard　fell　to　the　ground；　the　blade　embedded　deep　in　his　abdomen；　fingers　clawing　desperately　at　the　smooth　concrete　beneath　him。　Dirty　broken　nails　split。　His　blood　formed　a　spreading　scarlet　pool；　but　there　was　no　further　pain。　Everyone　has　his　limit；　and　Richard　Coyle's　had　been　reached　at　last。
　　
　　The　three　youths　paused　momentarily；　the　killer　intent　on　retrieving　his　knife；　reluctant　to　leave　behind　any　evidence。　With　his　foot　he　rolled　the　limp　body　over　on　its　back。　As　a　faint　beam　of　light　from　the　adjoining　passageway　fell　directly　upon　the　festering　face；　a　single　eye　stared　up　at　him；　slowly　reddening　as　though　liquid　fire　blazed　within　it。
　　
　　All　three　froze　in　immobility。
　　
　　'For　fuck's　sake！'
　　
　　The　murder　weapon　was　forgotten　as　three　terror…stricken　muggers　fled　blindly。　Evil　in　all　its　forms　was　abroad　this　night。　That　face　belonged　to　Satan　himself！
　　
　　Kent　looked　no　different　from　when　Bob　Coyle　had　last　seen　him；　three　years　ago。　The　London　journalist　had　an　agelessness　about　him；　short　cropped　fair　hair　that　rendered　flecks　of　grey　invisible；　a　reddish　bronzed　plexion　that　somehow　buried　any　lines　that　might　since　have　appeared。　He　had　a　square　jaw　that　bespoke　determination；　a　stockiness　that　would　not　turn　to　fat；　or　at　least　would　disguise　it。　Five　feet　eight。　He　had　something　else；　too：　a　kind　of　sex　appeal　which　was　not　apparent　until　a　woman　came　to　know　him　well。　That　seldom　happened；　for　he　was　a　loner。　He　had　told　Coyle　once　that　he　was　forty。　Coyle　had　happened　to　know　that　he　was　forty…three；　but　he　did　not　expose　the　lie。　There　was　no　point。　Kent　was　Kent。　A　good　friend　if　he　took　a　liking　to　you；　a　bastard　if　he　didn't。　Nobody　used　his　first　name。　Few　even　knew　it。　Just　'Kent'。
　　
　　Kent　walked　into　the　offices　of　the　Herald　at　11。15　a。m。　Everything　about　him　was　immaculate。　Perhaps　he　had　driven　straight　up　from　London　without　pause。　Maybe　he　had　snatched　a　couple　of　hours'　sleep　behind　the　wheel　of　his　Mercedes　in　a　lay…by。　Either　way　there　was　not　so　much　as　a　crumple　in　his　Saville　Row　suit。
　　
　　'Hi。'　No　handshake；　just　an　easing　of　his　body　into　the　one　vacant　chair。　He　might　even　have　been　part　of　the　regular　set…up；　for　he　had　a　knack　of　adapting　himself　to　any　situation。　A　politician's　scandal　or　an　oxide　leak；　it　mattered　not。　He　was　the　man　for　the　job。
　　
　　Kent　and　Coyle；　it　was　a　natural　team…up。　They　spent　a　full　hour　in　uninterrupted　conversation；　Coyle　doing　most　of　the　talking。　Several　tunes　they　heard　the　telephone　ring　in　the　outer　office；　and　Anne's　muffled　voice　answering　it。　They　were　not　disturbed。　Even　a　call　from　the　highest　authority　would　not　get　past　her　impenetrable　line　of　defence。
　　
　　Coyle　told　Kent　everything。　His　suspicions　about　an　oxide　leak。　Jane。　Anne。　Sarah。　Richard。　And　Balzur's　curse。　The　other　listened　intently；　filling　and　lighting　his　aluminium…stemmed　pipe　with　meticulous　care。　The　tiny　room　was　soon　filled　with　tobacco　smoke。　Something　else；　too。　Tension。
　　
　　'Jesus！'　Kent　was　one　of　the　few　pipe…smokers　who　inhaled　the　strong　smoke　regularly。　'You've　sure　got　problems；　mate。　Big　ones。　Any　ideas　about　Richard？　The　last　time　I　knew　him　he　was　a　rebellious　sixteen…year…old　who　would　oppose　authority　in　every　form。'
　　
　　'He　hasn't　changed。'
　　
　　'But　he　wasn't　a　。。。　killer。　I'm　a　pretty　good　judge　of　character。　Something　drastic　has　happened　to　him；　a　plete　mental　reversion。'
　　
　　'You're　right；　but　he　wasn't　the　sort　to　go　berserk　overnight。　Different　if　he'd　gone　on　to　drugs。　But　it　wouldn't　be　easy　up　here。　Not　like　London。'
　　
　　'If　you　want　drugs　badly　enough；　you　find　'em；'　Kent　said。　'Anywhere。　However；　the　problem　can　wait　until　he　turns　up。　In　the　meantime　we've　got　to　get　cracking　on　this　oxide　business。'
　　
　　'We're　up　against　a　brick　wall　there。'
　　
　　'In　your　case；　yes。'　Kent　tapped　out　his　pipe　in　the　ashtray　and　immediately　began　to　refill　it。　'I　don't　wish　to　belittle　you；　Bob。　You　were　one　of　the　best　on　Fleet　Street　once。　You'd　have　made　it　big　if　you'd　stayed　there。　But　up　here　you　just　don't　count。　A　small　local　paper…expanding；　yes；　but　you're　too　easy　to　gag。　They　can't　do　that　with　me。　To　some　extent　you've　cooked　your　own　goose　by　direct　opposition　to　the　unions；　to　the　men　in　power。　I　agree　with　your　views；　but　these　tin　gods　can't　silence　me。　Freedom　of　the　press　still　exists。'
　　
　　Coyle　nodded。　He　wished　that　he　had　sent　for　Kent　earlier；　and　hoped　it　was　not　too　late　now。
　　
　　Kent　picked　up　the　telephone。　Coyle　pushed　across　a　scrap　of　paper　with　some　digits　scribbled　on　it。　The　Londoner　nodded　as　he　dialled。
　　
　　Dyne；　as　usual；　was　unavailable…a　conference。　Kent　said　he　would　ring　back　in　half　an　hour。　He　declined　the　offer　to　speak　to　either　Stafford　or　Tyler。

　　
　　Soon　the　two　of　them　went　out　to　lunch　together；　a　newly　opened　restaurant　some　five　minutes'　walk　from　the　Herald　offices。　Kent's　gaze　took　in　his　surroundings　as　they　walked　down　the　street。　Old　properties；　sound　enough　in　construction　yet　scheduled　for　demolition。　Queues　forming　outside　confectionery　and　butchery　shops；　the　premises　not　yet　expanded　to　cope　with　the　sudden　increase　in　population。　A　town　that　was　bursting　at　the　seams；　a　valley　that　could　barely　acmodate　the　sprawling　suburbs。　A　place　that　could　disintegrate　in　a　matter　of　seconds　with　one　nuclear　accident。　And　not　just　here；　either。　The　whole　country；　too。
　　
　　As　they　ate　he　casually　observed　those　seated　at　the　tables　around　them。　It　was　a　modern　restaurant　that　had　everything。　An　extensive　menu；　sophisticated　soft　lighting；　background　music；　good　service。　Yet　something　was　missing。　He　was　well　into　his　main　course　before　he　realised　what　it　was。　There　was　no　buzz　of　conversation。　A　crowded　room；　the　diners　virtually　silent；　occasional　ments；　but　no　flow　of　small…talk。　Already　he　knew　that　this　was　a　town　of　fear；　a　population　trapped　by　its　own　environment。　Each　and　every　one　of　them　knew。　They　knew；　too；　that　there　wasn't　a　damned　thing　they　could　do　about　it。　They　were　all　victims　of　the　new　society；　the　Plutonium　Society…the　Pluto　Pact。　And　whether　it　was　Balzur's　or　Oxide　Re…processing's　mattered　not。
　　
　　At　3。30　p。m。　Kent　managed　to　get　Dyne　on　the　telephone。　Coyle　listened　intently　to　his　colleague's　words　from　across　the　desk；　and　it　was　soon　evident　that　this　time　there　would　be　no　rebuff。　Once　again　Coyle　recognised　the　power　of　Fleet　Street；　and　particularly　of　Kent。　The　man；　the　name；　it　made　all　the　difference。
　　
　　Dyne　was　doing　most　of　the　talking。　Coyle　could　not　catch　the　words；　but　was　aware　that　the　big　man　was　not　now　resorting　to　his　usual　mode　of　bluff。
　　
　　'So；　2。p。m。　tomorrow　then；'　Kent　concluded。　'Coyle　will　be　ing　with　me。　Yes。　Two　passes；　please。　We'll　collect　them　at　the　checkpoint　。　。　。　Oh；　all　right；　send　them　down　here；　if　you　wish。　Goodbye。'
　　
　　He　replaced　the　receiver；　and　his　expression　was　grim。
　　
　　'Crisis　meeting　tomorrow。　Followed　by　a　press　conference　at　two　o'clock。　That　means　you　and　me；　and　half　the　journalists　from　Fleet　Street　are　probably　already　making　plans　to　head　north。　Something　really　big　that　they　can't　hide　any　longer。　But　they　haven't　shut　down　the　whole　plant。　Just　that　one　section。　The　Secretary　of　State　for　Energy　will　be　arriving　in　the　morning。　This'H　be　my　big　story；　boy　。。。　By　the　way；　do　you　really　believe　that　stuff　you　wrote　。。。　I　mean　about　the　curse；　some　sixteenth…century　wizard　condemning　Craiglowrie　to　cremation　and　damnation？'
　　
　　'Stranger　things　have　happened。'　Coyle's　expression　was　grave。　'What　is　plutonium　except　a　tool　of　Pluto；　ruler　of　the　fiery　underworld？　Is　it　coincidence　that　out　of　the　whole　of　Britain　this　accursed　valley　was　chosen　for　reprocessing　the　stuff？　Still；　I'd　like　to　think　there's　nothing　in　it。　A　lot　of　the　locals　are　getting　scared；　and　the　authorities　are　blaming　me　for　scaremongering；　but　I　felt　a　responsibility　to　my　readers　to　put　the　picture　before　them。'
　　
　　The　internal　phone　rang。　Anne's　voice　was　apprehensive；
　　
　　'Chief　Superintendent　Rollason；　Bob。'
　　
　　'Put　him　on。'　There　was　an　abruptness　caused　by　fear　in　Coyle's　voice。　'Any　news　of　my　boy？'
　　
　　'Not　yet；'　the　Superintendent's　voice　had　a　trace　of　weariness　in　it。　Three　hours'　sleep　snatched　in　twenty…four　cannot　easily　be　disguised。　'Another　murder。'
　　
　　'Oh；　my　God！'
　　
　　'A　known　prostitute。　She　was　killed　by　a　youth　known　to　us；　Rupert　Copeland。　He　was　found　dead　some　distance　away　from　her　body。　The　news　is　official　now；　if　you　want　to　print　it。'
　　
　　'Maybe　he　did　the　Lakin　girl　in。'
　　
　　'No　chance。'
　　
　　Hopes　raised　and　dashed　instantly。
　　
　　'What　did　Copeland　die　of？'
　　
　　'It's　all　in　the　autopsy。　Official　secret　at　the　moment。　Maybe　it'll　be　disclosed　at　the　press　conference　tomorrow。'
　　
　　'So　you　know　about　that；　too。'
　　
　　Tm　attending　a　crisis　meeting　up　at　the　nuclear　station　in　the　morning。'
　　
　　'Thanks；　anyway。'　Coyle　realised　the　futility　of　asking　further　questions；　'Let　me　know　the　moment　you　have　any　news　of　my　boy。'
　　
　　He　replaced　the　receiver；　and　turned　to　Kent。　'Another　whore　murdered；　and　a　young　local　vagrant　dead。　They　won't　reveal　the　circumstances。　Until　tomorrow；　anyway。'
　　
　　'I　see；'　Kent　puffed　at　his　pipe　more　furiously　than　ever。　'Well；　all　we　can　do　is　wait。　I'll　look　in　at　one　of　the　hotels　before　the　Fleet　Street　army　arrives。'
　　
　　'You're　wele　to　。　。　。　'
　　
　　Kent　shook　his　head。
　　
　　'You've　got　your　problems；　mate。　Some　that　I　can't　help　you　with。　I'll　phone　through　to　my　editor　about　the　murder　just　to　let　him　know　I　haven't　e　up　here　for　a　holiday。'
　　
　　Coyle　put　on　his　coat。　In　the