Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

Boswell nodded.

“Of course. Don’t forget it, will you? And don’t forget to watch this evening. We’ll fetch you down as soon as we need you again. Look after our guest, Ossian.”

With a casual wave, Boswell left. How sure of himself he looks, thought Matlock. His plans are all perfectly prepared. And mine?

He poured himself another cup of coffee and settled down to wait.

There were two key times in his day. The first was ten o’clock when he was re-wound-up, as he was beginning to think of it, for another twenty-four hours.

The second was four-thirty p.m.

This was the time that the full technical staff would come on duty at the television transmission station which he could see from the castle ramparts spread out over that other rocky eminence once known as Arthur’s Seat. These stations were automated to the point where they could almost run themselves. But for tonight’s transmission, Boswell was taking no chances, and a full staff would be on duty. But not till half past four.

The hours moved by slowly. Matlock tried to act normally, but normality in such conditions was hard to define. Lizzie, chameleon-like, took her own cue from Matlock’s mood and there was little conversation between them.

Ossian sat in the comer, squat, toadlike, watchful.

He’d love an excuse to set about me, reflected Matlock.

And outside in the courtyard of the castle, at all exits, were guards whose orders too were to keep him inside.

He turned his mind away from them and thought of all he had tried to do with his life.

The one o’clock gun boomed, making him start. It would take a lot of getting used to.

It would soon be time.

At three o’clock he knew he could wait no longer. He stood up.

This was the most hateful bit of the plan.

He went across to Lizzie and leaned over her ostensibly to look at the book she was reading. He let his hand brush against her breast, gently at first then with greater urgency.

Surprised, she looked up at him. He grinned down at her and motioned with his eyes towards the bedroom door. For a moment he thought it had gone wrong. He saw doubt, suspicion, in her face. Then it vanished. She smiled widely, moistened her lips and stood up.

Ossian watched without revealing any thought, any emotion on his great flat face.

They walked together to the bedroom door and went in, Lizzie first.

She stopped just inside the bedroom, her back still to him as he locked the door.

“Matt,” she said in a low voice. “I love you. I know you don’t want to make love to me now. Whatever it is you want to do, do it quickly.”

He struck her sharply with the edge of his hand along the side of her neck and caught her as she fell. Quickly he gagged and bound her with the strips of sheet he had tom up earlier in the day and rolled her under the bed. Then he took from inside his pillow the one object he had borne with him through all his vicissitudes since that now so distant mad escape through the streets of London.

It was the small package he had taken from the Technical Education Board, Browning’s forgery centre.

Now he opened it, as he had done once before at the Abbey. It contained a single flat oblong of a material which seemed half metal, half plastic. At first sight he had suspected what it was. Since arriving in Edinburgh he had had his theory confirmed by seeing them in use.

It was a top-level security pass. If the electronic code printed on the reverse side were the one currently in use, there would be a repeated two-tone whistle from the check-machine into which it was pressed by the thumb of its owner — if the thumbprint electronically printed on the other side matched the presser’s thumb.

There were a lot of ‘ifs’. Too many, thought Matlock. He could only hope that Browning’s security men were up-to-date in their knowledge of the Scottish coding. And that the thumb space had been activated but blank till he pressed his own thumb into it.

But before he could find out this he had to deal with Ossian. Ossian would not contravene his orders even at the direct command of God Almighty, let alone for a mere security pass. He possessed the unbluffability of the single-minded.

It would take the full persuasion of the small gun Matlock had removed from Lizzie’s side.

He undid his tie, and ruffled his hair. It was only three-ten. Ossian might be suspicious of such a rapid performance, but he could wait no longer.

He opened the door and stepped out yawning.

Ossian watched him unblinkingly, then suddenly some animal instinct made him grab for his gun.

Matlock shot him carefully between the eyes.

Lizzie was coming round as he pushed Ossian’s body under the bed beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but that was all he could find to say, so he went quickly, leaving her with her grisly companion.

The first check was the worst. The guard was surprised to see him, but instantly accepted the potential authority of the pass, fitting it into his check-machine and offering it to Matlock to press.

He said a prayer and his knees went weak as he heard in reply a clear two-tone whistle.

After that it was easy and he was only challenged twice after leaving the castle, the second time being both challenge and opening signal at the door of the television station.

As he had hoped there were only two technicians there. Even their presence was obviously superfluous; they were sitting playing cards. They stopped as he entered, obviously surprised to be interrupted at all, let alone by him.

The older of them looked even more surprised and went very pale when Matlock beat his companion unconscious which took two blows from his gun.

“You can work this equipment?” he demanded.

“Aye, sure,” said the old man placatingly.

“Then let’s make a film,” said Matlock. “It’s quite simple. I’m going to speak for a bit. I want it put on video-tape. Now if you misbehave yourself when setting up the equipment I’ll shoot you. When I’m actually speaking, I’ll be holding my gun to the head of your friend here who’ll be lying on the floor. If you misbehave then, he gets it. Understand?”

“Aye,” said the technician, glancing surreptitiously at the wall clock.

“And also,” continued Matlock, “if I see any indication that you’re trying to delay matters till four-thirty, then I’ll kill you both. Now move!”

The man didn’t speak another word, but went about his business with quiet efficiency. For all that it was nearly four o’clock when Matlock finished his short speech.

“Now play it back,” he said. He didn’t want a critical viewing — there was no time for a retake — but he had to make sure that the man hadn’t fooled him in any way, that the speech was actually on the tape.

It was. He nodded in satisfaction.

“Good,” he said. “Now, one last job. You were here yesterday when they recorded my other speech, weren’t you?”

The man nodded.

“Well, I want that bit of tape removed from tonight’s broadcast and this put in.”

The man didn’t move.

Now he knows what it’s all about, thought Matlock. I hope to God he’s not the martyr type.

“What’re we waiting for?” he demanded.

“I can’t do it, Mr. Matlock,” the man said with a dignity made all the more impressive by his obvious terror. “It’d mean they’d know about the attack. It’d mean the death of hundreds of our boys.”

Matlock sighed. This man’s very virtue was going to be his weakness. He should know. He was himself a bit of an expert on weakness.

“Perhaps so,” he said. “If you don’t, though, it’ll mean the certain death of this boy here.”

He prodded the unconscious man with his toe and pointed his gun down.