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as 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