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For nearly two hours he had remained in that window； watching as though hypnotised。 Now the vans were loaded…sacks of dead pigeons and feathers； ladders and brooms all stowed away。 The drivers were back behind their wheels； engines ticking over。
Two of the strangely clad men walked slowly； purposefully； towards that alleyway opposite。 This time McLellan was wearing his bifocals and could see everything plainly。
They stooped and lifted something of considerable weight； then began to lug it towards the nearer van。
A shiver ran down McLellan's spine and he moistened his dry lips as the men below him slung their load into the vehicle。 Even in death its form was only too recognisable…the Alsatian dog！
The vans drove slowly away； and only then did McLellan move from the window。 It was ten minutes to one； by his wristwatch。 He picked up the telephone； and dialled the number of the refuse department。 No reply。 After a couple of minutes he slammed the receiver down angrily。 The fact that they were clearly taking an extended lunch…hour would not go unnoticed。
He rang again at 2。15； but the line was engaged…permanently； it seemed。 He tried a variety of other departments…Highways； Transport and Vehicles…but none could assist him in his enquiries。
At four o'clock the refuse department's line was still engaged。
McLellan experienced a peculiar sense of foreboding。
Coyle and Kent approached the checkpoint at 1。50 p。m。 in the latter's Mercedes。 The same stolid sentry emerged from his box。 From the passenger seat； Coyle could see the face of the man in the upper box； peering down at them through the small aperture。
This time the entry was much easier； almost as though they were wele。 Coyle was sure they weren't； but there was no delay in the raising of the barriers once their passes had been scrutinised。 Kent noticed three cars following them。 The Press was certainly here in force。
Beyond the second checkpoint； Coyle noticed an array of cars parked outside the administrative offices； and counted them。 There were twenty…four； including two Rolls…Royces； three Mercedes； four Jags。 Maybe the Secretary of State for Energy had not yet left。 Possibly the crisis meeting was still in progress。 In that case the press conference would be late starting。 What the hell。
'I want to know what all that business in the Square was about this morning；' he said to Kent。
'That's just one of a hell of a lot of questions I want to ask；' the other replied。 'Dead pigeons； dead whores； dead vagrants； details of your lad's death in Brum officially withheld 。 。 。 and it's all going to e out this afternoon！ No half…truths。 The whole story。 Remember one thing； pal； it's these boffins who are doing the sweating。 The advantage is ours。 We've got the easy part。 We've only got to ask the questions。 They've got to answer them。'
After parking the Mercedes； they made their way to the main entrance。 The same guard was on duty； and Coyle wondered idly what shifts they worked。 'Holocaust' had a kind of permanency about it； and a dedication shown by its servants。
Again Coyle was struck by the number of intersecting corridors； the closed doors on either side； the ceaseless murmur of voices； the distant hum of machinery。 This time they took a different route…or at least he thought so。 It was difficult to be certain。 The Atomic Energy Authority's armed private policeman marched stoically ahead of them。 Indeed； they had to increase their pace to keep up with him。
Reaching an unmarked door on their right； they were ushered inside。 A large room with no windows； lit solely by fluorescent strips。 It was crowded： some twenty men of varying ages occupied the available seats。 Others stood。
'Hi there； Kent。 Wondered when you'd be turning up。'
Kent nodded to several； but there was no hint of friendship； even towards those whom he had known for years。 They were the Fleet Street army； with some provincial journalists and reporters； too。 Ruthless newshounds with one single quest in mind。 Later all the lines to London would be jammed。
Coyle felt strangely insignificant； a sensation akin to that of a student at a senior debate。 It annoyed him。 Damn it； he'd started all this。 Without his initial perseverance none of them would be crowded into this waiting…room now。
Nobody was smoking。 Even the might of the Press had conceded to the rules。 Kent toyed with his pipe in his pocket； but left it there。 He only ever contested major issues。
'Seems like this crisis meeting is continuing longer than they anticipated；' Kent said to Coyle。 It was already 2。25。
Other reporters fidgeted。 Only Kent appeared to be entirely at ease。 He had played the waiting game too often through his career。 Some of the others were already making anticipatory notes on their pads。 Kent smiled softly to himself。 Impetuosity。 But there would be no jumping to conclusions on his part。 He would make very few notes； anyway。 Yet his story would be the first and the best to hit the country。 No sensationalism…just the facts； and the way he interpreted them。
Suddenly the door was thrown open。 Kent was already moving towards it； Coyle at his side。 It was 2。45。
'This way； gentlemen； please。'
Only as they re…emerged into the featureless corridor did Coyle realise just how tense he really was。 Soon they would know the truth。 Soon the entire country would know。 That was what worried him most of all。 Balzur hadn't just cursed Craiglowrie and its inhabitants； his evil was now stretching out to embrace the whole world。
Chapter 9
The large room was again windowless and illuminated by strip…lighting。 Rows of seats facing a raised platform…a psychological advantage for the men seated at the long curved table above。 It might have been a television quiz programme； in which petitors would be made to feel nervous； a sensation of confronting superior knowledge。
Well； that was what it was； Coyle reminded himself。 Those men up there were the ones who knew。 But there was one important difference： they were the ones who had to supply the answers。
Kent noted immediately that the Secretary of State for Energy was not present。 There was one empty seat； so he had already made his departure。 A tactical move； or more pressing business back in the capital？ It could have been either。 The journalist reserved his judgement。 He counted 'the panel'。 Eight in all。
Coyle's gaze focused on each of them in turn。 Winston Dyne sat in the centre； still outwardly confident； but a man like that would be capable of maintaining a bluff exterior at all times'； no matter how grave the situation。 Stafford； representative of British Nuclear Fuels； kept his eyes fixed on some papers in front of him； expressionless。 Tyler； representative of Britain's Hazardous Materials Group； seemed decidedly nervous； he drummed incessantly with his fingers on the table top。 Chief Superintendent Rollason was stolid； as usual； but without the eternal cigarette。 There were four others； al