Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  In the clubs he frequented, Khan was always ‘Khan the banker’. Few knew more about his life than that simple three-word statement. He always either brought with him, or else ended the evening with, the most beautiful woman around. He always ordered either Krug or Roederer Cristal. And he always paid in cash. Cash was his currency, crisp new Bank of England notes, and because of this he found favour with every club owner and restaurateur.

  He was an acknowledged creature of the night. There were stories of champagne at dawn in Hyde Park, of designer dresses being delivered out of the blue to Kensington flats - and fitting the recipient perfectly. There were gold taps in his Belgravia house, and breakfast was actually delivered from a nearby five-star hotel. But Shari or Sherri was the first person to take the trip to Scotland with him. She was an agency model, with no bookings all week. She was, with a name like that, naturally American - from Cincinnati. Her skin was soft and very lightly tanned, and she just loved what Khan did to her in bed.

  There was a problem though. It was a long and tiring drive to the Scottish residence, situated just outside Auchterarder and not a ten-minute drive from Gleneagles Hotel. Henrik and Khan had driven it in the past, but recently Khan had opted for the bank’s private twelve-seater plane which was kept at an airfield to the south-west of London. It could be flown to a small airfield adjoining Edinburgh Airport, from where it was an hour by hired car to Auchterarder. The plane usually stood idle anyway, with a pilot on permanent contract, and Khan reckoned all he was costing his employers were some fuel and the pilot’s expenses in Edinburgh. But this week, the plane was booked. Two of the bank’s South-East Asia personnel were in Britain, and the plane was required for trips to Manchester, Newcastle, and Glasgow.

  However, the airfield’s owner, recognising valued custom, asked if he might be of assistance to Khan. There was an eight-seater available which could be hired for fifteen hundred pounds a day, the fee to include a pilot’s services. The airfield owner stressed that fifteen hundred was cheap these days, and Khan knew this to be the case. All the same. He would be charged per day, and staying in Scotland from Friday through Monday ...

  ‘Would the pilot be willing to fly us up there then bring the plane back the same day, and return to Edinburgh to collect us on the Monday?’ Khan listened to the silence on the other end of his car-phone. The airfield owner was considering this proposition.

  ‘I suppose that’d be all right,’ the man answered at last.

  ‘And the charge would be for the two days only?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Mr Khan. See, if he’s got to pick you up on the Monday, that means he’s tied up. He can’t take any other work.’

  ‘I see,’ said Khan. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ And he terminated the call. He considered for a moment, then placed another call, this time to the Edinburgh airfield. ‘It’s Mr Khan here. Would it be possible to hire a small plane, a six-seater would suffice, to bring some people back from Edinburgh to London on Monday?’ He listened to the answer. ‘And how much would it cost?’ he asked. ‘Two thousand? Yes, thank you. That’s a definite booking. It’s Khan. K-h-a-n. I’ll be arriving in Edinburgh this afternoon. I can pay the deposit then, if that’s all right. I don’t suppose there would be a cash discount?’

  As he said this, he tried to make it sound like a joke. But it was certainly not taken as a joke at the other end of the line. There was an agreement. A ten percent discount for cash, and no receipts issued. Khan rang off, and rang the English airfield again. ‘I’ll take the plane and pilot for today only. One way. Fifteen hundred pounds as agreed.’ Again, he terminated the call and sat back in his seat. The BMW was entering Jermyn Street. Khan needed some shirts.

  Rich people are often those who are most canny with their money. At least, the people who stay rich are, and Khan had every intention of both him and his bank remaining wealthy. He was a born haggler, but only when it mattered. It was not, for example, worth asking for a cash discount on a bottle of Krug or a club membership. This would merely make one look cheap. But in business, haggling was an ancient and honourable adjunct. He didn’t really understand the British reserve in this matter. He enjoyed the London markets, where stall-holders would cajole people into buying by adding another bunch of bananas to the box they were already holding. And another bunch ... and another ... until suddenly some invisible, unspoken point was reached, and several hands shot out holding money. Of course, only one of them was chosen.

  Londoners, native Londoners, working-class Londoners, were excellent hagglers. Often it was trained out of them, but many retained the habit and the skill. Just look at the City, at the young brokers who were just as likely to come from the East End as from Eton. These people were a pleasure to do business with. Khan totted up that he had just saved £2,300, either for the bank or for himself (depending on how it swung). He was pleased. But then, what was £2,300? The cost of a single bottle of Petrus at some wine merchants. The cost of an adequate vintage in several London restaurants. The cost of thirty shirts: a scant month’s worth. Of course, because the Edinburgh end of the deal involved no receipts, there could be no allowances against tax either ... but then Khan and his bank were not worried by UK taxation laws.

  ‘The parking looks difficult,’ Henrik called from the driver’s seat. ‘Shall I drop you off and drive around the block?’

  ‘Okay. I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The car stopped, blocking the narrow street. Behind it, a taxi sounded its horn. Khan stepped slowly from the back of the BMW and gave the taxi driver a cool gaze. The pavements were wet, but drying fast. The summer shower was over, and the sun had appeared again. Steam rose into the sky. Khan walked on leather soles and heels through the steam and into the shop. The shop was another saving. He had found that, due to his ‘regular shape’, tailored shirts fitted him no better than a decent ready-made. There were four customers in the shop, each busy with an assistant.

  ‘With you in a moment, sir,’ someone said to Khan, who bowed his head in acknowledgement. He was in no hurry. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and examined the collar-sizes on the rows of wooden shelves. The hand in his left pocket touched something small and cold: an alarm. If he pressed its round red button, Henrik would arrive with all speed. This, too, Khan did not perceive as a luxury.

  They flew up to Scotland over the west coast. The plane’s interior was cramped yet somehow comfortable. There was something reassuring about the closeness of proximity. Henrik shifted seats half a dozen times, when he was not dispensing drinks. There was a cool-box on board, in which had been placed two bottles of champagne, several rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, and small cocktail packets of pistachios and almonds. Plastic cups for the champagne though: an obvious oversight. Khan handed two cups to Henrik. ‘Ask the pilot if he’d like one.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The pilot could be seen, there being no curtain between cockpit and passenger deck. This annoyed Khan, too, though it could hardly be said to be the pilot’s fault. Henrik returned with the two beakers. He was grinning.

  ‘Not while he’s driving, Mr Khan, but he thanks you for the thought.’

  Khan nodded. Sensible, really, but then some of the pilots he’d had in the past were not what one would call top-flight. They were getting old and getting fat. Fat pilots worried Khan. They should be full of nervous energy, wiry as a result. He’d waited until well into the flight before offering the champagne, just to see if the pilot’s will would crack. It hadn’t.

  Khan looked across to Henrik. He too was showing signs of the good, easy life. He was paid well for his services, and those services so far had not exactly taxed him, either physically or mentally. When Khan had hired him, Henrik had been muscular; almost muscle-bound. Working weights and hoping to turn pro, paying his way by acting as bouncer for a West End club owner. Khan had asked the club owner’s permission before approaching Henrik with an offer of a job. The chauffeur’
s role hadn’t appealed to the Dane, but he’d taken the job anyway. He was not stupid. He knew that as bodyguard he would have to accompany Khan just about everywhere: everywhere glamorous, everywhere expensive, everywhere that was Somewhere.

  But too many hours in the driving seat were taking their toll. Henrik was still big, still strong, but there was excess flesh now, too. Khan, who worked out each day, appreciated Henrik’s problem; it was one of mental application. The Dane was no longer hungry. Look at him, champagne in both hands, sipping from one cup then from the other, gazing out of the window down on to the visible landscape. Khan was aware that Henrik might have to go. There might be a termination of contract, the hiring of someone new, someone strong but hungry. Would he perhaps keep Henrik on as driver? He was a good, safe driver after all. But no, that would be to denigrate the man, to humble him. More importantly, it might well make Henrik bitter. And a bitter man was an enemy. It didn’t do to employ potential spies, potential adversaries. No, Henrik would have to go. Soon. There was that new doorman at the Dorica Club ...

  ‘This is great, really great.’ Shari or Sherri slumped her head against Khan’s shoulder. She was dressed well. He’d been relieved when they’d stopped the car outside her block and she’d opened the door and started down the steps, smiling, waving, carrying two large holdalls ... and above all dressed well. Discreetly sensual. Not too much make-up, not too much perfume. A clinging red dress which just met her knees. Her tanned legs did not need covering. Her shoes were red too. She knew how well her blonde hair and high cheekbones suited red.

  ‘You’re very special,’ he told her now, rubbing one smooth knee. It was true: they were all very special.

  ‘Touching down in ten minutes,’ called the pilot. One bottle of champagne was still unopened, the sandwiches barely touched.

  ‘You’re special too, Khan,’ said Shari or Sherri.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He patted the back of her hand, which lay on his right thigh. ‘I’m sure we’re going to have a wonderful time.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me too.’

  Across the aisle from them, Henrik drained first one beaker and then the other. His chin dropped against his neck as he stifled a belch.

  A wonderful time. Well, yes, at first it was. But it struck Khan that there was something not quite right. The time was wonderful but not perfect. It wasn’t that he was worrying about bank business. The bank was always in and on his mind, even on these trips north. Scotland was not a refuge. There were computers and modems and faxes and telephones in his house. A call might come on his portable phone during lunch or dinner, or to his bedside telephone in the middle of the night. New York might call to warn of an incoming fax, for his eyes only. Seoul might need information. Karachi, Lahore, Patna, Bombay, Bangkok, George Town, Shanghai ... not everyone appreciated what the local hour was when they called. If it was the middle or the beginning or the end of their banking day, then it was Khan’s banking day too. But no, it was nothing to do with business. Business was not a problem. Was the problem Shari or Sherri? Ah, yes, maybe. Maybe that was it. She did love what he did to her in bed ... and elsewhere in and out of the house. Her American accent grated, but only a little. She was not over-talkative, which was a relief to him. And she looked good all the time. She made herself presentable. What then?

  Well ... There came a time when, sated, he liked his women to open themselves up a little to him, to tell him about their lives. Normally, he was uninterested in pasts, but there was something about the aftermath of the sexual act. He liked to listen to their stories then, and file them away. So that he could assure himself he had been fucking someone’s history, a real flesh and blood human, and not just a beautiful dummy.

  And it was here that Shari or Sherri had disappointed him. She had disappointed him by being at first vague, and then by making obvious mistakes. For instance, she told him about a childhood incident when a boy neighbour had lifted up her skirt and slipped his hot little hand inside her pants. She told the story twice, and the first time the boy’s hand had gone down the front of her pants, the second time the back. Khan hadn’t commented, but it had made him wonder. He made her work harder, recalling more and more of her past for him. He got her to go over the same story twice, once at breakfast and once over dinner, checking for mistakes in the retelling. There were one or two, not significant in themselves.

  He remembered how he met her. In a club. She’d been with a friend, a male friend, an admirer perhaps. She’d caught Khan’s eye several times, and he’d held her glances, until eye contact between them became more prolonged and meaningful. He was a sucker for this kind of conquest, the kind where he almost literally tore a woman from another man’s arms. By the end of the evening she was at his table, and the other suitor had vanished. It had been easy, and she’d been ravishing, and he’d felt the sweet, warm glow of success.

  He knew she worked as a model. Well, he knew she said she worked as a model. He’d once picked her up outside a prestigious model agency off Oxford Street, but then when his car had arrived she’d already been waiting on the pavement, hadn’t she? How was he to know that she’d ever actually been inside the building? What really did he know about her? Precious little, it suddenly seemed to him. He’d liked that in the past, had preferred it. Keeping things casual, no hint of a more meaningful, a more lasting relationship. But now ... Suddenly he wanted to know more about her. What was her last name? Kazowski? Kaprinski? Something East European. She told him she’d changed it to Capri for modelling purposes. Shari Capri or Sherri Capri. Stupid name. Stupid names.

  And another thing, wasn’t she overfriendly towards Henrik? With her ‘Thank you, Henrik’ whenever she stepped into or out of the car. Her smiles to him. The way she lightly touched his arm if she wanted to ask him something. Checking that she was in the bath, Khan strode quickly to his study, unlocked the door (he was never so foolish, so trusting as to leave it unlocked, but then locks were easy to pick, weren’t they?), and made for his desk. He glanced at it, looking for signs that things had been moved, pages turned over. Nothing. He checked his computer for a certain phone number, then picked up the telephone and dialled London. An 081 number, Outer London. There was a young firm used by the bank sometimes. They were dynamic, and they got results. Nobody wanted to know how they got results, but they got them. There was no one in the office, but as he’d expected a recording gave him another phone number where he could reach one of the partners. He entered this number onto his computer for future reference, then dialled it. The call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hello, is that Mr Allison? It’s Khan here. I’m calling from Scotland. There’s a job I’d like done. Private, not on the bank’s account. I want you to check on a Miss Sherri S-h-e-r-r-i or Shari S-h-a-r-i Capri C-a-p-r-i. I’ll give you her home address and where she says she works. I want anything on her you can find. Oh, and Mr Allison, she’s up here with me, so there should be no problems. I mean, you won’t bump into her should you happen to ... well, you know what I mean. Her home address? Yes, of course ...’

  Afterwards, he felt a little relieved. Allison was extremely capable, ex-CID. And his partner Crichton had a pedigree which took in both the Parachute Regiment and the SAS. Yes, a trouble shared was a trouble halved. Khan felt better. So much so that he was able to put his troubles out of his mind for quarter of an hour, time spent in the bathroom with a wet and so very slippery Shari or Sherri Capri ...

  On their last evening, they dined in. There was a local chef who, on days off, could occasionally be persuaded to cook for Khan and his guests. Usually, Khan reserved this treat for larger dinner parties. But on Sunday morning news came through of a spectacular deal which had been concluded by the South-East Asia personnel during their whistlestop tour of the British Isles. A great deal of money would be travelling from the UK to the bank’s South-East Asia office, and it would travel via the London office where a certain amount, as always, would be held back in the name of handling fees. A sum slig
htly in excess of one million sterling.

  It was a job well done, and Khan, who had played no part in it, felt a little of its success rub off on him. A quick call to the chef, Gordon Sinclair, had secured his services, and when all was said and done it was practically as cheap as eating out since this way Khan would drink champagne, wine and spirits from his own well-stocked cellar. And at the end of the evening it was always pleasant to share a malt with Gordon and talk about food and the appreciation of food. Gordon knew that Khan had contacts in London, that he had eaten in all the top restaurants and was on first-name terms with many of the restaurateurs and chefs - not merely in London but, it seemed, all over. And Khan knew that Gordon had itchy feet, that the only thing tying him to Scotland was his Scottishness. He would have to flee soon if he were really to start - the term came to Khan with a smile-cooking : a quality London restaurant, where he could make a name for himself, and then his own restaurant under his own name. That was the route to success.

  They would talk about these things and more. Perhaps Shari would be listening, or perhaps she would have retired for the night, to be joined by Khan later.

  Yes, it was Shari, not Sherri. Shari Capri. Allison had phoned with this information, and with a few other snippets. But as he pointed out, weekends weren’t the best time to track down information, especially not from places of employment. Come Monday, he could work on the model agency, but not before. It was half in Khan’s mind to ask if he’d considered breaking and entering, but such a question would have been in considerable bad taste besides which, if his phone were bugged, he could be accused of incitement to commit a criminal act. That would never do. So he had to accept what scant information Allison had gleaned, and wait until Monday. By Monday he would be back in London, he would have said goodbye to Shari, with promises of phone calls and meetings for dinner - promises he seldom kept as a rule. But it might be that he’d have to keep tabs on her for a little while longer, just until he knew the truth.