by Ian Rankin
‘Yes.’
‘Now, the easiest hitch-hiking is by lorry. Lorry drivers will more probably pick up hitch-hikers than will car drivers. I know this from experience.’ A flickering smile at this, but she was too busy concentrating on her English for the smile to last. ‘So,’ she said, ‘this woman probably either hitch-hiked by lorry or else drove here herself.’
Barclay, slow at first, was picking it up quickly. ‘So we shouldn’t be talking to fishermen,’ he said, ‘we should be talking to lorry drivers?’
‘Freight terminals, haulage firms, yes. And also, we should check for abandoned vehicles. Cars left in car parks or set fire to in fields, that sort of thing. There is always the chance she arrived here by other means ...’
‘But the laws of probability dictate otherwise?’
She took a second or two translating this. ‘If you say so,’ she said finally, just as the tureen of soup was arriving.
Wednesday 10 June
The fair had yet to open for the day, but the front of Barnaby’s Gun Stall had been unlocked and drawn back. The machine-gun had been connected to its compression pump, and it had been loaded with pellets too. Keith was now fixing a three-inch square target (half the size of the usual scorecards) to the heart of the life-size metal figure. He glanced back warily to where she was standing, balancing the gun’s weight in her hand, finding its fulcrum. Rosa’s girl: that’s who she’d always been, Rosa’s girl. Little was ever said about her. There were shrugs, and the acceptance that she had once been part of the fair. Keith couldn’t remember that far back. But he knew he fancied her now. Which was why he didn’t mind opening the gun range for her, even though the locals might complain about the noise this early in the day. She’d even put her two one-pound coins down on the counter. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he’d said. But she’d shaken her head.
‘Keep it, I’m quite well off at the moment.’
‘Lucky for some.’ So Keith had pocketed the money.
He stuck the last pin into the last corner of the target. She was already lining up the gun. He could feel its sights on him like a weight pressing the back of his head. The compressor was hissing somewhere behind him.
‘Okay,’ he cried. ‘That’s it.’ And he stumbled backwards away from the silhouette.
But still she did not fire. She stood there, her eye trained along the sights, the barrel of the gun barely wavering by a millimetre. Then she pulled the trigger. There was furious noise for ten seconds, then blessed silence. Keith stared at where dust was rising from in front of the silhouette figure. The edges of the paper target were still intact, like a window-frame. But everything inside the frame had been reduced to a haze in the air.
He gave a loud whistle. ‘I’ve never seen shooting like—’
But when he turned around she had vanished. The machine-gun was lying on its side on the counter. Keith whistled more softly this time, grinning at the target and rubbing his chin. Then he stepped forward and began carefully removing the tacks from the corners of the target. He knew exactly what he was going to do with it.
Thinking back on the evening, running the dialogue through his head, Barclay saw that there had been a great deal of competitiveness during the meal. Which wasn’t to say that it hadn’t been fun. He was breakfasting - milky coffee and croissants in the hotel bar - while he waited for Dominique. She’d driven him back last night with beady determination. She was probably half his weight, yet she’d drunk the same as him during dinner. She’d dropped him off outside the hotel, waving and sounding her horn as she sped off. And he’d stood there for a moment, searching for his door-key and wondering if he should have said something more to her, should have attempted a kiss.
‘Not on a first date,’ he’d muttered before dragging the key out of his pocket.
A shower before breakfast, and he felt fine. Ready for the day ahead. He even noticed how a Frenchman, eating breakfast standing at the bar, dunked his croissant into his coffee. So when Barclay’s croissants arrived without butter, he knew just what to do with them, and felt unduly pleased with himself as he ate.
The door opened and in breezed Dominique. Having met the hotelier yesterday, she was now on hailing terms with him, and uttered a loud ‘Bonjour’ as she settled into the booth.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Hello.’
She looked as though she’d been up for hours. She had clipped a red woollen head-square around her throat with a gold-coloured brooch. The scarf matched her lipstick, and made her mouth seem more glistening than ever. White T-shirt, brown leather shoulder-bag, faded blue denims turned up at bared ankles, and those same sensible laced shoes. Barclay drank her in as he broke off a corner of croissant.
‘Thank you for last night,’ he said. He had rehearsed a longer speech, but didn’t feel the need to make it. She shrugged.
‘Come on,’ she said, looking down meaningfully at his cup, which was still half full. ‘We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Now listen, I’ve been thinking.’ She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I’m looking for my sister. That’s the story I will tell to the drivers. She has run away from home and I think maybe she is heading for England.’
‘That’s good, we’ll get their sympathy if nothing else.’
‘Exactly, and they may like the idea of two sisters. It may make them remember something.’
‘You’re speaking from experience?’ She narrowed her eyes and he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘irony, sort of.’
‘Well, anyway, it’s true.’
‘And what role do I play?’
‘You are like The Who’s Tommy: deaf and dumb.’
‘And blind?’
‘No, but just let me do all the talking. Yes?’
‘Fine by me.’
‘Now hurry up.’ And to help, she seized the last piece of croissant, drowned it in his cup, then manoeuvred the whole dripping concoction across the tabletop and into her mouth.
‘Shall we take my car?’ he suggested.
‘I’m from Paris,’ she snapped. ‘Why would I be driving a British car?’
‘I won’t say another word,’ he said, following her to the café door.
It was every bit as tiring and frustrating as the previous day, but with the bonus that she was doing all the work while he loitered in the background. Dominique took the freight-men’s comments and double entendres in good part, even though Barclay himself felt like smashing some of them in the mouth. But though she listened, there didn’t seem much to learn. No driver knew anything. If she had a photograph of her sister, perhaps, a picture they could keep... ? Maybe something of the both of them in their swimming costumes ... ? General laughter and guttural speech, slangy, spoken at furious speed. Barclay caught about a quarter of it and understood less than that. They ate at the French equivalent of a greasy spoon: a dingy bar which, hazy with smoke, still served up a more than passable five-course meal. Barclay ate three courses, pleading that he was still full from the previous evening. From a booth in the post office in town, Dominique made several telephone calls, paying the counter staff afterwards and asking for a receipt.
Then there were more firms to check, more fake questions to ask, always to more shakes of the head and shrugs of the shoulders. He saw her spirits flag, and suddenly he knew her. He knew her for what she was. She was young and hungry like him, keen to succeed, keen to show up the flaws and weaknesses of others before her. She wasn’t here to ‘assist’ him: she was here to make her mark, so that she could climb the rungs of the promotion ladder. Watching her work, he saw an emptiness at his own core. Watching her fail to get results, he became more determined that they shouldn’t give up.
Until suddenly, at five o’clock, there were no people left to ask. They had exhausted the possibilities. Or rather, they had exhausted one seam; but there was another seam left to mine, so long as her spirits were up to it.
Over a glass of wine in a bar, he g
ave something equating to a pep talk. It half-worked. She agreed to give it another hour or so. Then he would take her to dinner - on his firm this time.
They made for the police station, and there asked at the desk about abandoned vehicles. Inspector Bugeaud, who had already spent more time than he cared to remember helping the DST, Special Branch, and Barclay, groaned when he saw them. But he was persuaded to look in the files. He came up with only two possibilities. A motorbike stolen in Marquise and pushed off a cliff several kilometres out of town, and a car stolen in Paris and found by a farmer in some woods, again several kilometres out of town.
‘Stolen in Paris?’ Dominique said, her eyes glinting. The Inspector nodded.
‘This car,’ said Barclay, ‘where is it now, Inspector?’
Bugeaud checked the paperwork. ‘Back with its owner,’ he said.
‘Was it checked for fingerprints?’ Dominique asked. She had risen onto her tiptoes. Barclay got the feeling that in another location, she might actually have been jumping up and down with excitement. But here she managed to retain a measure of composure.
The Inspector shrugged. ‘Why bother? It wasn’t damaged, except for some paint scraped off by the trees. The owner was happy enough to know its whereabouts. End of story.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dominique with a slow shake of her head. ‘I don’t think it’s the end of the story at all, Inspector.’ She turned towards Barclay. ‘I think it’s just the beginning.’ She slapped the file. ‘Can I please have a photocopy of the relevant details, Inspector? Two photocopies.’ (Another glance in Barclay’s direction.) ‘No, best make it three. My superiors will want to take a look. I’ll see that your help is reported back to them, too.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Bugeaud, retreating back upstairs to turn on the photocopier. ‘I prefer the quiet life.’
That night, after another large meal, Barclay telephoned London from his room. His call was transferred to a private house - there were sounds of a loud dinner party in the background - where he was able to speak to Joyce Parry. He gave her what news he had, playing down Dominique’s role, feeling only a little like a snake as he did so. She sounded thoughtful rather than enthusiastic. ‘It’s an interesting idea,’ she said, ‘a car stolen in Paris ...’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
There was silence. ‘What do the DST think?’ Joyce Parry asked at last.
‘They’re heading back to Paris to do some checking.’
‘Fair enough. So you’ll be back here tomorrow?’
He swallowed, ready with his story but still nervous. ‘I’d rather stick close to this, ma’am,’ he said. ’It seems to me that we and DST are coming at this from different angles. They’re worried that Witch may have had help in France. They want to cut any future aid-route. They’re not bothered by the fact that she’s now in England. Left to themselves, they may not ask the right questions.’
An excruciating pause, background laughter, then: ‘I see. Well, all right then, off you go to Paris. Call me from there.’
‘Yes, ma’am’ Just keeping the excitement out of his voice.
‘And don’t play silly buggers with your expenses. I don’t want to see receipts from the Moulin Rouge. Okay?’
She was making a joke of it. She’d believed him. Well, and why not? Dominic Elder had said it might work. Elder had called only twenty minutes ago, while Barclay and Dominique had been drinking and scheming in the hotel bar.
‘Understood,’ said Barclay, ringing off before she could change her mind. Dominique was waiting for him downstairs.
‘Well?’ she said.
He was very casual, shrugging his shoulders as he slid into the booth. ‘It’s settled.’ He picked up his beer. ‘I’m coming to Paris.’
She nodded, managing to seem neither pleased nor displeased.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘what about a nightcap?’
She looked at him strangely. ‘Nightcap?’ she repeated.
‘A final drink before retiring,’ he explained.
‘Oh.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, why not? But remember, Michael, we are not celebrating ... not yet. These are still—’
‘Probabilities, I know. But whatever they are, they’re better than nothing. They’re certainly better than being stuck in an office in London.’ He found himself believing this, too. The office was no longer a safe haven. It seemed boring, a place without possibilities. Besides, he had to go to Paris, didn’t he? He’d found a lead, something Doyle had missed. Who knew what else he might find if he stuck close to Dominique? It was difficult work, but someone had to do it.
‘Have you ever been to Paris before?’ she asked.
‘Once or twice.’
‘With lovers?’
‘That’s classified information.’
She laughed. ‘I will show you Paris. You will love it.’
Barclay was signalling to the barman. ‘Is that your deductive reasoning again?’
‘No,’ she said, finishing her drink, ‘just instinct.’
Thursday 11 June
The first meeting between the two Special Branch detectives and Dominic Elder could not be considered a success. It wasn’t helped by the attendance, for part of the time, of Joyce Parry and Commander Trilling, who looked to be conducting their own personal Cold War. But it was Doyle who really set the tone. Introduced to and shaking hands with Elder, his first question was: ‘So, Mr Elder, and how long have you been on the pension?’
Elder ignored this, but Doyle just couldn’t let it go. His contributions to the discussion were peppered with references to ‘the retired gentleman’, ‘the ex-agent’, ‘the man from the country’ and so on. The more he went on, the more fixed became Elder’s smile. Greenleaf tried jolting Doyle’s mind on to another track, getting him to talk about Calais, about the Folkestone operation, but nothing could deter Doyle. Nothing could rob him of his simple pleasures. He even, as Elder had judged he would, came up with a crack about Elder’s name: ‘Perhaps,’ Doyle began one loud sentence, ‘I shouldn’t say this in front of my elders, but—’
Dominic Elder had been waiting. ‘Elders and betters, Mr Doyle. I believe that’s the phrase.’
He wasn’t smiling any more.
Greenleaf twisted in his seat as though trying to avoid a shrewdly placed drawing-pin. He had spent most of the previous evening boning up for this meeting, ensuring he was word perfect. He had learned the case notes off by heart, wanting to look good in front of Parry and Elder. But now he seemed the unwilling referee in a tag-team wrestling match, trapped between Parry and Commander Trilling grappling in one corner of the ring, and Doyle and Elder in the other. He knew he wouldn’t make any friends if he attempted to make the peace, so he sat quiet in his chair, reciting inwardly his litany of dates, times, officers’ names, interviewees ... Until finally it was too much for him. He thought he was going to burst. He did burst.
‘As you know,’ he began, ‘we’ve got officers on the ground around Folkestone, stopping drivers and asking questions. Nothing as yet, but it’s early days. While we’re waiting, the least we could do is study the security procedures for, say, the top three targets on the list, by which I mean next week’s nine-nation summit, the Houses of Parliament, and Her Majesty the Queen.’
‘God bless her,’ said Doyle.
‘Since security is in place, and is constantly monitored and tightened around the last two, perhaps we can concentrate our efforts on the summit. I know there has already been considerable liaison between Special Branch, the security services, and the secret services of the countries taking part. But maybe if we put our heads together and study the available commentaries, we can decide a) whether the summit is a likely target for the assassin, and b) how she might strike. If we know how she’s going to strike, we can work out where she’s going to strike, and perhaps even when. As you may know, I’ve already done some work on the summit security arrangements, but as you also know nothing is ever the last word. In some ways, I’d even say the su
mmit is too tempting a target. On the other hand, we’ve got this.’ He waved in front of him an artist’s impression of the man George Crane had met, the man described by McKillip. The others in the room had an identical xerox. ‘We could concentrate our efforts on finding this customer. Maybe he’d lead us to Witch.’
Suddenly, the flow ceased. Greenleaf was himself again, and found himself looking at the intent faces around him. He swallowed. ‘I ... uh ...’ He looked to Trilling. ‘That’s how I see it, sir.’
‘Thank you, John,’ said Trilling quietly. Doyle was sitting arms folded, lips pursed, eyes on his own navel. He looked like he might laugh, might shoot his ‘partner’ down, but he didn’t get the chance.
‘They’re as good as any ideas I’ve heard so far,’ commented Elder, ‘and better than most.’ He nodded in Greenleaf’s direction.
‘Agreed,’ said Joyce Parry.
‘What about Khan’s bodyguard and the woman?’ Elder asked.
Doyle answered. ‘They were interviewed in Perth.’
‘Are they back in London?’
Doyle shifted a little in his seat. ‘They’ve left Perth.’
‘You can’t find them?’ Elder suggested.
Now Doyle sat up straight. ‘The bodyguard’s okay.’
‘The woman then?’
Now Doyle nodded. ‘She gave a false address. We’re on to it though, don’t worry.’
Joyce Parry saw that Elder had no more questions. ‘I’ve another meeting to go to,’ she said. ‘I’d better say my piece before I go. We’ve got a man in Calais, Michael Barclay.’
Doyle started. ‘I’ve already covered Calais.’
Joyce Parry ignored the interruption. ‘He telephoned last night with new information.’
(Greenleaf noticed how Dominic Elder perked up at this, enjoying Doyle’s discomfort. If truth be told, Greenleaf himself enjoyed it just a little, too.)
‘Rather than confining himself to the details of the woman’s departure from Calais,’ Parry went on, ‘Barclay concentrated on her mode of arrival at Calais.’
