by Ian Rankin
That’s what he’d say. This time. This time he’d really say it, and not just think it. Bonny girl they’d sent in last time to ask about the coffee, mind. Took his mind off it for a moment, so that he forgot to ask in the end. No, not ask, demand. It was his right to walk out of there whenever he felt like it. He’d only been in a police station twice in his life. Once when he was thirteen, and they found him staggering pissed out of his head along the main road. They took him back to the station, put him into a cell, stood him up, and kneed him in the nuts until he threw up. Then they left him for an hour before kicking him out. Could hardly walk straight for days after that ... which was ironic, as Pat said, since they’d picked him up in the first place for not walking straight.
That was once. The second time, they raided a pub during a brawl, and though he’d taken hardly any part in it he was dragged down to the station with the rest of them. But the barman, Milo, had put in a word for him, so they’d let him go with a caution.
That was twice. Hardly premier league, was it, hardly major crime? Were they holding him so they could look him up in their records? Maybe they were seeing if he had any priors for rape or murder or abduction or anything. Well, in that case he’d walk when they’d finished checking. How long could it take?
Of course, he did have something to hide. For a start, if it got back to his boss that he was out in the van on a Sunday night ... well, bosses tended to have inquiring minds in that direction. But his boss wouldn’t find out, not unless the police said anything. He could always tell them he was in his car rather than the van anyway ... but no, it didn’t do to lie when the truth wouldn’t hurt. If they caught him lying, they might wonder what else he was hiding. No, he’d tell them. He was using the van to help out a friend. And indeed this was the truth. His neighbour Chas played keyboards in a sort of country and western band. They’d been playing a Sunday night gig at a pub in Folkestone, and he’d been acting as Road Manager, which meant picking up the PA from Margate and taking it back to Folkestone. It was all a fuck-up in the first place, that’s why he’d had the drive to do. The band’s own PA had blown half a dozen fuses or something, and a friend of Chas’s who had a residency in Margate had said the band could borrow his band’s gear on the proviso that they brought it back the same night.
Stupid, but the gear was good stuff, a few thousand quid’s worth, and the guy didn’t want it out of his sight overnight. So, for fifty quid and a few drinks, Bill had driven to Margate, picked up the gear, brought it to Folkestone, sat through the gig, then hauled it back to Margate again before returning to Folkestone, absolutely knackered. It was a lot of work for fifty quid, but then Chas was a mate, and besides, Bill liked being a Road Manager. He’d have liked to play in a band himself had he been what you would call musical. Musical he was not. He’d tried auditioning as a vocalist once - not in Chas’s band, in another local outfit - but the ciggies had shot his voice to hell. Like the band’s leader said, his timing and pace were superb, and he’d plenty of emotion, but he just couldn’t ‘hold a tune’. Whatever that meant.
The door opened and in walked the same CID man who’d spoken to him in the lay-by.
‘Well about bloody time,’ said Bill. ‘Listen, I can’t hang around here any longer, and I’m—’
They kept filing into the room, three of them as well as the CID man. The room, which had been so empty before, now seemed overfull.
‘These gentlemen have driven down from London to see you, Mr Moncur,’ said the CID.
‘Bit pokey in here, innit?’ said one of the men. He looked to Bill Moncur like an old boxer, semi-pro. The speaker turned to the CID man. ‘Haven’t you got an office we could use?’
‘Well ...’ The CID man thought about it. ‘There’s the Chiefs office. He’s not around this afternoon.’
‘That’ll do us then.’
The other two Londoners were silent. They seemed happy enough to let their colleague do the talking. They all trooped out of the interview room and along to a more spacious, airier office. Extra chairs were carried in, and the CID man left, closing the door behind him. The oldest of the three Londoners, craggy-faced and grim-looking, had taken the chair already behind the desk, a big comfortable leather affair. Moncur was sitting in the other chair already in place on the other side of the desk. He kept looking to Craggy Face, who seemed like the boss, but he still wasn’t speaking. The one who’d done all the speaking, and who now remained standing, started things off.
‘We’re Special Branch officers, Mr Moncur. I’m Inspector Doyle, and this’ - with a nod to the third man, who had taken a seat against the wall - ‘is Inspector Greenleaf. We’re particularly interested in what you told Detective Sergeant Hines. Could you go through your story again for us?’
‘You mean I’ve been kept in here waiting for you lot to arrive from London? You could have asked me over the phone.’
‘We could have, but we didn’t.’ This Doyle was a short-fuse merchant, Moncur could see that. ‘The sooner we have your story, the sooner you’ll be out of here. It’s not as if you’re in any trouble...’
‘Tell that to my gaffer.’
‘If you want me to, I will.’
The third Londoner, Greenleaf, had picked up a briefcase from the floor and rested it on his knees. He now brought out a twin cassette-deck, an old-fashioned and unwieldy-looking thing. The other one was speaking again.
‘Do you mind if we record this interview? We’ll have it transcribed, and you can check it for mistakes. It’s just a record so we don’t have to bother you again if we forget something. Okay?’
‘Whatever.’ He didn’t like it though. The man with the briefcase was plugging in the deck. Positioning it on the desk. Checking that it worked. Testing, testing: just like Chas at a sound-check. Only this was very different from a sound-check.
‘You were out on a run in your van, Mr Moncur?’ asked Doyle, almost catching him off-guard. The interview had started already.
‘That’s right. Sunday night it was. Last day of May.’
‘And what exactly were you doing?’
‘I was helping a mate. He plays in a band. Well, their PA had broken down and I had to fetch another from Margate, see. Only, after the show, the guy who owned the PA wanted it delivered back to him. So off I went to Margate again.’
‘Were you alone in the van, Mr Moncur?’
‘At the beginning I was. Nobody else in the band could be bothered to—’
‘But you weren’t alone for long?’
‘No, I picked up a hitch-hiker.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Late. The dance the band were playing at didn’t finish till after one. Then we had a few drinks ...’ He caught himself. ‘I stuck to orange juice, mind. I don’t drink and drive, can’t afford to. It’s my livelihood, see, and I don’t—’
‘So it was after one?’
‘After two more like. After the gig, we’d to load the van, then we had a drink ... yes, after two.’
‘Late for someone to be hitching, eh?’
‘That’s just what I told her. I don’t normally pick up hitch-hikers, no matter what time of day it is. But a woman out on her own at that time of night ... well, that’s just plain bloody stupid. To be honest, at first I thought maybe it was a trap.’
‘A trap?’
‘Yeah, I stop the van for her, then her boyfriend and a few others appear from nowhere and hoist whatever I’m carrying. It’s happened to a mate of mine.’
‘But it didn’t happen to you?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me about the woman, Mr Moncur. What sort of—’
But now the man behind the desk, the one who hadn’t been introduced, now he spoke. ‘Before that, perhaps Mr Moncur could show us on a map?’ A map was produced and spread out on the top of the desk. Moncur studied it, trying to trace his route.
‘I was never much good at geography,’ he explained as his finger traced first this contour line, then that.
; ‘These are the roads here, Mr Moncur,’ said the man behind the desk, running his finger along them.
Moncur attempted a chuckle. ‘I’d never make it as a long-distance driver, eh?’ Nobody smiled. ‘Well, anyway, it was just there.’ A pen was produced, a dot marked on the map.
‘How far is that from the coast?’ asked Doyle.
‘Oh, a mile, couple of miles.’
‘All right.’ The map was folded away again. The questioning resumed as before. ‘So, you saw a woman at the side of the road?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Long hair, dark brown or maybe black. I didn’t have the lights on in the cab, so it wasn’t easy to tell. Sort of ... well, I mean, she was quite pretty and all, but she wasn’t ... she wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.’
‘What about height?’ This from the one behind the desk.
‘I dunno, average. Five-seven, five-eight.’
‘A little taller than average, maybe,’ he suggested. ‘What was she wearing?’
‘Jeans, a jacket. She looked cold.’
‘Did she seem wet?’
‘Wet? No, it wasn’t raining. But she looked cold. I turned the heating up in the cab.’
‘And what was she carrying?’
‘Just a bag, a haversack sort of thing.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Was the haversack heavy?’
A short nervous laugh. ‘I don’t know. She heaved it into the van herself.’
The man behind the desk nodded thoughtfully.
‘Okay, Mr Moncur,’ Doyle continued. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about her appearance? Her shoes for example.’
‘Never noticed them.’
‘Was she wearing make-up?’
‘No. She could have done with a bit. Pale face. I suppose it was the cold.’
‘And her accent, was it local?’
‘No.’
‘But English?’
‘Oh, yeah, she was English. Definitely.’
‘Right, so you picked her up. You’ve given us her description. What did you talk about?’
‘She wasn’t all that talkative. I got the idea she was doing a runner. Well, that time of night ...’
‘Running from whom exactly?’
‘Boyfriend probably. She wasn’t wearing any rings, not married or anything. I reckoned boyfriend. She looked like she’d been crying.’
‘Or swimming,’ from behind the desk.
‘At that time of night?’ Bill Moncur laughed again. Again, nobody laughed with him. ‘We didn’t talk that much really. I thought that if she got to talking about it, she’d burst into tears. That was the last thing I wanted.’
‘So would you describe her as ... what? Sullen?’
‘No, not sullen. I mean, she was pleasant enough and all. Smiled a few times. Laughed at one of my jokes.’
‘Where was she headed?’
‘She said Margate would do. At first, anyway.’
‘She didn’t specify her destination?’ asked Doyle, but now the quiet man, Greenleaf, the one with the cassette-deck, spoke.
‘What did you mean, “at first”?’
‘Well, when we got a bit closer, she asked if I was going through Cliftonville. To be honest, I wasn’t, but she looked washed out. So I asked her if that was where she wanted dropping off, and she nodded. It wasn’t much out of my way, so I took her there.’
‘Cliftonville. Somewhere specific in Cliftonville?’
‘No, anywhere along the front seemed to suit her. She wasn’t bothered. I thought it was funny at the time. I mean, saying where you want to go, then not really minding whereabouts you’re dropped off once you get there. Maybe she was going to run away with the circus, eh?’
‘Maybe.’ This from behind the desk again. ‘I’d like to hear anything she said to you, Mr Moncur, anything you can remember. It doesn’t matter how trivial you think it was, whether it was just yes or no to a question or whatever. Anything she said to you, I’d like to hear it.’
So he’d to go over the whole journey. It took the best part of half an hour. They’d to put in fresh tapes at one point. He noticed that they were making two copies of the interview. Finally, he asked a question of his own.
‘What’s she done then? What’s so important?’
‘We think she’s a terrorist, Mr Moncur.’
‘Terrorist?’ He sounded amazed. ‘I don’t hold no truck with that sort of—’
‘You might not hold any truck,’ said Doyle, ‘but you had one in your truck.’ And he grinned. Bill Moncur found himself unable to smile back. ‘Get it?’ Doyle asked Greenleaf.
‘I get it, Doyle,’ said Greenleaf.
‘You said she had long hair,’ the man behind the desk interrupted. ‘How long?’
Moncur tapped his back with a finger. ‘Right down to here,’ he said.
‘Could it have been a wig?’
Moncur shrugged.
Now Doyle came up to him, leaning down over him, grinning. ‘Just between us, Bill, man to man like, we all know what it’s like driving a lorry ... picking up a woman. Did you ... you know ... did you ... ?’ Doyle winked and leered. But Moncur was shaking his head.
‘Nothing like that,’ he said.
Doyle straightened up. He looked disappointed. He looked at Moncur as if he might be gay.
‘Not that I wouldn’t have or anything,’ Moncur protested. ‘But that time of night ... I was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t have got it up for a centrefold.’
Doyle still looked dubious.
‘Honest,’ said Moncur.
‘Well,’ said the one behind the desk, ‘no need to dwell on that.’
Then came the crusher.
‘Mr Moncur,’ he continued, ‘we’ll have to go to Cliftonville. We need to know exactly where you dropped her off.’
‘Fine, okay.’ Bill Moncur nodded enthusiastically. They were leaving! He’d be out of here in a minute. ‘When you go into the town,’ he said, ‘you head straight for—’
‘You don’t understand, Mr Moncur. Directions won’t do. We need you there with us to show us the spot.’
‘What?’ It dawned on him. ‘Cliftonville? Now? Aw, for Christ’s sake.’
They busied themselves with locating a detailed map of Cliftonville, ignoring Bill Moncur’s protestations. The CID man, DS Hines, appeared again to see if they needed a car. No, the one car they already had would be enough. And then the pretty WPC put her head round the door, smiling at Moncur. He blessed her for that smile.
‘Need any tea or coffee here?’ she asked.
‘Not for us, thanks. We’ve got to be going. Come on, Mr Moncur. We’ll take the same route you took that night. That way, you can show us where you picked up Witch.’
‘Picked up which what?’
The one from behind the desk smiled for a moment. ‘A slip of the tongue,’ he said, motioning towards the doorway with his arm. ‘After you.’
Eventually, at the end of his gruelling day, a police car took Bill Moncur back to Folkestone. Elder, Doyle and Greenleaf remained in Cliftonville, their unmarked car (Doyle’s car, still messy from his French trip) parked in the forecourt of a small hotel. They’d booked rooms for the evening, despite having brought nothing with them, no change of clothes, no toothbrushes ... It was Elder’s decision, but the Special Branch men were happy to go along with it, Greenleaf despite the facts that a) he’d have to call Shirley to tell her, and b) he’d be sharing a room with Doyle. They visited a chemist’s and bought toiletries, before rendez-vousing in the hotel lounge. It was just the right side of salubrious, with a tropical theme to the furnishings which extended to an island mural on one wall. A long time ago someone had painted white seashells on the dark green linoleum floor. They had the place to themselves. Greenleaf couldn’t imagine why.
‘It’s important,’ said Elder, ‘not to let the trail grow colder than it already is. That means working
through this evening.’
‘Fine,’ said Doyle, ‘but am I being stupid or was the last sighting of Witch in Auchterwhatsit, six hundred miles north of here?’
Elder smiled. ‘You’re not being stupid, Mr Doyle, but there’s something we’ve got to ask ourselves.’
Doyle said nothing, so Greenleaf provided the answer.
‘Why did she specifically want to come to Cliftonville?’
‘Exactly, Mr Greenleaf. I mean, look at the place. It’s quiet, anonymous. It’s perfect for her.’
Now Doyle spoke. ‘You think she’s got a contact here?’
Elder shrugged. ‘It’s possible her paymaster met her here with final instructions.’
‘You don’t think she’s here though?’
‘Mr Doyle, as my old Aberdonian tailor used to say, discount nothing.’
Doyle thought about this for a moment, realised a joke had been made, and laughed. Greenleaf didn’t: his mother had come from Aberdeen.
‘So what do we do this evening?’
‘We cover as much ground as possible. That means splitting up. I’d suggest one of us makes contact with the local police, one asks around in the pubs, and one asks taxi drivers and so on. We’re talking about the wee sma’ hours of a Monday morning. A woman dropped off and having, presumably, to walk to some destination. A late-night patrol car may have spotted her. Taxi drivers may have slowed to see if they had a fare. Were there any nightclubs emptying around the time she arrived? Someone may, without knowing it, have seen something. Perhaps she’d prearranged her late arrival with a hotel or boarding-house. Or maybe some early-day fisherman saw her - we can’t possibly cover all the angles, that’s where the local police will come in.’
‘We should set up a Portakabin on the front, put up posters: have you seen this woman, that sort of thing. Ask everybody who passes ...’
But Elder was shaking his head. ‘No, Doyle, that’s precisely what we don’t want.’
‘Because,’ Greenleaf added, ‘if she is still around here, we don’t want to chase her away.’
