Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  Finally, having twice driven the length of the promenade, he pulled in at the kerb, near a group of teenagers, and wound down his window.

  ‘Oi, oil’ cried one. ‘Here’s a punter looking for a bit of bum action! Go talk to the man, Chrissy!’

  The one called Chrissy spat on the ground and gave Elder a baleful look.

  ‘I’m looking for the fair,’ Elder called from the car. ‘Is there a fair in town?’

  ‘You’re after kids, is that it? We know your sort, don’t we?’ There were grins at this. Elder tried to smile back, as though he too were enjoying the joke.

  ‘I’m just looking for the fair,’ he said, making it sound like a not unreasonable request.

  ‘Marine Parade,’ said one of the crowd, waving a hand holding a can of beer in the direction of the Palace Pier.

  ‘Yes,’ said Elder, ‘but that’s a permanent fairground, isn’t it? I’m looking for a travelling fair.’

  ‘Sorry I spoke. Here, give us five quid for some chips, guv.’ The youth was slouching towards him, hand held out. Elder didn’t see anything dangerous in the young man’s eyes; just an idiot vacancy. He knew pressure points which would have the youth dancing in agony within seconds. He knew how much pain the body could stand, and how much less the mind itself could stand. He knew.

  Then he sighed and handed over a five-pound note.

  ‘The fair,’ he said.

  The youth grinned. ‘There’s a fair up on The Level. Know where that is?’

  Yes, Elder knew where it was. He’d practically driven past it on his way down to the shore. He didn’t recall seeing a fair, but then he hadn’t really been looking.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, driving on. Behind him, the youth was fanning himself with the banknote. Already his friends were gathering round like jackals.

  The front at Brighton was all pebblestone beach and inescapable breeze, fun-rides and day-trippers. But further up the town’s hill, past the Pavilion and the shops, was a large, flat, grassy park called The Level, criss-crossed with paths. Locals walked their dogs here, children shrieked on swings. And every year there came a fair. He wondered that he’d been able to miss it, but then he’d presupposed any fairground would be stationed along the promenade, where the pickings were richest. There weren’t as many stalls and rides as he’d been expecting. The usual waltzers and dodgems and rifle-ranges, ghost train, kiddies’ rides, hot dog stalls. But no big wheel or dive-bombers, nothing that he would call a big attraction. Marine Parade had stolen a march on the travelling fair.

  And everything was closed, save a couple of the kiddies’ rides which were doing desultory business. A monkey swung down over the children on one ride, operated by a sour-looking woman. The trick seemed to be that if a child pulled the tail off the monkey, the child got a free ride. Something like that. The fair proper would no doubt open up later on in the day. He parked Doyle’s car at a safe distance from The Level itself - he didn’t want errant hands wiping candy floss on it - and walked back. One ride was discharging its cargo. The woman who operated both ride and monkey came out of her stall to collect the money from the few kids waiting for the ride to start up again. She wore a leather bag slung around her neck, the sort conductors still used on some London buses. Elder noticed that the rides were old, certainly older than their cargo. There was a horse, a racing car with a horn, a tiny double-decker bus, a sort of ladybird from which most of the paint had flaked, a jeep with movable steering-wheel, and a spaceship. There was heated competition for both the spaceship and the racing car.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the woman, ‘where can I find whoever’s in charge?’

  ‘That’s me.’ She went on taking money, dispensing change.

  ‘No, I mean in charge of the fair as a whole.’

  ‘Oh?’ She gave him the benefit of a two-second glance, then sighed. ‘What’s wrong now?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you council?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘What then?’

  He paused. ‘If you’d just tell me where I can find ...’

  Having collected all the fares, she moved past him. ‘Mind yourself,’ she said. ‘If you stay on there, you’ll have to pay same as the rest.’ Back in her perspex-fronted booth, she turned on a tape-recorder. A pop song blasted out of the speaker overhead. Then the carousel started to turn, and she tugged her left arm, jiggling the monkey up and down, comfortably out of reach of the squealing children. Elder stood his ground by the open door. The children were waving at their parents as they spun slowly past them. One of the kids looked petrified, though he was trying not to show it. He gripped on to the steering-wheel of his jeep, hardly daring to take a hand off to wave, despite the cajoling of his mother. Fear, Elder was reminded, was utterly relative, a shifting quantity.

  As the allotted time of the ride came to its end, the woman lowered the monkey so that a girl could whip off its tail. Then she pulled the monkey up again and hooked her end of its line over a nail on the wall of her booth, holding it there. The music was turned down, but not off, the ride came to a stop, the parents collected their children. The boy from the jeep looked pale. The woman looked at them through the perspex window, then turned to Elder.

  ‘Still here?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘Sure you’re not council?’ He shook his head and she sighed again. ‘Try the caravan behind the waltzers,’ she said. ‘The long caravan, mind, not the little one.’

  ‘And who am I looking for?’

  ‘His name’s Ted. That’s all, just Ted.’

  And indeed it was.

  ‘Just call me Ted,’ the man said when Elder appeared at the caravan door and asked for him. They shook hands.

  ‘I’m Dominic Elder.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Now, Mr Elder, what seems to be the problem?’

  ‘No problem, I assure you.’

  ‘Good, pleased to hear it. In that case, why don’t you come in?’

  The caravan was large but cramped, the result of too many ornaments on too many occasional tables. Glass clowns seemed to predominate. There was a small two-seater sofa, and two armchairs, re-covered in an orange-coloured flowery print. Ted nodded towards a chair.

  ‘Take a pew, Mr Elder. Now, what can I do for you?’

  It wasn’t until Elder was seated that he saw it was Ted’s intention to continue standing, arms folded, ready to listen. Elder admired the man’s grasp of psychology. Standing, he had authority over the seated Elder. They were not equals. That, at least, was the ploy. Ted might not be the man’s real name. He was in his 50s, and wore his hair slicked back, his sideburns long: a Teddy Boy look. Perhaps the name had stuck. There was doubtless a comb in the back pocket of his oily denims.

  ‘I’m looking for my daughter,’ Elder said.

  ‘Yes? In Brighton is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think she was in Cliftonville.’

  ‘We were there the other week.’

  Elder nodded. ‘She’s keen on fairs, I thought maybe somebody might have seen her wandering around...’

  ‘How old is she, Mr Elder?’ There was sympathy in Ted’s voice, but not much. He was still suspicious.

  ‘She’s twenty-nine,’ Elder said. Ted looked suitably surprised.

  ‘So it’s not a case of the kid running away with the fair?’ he said, more to himself than to Elder. ‘Twenty-nine, eh? Got a photo of her?’

  ‘Not on me, no. I was in Cliftonville, and when I heard about your fair, well, I rushed down here without thinking.’

  ‘Twenty-nine ... and she likes fairs, you say?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s ... well, she’s a little backward, Ted. An accident as a child ...’

  Ted raised a hand. ‘Say no more, Mr Elder. Understood. Well, I can certainly put the word about. You’d better give me a description.’

  ‘Of course. She’s slim, five foot ten inches.’

  ‘Tall then?’

&n
bsp; ‘Tall, yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the problem is ... she may have disguised herself. You know, dyed her hair, bought a wig. Her hair’s usually short, dark brown.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter really. A woman her age, hanging around the rides, someone’ll have clocked her. Are you sticking around Brighton, Mr Elder? Only, there’s a few more fairs on the go - Eastbourne, Guildford, Newbury - I could give you the names of some people to talk with ...’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Ted.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get a bit of paper.’

  He went through to another room, probably his office. Elder thought about getting to his feet but decided that his best bet was to stay seated, that way he could be fairly sure of maintaining the sympathy vote. The standing/sitting psychology only worked if, when you were standing, the person who was seated was trying to be your equal. But Elder, in confessing to having a ‘backward’ daughter, had relinquished such a role, placing the burden of responsibility on the ‘stronger’ Ted.

  It was the sort of stuff you learned early on in Elder’s profession. Another trick of the tradecraft.

  The door to the caravan opened and a woman clambered aboard. She seemed surprised to see Elder. He took her for Ted’s wife until she spoke.

  ‘Sorry, is Ted about?’

  ‘Here, Rosa,’ called Ted, emerging from his office. He pointed a biro at Elder. ‘This is Mr Elder. His daughter’s run away. Last seen in Cliftonville. He was wondering if we’d come across her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. She perched herself on the edge of an armchair. ‘What’s her name, lovey?’

  ‘Diana,’ said Elder.

  Ted laughed. ‘Trust Rosa to get down to nuts and bolts. I clean forgot to ask you what she was called. Mr Elder, this is Gypsy Rose Pellengro, mistress of the crystal ball.’

  Elder nodded his greeting towards Gypsy Rose, and she smiled back.

  ‘Diana,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely name, sir. Your wife’s choice or yours?’

  Elder laughed. ‘I can’t honestly remember. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Mr Elder’s daughter is twenty-nine,’ Ted informed Gypsy Rose. He had settled at a table, slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, and was scratching on a piece of notepaper with his pen.

  ‘Twenty-nine?’ said Gypsy Rose. ‘I thought she was—’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Ted. ‘Preconceptions, Rosa. You see, Mr Elder, we get a lot of parents coming to us. Oh, yes, a lot. Their kiddies have gone missing and they’re desperate to find them. One woman ... up in Watford, I think it is ... she’s been coming to see me for six or seven years. Very sad, clinging to hope like that.’

  ‘Sad,’ echoed Gypsy Rose.

  ‘Diana’s tall and slim,’ Ted informed Gypsy Rose, ‘and she’s maybe got short dark hair. I don’t suppose she came to you for a consultation while we were in Cliftonville?’

  ‘No.’ Gypsy Rose shook her head. ‘No, I’d have remembered someone like that.’

  Like what? thought Elder. The description was vague to the point of uselessness.

  ‘Well, ask around the other stalls, will you, Rosa?’ Ted had taken off his glasses and risen from his chair. He handed Elder the slip of paper, which Elder read. Four different fairs in four locations, with dates and a contact name for each.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Elder said, pocketing the note. ‘They’re not as big as this, mind. We all join up for the bigger events. Tell them Ted sent you, they should see you right.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ Elder said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small notebook and a pen. ‘I’m staying at a hotel in Cliftonville. I may have to move on, but they can forward any messages to me.’ He wrote down the telephone number, tore out the page, and handed it to Ted.

  ‘If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,’ said Ted.

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’ Elder rose to his feet. ‘It’s been nice to meet you,’ he said to Gypsy Rose.

  ‘Likewise.’

  Ted saw him to the door. The two men shook hands.

  ‘Mind how you go, Mr Elder,’ said Ted. ‘And good luck.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Elder. ‘Goodbye.’

  He walked with care across the snaking lengths of power-cable, squeezed between two closed stalls, and was back on the road again. He wandered the length of the fair, and stopped beside the caravan belonging to Gypsy Rose Pellengro, reading the citations pinned to the board beside her door. He peered in through the window. The interior looked neat and plain.

  ‘She’ll be back in five minutes!’ someone yelled from further along. Elder walked towards the voice. A middle-aged man was unhooking chains from in front of the ghost train. Already, two young children, brother and sister, stood waiting for the ride to open. Elder nodded a greeting at the man. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘maybe I’ll come by later.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ The man looked at the children and jerked his head towards the carriages. ‘On you go then, hop in.’ They fairly sprinted for the train’s front carriage. The man smiled, watching them go. Then he headed for his booth, leaning into it. ‘Hold tight,’ he warned. ‘Or the goblins’ll grab you.’ He grinned towards Elder. ‘And being grabbed by the goblins,’ he said, ‘is no laughing matter.’

  Elder obliged with a laugh, then watched as the train jolted forwards, hit the doors, and rattled its way through them into darkness. The doors swung shut again, showing a picture of a leering demon.

  ‘Your two, are they?’ the man asked.

  ‘No,’ said Elder, listening for shrieks from the interior.

  ‘No?’ The man sounded surprised. ‘I thought they were. If I’d known, I’d have had the money off them first.’

  Elder brought out some coins from his pocket. ‘They can have this ride on me anyway,’ he said, handing over the money. Then he moved off again, passing rides and booths and Barnaby’s Gun Stall. Outside the Gun Stall, which was locked shut, there was a wooden figure, its sex indeterminate. Pinned to the centre of its chest was what remained of a small paper target, only the four right-angled edges left. Above this, taped to the figure’s head, was a crudely written message: ‘A young lady did this. Can YOU do better?’ Elder smiled.

  A voice came from behind him. ‘Well, could you?’

  He turned. A young man was standing there, head cocked to one side, hands in the greasy pockets of his denims. Elder looked at the target.

  ‘Probably not,’ he said.

  ‘Come back in an hour, guv, and you can see if you’re right. Only two quid a go.’

  ‘The young woman... she must have been quite something.’

  The man winked. ‘Maybe I’m lying, eh? Maybe I just tore the middle out myself.’ And he snorted a short-lived laugh. ‘Open in an hour,’ he repeated, moving away. Elder watched him go.

  A travelling fair. What connection could Witch possibly have with a travelling fair? None that he could think of. I’d have remembered someone like that. Rosa Pellengro had sounded very sure of herself. Very sure. But then she was supposed to be a clairvoyant. He wondered if it was worthwhile keeping a watch on the fair. Maybe Witch had been here. If so, she might come back or she might not.

  He was in a thoughtful mood as he reached Doyle’s car. Two gulls cackled somewhere in the distance. They had left generous gifts on the windscreen and bonnet. Elder sighed. Time to find a car-wash.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve called,’ Michael Barclay said into the receiver. ‘And who was that delightful French lady?’ Dominic Elder asked.

  ‘My colleague’s mother.’ Just then Dominique herself came into the hall and handed Barclay a glass of cold beer, with which he toasted her. It had been another long day.

  ‘Since you’re glad I called,’ Elder went on, ‘I take it you’re either in trouble or you’re on to something.’

  ‘Maybe both,’ said Barclay. ‘When I bugged Separt’s apartment, I copied some of his computer disks.’

  ‘Clever boy.’

  ‘I bet Mrs Parry w
ould say something different. Anyway, we’ve been reading through them. Mostly ideas for cartoon strips, but there’s a lot of personal correspondence too, including a couple of letters to Wolf Bandorff.’

  ‘Well well.’

  ‘Discussing some project of Separt’s, a cartoon book about Bandorff’s career.’

  ‘The world is a strange place, Michael. So what does this tell us?’

  ‘It connects Separt to Witch’s old teacher.’

  ‘It does indeed. It’s almost as if she’s living her life again backwards.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Barclay had finished the beer. He held the cold glass against his face, like a second telephone receiver.

  ‘She started her life in Britain, but early on joined Bandorff’s gang. The link seems still to be there.’

  Barclay still wasn’t sure what Elder was getting at. ‘You told me,’ he said, ‘always work the idea all the way through.’

  There was a pause. ‘You’re thinking of taking another trip?’

  ‘Yes. Do you think I could get it past Mrs Parry?’

  Elder considered this. ‘To be frank, almost certainly not. It’s getting too far out of our territory.’ He paused. ‘Then again, maybe there’s just a chance.’

  ‘How?’

  Elder’s voice seemed to have faded slightly. ‘You’ve lied to her before, haven’t you ... ?’

  Dominique had already made her necessary telephone calls, and now all Barclay had to do, before taking her to dinner, was make one call himself. To Joyce Parry. Elder was right, he’d lied to her before. Well, he’d been economical with the truth, say. But this time he was going to deliver a whopper. He went over his story two or three times in his head, Dominique goading him into making the call right now and getting it over and done with. At last he picked up the phone.