Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  Oh, how Witch loved a democracy. They took their freedoms too easily, treated them too casually. This wasn’t security; it was the opposite of security. It was a soft job, and the guards were happy to acknowledge this. She got up from her seat and walked one circuit of the reception area, then stood by the glass door. When the guards were busy, she pushed the door open and walked back out on to the street, sure that they would have forgotten her existence by the time the next tea-break came.

  How long had she been waiting now? Maybe her fears of an illness were well-founded... Ah, but no ... here came the woman now. Calling back over her shoulder to the security guard. Then pushing open the heavy glass door. Outside, she stopped and took a deep invigorating breath. Her weekend started here, started now. She held two briefcases, one a plain brown attaché case - her own - the other looking like an expensive school satchel, made from black leather and bearing a small crown insignia above the name-plate. This was government property, and a sign that she wasn’t just some clerical worker. She had achieved a good grade, not quite senior but certainly on her way there. She was vivacious, full of life and hope. She made friends quite easily. The security guard would know her name. Yet she didn’t seem to go out much. She shared a house with two other young professional women in Stoke Newington. Perhaps the house was rented, or perhaps they’d clubbed together and bought it between them before the government had changed the law on mortgage tax relief. Some things, even Witch couldn’t be sure of.

  She travelled to work by overland railway and tube. She travelled home the same way. It was a fairly hellish journey, and the later she worked or stayed on in town, the less teeming the crowds were on the trip home. So, one night, she’d hung around for an hour in a nearby wine-bar, having a drink with some of the other office staff. They were celebrating someone’s birthday. But she hadn’t stuck around for the Indian vegetarian meal. She’d kept looking surreptitiously at her watch. She’d made her apologies at half-past seven.

  No boyfriend to meet, despite the nods and winks and oohs of her colleagues, just the tube and train and the short walk home. To stay in all the rest of the evening, as all her other evenings, watching TV.

  Wondering what her weekend plans would be, today, after all three women had left for work, Witch had entered their house. Inside, she’d found a pleasant surprise: the other residents were going away for the weekend. There were signs of planned departure: packed and half-packed bags, raids on the bathroom toiletries. They’d tried to pack this morning before leaving for work, but had blearily only half succeeded. Only Christine Jones’s room was tidy. No luggage there.

  In the kitchen was the brochure for a Welsh campsite. Its telephone number had been ringed. Obviously it was there in case Christine needed it: Christine’s idea probably. She seemed so much more organised than her housemates. And on a wall calendar was marked a time this evening when ‘Garry and Ed’ would be calling. Another look in the housemates’ bedrooms confirmed that Garry and Ed were the boyfriends. The four of them were off to Wales on a camping expedition. Lovely.

  Witch wondered how Christine Jones would spend her weekend. There didn’t seem any clues that she was planning to go away, or to have someone over, or to hold a party, even a dinner party. She was doing German at night school, and it looked like part of her time would be spent catching up on her assignments. There were also three fat and newly borrowed library books to be read, and a video club membership card was handy on the coffee table in the living-room, in case she wanted to rent a film or two ...

  There’d be a spot of shopping on Saturday morning. Not having transport, she tended to use the local shops—though someone in the flat had access to a car, since there had been supermarket buying in bulk, shown in the contents of the refrigerator. Christine Jones wouldn’t go hungry, not for food. But it wasn’t party food, not social food; it was fast food, the stuff of days spent doing homework and nights spent watching TV.

  One of her housemates, Tessa, kept a diary, and recent entries, when not running on about Garry and his physique and his bedroom athletics, showed concern for ‘Chris’, who had split up with a boyfriend several months before and seemed to have just lost interest...

  ‘Hope she’ll be okay this weekend,’ the entry ended. Witch was tempted to take up a pen and add: ‘She’ll be fine, honest.’

  She didn’t.

  When the mail arrived, she glanced at it, leaving it untouched on the hall floor. Then, having satisfied herself with the layout of the house, she left it as neatly as she had entered it, and walked back to the railway station, a lazy stroll, nothing better to do, just whiling away the hours ...

  Until now. As she follows Christine Jones along Victoria Street, she’s thinking, ticking things off on a list in her mind. Christine knows the guard, but that probably doesn’t matter. Another of the DTI buildings further along Victoria Street would do just as well, once Witch has a security pass. She’s studying the way Christine moves, the way she walks, how far she places one foot in front of the other, the way she turns her head when she wants to cross the road. None of this is necessary - she doesn’t intend to impersonate Christine Jones after all—but it is useful and it is interesting. Witch is learning to move like a professional woman, a woman on the way up in the civil service. She’s thinking too of the evening ahead, of what must be done immediately, and what can be left till later. And, briefly, she’s thinking of Khan, of how pleased her employers were, how generous. And she spares a thought, too, for Dominic Elder and all the other people who may be chasing her shadow just now. She’s thinking all these things, but her walk is that of the girl about town, making her way home.

  Home to Stoke Newington. Directly home. Poor Christine Jones, her eyes fixed on yet another book, a fat paperback this time. (She’s almost finished it. Probably she’s already looking forward to the three fat library books waiting for her at home.) No after-work drinks for her. Probably she wants to make it back to the house before her housemates leave. Sending her best wishes with them. Yes, better to return to a few minutes of chaotic farewell than to an absolute forty-eight-hour emptiness. Poor Christine Jones.

  She stops in at a newsagent on the way home. She buys a couple of magazines, and then, biting her lip guiltily, adds several chocolate bars to her purchases. Comfort food. The newsagent puts the whole lot into a white paper bag. It is awkward to carry. She might stop for a moment, open her satchel, and place the magazines and sweets inside, but she’s hurrying now. Bloody London bloody public bloody transport. The bane of her existence. Late home as usual. It’s nearly seven. The girls will be leaving soon. Yes, the car is parked outside the house. A tanned young man is carrying out two suitcases.

  ‘Hello, Garry,’ says Christine.

  Garry lifts the cases higher. The action shows off his physique. ‘Look at this,’ he says. ‘You’d think we were off for a fortnight on the QE2. I wish now I was staying behind with you, Chris. We could get nice and cosy, eh?’

  ‘Leave my flatmate alone!’ yells Tessa from the front door, half-jokingly at least.

  The other housemate emerges with more bags. Behind her, her boyfriend is manoeuvring a large suitcase out of the door.

  ‘We’ll never get it all in!’ calls Garry.

  ‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ retorts his friend. The girls laugh, the way they’re supposed to. This is fun. Christine’s smile is fixed. Witch can see that she is in a quandary. She’s holding the paper bag to her, while she wonders whether to offer the chocolate to the foursome for their journey, or whether to say nothing about it. Witch is surprised, but pleased too, to see that self-gratification wins. Christine keeps the chocolate to herself.

  Witch has passed the scene now, eyes on the cracks in the pavement ahead. She’s on the other side of the street from them, but not quite invisible enough. Garry gives her a half-hearted wolf whistle, almost drawing unwanted attention. But no one seems to pay him any heed. The cases will all go in, but only if some of the bags sit on the floor in th
e back and under the driver’s and front-passenger’s seats, and even then it’s going to be tight.

  ‘As the actress said—’

  A thump silences the end of the sentence. Witch has turned the corner now. She stops, pretending to rummage in her bag for something. The car doors are opening, closing, opening again. Kisses and hugs are exchanged.

  ‘It’s only for the weekend,’ complains Garry as the housemates make their farewells. ‘It’s not like a fortnight on the QE2 or anything ...’

  The doors close. All four of them. The engine starts with a throaty roar. Not one to hang about, the driver lets the tyres squeal as he releases the handbrake, and he fairly races to the end of the road, signalling left, turning left, and revving away in the opposite direction from Witch.

  Moments later, the front door of the house closes, leaving Christine Jones indoors on her own.

  Witch waited at the corner for a few minutes, not looking in her bag any more but waiting for a gentleman friend. She peered up this road and down along that, searching for him. And glanced at her watch, for the benefit of anyone looking from their windows. Not that anyone did. They minded their business and got down to the proper work of the evening: watching the television.

  A few people hurried past, refugees from the latest train, she guessed. They looked worn out and glanced at her, nothing more. Nobody smiled, nobody offered a chat-up line or a joke or a ‘Can I help you?’ The time passed without incident.

  She walked back around the corner then started into a brisk run, clutching her carrier bag to her to stop the contents from spilling out. She ran up to the gate, pushed it open, climbed the steps noisily, and rang the doorbell.

  Christine Jones had hardly had time to start her first chocolate bar of the evening. She’d taken off jacket and shoes, nothing more. She opened the door wide, then looked disappointed.

  ‘Have I missed her?’ said Witch, panting, trying to catch her breath.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tessa, only there was something I wanted to give her.’ She winked. ‘For the weekend, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You just missed her,’ said Christine. ‘Funny, I thought maybe that was her coming back to say she’d forgotten something.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Witch threw back her head and exhaled noisily. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Then she caught herself, grinned. ‘Sorry, you must be Chris. She’s told me about you. I’m Anna.’

  ‘Hello, Anna. Do you work beside—? God, listen to me.’ Christine rolled her eyes. ‘Do you want to come in? You look like you could use a drink.’

  ‘Too right I could.’

  ‘Me too. After all, it is the weekend.’

  Christine Jones stepped back so Witch could walk into her home. Then Christine closed the door. Witch was standing, waiting. ‘Along here,’ said Christine, signalling with the chocolate bar, leading her towards the living-room. ‘You didn’t say, do you work beside Tessa?’

  ‘Well, sort of, yes.’

  As Christine pushed open the door to the living-room, Witch hit her at the base of the skull. Christine froze for a moment, then fell forwards, turning sideways as she did so, so that her left shoulder hit the rug first, her head following it with an almighty thump.

  She was aware that she couldn’t move, aware too of a heat-source near her face. She opened her eyes to agony, the blood beating in her head. Immediately she opened her eyes, a hand descended on to her mouth, the thumb hooking itself under her chin. The side of the hand left just enough room below her nose to allow her to breathe. She looked up into the eyes of the woman who had tricked her way indoors. And she knew why she couldn’t move. Witch had tied Christine Jones to her own bed, using pairs of grey tights. There was an electrical socket just beside the bed, hidden behind the bedside cabinet. A clock-alarm and a reading-lamp had been plugged into the double socket. She’d unplugged the lamp and plugged in the iron, turning the heat all the way up. Now, while one hand gagged Christine Jones, the other gripped the handle of the iron and held it close to her face. Witch turned away from Christine and spat on to the dull metal face of the iron. Her saliva sizzled and bubbled.

  ‘A nice hot iron,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve got to be careful with a hot iron. Place it on the wrong kind of material and you can do terrible damage. Place it on delicate material, and you can ruin the material forever.’ Christine’s nostrils flared as she fought for breath, hyperventilating.

  ‘Now,’ said Witch, ‘I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. You could scream if you wanted to, but I’m not sure anyone would hear. There’s no one else in the house, your windows are double-glazed and shut tight, and your room’s on the end of the house. A good solid end wall rather than a connecting wall. No neighbours to hear. You understand what I’m saying? If you scream, nobody will hear, and you might startle me. I might drop the iron. I don’t think you’ll scream. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s not necessary to hurt you. I just need you to answer a few questions about your work.’ She paused. ‘Now, do you want me to repeat anything I’ve said?’

  Beneath the pressure of her hand, Witch felt Christine Jones try to shake her head. She brought the iron down until it was inches above Christine’s face, causing the young woman to screw shut her eyes. The iron went ‘click’ occasionally, its light coming on to show that it was heating up again, then another ‘click’ as maximum heat was achieved and the light went off, the iron starting to cool ...

  Witch lifted away her hand. Christine gulped in air, licked her lips. There was sweat on her face. She suddenly started thrashing, but Witch had expected this and sat still on the edge of the bed, waiting for the thrashing to stop. The bonds were holding. Christine calmed down.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, trembling. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’

  Witch smiled. ‘It’s all right, Christine. It’s only natural. Chain up any animal and it’ll do the same thing ... for a moment or two, until it realises it really is chained.’

  ‘How do you know who I am?’

  ‘I’ve been watching you. I’m interested in where you work.’

  She seemed confused. ‘DTI?’

  ‘Yes, all those buildings along Victoria Street.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I want you to tell me about them, anything you know, no matter how trivial.’

  ‘What? Is this some kind of—’ But of course it wasn’t a joke. She could feel the heat of the iron. No, whatever else this was, it wasn’t a joke.

  ‘Take it floor by floor,’ said Witch, ‘starting with the ground.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t need to understand. All you have to do is tell me.’

  ‘About the buildings?’

  ‘Yes, about the buildings.’ Another click from the iron. ‘Take it floor by floor,’ Witch repeated.

  Christine Jones took it floor by floor.

  After a while, Witch saw that she didn’t need the iron. She rested it on its end on the bedside cabinet. She even left the room long enough to fetch water and paracetamol from the bathroom. It didn’t look as though Christine had struggled at all during her absence, but of course she had. Witch merely smiled.

  ‘I know how to make a knot,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you want to know all this?’ asked Christine.

  ‘Open wide,’ said Witch. She held a tablet above Christine’s mouth, and, when the mouth with its good solid teeth opened, she dropped the tablet in, placing the cup of water against her bottom lip and pouring some in. Christine swallowed the tablet, and Witch repeated the process.

  ‘You’re bound to have a sore head,’ she said. ‘It’ll wear off in time. No lasting effects, I promise. I know how to hit people, too.’

  ‘You know a lot,’ said Christine, refreshed by the water. She’d been talking for over an hour.

  ‘Knowledge is power,’ said Witch quietly. Then she smiled. ‘And I’m power-crazy, Christine. You’re an intelligent woman. By now you’re beginn
ing to guess why I might want to know so much about Victoria Street. You won’t say anything, because if you did, you think I might think I’d have to silence you. Permanently. Am I right?’ Christine said nothing: answer in itself. ‘Well, don’t worry. I don’t kill people for pleasure, only for profit.’ She paused, seeming to think of something. Then she came to herself. ‘And there’s no profit in killing you, Christine. But I can’t have you telling anyone either.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell, I’d keep my mouth—’

  Witch shook her head. ‘So I’m going to have to hide you somewhere until this is all over. Probably Wednesday. It’s not a long time, Friday night until Wednesday. It’ll be uncomfortable, but no more than that. Now, because of this, because you’re going to be my ... guest over the next few days, I need some more information, different information this time.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who’s your doctor, Christine?’

  ‘My doctor?’ Witch nodded. ‘Doctor Woodcourt.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Female.’

  ‘With a practice where?’

  ‘Ebury Road... just at the end of the street.’

  ‘And does Doctor Woodcourt know you?’

  ‘Know me?’

  ‘Do you visit regularly? Would she know you to look at?’

  ‘I went a year or so ago for some jabs, holiday vaccinations. But now that I think about it, some locum saw me. I can’t think when I last saw Doctor Woodcourt ... maybe two years ago, when I was going on the pill.’

  ‘Two years is a long time. I don’t think she’d recognise you, do you?’

  ‘Probably not. I don’t see what—’

  ‘On Monday morning, I’m going to call in sick to your office on your behalf. You’re allowed several sick days before you need notification from your doctor.’

  ‘A sick-line, yes.’ And then Christine Jones saw. ‘You’d pretend to be me? Just to get a sick-line?’