Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Whose prints?’

  ‘Witch’s maybe. Or - outside chance - whoever’s paying her. But that really is an outside chance.’ He paused. ‘You did a good job in that cartoonist’s apartment, let’s see you do it again now.’

  Breuckner wasn’t messy. The bedclothes had been pulled back and straightened, his clothes were hanging neatly in the wardrobe, and on the bedside table sat a copy of the previous day’s evening paper, a travel alarm, and a used ticket to Madame Tussaud’s.

  ‘Travels light, doesn’t he?’ said Elder. ‘To say he’s been here a month.’

  ‘For a holidaymaker, he certainly hasn’t collected many souvenirs.’ Barclay reached down and lifted a shoe. ‘Shall I check the heel for a radio transmitter?’

  Elder smiled. ‘Radio transmitters are more your line.’

  ‘You know I left a couple of bugs at the cartoonist’s?’

  ‘Don’t worry, someone’ll take care of them.’

  ‘Really?’ The relief in Barclay’s voice was all too evident.

  ‘But don’t tell Joyce I told you. She’ll want you to sweat for a bit.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The search continued, throwing up nothing out of the ordinary except the sheer lack of the usual traveller’s detritus: no used travel tickets, used carrier bags, stamps, foreign change, no guide books or souvenirs.

  Barclay squatted down and angled his head to peer beneath the bed. ‘Something under here.’ He looked around him, then got up and went into the small bathroom adjoining the room. He came back with, of all things, a loo-brush, which he used to manoeuvre out from under the bed whatever was there.

  ‘No fingers, you said,’ he informed Elder, who stood over him smiling.

  ‘I just hope that brush was clean,’ said Elder.

  Magazines. Glossy magazines. Dutch writing on their covers. There were three of them. Still using the loo-brush, Barclay awkwardly turned some of the pages.

  ‘Yes, I get the gist,’ said Elder.

  ‘S and M,’ said Barclay, closing the magazines. ‘Heavy duty stuff.’

  ‘Really? You have some expertise in this area?’

  ‘I know what’s legal, and this stuff isn’t.’

  Elder clapped his hands together. ‘Bloody good point, Michael. If we nab friend Breuckner for nothing else, we can have him under the Obscene Publications Act. Importation of material likely to offend. Anything else under there?’

  Barclay had another look. ‘Over the other side,’ he said. ‘Looks like a paperback.’ He walked round the bed, crouched again, and swept from beneath the bed an A-Z book of London streets.

  ‘I’ll bet the pages for the city centre are missing,’ said Elder. ‘He had them in his pocket.’

  ‘There’s a piece of card.’ Barclay pointed to where a cardboard edge protruded from the book. Elder took a pen from his pocket and eased it between the pages marked by the card. Then slowly he used the pen to open the book. The piece of card was a one-day travelcard, nearly a month old. The pages opened were those showing Hackney, Leyton and Clapton.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Elder. His first thought was of the address given to the police by the woman calling herself Christine Jones. It had been around this area. But no, not quite ... her address was just off this particular map, one page back in the book in fact. So, rule that out.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Barclay. They were both crouching now, with the book between them on the floor.

  ‘There was a key in the Dutchman’s pocket.’

  ‘Yes, so you said.’

  ‘Greenleaf—’

  ‘Doyle’s partner?’

  Elder nodded. ‘Greenleaf reckoned it might be the key to a lock-up.’

  ‘Plenty of lock-ups round there,’ Barclay said, nodding towards the map.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Lots of tower blocks. Well, at least there used to be in Hackney. I had a friend lived on the top floor of one.’

  ‘Well, it’s worth a try. At least it gives us a starting-point. I’d better get on to Special Branch and tell Greenleaf. What time is it?’ He checked his watch. ‘No, he’ll still be out at Christine Jones’s address. Not that that’ll take long. My guess is, nobody at that address will even have heard of anyone called Christine Jones. The lock-up idea is more interesting though.’

  ‘Maybe we should get some copies made, help speed up the search.’

  Elder nodded. ‘Copies are being made.’ He looked around the room. ‘Nothing else for us here, is there?’

  ‘We haven’t checked the bathroom or under the carpets or ...’

  ‘Not really our department. The police’ll do all that. I just wanted a quick look at the place before they started. Hold on though.’ He walked up to the bedside cabinet and looked at the evening paper. ‘Open at the crossword, but he’s hardly even started it.’ Elder stared at the clues and the answers entered in the grid. ‘Mmm, no, nothing there.’

  ‘You thought maybe a code?’

  ‘It’s a handy way of leaving a message for someone if you’re in a hurry. Stick the message in a crossword grid, no one gives it a second look.’

  ‘Unless they like crosswords.’ The thought struck Barclay ... what was it Wolf Bandorff had said? ‘She was fascinated by word games and crosswords.’ Word games and crosswords.

  ‘Did I ever tell you what Dominique and I found at the Australian’s?’

  ‘Pamphlets about Wolf Bandorff?’

  ‘Yes, but there was a crossword too, from the Times. Strange paper for an Australian anarchist to be reading in Paris.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the crossword had been done. The Australian said he liked crosswords.’

  ‘But we know from Bandorff that Witch likes word puzzles. You think the crossword belonged to Witch? It’s possible she spent time at the flat before taking away the cartoonist’s car. Still, it’s a bit late in the day to be any help.’

  ‘No, hold on, something else. There was a page torn out of the paper. The Australian said something about it saving on toilet paper. But why only the one page? And why wasn’t the newspaper in the toilet if that was its function?’

  Elder smiled. ‘You’re learning,’ he said. ‘So what you’re wondering is, what was on the torn-out page?’

  Barclay nodded. ‘Maybe it was something to do with the summit, or with her particular target. We don’t know who her target is yet. There could have been some clue in that newspaper.’

  ‘Well, which day was it? Which edition?’

  Barclay shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But Dominique might.’

  ‘And she’s at the Conference Centre.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Elder. ‘Let’s go find her.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was the fingerprint team. ‘All yours, gentlemen,’ said Elder. He was now as anxious to be back at the Conference Centre as he had been to leave it in the first place.

  But when they got to the foyer and asked at the desk, they were told that the new additions to the French security retinue had already left the building, and no one knew where they were headed.

  Greenleaf and Doyle returned to the house in the evening, just after seven. They’d tried in the late-afternoon, but no one had been home. So then they’d hared off back to Victoria Station to meet McKillip off his train and deposited him at Paddington Green, where he was delivered into the hands of other Special Branch men. And now they were back in Stoke Newington again. ‘Wild goose chase,’ muttered Doyle, pressing the doorbell. ‘Have you noticed how Elder’s started giving orders? I mean, who the fuck is he to give orders?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Greenleaf.

  Doyle turned to him. ‘Oh, yes? You would think that, wouldn’t you? Very pally, the two of you.’

  ‘We’re all together on this. It doesn’t help if personalities become the issue.’ Greenleaf pressed the bell.

  Doyle feigned amazement. ‘When did your Chair come through?’

&n
bsp; ‘What?’

  ‘Your Chair in Psychology, when did it come through?’

  ‘Don’t talk daft.’

  As Doyle was reaching yet again for the bell, the door flew open. A frazzled-looking young woman stood there. Behind her, along the entrance hall, lay a trail of dirty clothes issuing from a rucksack.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Good evening, miss,’ said Doyle, showing his ID. ‘We’re police officers. We’re looking for Christine Jones. Does she live here by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, Chris lives here.’ The woman frowned. ‘I’m Tessa Briggs. Has anything happened to Chris?’

  ‘Not that we know of, miss. Could we come in for a minute?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She left the door open for them, and started back down the hall. ‘Come into the living-room. Sorry everything’s such a state. We just got back from a short holiday. It was supposed to be a weekend away, but we couldn’t drag ourselves back.’

  ‘I can appreciate that,’ said Doyle.

  There was a yell from upstairs. ‘Tess, have you started that wash yet? I can’t hear the machine. Who was that at the door?’

  ‘Two policemen,’ Tessa yelled back. ‘Asking about Chris. Come downstairs!’

  In stepping over the threshold, Doyle and Greenleaf had to step over some mail still lying on the carpet where it had dropped through the letterbox. Greenleaf stooped to pick it up. Two letters for C. Jones, one for T. Briggs, and a postcard. There was a small table in the hall, and he dropped the mail on to it before following Doyle into the living-room.

  Doyle, already seated on the sofa, was asking Tessa Briggs about her weekend.

  ‘It was great,’ she said. ‘We went canoeing. First time I’ve been. Scared the life out of me, but I’d do it again.’

  ‘We being ... ?’

  ‘Oh, Rachel and me and our two boyfriends.’

  ‘Not Miss Jones then?’

  ‘No, Chris stayed here. Only she’s not here just now, she’s gone off for a couple of days ... she left a note on my computer.’

  The two policemen looked at one another. This seemed to tally with the story given to the constables by the person calling herself Christine Jones. Doyle raised an eyebrow. The meaning to Greenleaf was clear: wild goose chase. There was a framed photo on the mantelpiece: three young women, arms around shoulders, grinning towards the camera. Greenleaf picked it up.

  ‘Which one’s Miss Jones?’

  ‘In the middle,’ said Tessa Briggs.

  Yes, he’d have known that: her photo pretty well matched the description of her given by the two constables and by Elder, who apparently had seen her leave the police station. Greenleaf handed the photo to Doyle, who looked at Christine Jones and nodded, handing it back. Even to Greenleaf, it was beginning to look like a dead end.

  ‘When did Miss Jones leave?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You didn’t contact her over the weekend?’

  Tessa Briggs shrugged, as though the thought had never crossed her mind. Now another woman came into the room. She looked red-faced from exertion.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said with a big smile, ‘I’ve hidden the crack beneath the arms cache.’

  Greenleaf managed a wan smile; Doyle just stared at her.

  ‘Only joking,’ she said. ‘I’m Rachel Maguire. What’s up?’

  Greenleaf noticed how Doyle reacted to the name - Maguire. An Irish name, as Irish a name as Doyle. And suddenly it came to Greenleaf: terrorists had Irish names, that’s why Doyle was so defensive about his own name.

  ‘Yes,’ Tessa was saying. ‘What is up? You haven’t said.’

  ‘It’s Miss Jones,’ said Doyle, recovering. ‘She was mugged this morning.’

  ‘Mugged?’ The two women spoke in horrified unison. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Greenleaf said, calming them. ‘Not a scratch on her. The attackers ran off. They didn’t get a thing.’

  ‘God, that’s horrible. Where did it happen?’

  ‘Near Covent Garden,’ said Doyle.

  ‘In broad daylight?’

  ‘It’s when most crimes occur, miss.’

  ‘Where does Miss Jones work?’ asked Greenleaf.

  ‘She’s a civil servant,’ said Tessa.

  ‘DTI,’ said Rachel. ‘On Victoria Street somewhere.’

  ‘Right at the start of Victoria Street,’ Tessa added.

  ‘Number 1-16 or 1-18, something like that.’

  Again, Greenleaf and Doyle exchanged a glance. Victoria Street ... that was a bit close to the Conference Centre.

  ‘How has she seemed lately?’ asked Greenleaf. ‘I mean, has she been worried about anything?’

  The women shrugged. ‘What’s that got to do with her being mugged?’ asked Tessa.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Greenleaf. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’

  ‘Look,’ said Rachel, ‘if she was mugged but she’s all right ... just what exactly are you doing here?’

  There was no answer to that, so Greenleaf supplied one.

  ‘Just routine, like I say, miss, in cases like this. We like to check afterwards to see whether the victim’s remembered anything else.’

  ‘Oh, like a description?’

  ‘That’s it, yes.’

  Doyle rose to his feet. ‘Anyway, we would like to talk to Miss Jones when she gets back.’ He took a card from his wallet. ‘Maybe she could give us a call. Or if she gets in touch with you ...’

  ‘Yes, we’ll let you know,’ said Tessa, accepting the card.

  ‘We’d appreciate it,’ said Doyle. ‘Goodbye, Miss Maguire. We’ll leave you to get on with your laundry and your crack dealing.’

  Rachel Maguire managed a weak smile.

  “Bye, miss,‘ said Greenleaf. Tessa accompanied the two policemen to the door. ‘Oh,’ said Greenleaf, ‘I put your mail on the table there.’

  ‘Thanks, bills probably.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Greenleaf. ‘And a postcard, too.’

  ‘Oh?’ She glanced towards the table.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Briggs.’

  ‘Yes, goodnight,’ said Tessa Briggs. ‘Sorry we couldn’t be’ - the door closed - ‘more help.’

  Doyle put both hands to his eyes and rubbed. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘another long day comes to an end. Time for you to buy me a drink.’ He started off towards the front gate.

  ‘I told Elder I’d phone him,’ said Greenleaf.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To let him know if we found anything.’

  ‘It can wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘The summit starts tomorrow.’

  ‘Really? Somehow that’d slipped my mind.’

  Greenleaf closed the gate after them. ‘She works on Victoria Street.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘Look, a woman called Christine Jones gets mugged near Covent Garden. Elder’s so paranoid he sees Witch round every corner. We’ve checked, and as far as we can tell, her story’s straight.’ Doyle unlocked the passenger door, then went round to the driver’s side, unlocked it, and got in.

  ‘She beat off the attackers,’ added Greenleaf. ‘We should’ve asked her housemates if she had any training. Maybe I’ll just—’

  ‘You go back there and you’re walking home.’ Doyle waited until Greenleaf had settled in the passenger seat and closed his door. ‘I’ll say one thing for Elder,’ he murmured, ‘he really did get the car cleaned.’ Not that this impressed Doyle: he liked his car to smell like a car, which in his mind meant cigarette smoke, fumes, and old bits of discarded chewing gum. Now, the interior smelt of air-freshener and polish. He lit a cigarette. Greenleaf wound down his window.

  ‘Come on,’ complained Doyle, ‘we’ll freeze.’

  ‘Shirley complains when I go home smelling like an ashtray.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Doyle. He took two long drags on the cigarette, then opened his own window long enough to flick it out. ‘Satisfied?
’ he said. ‘Now wind your window back up.’

  Greenleaf did so, and Doyle started the car. ‘There’s a pub in Islington, you won’t believe the beer.’

  ‘We should call into Paddy Green, see if they’ve put together a line-up for McKillip.’

  ‘After we’ve had a drink,’ Doyle insisted. He sounded irritated; maybe it was the phrase Paddy Green ... The car pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Greenleaf.

  ‘What’s what?’

  Greenleaf had caught sight of something in the wing mirror. There was a noise, like a yell. He turned around and looked out of the rear windscreen. Tessa Briggs was leaning over the gate, calling something, waving something.

  ‘Stop the car,’ he said.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Tessa Briggs.’ Greenleaf wound his window back down and Tessa, having opened the gate, ran to the car.

  ‘God, I thought you weren’t going to stop!’

  ‘What is it, Miss Briggs?’

  ‘This.’ She handed a postcard through the window. ‘It’s supposed to be from Chris. Postmarked Saturday.’

  ‘Supposed?’ said Greenleaf.

  ‘That’s nothing like her writing,’ said Tessa. ‘Now tell me, please, what the hell is going on?’

  Greenleaf read the card and handed it to Doyle, who read the greeting out aloud.

  “‘Hard work but fun. See you soon. C.” ’ He turned the card over, then back again. ‘And it’s printed.’

  Tessa was shaking her head. ‘Nothing like Chris’s writing,’ she said. ‘And she wouldn’t print a message anyway.’

  ‘Wild goose chase?’ Greenleaf asked. ‘“Greetings from Auchterarder”. She’s got some nerve.’

  Doyle studied the card yet again, then looked up at his partner.

  ‘Better phone Elder,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you phoning from?’ asked Dominic Elder into the mouthpiece.

  ‘From home, Doyle just dropped me off.’

  Elder was lying on his bed in his hotel room, an arm over his eyes. There were no lights on in the room, but the orange glare of the street-lighting penetrated the curtains, exacerbating his migraine. He was tired, dog-tired. He knew he needed rest. For the first time, he felt real homesickness for his little cottage, its cosy den, his slumber-chair.