Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  ‘So what do you think?’ asked Greenleaf. He’d already told Elder about the postcard.

  ‘It’s such a giveaway, obviously we weren’t supposed to find it until the end of the mission. Meaning the mission must be soon.’

  ‘Think she knows we’re on to her?’

  ‘That depends on whether she needs to get in touch with our friend the Dutchman. Someone’s monitoring the hotel switchboard. The two constables who brought her in say they didn’t mention anything about a Dutchman being arrested, but then they could be lying.’

  ‘You’re suggesting my colleagues might be covering themselves rather than telling the truth?’

  ‘If they didn’t say anything, chances are she doesn’t know. She wasn’t anywhere near CID, which is where our Dutchman was. All the same, if she was so close to him, I can’t help feeling she’ll know.’

  ‘Then she’ll know how close we are to her?’

  ‘And how close is that, John?’

  ‘We know who she’s pretending to be. Key to a lock-up, missing civil servant. We’ll find Christine Jones in a garage somewhere.’

  ‘Somewhere around Hackney.’

  ‘If your hunch about the A-Z is right, yes.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Barclay found the A-Z.’

  ‘I won’t forget. But whose snitch was it found the Dutchman in the first place?’

  Yes, Charlie Giltrap. Elder owed Charlie rather a large drink for that.

  Greenleaf was still talking. ‘Is Barclay your ... is he some kind of protégé?’

  ‘Not exactly. Meantime, the key is being copied tonight. Inspector Whitlock is going to coordinate the search.’

  ‘Whitlock?’

  ‘Stationed in Hackney. I’m told he’s a good man for this sort of job.’

  ‘So the Dutchman grabbed Christine Jones ...’

  ‘And now Witch has assumed her identity. I hear McKillip was able to identify our Dutch friend.’

  ‘Pointed straight to him.’

  ‘Good, we can hold him a bit longer then. Bit late all the same. His part in the operation has almost certainly finished.’

  ‘You think she’ll try a hit from this building in Victoria Street?’

  ‘Yes, 1-19 Victoria Street.’ Elder paused. ‘Or maybe one of the other DTI buildings along the route.’

  ‘There are details already assigned to every one of them.’

  ‘Yes, and she’ll no doubt realise that.’

  ‘But you still think she’ll try? It’s suicide.’

  ‘I know, I can’t really understand what she’s playing at.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Elder sighed. ‘Oh, nothing probably. It just seems ... she’s just making too many mistakes, John.’

  ‘Maybe she’s getting old, eh?’

  Elder smiled in the darkness. ‘Maybe.’ There were sounds at the other end of the line. A clinking of china. A muffled ‘Thanks, love, won’t be long’, presumably from Greenleaf to his wife. Elder felt cold and empty, he felt a longing for something he daren’t quite put into words.

  ‘We’ll place guards on the doors,’ Greenleaf was saying.

  ‘And inside the buildings,’ suggested Elder.

  ‘I don’t know, Dominic, we’re stretched as it is.’

  ‘Just a suggestion,’ said Elder, hoping Greenleaf would take his meaning: It may be just a suggestion, but I’ve made it and so that puts it in your hands. If you don’t put men inside the buildings and she does succeed in killing someone my conscience is clear ... how about yours? It was just like his warning to Joyce Parry, the one she in turn had passed on to the PM, bypassing the Home Secretary.

  ‘I’ll see what Commander Trilling says,’ Greenleaf said after a long pause. Yes, he’d taken Elder’s meaning, and he would pass the buck along.

  ‘Every security man on that route,’ Elder went on, screwing up his eyes with effort, ‘must have a recent description of Witch and a photograph of Christine Jones. All passes must be checked. It’s obvious that Witch now looks like Miss Jones; it’s just as obvious she’ll use Miss Jones’s pass to get past DTI’s own security.’

  ‘Even though she knows we know?’ Greenleaf persisted.

  ‘It sounds crazy, but I’ve got a feeling she’ll try. We’ll have to be ready for her, which means we’d all better get some rest tonight.’

  ‘I could do with it. You sound like you could, too.’

  ‘Me?’ said Elder. ‘I’m just about to go for my evening run. A quick sprint around Hyde Park.’

  Greenleaf laughed tiredly. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll join you there. See you in the morning, Dominic.’

  ‘Goodnight, John.’

  With eyes still closed, Elder managed to place the receiver back in its cradle. It rang again almost immediately. He groaned and groped for the still-warm receiver.

  ‘Elder here.’

  ‘Mr Elder, it’s Barclay.’ The young man sounded frantic, or maybe just frustrated. ‘I’ve hunted all over ... restaurants, bars, clubs ... no sign of her. All anyone at the embassy said was she’s out on the town with the other new arrivals. But at last they’ve come up with the name of her hotel. Do you think I should—’

  ‘Michael,’ said Elder gently, ‘I think you should go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning will be time enough.’

  ‘Yes, but if I find her tonight I could take her to The Times offices and—’

  ‘Michael, answer me one question.’

  Barclay’s breathing was fast and ragged. From the background noise - drunken yells, music blaring, teeming life, car horns - he was calling from a phone-booth somewhere in the West End. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘go ahead.’

  ‘Why do you want to find Dominique so urgently? Is it maybe because you feel left out of her life all of a sudden?’

  There was a long silence. ‘That’s two questions,’ Barclay said at last.

  ‘Rhetorical questions, too, I think. Go home, get some rest, and be at the Conference Centre early. We know Dominique will be there.’

  ‘Yes.’ Barclay sounded as if all the air had been let out of him. ‘Yes, okay.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  Elder hung up the phone. It rang again. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ He picked it up. ‘Elder,’ he snapped.

  ‘Dominic?’ It was Joyce Parry. ‘Are you all right?’

  He softened his voice. ‘Oh, hello, Joyce. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Been a long day, huh?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it’s been a long day.’

  ‘And a successful day too, by all accounts. Congratulations.’

  ‘Premature, I’d say. You know we actually had Witch inside a police station?’

  ‘And she got away, yes. Hardly your fault, Dominic. And we do have the Dutchman. People on the Continent are very pleased about that.’

  ‘Good for them.’

  Joyce Parry laughed. ‘It helps us with SIS. After Barclay’s German escapade, we need it.’

  ‘But will it help mend the rift between you and the Home Secretary?’

  ‘Who knows. He can be a spiteful little sod.’ She paused. ‘How about a nightcap? I thought we could have a drink at the—’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Joyce, and any other time, I’d be ...’

  ‘But tonight you’re whacked? Fair enough. How did Barclay bear up today?’

  ‘More than adequately.’

  ‘Really? You’re not just covering for him?’

  ‘He’s just called me. He’s still busy working.’

  ‘I am impressed. He’s always been first out of the office here, soon as five-thirty comes.’

  ‘Maybe he’s changed.’

  ‘Maybe. Just so long as you haven’t taught him too many of your tricks.’

  He smiled. ‘Joyce, about that drink. Might room service be available?’

  She considered her answer. ‘It might.’

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘
Bring some paracetamol as well. Either that or massage oil.’

  ‘Alcohol, drugs and baby oil ... sounds just like the old days.’

  Elder laughed. ‘I think the relevant word there is “old”, Joyce. Definitely old.’

  He put the receiver down again and counted to ten. No more calls came. He knew he should get up, tidy the room a bit, and tidy himself too. But still he lay, the arm across his eyes, thinking of an encounter he knew must come, and come soon. Just like Operation Silverfish. He wriggled on the bed, rubbing the itch in his back. Silverfish. You should have been a priest. Maybe she had a point. Finally, he got up and turned on the bedside lamp, squinting into the light as he opened the wardrobe and took out his case. There was a shirt in the bottom, rolled up. It was torn and tattered, and stained a dull brown, almost the colour of rust. It was the shirt he had worn ... And wrapped up inside it was a gun, a Browning nine-millimetre pistol. He lifted out the gun and put the shirt back in the case. The pistol felt icy and unnatural in his hand, but the longer he held it the warmer it became and the more natural it felt, until he was hardly aware of it there at all.

  ‘This time,’ he whispered to himself, running his eye along the sight. ‘This time, Witch. That’s a promise.’

  The Shooting Gallery

  Tuesday 16 June

  Barclay was at the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre almost before it had opened for the day. But the foyer was already buzzing with security and the media. Everyone was handed a sheet detailing the day’s itinerary. Supposedly, this had been held back until the day itself for ‘security reasons’. But in fact most of the delegations, in pre-summit chats with the press, had given away the details anyway. A large section of the Conference Centre had been set aside for representatives of the media, and they wouldn’t be allowed to linger in the foyer. A restless young woman was already weaving through the bodies, seeking out media-coloured ribbons. She looked at Barclay, seemed to think he must be a reporter, and was about to tell him that breakfast was available in the ... But then she saw that he was wearing a security-coloured red-and-blue ribbon, so she veered away at the last moment. Some German security personnel were sharing a German joke. One of them, seeing the colour of Barclay’s ribbon, nodded a greeting towards him. Barclay nodded back. His cheeks were tingling: he wondered if the joke was the one about the British secret agent and the German terrorist. A couple of the Germans kept placing a hand against their chest and running it down the front of their buttoned suit-jacket. It was clear to Barclay that they were armed. In fact, as more security personnel appeared, he began to wonder if he alone was unarmed. Still there was no sign of Dominique. He read through the itinerary again, already knowing it by heart. The first session was to be short, a sort of official welcome. A couple of speeches, then a photo-shoot. The real business would begin in the afternoon, after an ‘informal’ lunch at Buckingham Palace. He wondered how informal ‘informal’ was. Not very, he thought.

  ‘Morning, Michael.’

  It was Elder. He had heavy bags under his eyes, which were red at their corners. Having spoken, he stifled a yawn.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Barclay examined Elder’s suit for bulges, and found none. Well, at least someone else around here wasn’t toting a gun.

  ‘Bright and early, eh?’

  ‘Well, early anyway.’

  Elder nodded, stifling another yawn. ‘I could do with some coffee,’ he said at last. A room had been set aside for the British security contingent, and in it sat a steaming coffee-machine. Elder made straight for a large polythene bag full of beakers, tipped some ‘creamer’ into one, then poured himself coffee. Barclay refused. ‘Creamer,’ muttered Elder. ‘What in God’s name’s that?’

  ‘Something with no milk products in it,’ guessed Barclay. Elder shuddered, but drank the drink anyway, screwing shut his eyes for the first couple of gulps.

  He exhaled noisily. ‘Hit the spot,’ he said. ‘Now listen, we’ve had some more news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A civil servant called Christine Jones. She’s missing. We think Witch has abducted her and is using her identity.’

  Barclay whistled. ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘1-19 Victoria Street.’

  Barclay nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘So today, and every day if it comes to it, Victoria Street’s our priority.’

  ‘When did you find all this out?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me when I phoned?’

  ‘Michael, you were overheated as it was. I didn’t want you to explode. Besides, we know a lot, but we still don’t know who Witch’s target is.’

  ‘So you don’t think my idea about The Times is a lost cause?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Elder, having finished the coffee, poured himself another cup, not bothering to add creamer this time. ‘Absolutely not,’ he repeated. ‘I want you and Dominique to follow it up.’

  ‘Speaking of which ... I should be in the lobby in case she arrives.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll come with you. I’m going to take another wander along Victoria Street.’ He finished the second cup.

  ‘Feel better for that, sir?’

  Elder nodded, stifling yet another yawn.

  ‘You obviously didn’t get much sleep last night,’ said Barclay, solicitously.

  ‘No,’ said Elder with a smile. ‘Not much.’

  Barclay saw that the smile was in memory of something. It didn’t take him long to work out what that memory might be.

  Dominique, entering the foyer unaccompanied, was yawning too. She looked like she’d had a heavy night of it. Barclay, who’d just been thinking about Elder and Joyce Parry, didn’t want to consider what Dominique had been doing.

  ‘Dominique,’ he said, approaching.

  She raised a hand to her forehead. ‘Michael, please, I am dying. English beer ... how do you manage to drink it?’

  Barclay smiled. ‘Dominique, this is your near-name-sake Dominic Elder.’

  She tried to brighten a little. She looked very pale, and hadn’t bothered with the morning chore of make-up. But her eyes sparkled as she smiled. ‘Monsieur Elder, I am pleased to meet you.’ She put out a small red-gloved hand for Elder to take. ‘The famous author of the Witch file.’

  Elder swallowed another yawn and made a non-committal sound.

  ‘Listen, Dominique,’ said Barclay, ‘something’s come up. It might be a clue to Witch’s intended victim.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She just failed to sound interested.

  ‘Remember the Australian anarchist? His flat?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Monsieur Wrightson and his apartment. Ugh, how could I forget?’

  ‘There was a copy of The Times there.’

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed puzzled now, but her interest was growing.

  ‘With the crossword done.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And remember what Bandorff said ... Witch liked to do crosswords.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘So you add one to the other,’ she said, ‘and you assume the crossword was done by Witch and not by Mr Wrightson?’

  Barclay shrugged. ‘It’s a theory.’

  She considered this, acknowledged with a shrug of her own that it was possible. ‘So what?’ she said.

  ‘The thing is,’ Elder broke in, ‘there was a page torn out of that newspaper, according to Mr Barclay here.’

  Another shrug. ‘A page, maybe several pages. Used for toilet paper, according to—’

  ‘Perhaps Witch tore the page out,’ continued Elder.

  ‘You see,’ said Barclay, warming to the subject, ‘it could be some clue to her chosen victim, a profile of them or something.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see.’

  ‘So can you remember which day’s Times it was?’

  She laughed. ‘I cannot even remember which month it was.’ She saw that they looked crestfallen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Elder. But Barclay’s dejection mov
ed her to remember.

  ‘There was a photograph,’ she said. ‘A large black and white picture on one of the inside pages. I recall it because it attracted me. A photograph of New York from the air, and lots of ballons.’

  ‘Balloons?’ said Elder.

  ‘Yes, the big ones with baskets beneath them.’

  ‘Hot-air balloons?’

  ‘Yes, lots of those, rising over New York.’

  ‘The Picture Editor’s got to know when that one appeared,’ said Barclay, brightening again.

  Elder was nodding. ‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘And be lucky.’

  Barclay looked to Dominique. ‘Coming?’

  She looked undecided. ‘I should ... my colleagues ... I am supposed to be the expert, you know.’ Then she made up her mind. ‘Oh God, yes, of course I am coming.’

  A broad smile spread across Barclay’s face. ‘Good,’ he said.

  Elder watched them leave. A nice young couple, but he wouldn’t want to have to depend on them. He patted his chest, and let his hand slide down the front of his suit. Then he walked outside. The morning was overcast, threatening rain. The forecast for the rest of the week was even worse. Wet weather seemed to exacerbate his back problem. God knows, after last night he felt achy enough as it was.

  ‘You look rough,’ said a voice to his left. It was Doyle, accompanied by Greenleaf.

  ‘Maybe fragile is a better word,’ Elder admitted.

  Doyle laughed, and patted his jacket ostentatiously. ‘Well, don’t worry about a thing, Mr Elder, we’ll look after you.’ His voice fell to a dramatic whisper. ‘Tooled up.’

  Elder stared at the bulging jacket. ‘I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘It makes me nervous,’ said Greenleaf. He looked nervous, wriggling at the unaccustomed weight strapped to his side, beneath his left arm. Neither Special Branch man wore a suit really fitted for carrying a gun. Not like Elder’s suit, which was unfashionably roomy to start with. Elder many years before had given the suit to a tailor in Shoreditch who had eased it out a little to the left-hand side. The result was that he could have worn a .44 Magnum without any hint of a bulge, never mind his favoured pistol.

  ‘I picked up itineraries for you,’ said Elder. He took from his pocket two folded sheets of A4-sized paper, and gave one to each of them. Doyle glanced down the list.