by Ian Rankin
The hospital was hectic. Victoria Street victims, being treated for cuts and shock. In some operating theatre, they were working on what remained of Traynor’s leg. But Doyle’s ward was quiet enough. He was lying with his head propped on a single white pillow. They’d changed him out of his suit and into regulation pyjamas, thick cotton with vertical stripes the colour of uncooked liver. The nurse had asked Greenleaf what they should do with Mr Doyle’s handgun. Greenleaf carried it with him now, inside a rolled-up white carrier. Doyle’s shoulder-holster was in there too.
Greenleaf still hadn’t handed in his own gun. Somehow he was getting used to it, nestling beneath his jacket there.
‘Hello, Doyle.’ He dragged a chair over to the bedside. The cabinet was empty save for a jug of water and a plastic beaker. Greenleaf placed the carrier beside the water-jug. Doyle opened his eyes long enough to watch this happening.
‘Is that my gun in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God for that. Thought maybe I’d lost the bloody thing. Bet they’d have taken it out of my wages.’
‘There’s these too.’ Greenleaf produced a packet of mints. ‘From Commander Trilling.’
‘It’s the thought that counts, so they say.’
Greenleaf smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Chipper. Can you get me out of here?’
‘They’re holding you overnight.’
Doyle groaned. ‘I was seeing my bird tonight.’
‘Give me her number and I’ll send your apologies.’
Doyle grinned, showing stained teeth. ‘I’ll bet you would, John-boy. No, it’s all right, let her sweat. She’ll be all the keener tomorrow. Have we caught that bitch yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Leading us a merry dance, isn’t she?’
‘Have you heard about Barker?’
‘Yeah, couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke. What does she want with him?’
Greenleaf shrugged. ‘Nobody seems to know.’
‘We were set up, weren’t we?’
‘It looks like she set everybody up, Doyle.’
‘Yeah, everybody. What does Elder say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know much, do you, pal? Where is he?’
‘Back in his office, I suppose.’
Doyle tried to sit up, though the effort cost him dear. He gritted his teeth and levered himself on to his elbows. Greenleaf rose from his chair to help, but Doyle growled the offer aside. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘stick close to Elder, John. He knows something we don’t, believe me. If anyone catches her, it’s going to be him. Stick close, and we’ll get a pop at her too. Savvy?’
Greenleaf nodded, then saw that Doyle’s eyes were closed again. ‘I savvy,’ he said. Doyle nodded back at him, and let his head fall back on to the pillow.
Greenleaf was remembering ... remembering the note Witch had left for Elder. What special bond was there between them? Maybe Doyle had a point.
‘Last time I had a head like this,’ Doyle said, ‘was the morning after that party in the boxing club. Remember it?’
‘I remember it.’
Doyle smiled faintly. ‘Good night that, wasn’t it? Knew back then that you were a good man, John. Knew it even back then.’ Doyle’s voice grew slurred and faint. ‘I’ve still got that French booze. When I get out we’ll have a bit of a party. Good man ...’
Greenleaf waited till he was asleep, the breathing regular, then he got up, moved the chair away, and lifted the carrier bag from the bedside cabinet. He touched Doyle’s shoulder lightly, smiling down on the sleeping figure.
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ he said quietly, almost too quietly to be heard.
Barclay’s car had been brought back from Calais, so they drove south in that. Barclay did the driving, while Dominique sat beside him thumping his leg and demanding that he go faster. ‘Either that or we swap places. And turn off that noise.’
‘Noise?’ Barclay bristled. ‘That’s Verdi.’
Elder sat alone in the back seat. He wasn’t in a mood for conversation, so he stared from the window and kept his responses brief whenever a question was asked of him, until both Barclay and Dominique seemed to take the hint.
He had seen it suddenly, crystal clear. Barker’s second wife, so recently deceased, had been a spiritualist. When Elder had visited the fairground, the palm-reader had been too direct in her denial of having seen Witch. It had jarred at the time, but there’d seemed no real connection until now. His back was burning, and he had to sit forward in his seat so as not to graze it against the car’s rough fabric. Have patience, Susanne, he thought to himself. Have patience. He knew he was addressing not his daughter but himself.
This time when they reached Brighton he knew exactly where to go. A few of the bigger rides had already been packed away and transported elsewhere. He still had Ted’s list in his diary, all the other fairs taking place in the region.
As they headed for The Level, he sat right forward, his head between Dominique’s and Barclay’s. ‘Now listen,’ he said, ‘hopefully I’m going to have a word with a ball-gazer. If she’s still around, that is. I want you two to take a look around ... a good look around.’
‘You think Witch may be here?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Shouldn’t we have some back-up?’
‘Does she know what you look like?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do we need back-up? Anyway, there’ll be back-up. Turn left here.’
Barclay turned left. It was early evening and the fair was doing some business, but not much. A late-afternoon downpour had drenched the spirits of the holidaymakers. Elder knew where Gypsy Rose’s caravan was. It was near the ghost train. Only the ghost train had gone, and in its place was a stall of some kind. But the palmist’s caravan was still there, hooked up to an estate-car. He could see it from the road. ‘Drop me here,’ Elder ordered. The car slowed to a stop, and he got out. ‘Park at the end of the road and walk back. Remember, you’re on holiday. You’re just having a look. Don’t go behaving like snoopers or coppers or anything else. Just behave ... naturally.’ The door closed, and Elder watched the car move off. Dominique seemed to put her hand to Barclay’s hair, ruffling it. He watched a moment longer before walking across the grass towards Gypsy Rose Pellengro’s caravan.
‘Mr Elder?’
The man who confronted him was heavy-built, balding. He had his hands deep in the pockets of a windcheater beneath which he wore a white T-shirt. He looked like a manual worker, maybe a carpenter or builder, but respectable. He was one of Special Branch’s best.
Elder nodded, looking around. ‘Anything?’
‘Quiet as the grave. I don’t know how she affords that Volvo of hers.’
‘Her kid has money.’
Late on Sunday night, Joyce Parry had reported to Elder Bandorff’s mentions of tarots, clairvoyance and psychoanalysis. First thing Monday morning, Elder had briefed the man supplied by Special Branch. Not that he thought Witch would creep back to the fair, but there was always the chance.
Even so, he’d still not been sure of the connection between a gypsy palm reader and a female assassin. Marion Rose, he now knew, was the connection.
‘Don’t wander off,’ he warned the undercover officer. Then he paused before the caravan door and knocked twice.
‘It’s open.’
Elder turned the rickety handle and let himself in.
It took her a moment to recognise him. ‘I thought you’d be back.’
‘Second sight?’
‘No, I just got a feeling from you ... a bad feeling.’
‘You know why I’m here?’
She was seated on a bench at a table, and motioned for him to sit opposite her. A tarot deck lay on the table. She gathered the oversized cards up.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I don’t know what you call her ... what you christened her ... but we call her Witch.’
‘Witch?’ She frowned, shuffling the cards slowly. ‘Funny name. Nothing to do with your daughter then?’
‘You know it’s not.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You knew that day too. Do you know what she’s done?’
‘What?’
He looked around the caravan. There was a small portable TV on the floor in one corner, and a radio on the edge of the sink. ‘You really don’t know?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Why should I?’
‘Surely someone at the fair has said something?’
‘What has she done?’ she asked, rather too quickly.
‘She’s abducted her father.’
Rose Pellengro flinched. A few of the cards fell from her hands to the table. Elder picked up one of them. It was the High Priestess. He picked up another. It was Strength.
‘Linking the Abyss to the Centre,’ Rose Pellengro murmured, looking at the two cards. She paused. ‘Abducted? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I thought I was talking to someone with vision,’ said Elder disappointedly. ‘Very well, I’ll make it a bit clearer. She has kidnapped Jonathan Barker.’
The cards fell to the table in a heap. The woman’s cheeks reddened.
‘Was Marion Rose one of your ... clients?’ Elder asked softly.
Rose Pellengro seemed deep in thought. Then she nodded. ‘Oh yes, she was a regular. We seemed to have an affinity. She’d travel miles to come and see me.’
Elder nodded. ‘This affinity, she felt it, too, didn’t she? So much so that she confided in you.’
Pellengro smiled. ‘This was in the days after priests but before psychiatrists. Yes, she told me all about her ... her problems.’
‘One particular problem, I think.’
‘Ah yes, one problem. A large one.’
‘She was pregnant by Jonathan Barker, and he wanted her to get rid of the child.’
Rose Pellengro eyed him shrewdly. ‘You know a lot.’
‘But not all of it.’
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘His career had to come first. He twisted her round.’
‘What happened?’
‘Marion didn’t want to lose the child. She was very religious in her own way. She was a believer. I decided to help her.’
‘You took the child, fostered it?’
‘As far as Barker was concerned, Marion had gone to a clinic. Actually, she stayed here with me. When the baby was born, I kept it.’
Elder released a long-held breath. This was what he had suspected, the truth of Witch’s identity. ‘Did she ... did the mother keep in touch?’
‘Oh yes.’ Pellengro sifted through the cards. ‘At first she kept in touch all the time. I thought maybe Barker would become suspicious, but not him.’ She tapped her head. ‘He was too stupid, his mind only on himself.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then?’ A shrug. ‘Marion started visiting less and less. By that time, Barker’s wife had died. They were to be married. More children arrived ... born in wedlock. Proper children. She stopped coming altogether. She never came again.’
‘And the child? The girl?’
A faint smile. ‘You call her Witch, but to me she’s Brigid Anastasia. Brigid, the Celtic goddess of fire, Anastasia, resurrection. Brigid Anastasia ... A real mouthful, isn’t it? I always used to call her Biddy. I brought her up, mister. I educated her as best I could. She was always wild. Wild like fire.’ Her eyes were glistening. ‘She once stabbed a boy who was bothering her. Then at fourteen she ran off with an Irishman. He’d been hanging around the fair for weeks. We were in Liverpool. When she went, I thought he’d killed her or something. But she sent me a letter from Ireland. She sent a lot of letters in the early days. Then she didn’t send any at all. Instead, she’d just turn up at my door. I never even recognised her half the time.’
‘But this time ... this trip ... it was different?’
‘Different, yes. Because she’d found out who her mother was.’
‘How?’
The woman shrugged again. ‘She had vague memories of a lady visiting her when she was a toddler, picking her up and hugging her and crying and making her cry, too.’ A tear slid down Rose Pellengro’s left cheek. ‘And when she was a bit older, I told her a little. Not much, but enough.’ She sniffed. ‘Enough so that when she read the death notice ... One of the papers had a photo of Marion. Biddy wasn’t daft. She remembered all right. And she knew now who her father was and what he’d done.’
She reached into the cuff of her cardigan and tugged out a small lace handkerchief with which to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
‘Did she tell you what she was going to do?’
Pellengro shook her head. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. She just said she wanted to hear the story. Well, she’s old enough, isn’t she? So I told her the whole thing. I thought maybe she’d ... well, I didn’t think she’d ... Oh God, what does she want him for?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell me, what do you think she’s been doing all these years?’
‘She’s never said.’
‘And you’ve no idea?’
‘I thought maybe a prostitute?’
Elder shook his head.
‘What then?’
‘Never mind. Where will she take him?’
‘God in heaven, how would I know that?’
‘We’ve got to find her, you know that, don’t you? If we’re too late, she may be charged with murder.’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t kill him, would she? Little Biddy? I know she’s been a bit wild in her time, but she’s a woman now.’
He gripped her hands in his own. ‘Rosa, tell me what you told her. Tell me everything you told her.’
She stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Who are you? What are you? Are you the police?’
‘I’m a father,’ he said.
She blew her nose again, staring at him. Then she began to gather up the tarot, and as she did so, she started to speak.
Almost half an hour later, he made his way out into the evening air. His legs were stiff, and he rubbed them. He gestured to the Special Branch man, who came over to him. ‘Stick around,’ Elder ordered. ‘She might come back.’
There was no sign of Barclay and Dominique. He had choices now, several choices, and he was keen to get away from this place. He passed Barnaby’s Gun Stall.
‘Here, guv, have a go?’ cried the young man. He didn’t recognise Elder. The wooden cut-out was still there, the target destroyed with such accuracy. A young lady ... The whole fair was Witch’s cover, because she was part of it and always had been.
Where were they? Then he heard a shriek, and he saw them. Dominique was on the dodgems, Barclay watching from the sidelines and smiling. She shrieked again and tried to avoid a collision, but too late. Elder could not help but be affected by the scene. He stood, leaning against a rail, and watched. Barclay saw him at last and joined him.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said.
‘No need to apologise, Michael. Let’s call it necessary R and R. Listen, there’s something I want to get from the car. Just point me in the general direction and give me the keys.’
Barclay dug the keys out of his pocket. ‘The car’s parked on Islingword Road. Top of Richmond Terrace and turn right.’
Elder nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said, turning away.
‘You’re coming back, aren’t you, sir?’
Elder nodded again. He wanted to say, It’s not your fight, it’s not worth the risk. Instead, he glanced towards Dominique. She made up his mind for him.
He wondered what they would do. Maybe a train back to London. Or stay the night in Brighton. Elder had never seen himself as a matchmaker. He didn’t see himself as one now. All he knew was that he had to do this alone. The young couple represented too much baggage, too much of a responsibility. And besides, there was a score he had to settle. Silverfish.
Wolf Ban
dorff had said Witch hated men. In fact, she hated only the one man. Aged thirteen, she had asked Rose Pellengro about her parents. Rose had told her some of the story, enough to fuel hatred but not enough to identify the people involved. Witch had pressed, but Rose Pellengro would say no more. But the obituary of Marion Barker had struck a chord, and this time, confronted with the name, Rose had admitted the truth. The man who had forced Witch’s mother into discarding her was Jonathan Barker. Suddenly, there was someone for her to focus her vague, long-held hatred on. The Home Secretary. The young Brigid Anastasia had run away with an Irishman. It was a short sea-crossing from Liverpool to Ireland. Maybe the man himself was a terrorist, or maybe she had drifted into the company of terrorists afterwards. Female and a teenager she would have proved useful to the IRA, running cross-border errands. Perhaps they had even sent her as far as Germany to liaise with Wolfgang Bandorff and his group. From Germany, she’d drifted south to Italy. In a sense, she’d been drifting ever since. She had no cause, no real set of ideals. All she’d had was anger, an anger she could do little to assuage. Until now.
Elder didn’t doubt that she had taken on the London job before discovering her father’s identity. But when she did discover his identity from the newspaper in the Australian’s apartment, she had come to a decision. Instead of going ahead with the assassination, she would carry out a stunning double-bluff, fooling both her employers and the security forces. It was no mistake that she’d made such a noisy and messy entry into the country. She’d wanted them to know she was there. And while security had been tightened around the summit, while all that effort and manpower had been focused on the gathering of world leaders, Witch’s real target had gone unnoticed and underprotected. She’d taken her employers’ money, doubtless with thoughts of retirement and disappearance after this last task: dealing with her father.
The Alfa Romeo had been found abandoned off the King’s Road. No doubt she’d switched cars. The Alfa had been stolen the previous night in Croydon. There was no way of knowing from where the second car had been stolen, or what make it was. Police were now on the lookout for any one of forty-six reported stolen vehicles from in and around the London area. Elder had the list with him. Roadblocks had been set up, but only on major roads, a stupid and wasteful procedure only set in motion because it would mean the police were doing something to stop her getting away with it.
