[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  Until suddenly, at five o'clock, there were no people left to ask. They had exhausted the possibilities. Or rather, they had exhausted one seam; but there was another seam left to mine, so long as her spirits were up to it.

  Over a glass of wine in a bar, he gave something equating to a pep talk.

  It half-worked. She agreed to give it another hour or so. Then he would take her to dinner - on his firm this time.

  They made for the police station, and there asked at the desk about abandoned vehicles. Inspector Bugeaud, who had already spent more time than he cared to remember helping the DST, Special Branch, and Barclay, groaned when he saw them. But he was persuaded to look in the files.

  He came up with only two possibilities. A motorbike stolen in Marquise and pushed off a cliff several kilometres out of town, and a car stolen in Paris and found by a farmer in some woods, again several kilometres out of town.

  'Stolen in Paris?' Dominique said, her eyes glinting. The Inspector nodded.

  'This car,' said Barclay, 'where is it now, Inspector?'

  Bugeaud checked the paperwork. 'Back with its owner,' he said.

  'Was it checked for fingerprints?' Dominique asked. She had risen onto her tiptoes. Barclay got the feeling that in another location, she might actually have been jumping up and down with excitement. But here she managed to retain a measure of composure.

  The Inspector shrugged. 'Why bother? It wasn't damaged, except for some paint scraped off by the trees. The owner was happy enough to know its whereabouts. End of story.'

  'I don't think so,' said Dominique with a slow shake of her head. 'I don't think it's the end of the story at all, Inspector.' She turned towards Barclay. 'I think it's just the beginning.' She slapped the file. 'Can I please have a photocopy of the relevant details, Inspector?

  Two photocopies.' (Another glance in Barclay's direction.) 'No, best make it three. My superiors will want to take a look. I'll see that your help is reported back to them, too.'

  'Don't bother,' said Bugeaud, retreating back upstairs to turn on the photocopier. 'I prefer the quiet life.'

  That night, after another large meal, Barclay telephoned London from his room. His call was transferred to a private house - there were sounds of a loud dinner party in the background - where he was able to speak to Joyce Parry. He gave her what news he had, playing down Dominique's role, feeling only a little like a snake as he did so. She sounded thoughtful rather than enthusiastic. 'It's an interesting idea,' she said, 'a car stolen in Paris .. .'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  There was silence. 'What do the DST think?' Joyce Parry asked at last.

  'They're heading back to Paris to do some checking.' 'Fair enough. So you'll be back here tomorrow?' He swallowed, ready with his story but still nervous.

  'I'd rather stick close to this, ma'am,' he said. 'It seems to me that we and DST are coming at this from different angles. They're worried that Witch may have had help in France. They want to cut any future aid-route. They're not bothered by the fact that she's now in England.

  Left to themselves, they may not ask the right questions.'

  An excruciating pause, background laughter, then: 'I see. Well, all right then, off you go to Paris. Call me from there.'

  'Yes, ma'am.' Just keeping the excitement out of his voice.

  'And don't play silly buggers with your expenses. I don't want to see receipts from the Moulin Rouge. Okay?'

  She was making a joke of it. She'd believed him. Well, and why not?

  Dominic Elder had said it might work. Elder had called only twenty minutes ago, while Barclay and Dominique had been drinking and scheming in the hotel bar.

  'Understood,' said Barclay, ringing off before she could change her mind. Dominique was waiting for him downstairs.

  'Well?' she said.

  He was very casual, shrugging his shoulders as he slid into the booth.

  'It's settled.' He picked up his beer. 'I'm coming to Paris.'

  She nodded, managing to seem neither pleased nor displeased.

  'Now,' he said, 'what about a nightcap?'

  She looked at him strangely. 'Nightcap?' she repeated.

  'A final drink before retiring,' he explained.

  'Oh.' She nodded thoughtfully. 'Yes, why not? But remember, Michael, we are not celebrating ... not yet. These are still—'

  'Probabilities, I know. But whatever they are, they're better than nothing. They're certainly better than being stuck in an office in London.' He found himself believing this, too. The office was no longer a safe haven. It seemed boring, a place without possibilities. Besides, he had to go to Paris, didn't he? He'd found a lead, something Doyle had missed. Who knew what else he might find if he stuck close to Dominique? It was difficult work, but someone had to do it.

  'Have you ever been to Paris before?' she asked.

  'Once or twice.'

  'With lovers?'

  'That's classified information.'

  She laughed. 'I will show you Paris. You will love it.'

  Barclay was signalling to the barman. 'Is that your deductive reasoning again?'

  'No,' she said, finishing her drink, 'just instinct.'

  Thursday 11 June

  The first meeting between the two Special Branch detectives and Dominic Elder could not be considered a success. It wasn't helped by the attendance, for part of the time, of Joyce Parry and Commander Trilling, who looked to be conducting their own personal Cold War.

  But it was Doyle who really set the tone. Introduced to and shaking hands with Elder, his first question was: 'So, Mr Elder, and how long have you been on the pension?'

  Elder ignored this, but Doyle just couldn't let it go. His contributions to the discussion were peppered with references to 'the retired gentleman', 'the ex-agent', 'the man from the country' and so on. The more he went on, the more fixed became Elder's smile. Greenleaf tried jolting Doyle's mind on to another track, getting him to talk about Calais, about the Folkestone operation, but nothing could deter Doyle.

  Nothing could rob him of his simple pleasures. He even, as Elder had judged he would, came up with a crack about Elder's name: 'Perhaps,'

  Doyle began one loud sentence, 'I shouldn't say this in front of my elders, but—'

  Dominic Elder had been waiting. 'Elders and betters, Mr Doyle. I believe that's the phrase.'

  He wasn't smiling any more.

  Greenleaf twisted in his seat as though trying to avoid a shrewdly placed drawing-pin. He had spent most of the previous evening boning up for this meeting, ensuring he was word perfect. He had learned the case notes off by heart, wanting to look good in front of Parry and Elder.

  But now he seemed the unwilling referee in a tag-team wrestling match, trapped between Parry and Commander Trilling grappling in one corner of the ring, and Doyle and Elder in the other. He knew he wouldn't make any friends if he attempted to make the peace, so he sat quiet in his chair, reciting inwardly his litany of dates, times, officers' names, interviewees . . . Until finally it was too much for him. He thought he was going to burst. He did burst.

  'As you know,' he began, 'we've got officers on the ground around Folkestone, stopping drivers and asking questions. Nothing as yet, but it's early days. While we're waiting, the least we could do is study the security procedures for, say, the top three targets on the list, by which I mean next week's nine-nation summit, the Houses of Parliament, and Her Majesty the Queen.'

  'God bless her,' said Doyle.

  'Since security is in place, and is constantly monitored and tightened around the last two, perhaps we can concentrate our efforts on the summit.

  I know there has already been considerable liaison between Special Branch, the security services, and the secret services of the countries taking part. But maybe if we put our heads together and study the available commentaries, we can decide a) whether the summit is a likely target for the assassin, and b) how she might strike. If we know how she's going to strike, we can work out where she's going to strike, and pe
rhaps even when. As you may know, I've already done some work on the summit security arrangements, but as you also know nothing is ever the last word. In some ways, I'd even say the summit is too tempting a target. On the other hand, we've got this.' He waved in front of him an artist's impression of the man George Crane had met, the man described by McKillip. The others in the room had an identical xerox. 'We could concentrate our efforts on finding this customer. Maybe he'd lead us to Witch.'

  Suddenly, the flow ceased. Greenleaf was himself again, and found himself looking at the intent faces around him. He swallowed. 'I .. .

  uh .. .' He looked to Trilling. 'That's how I see it, sir.'

  'Thank you, John,' said Trilling quietly. Doyle was sitting arms folded, lips pursed, eyes on his own navel. He looked like he might laugh, might shoot his 'partner' down, but he didn't get the chance.

  'They're as good as any ideas I've heard so far,' commented Elder, 'and better than most.' He nodded in Greenleaf's direction.

  'Agreed,' said Joyce Parry.

  'What about Khan's bodyguard and the woman?' Elder asked. Doyle answered. 'They were interviewed in Perth.'

  'Are they back in London?'

  Doyle shifted a little in his seat. 'They've left Perth.'

  'You can't find them?' Elder suggested.

  Now Doyle sat up straight. 'The bodyguard's okay.'

  'The woman then?'

  Now Doyle nodded. 'She gave a false address. We're on to it though, don't worry.'

  Joyce Parry saw that Elder had no more questions. 'I've another meeting to go to,' she said. 'I'd better say my piece before I go. We've got a man in Calais, Michael Barclay.'

  Doyle started. 'I've already covered Calais.'

  Joyce Parry ignored the interruption. 'He telephoned last night with new information.'

  (Greenleaf noticed how Dominic Elder perked up at this, enjoying Doyle's discomfort. If truth be told, Greenleaf himself enjoyed it just a little, too.)

  'Rather than confining himself to the details of the woman's departure from Calais,' Parry went on, 'Barclay concentrated on her mode of arrival at Calais.'

  'I checked that,' snapped Doyle.

  Again, Parry ignored him. 'He went to the local police and asked about vehicles which had been abandoned or destroyed in and around the town.

  The police came up with two possibilities, and one of these was a car stolen in Paris several days before and found hidden in a patch of woodland. Barclay is now on his way to Paris to .. .' (consciously, she chose Doyle's own word) '... to check the details of the theft.

  That's all. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen?'

  'Yes,' said Trilling. He rose to his feet and collected his things together. He too was due in another meeting.

  Greenleaf was studying Dominic Elder. An impassive face, not old, certainly not past it despite Doyle's jibes. The problem with Doyle was, there was too much on the surface. He presented far too much of himself, or his image of himself, to the outside world. Which was dangerous, since it made him easy to 'read'. Greenleaf was willing to bet Elder could 'read' Doyle. Look at how quickly he'd come back over the elder jibe. Anticipation. He wondered just what Elder made of him, especially after that outburst. He didn't know what had made him do it, but he had a sneaking feeling it was all Shirley's fault. He'd been trying to concentrate all last night, concentrate on learning his facts.

  And she'd had the telly on - louder than necessary. He'd pleaded with her to turn it down, and she'd had a go at him.

  'What's the point of all that swotting? Trying to impress the teachers, is that it, John? Give up, you're too old. That sort of stuff is for schoolboys. You're a grown man. Initiative, that's what impresses people in a grownup. Memory-men are freaks, the sort of thing you might see at Blackpool or on the telly.' Then she'd subsided, touching his arm. 'John, love, you're not in Special Branch because you're good at studying. You're there because you're good, full stop.

  Now take a break from that and come and sit with me. Come on.'

  It was the most she'd said to him in days, ever since the picnic really.

  They'd talked themselves hoarse the rest of the evening. God, what a relief it had been. But he'd lain awake long after Shirley had drifted off to sleep. He could hear her words. And he was afraid, afraid that the only thing he was good at was the learning and spouting of facts and figures. He'd been called a 'copper's copper' in the early days.

  But initiative . . . when had he ever really shown any of that? He was a 'company man', and initiative was for lone wolves like Doyle, the sort who got into all sorts of trouble but usually ended up with a result along the way. So he'd been sitting there, alternately bursting to recite his facts and desperate to show his initiative. Initiative had won, for a change . .. and no one had minded. It sounded like this Barclay character - the one who'd contacted Special Branch in the first place

  — it sounded like he was showing initiative too ...

  As Parry and Trilling left the room - not together but one after the other, with a decent pause between - Doyle handed him a scrap of paper.

  He unfolded it. It read: 'What are you looking so fucking smug about?'

  He looked back at Doyle and shrugged his shoulders. There was no malice in the note, and no necessity for it. It was a public gesture, meant for Elder. The message to Elder was clear. It was two against one now, Doyle and Greenleaf were a team. Greenleaf didn't want this. It wouldn't help to isolate Elder. So, dropping his pen and stooping to retrieve it, he scraped his chair a little further along the table, away from Doyle, making the seating arrangement slightly more triangular. Elder noticed, but

  his face showed nothing. As the door closed, leaving the three of them together, there was another silence until Doyle broke it, directing his words at Greenleaf.

  'Come on then, Sherlock, you seem to know all about it. What's the game plan?'

  'We could start by taking a look at the Conference Centre and surrounding area.'

  'Join the queue, you mean? The place is already swarming with Anti-Terrorist Branch, sniffer-dogs, bomb experts . ..'

  'Not to mention a few dozen . .. delegates from the other countries,'

  added Elder.

  'Yes,' agreed Doyle, 'we've already got security men checking the security men who're checking security. What more can we do?'

  'I didn't mean to imply,' said Elder, 'that we shouldn't get involved.

  Everyone should be notified that Witch may pay a visit.'

  'What, work them up good and proper?' Doyle was dismissive. 'They'd start shooting at shadows. The American lot are edgy as it is. Someone sent a threat to their embassy: the President gets it, that sort of thing.'

  'We needn't alarm them,' said Elder quietly. 'But they should be informed.'

  Greenleaf was about to agree when there was a knock at the door. It opened, and a woman announced that there was a telephone call for Mr Doyle.

  'Won't be a minute,' he said, getting up and leaving the room. Only then did Greenleaf notice that the conference room itself contained no telephones. On cue, Elder seemed to read his mind.

  'Phones are receivers,' he explained. 'They can be bugged.'

  Greenleaf nodded at this. He did not know what he had been expecting of the building. It appeared much the

  same as any other civil service admin block ... or police admin block come to that. Yet it was, as Doyle had commented on the way there, CDHQ

  - Cloak & Dagger Headquarters.

  'So,' said Elder conversationally, 'whose idea was the name?'

  'The name?'

  'Operation Broomstick.'

  'Oh, that. Commander Trilling.'

  Elder nodded. 'Bill Trilling's a tough old bull, isn't he?'

  Greenleaf shrugged.

  'When did he stop smoking?'

  'About seven months back.'

  'Remind me to buy some shares in whoever manufactures those mints of his.'

  Greenleaf smiled, then checked himself. He didn't want to appear disloyal.
'The Commander's all right,' he said.

  'I don't doubt it. Not slow to take offence though, wouldn't you agree?'

  'Unlike Mrs Parry, you mean?'

  'Oh, no, I wasn't .. . never mind.'

  There was quite a long pause. Elder had turned to his case-file and was browsing through it.

  'How long have you been retired?' Greenleaf asked.

  'Two years.' Elder's eyes were still on the file.

  'Enjoying it?'

  'Yes, thanks.'

  'So why are you here?'

  Now Elder looked up. 'Because I'm interested. I wrote the original Hiroshima summary

  'Yes, I know. And you've been interested in Witch ever since. If I didn't know better, I might even say you're a fan.'

  Elder nodded. 'Oh, I'm a fan all right. Look at the Khan hit. Don't you find it in some way admirable? I mean, as a professional. There is something to admire in perfection, even when it's the perfection of the enemy. Somehow, I can't see Mr Doyle planning and executing anything with the same degree of ... elan.'

  'His bark's worse than his bite.'

  'I sincerely hope not. If we do locate Witch, his bite will have to be very fierce indeed.' Elder wagged a finger. 'And so will yours, Mr Greenleaf. It doesn't do to ignore the facts of the Khan assassination.

  Witch is utterly ruthless.'

  'Not so ruthless. She didn't kill the bodyguard and the girlfriend.'

  'No, quite. I've been wondering about that.'

  'Oh?'

  'Leaving the bodyguard alive is the only evidence we have that the assassin was a woman.'

  'You think she wanted us to know? That wouldn't make sense, would it?'

  'I suppose not. But then blowing up both those boats hardly “makes sense”.'

  'Tying up loose ends? Maybe the crews knew something we don't.'

  'Possibly.' Elder didn't sound enthusiastic.

  'Well,' said Greenleaf, 'why does she want us to know she's here?'

  'Maybe she's issuing a challenge.'

  'To you?'

  'Yes.'

  'You think she knows about you?'

  'Oh, she knows all right, believe me.'

  'How?'

  Elder shrugged.

  'Then how can you be so sure?' Greenleaf persisted.