by Ian Rankin
Classical music. Separt hummed along to it. Actually, it occurred to Barclay that there
was a chance Separt could hear them if he happened to put his ear close enough to the microphones while they were talking: these things had a way of working in both directions. Headphones were microphones, too.
'Now' Dominique was saying, 'all we can do is wait.'
'And hope,' added Barclay.
'Hope?'
'That he doesn't find the bugs.'
She was dismissive. 'Don't worry about that,' she said. 'If he finds them, we'll
T know, I know: we'll think of something.' He turned to her. 'Tell me,'
he said, 'did you know there were stairs behind that door?'
She smiled. 'Of course.'
'You might have—'
'Warned you? Yes, I forgot. Pardon me.'
'I'm not sure I can,' said Barclay. She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. He hadn't really noticed before.
He looked in the rearview mirror and saw lipstick on his cheek. He smiled, and did not wipe it off.
After an hour, Dominique got bored. 'Nothing's happening,' she said.
'I can see you're not a cricket fan.' 'Cricket? You mean the English game?' 'Surveillance requires patience,' he said. Well, so he would guess at any rate. He'd never actually been on a proper surveillance operation, had never been active 'in the field'. He'd always been what could be called a backroom boy. But he'd read about 'the field' in novels.
He supposed the novelists must know. Besides, he was quite enjoying the music Separt was playing. Ravel.
Dominique opened her door. 'I'll get us some coffee and a sandwich,'
she said.
'What happens if there's some action while you're away?'
'You'll still be here.'
'Yes, but I don't understand French. If anyone telephones She thought about this, then collapsed back into her seat with an exasperated sound and slammed shut her door.
I'll fetch us something to drink if you like?'
She gripped the steering-wheel. 'I'd get even more bored on my own.
Besides, I'm not really thirsty.' Her pout turned her into a teenager again. What was her age? 'Listen,' she said suddenly, springing forward.
Separt's phone was ringing. Barclay sat up straight in his seat. This was his bug's first trial. The music was being turned down. Barclay placed a finger to his lips, warning Dominique not to speak. The phone stopped ringing.
'Allo?' Separt's voice.
'C'est Jean-Pierre.' The caller was loud and clear -much to Barclay's relief. Dominique was listening intently to the conversation, mouthing the words silently as though learning them off by heart. She signalled for a pen and paper. He took his pen and diary from his inside pocket and handed them over. She opened the diary at November and began to write. After a few minutes of pretty well one-sided conversation, the call was terminated. But Dominique wrote on for another minute or so, reaching December, then read back through what she'd written, altering some words, adding others.
'Eh bien,' she said. 'That was lucky.'
'How?'
'When Separt went out, he was trying to find the caller. But the caller was not at home, so he merely left a message asking him to call back. This he has done.'
'And?'
She smiled. 'I don't think we fooled him completely. He wanted to tell the caller all about us. Why would the police do such a survey? What could it mean? The caller was very interested.'
'Did they say anything specific about Witch?'
'Do not rush me. No, nothing about Witch. They were very .. . careful.
A care that is learned over years. You might even say a professional care. They talked around the subject, like two friends, one merely telling his story to the other.'
'You think Separt knows about the bug?'
She shook her head. 'If he knew, he would have warned the caller, and the caller would not have given away his location.'
"You know where he is?'
She nodded. 'Pretty well. He said Separt had just missed him. He'd been across the street in Janetta's.'
'Janetta's?'
'It sounds like a bar, yes? Perhaps Janetta's is not the name of the bar but of the woman who runs the bar. We will find out, but it might take some time. I think this Jean-Pierre knows something.'
'Such as?'
'Monsieur Separt reported his car missing after the assassin landed in England. I think someone persuaded him to ... to turn the other cheek while the car was taken. He was not ill. He was waiting until it was safe to report the vehicle stolen. Why do you smile?'
'You mean turn a blind eye, not turn the other cheek.'
'Do I?'
He nodded slowly. 'Okay, so now we track down Janetta's.' He paused, wriggling in his seat. 'Or do you want to stick around here?'
'No.' She checked her watch and turned towards him. 'Tonight, you will sleep with me.' The look on Barclay's face alerted her. 'I mean,' she said quickly, 'you will sleep at the apartment. Mama will insist that we dine with her. Don't worry, she is a very good cook. And after dinner
'Yes?'
'Maybe you will show me your file on Witch. We are partners now after all, aren't we?'
'I suppose we are,' said Barclay, wondering what he would elect to tell Joyce Parry about all of this. She'd be expecting him back soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow morning. He'd have to think up a story to tell her, something convincing. Dominique seemed to read his mind.
'Your employers will allow you another day in Paris?' she asked.
Barclay slapped a confident look onto his face and said nonchalantly,
'Oh, yes.'
But inside, he couldn't help wondering.
Friday 12 June
Elder telephoned Joyce Parry just before breakfast. Smells of bacon-fat and frying tomatoes wafted up to his room as he made the call.
'Joyce? Dominic here.'
'Who else would have the .. . consideration to call at this hour?'
She sounded sleepy. 'Sorry,' he said, 'did I wake you?'
'Just give me the news.'
He wondered idly whether she'd spent the night alone as he had. 'I've been sent a note,' he said.
'From whom?'
'Witch.'
'What?'
'Not what, who: Witch.'
'Don't get smart, Dominic. Tell me.'
'Just that. A note warning me to stay away.'
'You personally?'
'Me personally.'
'Was it delivered?'
'She left it at a pub, The Cat over the Broomstick.'
'What?'
'That's the name of the pub. I think she left it on the off-chance.'
'You don't think she's following you?'
'No.'
'But she knows you're after her.'
'I'm not even sure about that. Could just be a shrewd guess. She may not know I've retired.'
'Have forensics had a—'
'They're checking it this morning. I don't expect they'll find anything. She left the note with a barman.
Greenleaf is interviewing him this morning.
We had a word with him last night, but today they're really going to put him through it. For what it's worth.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning she got him to write the note for her. Pretended her wrist was sprained.'
'Clever girl.' Joyce Parry almost purred the words.
'Few more like her on our side,' Elder conceded, 'and we might still be an Empire.'
There was a choked sound as Joyce Parry stifled a yawn. 'Description?'
she asked at last.
'Come on, Joyce, wakey wakey. She could have changed her looks a dozen times since then. No description the barman can give is going to be valid.'
'You sound disheartened.' She almost sounded concerned.
'Do I?' He managed a smile. 'Maybe it's because I haven't had breakfast yet.'
'What's stopping you?'
'
I thought you'd want to—'
'And now I do know. So go and have your breakfast. And Dominic . . . ?'
'Yes?'
'Don't do too much. Rely on Greenleaf and Doyle, that's what they're there for.'
'You mean I should ask them to push my bath-chair?'
'I mean it isn't all on your shoulders. You're not a one-man band.'
'I have a strange feeling of deja vu . ..'
'Don't joke about it! I warned you at the start of—'
'Operation Silverfish, I know.'
'And I'm warning you now. You didn't listen then.
But listen now, Dominic: if I get any hint that you're going solo on this, I'll send you back to the valleys. Understood?'
'Jesus, next time I'll phone after we've both had breakfast.'
'Do you understand me?'
He punched his pillow before replying. 'Yes, Joyce,' he said sweetly,
'loud and impeccably clear.'
'Good. Now go and eat, there's a good boy.'
'Yes, Joyce. Thank you, Joyce. Oh, one last thing. How's the kid doing?'
'I take it you mean Barclay. He's in Paris, following a lead.'
'Really?'
'You sound surprised.'
'I am. Pleasantly so. Field experience, Joyce. There's no substitute for it.'
'I don't recall it doing you much good on Silverfish.'
There was a moment's silence. He was waiting for her to apologise. She didn't.
'Goodbye, Joyce,' he said. 'Oh, hold on. Did you ever find out where Ms Capri found Khan's tongue?'
'Between her thighs,' Joyce Parry said quietly.
'Exactly. Remember the rough trade NATO General? Same modus operandi.
It goes all the way back, Joyce, just like I told you.'
He put down the receiver. Then, going over the conversation again as he knotted his tie and slipped on his jacket, he smiled to himself.
Same old Joyce. Prudent and cautious. She hadn't got where she was today by going out on a limb. He'd always been the limb-creeper. And damn it, some things just didn't and couldn't change. He'd spoken to Barclay quarter of an hour ago. He knew what Barclay had done; he'd have done the
same himself. Elder was smiling as he left his room, locking the door after him.
He was impressed to find that Greenleaf and Doyle had already eaten and were on their way to the police station, where Joe the barman had agreed to meet them. So he took breakfast alone, staring out of the window at the early sunshine, thinking about his garden. A drinking companion, Tommy Bridges, had agreed at short notice to water the garden as necessary. But Tommy's memory wasn't so hot these days - too many bottles of rum had cascaded down his throat; perhaps Elder should phone and remind him. But according to the paper, it had rained in south-west Wales yesterday, with more to come today. He hoped his seedlings wouldn't be drowned.
After a filling breakfast and too much weak coffee, he headed back on to the streets, stomach swilling, and decided to concentrate his efforts on the town centre. Witch's note had been a nice shortcut in one respect, in that they now knew she'd been here, had spent at least a little time here. But exactly where had she stayed? Doyle was to spend today organising door-to-door enquiries of the resort's hotels and guest houses. Officers were being drafted in from Margate, but Elder doubted they'd be enough. They might have to start recruiting further afield.
The problem with that was that it increased the visible presence, and while it was unlikely Witch was still here, it might be that too many coppers suddenly appearing on the streets would scare off accomplices or witnesses.
He'd stressed to Doyle that it had to be low-key. Doyle in turn had argued that low-key was slow, and speed was of the essence. In a hostage situation, Doyle would not hesitate to kick the door down and go in shooting. Megaphone diplomacy, waiting it out, these were not his style. And it niggled Elder, for maybe Doyle was right at that. Greenleaf, the quiet one, had made no comment. He'd been fairly docile ever since his outburst at that first meeting in London. If careful Greenleaf, rather than wham-bam Doyle, had been sent to Calais in the first place, perhaps there would have been no new lead for Barclay to find. Now that he thought about it, Joyce hadn't said what was happening in Paris.
Keeping it close to her chest, in case nothing came of it: prudent and cautious. And he, Elder, hadn't asked, hadn't probed. Another slip-up on his part, and Joyce would doubtless realise it.
He'd been too long out of the game, it was true. Whatever his failings, someone like Barclay at least had youth on his side. Elder stopped on the pavement and considered this. Yes, he'd wanted Barclay sent to France because he'd thought it would teach the young man a lesson. But what kind of lesson: the useful kind, or the cruel kind? He wasn't sure now.
It seemed so long ago. He was standing outside a butcher's shop, busy despite the early hour. Inside the large plate-glass window was displayed an array of red, glistening meat, grey sausages, pink pork loins. The butcher and his young assistant were working speedily, chatting all the time with the customers, who were also passing the time talking among themselves. Pleasures of the flesh-ing.
Then his eyes focused on the window itself. There was a small poster advertising a craft exhibition. And on the glass door to the shop, a door wedged open, there was a larger poster advertising a travelling fair. He'd passed similar flysheets last night during his walk, but he hadn't actually seen the fair itself. He recalled someone saying,
'Maybe she was going to run away with the circus Moncur the lorry driver had said it. A travelling fair. Night-people. Maybe one of them would have seen
something. She'd been making for Cliftonville, and there'd been a fair here. Now she'd gone, and so it seemed had the fair. Elder walked briskly into the shop.
The women stared at him suspiciously as he failed to join the queue.
Instead, he leaned over the counter.
'Excuse me, that fair .. .' He pointed to the poster on the door. 'Is it still in town?'
The butcher, busy wrapping a package, glanced at the door. 'Don't know, sorry,' he said, taking a pencil from behind his ear. 'Now, Mrs Slattery, is that it?' The woman nodded, and he began totting up figures on a scrap of paper. 'That's four pounds and fifty pence then,' he said.
'Cleared out at the beginning of the week,' said a voice from the queue.
Elder turned towards it.
'Do you know where they were headed next?'
Mutters and shakes of the head. 'Someone down on the front might know.
A landlord, someone like that.'
'Yes,' said Elder. 'Thank you.' A woman was coming into the shop.
'Hello, Elsie,' said a voice from the queue. 'Here, any idea where that fair was off to?'
'Same as every year,' said Elsie authoritatively. 'Brighton.'
She wondered why the man beamed at her before rushing out of the shop.
'You get some funny types,' she said, 'this time of year. Some right funny types.' Then she sniffed and joined the end of the queue, where there was valuable gossip to be exchanged and the man was soon forgotten.
Madame Herault and Barclay were getting along like the proverbial house on fire. Despite the language barrier, despite barriers of age and culture, they knew one thing: they both liked to dunk their croissants in their coffee.
They sat together at the table in the kitchen. Now and then Madame Herault would call for Dominique, and Dominique would call back that she'd be there in a moment. There was a news programme on the radio, the presenters talking too fast for Barclay to make much sense of any of the stories.
Madame Herault commented from time to time before shrugging her shoulders and returning to her coffee. She pushed the basket of croissants and chocolatines closer to him, exhorting him to eat, eat.
He nodded and smiled, smiled and nodded. And he ate.
He'd spent a restless night in the spare room. Dominique's bedroom was through the wall from his, and he could hear her old bed creaking and groaning. His own bed was newe
r, more solid. It was also short, so that he couldn't lie stretched out unless he lay in a diagonal across the bed. His feather-filled pillow smelt musty, as did the sheets and the single blanket. Finally, he shrugged off sleep altogether and got up.
He still had a lot of bits and pieces left over from his shopping trip to the electronics store. He plugged in the soldering-iron and hummed an aria or two from The Marriage of Figaro, waiting for it to warm . . .
Now here she came, into the kitchen. Madame Herault gave an insulted gasp. Barclay almost gasped too. Dominique was dressed in winlde-picker black-buckled boots, black tights, black leather mini-skirt, a white T-shirt torn at the armpits and spattered with paint, and more jewellery than Barclay had seen outside a department store. Her eyes were surrounded by thick black eyeshadow and her face was dusted white, making her lips seem redder than ever before. She'd teased her hair up into spikes, brittle with gel or hairspray, and she wore three earrings in either ear.
Her mother said something biting. Dominique ignored her and leaned past Barclay to grab a chocolatine. With it in her mouth, she went to the stove and poured coffee from the ancient metal percolator, then dragged a chair out from beneath the table and sat down between her mother and her guest. Barclay tried not to look at her. He kept his eyes on the tabletop, on her mother, on the pans and utensils hanging from the wall in front of him. He could smell patchouli oil. He could feel his heart pounding. She really did look incredible. It was just that she wasn't Dominique any more.
She was wearing her disguise.
'I telephoned a colleague,' she informed Barclay in English. 'He's checking on possible Janettas. With luck there won't be more than one or two.'
He nodded. 'I've made a wire.' he said.
'A wire?' Flakes of pastry escaped from her mouth.
'A bug for you to wear, so I can listen.'
She swallowed some coffee. 'When did you make it?'
'During the night. I couldn't sleep.'
'Me neither. I was reading your file. It was interesting. I would like to meet Mr Dominic Elder.'
Madame Herault, who had been muttering throughout and averting her gaze, now said something aloud, directed at her daughter. Dominique replied in similarly caustic tones then turned to Barclay. 'My mother says I am insulting her in front of a guest. I've told her all the women dress like this in London. She's waiting for you to agree.'
