[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  She had time to kill. Her meeting with the Dutchman wasn't till lunchtime.

  She took her hand-mirror out of her shoulder-bag and looked at herself.

  She'd cut and dyed her hair, plucked her eyebrows, dusted her cheeks.

  She felt she resembled the photo of Christine Jones on her security pass almost more than Christine Jones herself did. After all, the photo had been taken some time ago. Christine's hair had grown out since it was taken. But Witch's was just the right length. And Christine had let her eyebrows grow out, too. Sensible woman. It was an unnecessary and painful chore. All to attract the male .. .

  She placed the mirror back in her shoulder-bag. She was also carrying Christine's office-issue satchel, containing a few of her files but also some bits and pieces which were specifically, unquestionably Witch's own. She came out of the phone-booth and, in less than ten steps, was back on Victoria Street. Just in time to see the tail-end of the convoy. A policeman, who had been

  holding back traffic at the intersection, now told pedestrians they could cross the road.

  'Just a bloody nuisance, this conference,' muttered one elderly lady, wheeling her shopping-trolley off the pavement and on to the road, making it rattle noisily as she pushed it.

  A driver, stuck in line and awaiting permission to move, opened his car door and leaned out.

  'How much longer, guv?' he called to the policeman.

  'Couple more minutes,' the policeman called back. He shook his head at Witch. 'Some people got no patience.'

  'Patience is a virtue; she agreed. For some reason, he laughed at this.

  Witch walked on. She wasn't headed for 1-19 Victoria Street. She was making for another DTI building closer to Victoria Station. It was a very short walk. Not enough time for her to become nervous. She went to push open the glass door to the building, but a man, just leaving, held it open for her.

  'Thank you,' she said with a smile. She strode through the lobby, her security pass held out in her hand as she passed the guard-desk. The man on duty looked at her dully, blinked, and returned to his reading.

  She waited for the lift to descend, and at the same time checked out the ground floor, especially the stairs. Entrances and exits were important. The stairs actually kept on going down. She wondered what was downstairs. In the lift, there was a button marked B for Basement.

  So she pressed it and headed downwards. The doors shuddered open, and she found herself staring at another entrance lobtjy - the back entrance to the building - and another _guard, who was staring at her. She smiled at him.

  'Pressed the wrong button,' she called, before pushing the button for level 2. It took a moment longer for the doors to close. She saw two grey-liveried drivers coming into the lobby. Their cars were parked just outside the

  doors. Now she remembered. She'd walked around the back of this building before. There was a slope down from street-level to the back entrance, and on this slope the chauffeurs left their cars while they waited for their ministers or other 'important people' to finish their meetings.

  So: back entrance, front entrance, two lifts and one set of stairs.

  She nodded to herself.

  At the ground floor, the doors opened and two men in pinstripe suits got in, giving her a moment's glance, deciding they didn't know her, and continuing their conversation.

  'Spurrier's doing a good job,' said one of them. 'That office was a shambles .. .'

  Witch got out at the second floor while the men continued upwards. She was standing in a small entrance area from which led, to left and right, narrow green-carpeted halls. She chose to go right, and passed several offices. Green seemed the predominant colour: she saw lime green chairs in some of the offices, and olive green curtains. In some of the offices stood a single desk and chair. Other rooms were larger, with a staff of secretaries working away on word processors, or clerical-looking people rushing around with sheaves of paper or large manila envelopes under their arms. Telephones did not ring; rather, they buzzed, quite annoyingly. In the corridor ahead, two shirt-sleeved men were having an intense discussion. One stood with arms folded, resting most of his weight on his forward foot. The other had his hands in his pockets.

  Both wore pale shirts and dark ties. They looked senior. The one with arms folded turned and watched Witch approach.

  'Can I help you?' he said.

  Damn! She was supposed to look as though she belonged here. She swallowed.

  'I'm looking for Mr Spurrier,' she said.

  He grinned. 'Mrs Spurrier, you mean.'

  'Oh yes, Mrs Spurrier.'

  'Next floor up,' said the man. 'You're new, aren't you?' He was almost purring. His colleague was staring fixedly, nervously, at the tips of his shoes.

  She managed a coy smile. 'No, I work at Number One.'

  'Ah.' Folded-arms nodded as though this explained everything. 'Back along here, lift to the next floor, corridor on the left.'

  'Thank you,' she said, turning away. Another close call. What if he'd said, 'I'm Spurrier, how can I help you?' It was bad enough that Spurrier had turned out to be a woman. She was beginning to take risks. The game was becoming difficult. Difficult, but not dangerous. It would turn dangerous if she were forced to take risks .. . She took the stairs, not the lift. Just to experience them. At the top of the stairwell, two girls were giggling together.

  'What's the joke?' said Witch, conversationally.

  They looked around before confiding in her. 'The hunky policemen,' one said.

  'We're wondering which one we'll get outside our window,' explained the other.

  'Ah,' said Witch, nodding. Yes, she'd been wondering about that. Police marksmen on the roofs along Victoria Street: it was bound to happen.

  There would be times when all the heads of state would be driving along Victoria Street towards Buckingham Palace. Police marksmen on the roofs .. . and in the buildings? There were ledges outside the windows of this building. Witch had spent a long time in her several disguises checking the look of the DTI buildings on Victoria Street. Staring up at them .. . sometimes taking a photograph. Just a tourist, eating her burger lunch or killing time.

  The marksmen would be sited on the ledges. But did they . .. ?

  'Do you ever get the chance to talk to them?' she asked. The girls giggled again.

  'Not enough,' said one.

  'Not nearly enough,' said the other.

  'God, there was one . .. when was it? Back in April.'

  'March,' her friend corrected.

  'March was it? Yes, when that whassisname was in town. He visited just along the road. They had policemen on the ledges then. The one outside our office

  'God, what a hunk!'

  Witch laughed with them, asked them to describe the man. They did, then they all laughed again. The two girls hugged their files to their chests.

  T hope we get him again.'

  'I'll keep my fingers crossed for you,' said Witch. 'How do they get out on to the ledges?'

  'Oh, some of the windows open. You know, like in the minister's office.

  You can get out that way.'

  'I've never been in the minister's office,' Witch admitted.

  'No? We're in there all the time, aren't we, Shelley?'

  'All the time,' she agreed. 'He's got his own telly and everything in there.'

  'Drinks cabinet, all the papers, and paintings on the wall, supposed to be really valuable.'

  'Yes?' said Witch.

  'Oh yes,' said Shelley. 'And if he doesn't like them, they fetch him some more.'

  'I don't know about paintings. Give me a big poster of that police hunk any day!'

  Witch left them to their giggles and walked along the third-floor corridor. She was keeping an eye out for Folded-arms. Maybe he'd follow her, try another chat-up

  line. She did not want him directing her personally to Mrs Spurrier's office.

  She came to a solid wooden door with a plate reading Conference Room.

  Pinned to the door was a shee
t of typed paper with dates, times and names on it. Presumably bookings for use of the room. There was no booking for just now. She turned the doorhandle. The door, though it had a lock, was open. She slipped inside and closed the door again. The room had a stuffy, unused smell. There was a plain oval table, five lime green chairs, a single uninspired painting on one wall. Two glass ashtrays sat on the table, and on the floor by the window sat an empty metal wastebasket.

  Utilitarian; Witch quite liked it. She went to the window and stared out, resting her hands on the inner sill. The window was not the opening kind. It was swathed in yards of off-white gauze curtaining, the kind popular in public offices because, the popular wisdom went, the curtains would catch shards of glass exploding inwards after a blast. Witch's blurred view was of the traffic and the pedestrians below in Victoria Street. The hold-up for the VIP convoy had led to frayed tempers and congestion. She thought for a moment of the drive she was going to take tomorrow or Wednesday. She had to get her routes right. She had to find a car tonight and make a test-run. She had to find two cars tonight.

  There was so much still to do. The ledge, she noted with pleasure, was hardly wide enough to accommodate a man. The ledges on the next floor down, she knew, were wide enough. What was more, the ledge outside her window had crumbled a little, rendering it unsafe. Good. Very good.

  She examined the face of the building across the road, then spent a little time looking down on to the road itself, her lips pursed thoughtfully.

  Back at the door, she examined the keyhole. An uncomplicated affair, as easy to lock as it would be to unlock. Better and better. She opened the door again and stepped out into the corridor, closed it behind her and checked the list on the door. There were no scheduled meetings tomorrow at all, and only two on Wednesday, one at 10 and the other at 4.15. A nice gap between. Excellent. Witch was in no doubt. At last, she'd found her bolt-hole, her assassin's perch.

  Sometimes it happened like that, you just wandered into a place or up to a place and you saw it straight away, the perfect position. Other times, you had to search and scour and scratch your head and maybe even make other plans, look at other sites. She'd lost weeks of her life changing initial plans, executing - apt word - new ones. But today it had come easy. Perhaps her luck was changing. She turned around and saw, coming towards her, Folded-arms. Only his arms weren't folded any more. They were spread out, palms towards her.

  'You see,' he said, 'you see? I just knew if I left you alone you'd get lost again.'

  'I'm not lost,' replied Witch crisply. 'I was checking the time of Wednesday's meeting.' Then she bit her lip. Risk, risk, risk.

  Folded-arms looked both delighted and amazed. 'What? The four-fifteen?

  But I'm going to that. Are you going to be there, too?'

  She shook her head. 'The ten o'clock.'

  'Pity,' he said. 'Still, we must have coffee afterwards. What do you say?'

  'Great.'

  'My name's Jack by the way. Jack Blishen.'

  'Christine,' she said. She shook the proffered hand. Afterwards, he held on to her hand just a little too long, his eyes wolfing her. She managed a smile throughout.

  'Room two-twenty-six,' he said.

  'Two-twenty-six,' she repeated, nodding.

  'Have you time for a drink just now? Canteen's—'

  'No, really. I've got to get back. There are some papers I forgot to bring.'

  'Dear, oh dear, not very bright today, are we?'

  'Monday morning,' she explained.

  'You don't need to tell me, love,' he said, grinning with wolfs teeth.

  Witch had an image of herself ramming the heel of her hand into his nose, thrusting upwards, of bone and cartilage piercing the brain. It took no more than a second. She blinked the image away. Or slice his fat gut open. She blinked again.

  'You haven't seen Madam yet then?' he was saying.

  'Madam?'

  'Spurrier.'

  'No, not yet.'

  'I shouldn't bother if I were you. Not unless you're bringing her good news. She's brutal, Christine, believe me. Have you met her before?'

  'No.'

  He sucked in his breath. 'Careful how you go then. She'll tear your throat out. I've seen her do it.'

  'Look, sorry, Jack, but I really must ..."

  'Sure, don't mind me. Spurrier's not so bad really. I was exaggerating.

  Didn't mean to ... here, I'll walk you back to the lift.'

  'Thank you,' she said. Then he put his hand on her shoulder, and she felt a fresh wave of revulsion. Fight it. she thought to herself. Fight it. She had to be strong for her meeting with the Dutchman. She had to look strong, more than strong - invincible. She had to keep him fooled.

  By Wednesday at the latest, nothing would matter any more. She clung to that thought, pulled it to her, embraced it the way the secretaries had embraced

  their cardboard files. Two more days at most. She would last. She would.

  She had to.

  There were times when the Dutchman subscribed to the notion that 'public was private'. In London, he certainly subscribed to it. What was suspicious about two people having a lunchtime drink in a Covent Garden pub, crammed with other people doing exactly the same thing? Answer: nothing. What was suspicious about two people meeting clandestinely in some locked room or on some tract of wasteland? Answer: everything.

  So it was that he had arranged the meeting in Covent Garden, just outside the tube station entrance in James Street. So it was that he took her into the heart of Covent Garden itself, past the piazza with its jugglers and musicians, past the racks and the stalls with their glittering clothes and jewellery, and down some stairs to a wine-bar. Witch eventually baulked when he suggested they sit at a table outside. People on the level above could lean on the guard-rails and watch them, as they were watching the other people at the tables.

  'I'd feel like an animal in a zoo,' she spat.

  'And which animal would you be?' the Dutchman asked wryly.

  She considered this, thinking of Jack Blishen, but did not answer. The Dutchman patted her back as he ushered her through the doors of the bar and into cool gloom. They found a table in a quiet corner.

  'What would you like to drink?' he asked, expecting her to say orange juice or mineral water or ...

  'Chablis or Meursault, very cold.'

  'Sure,' he said. 'Just the glass, or a whole bottle?'

  'Are you having some?'

  'It sounds good.'

  'Better make it a bottle then.'

  The Dutchman went off to the bar. 'Yes, sir?' asked the barman.

  'A bottle of Chablis, please. Chilled.'

  'Of course, sir.' The barman stared at him as though he had taken

  'chilled' as a snub of sorts. The Dutchman took a twenty-pound note from his wallet. He was in a mood of nervous excitement. He knew the feeling well, and loved it. The feeling got even better afterwards, after a successful operation. So far this was a successful operation, but it was all out of his hands now, or nearly so. The initial planning, the various and copious briefings, all but one of them by mail, the heaping up of necessary and unnecessary detail, the contact with Crane . .. Ah, the contact with Crane. That had been sublime, almost as though fate were in charge. He'd seen the advert in a newspaper, advertising the boat Cassandra Christa for sale. He'd made enquiries of the boat's owner. He'd found in Crane the perfect fool. These were his successes. These were what he was being paid for. Not even he knew who was actually doing the paying. Anonymity all round. What did the British say? No names, no pack drill.

  'Here you are, sir.'

  'Thank you.' He handed over the note, then, when the barman's back was turned, touched the side of the bottle with his palm. It was cold. He ran a finger down the condensation.

  'Your change, sir. And how many glasses?'

  The Dutchman accepted the change. 'Two glasses,' he said. At that moment the waiter who was managing the outside tables came into the bar. He leaned his elbows on the bartop,
as though wilting with exhaustion.

  'With you in a second, Terry,' said the barman, reaching into the rack above him for two long-stemmed glasses.

  'Hectic?' the Dutchman asked the waiter.

  'As usual,' he replied.

  'There you go, sir, two glasses.'

  'Many thanks.'

  The Dutchman headed off with his bottle and his glasses. When he'd rounded the corner of a stone wall, the barman and waiter stopped staring at him and looked at one another instead.

  'Looks like him,' said the barman.

  The waiter nodded. 'Foreign, too, just like Charlie said.'

  The barman lifted a telephone from beneath the bar, picked up the receiver, took a scrap of paper from his back trousers pocket, and started to dial, reading the number from the note.

  'Can't you do that after?' complained the waiter. 'I've a big order here. Look like good tippers.'

  'Don't worry, Terry. I'll give you a tip personally if this comes good.'

  The barman listened to the dialling tone. 'Nobody at home,' he muttered.

  'Trust Char— Hello? Who's that? What? Christ! Hello, Chris. Where you working? Yeah, I know it, up Charing Cross Road. Used to be a good pub.'

  He listened, laughed. 'All right, all right, still is a good pub, especially now you're there. Listen, is Charlie Giltrap there?' His face darkened. 'Oh, that's a pity. He wanted me to look out for— Oh, great, can I have a word?' The barman put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  'He's just walked in,' he told the waiter. 'Talk about luck.'

  'Yeah, and my customers'U be walking out at this rate.'

  The barman held up his hand for silence. The waiter turned as three new customers came in through the

  front door. 'Hello, Charlie? Andy here. Fine, listen, got to make this quick. You know I was to keep a lookout for a likely lad? Got one here.'