Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

Most of these thoughts Greenleaf kept to himself. On paper, he stuck to the facts and the procedures followed. It still looked like a tidy bit of work, scrupulous and unstinting. He began to feel quite pleased with himself. He’d get it to Trilling before lunchtime. Definite. When would Doyle file his findings? Not before tomorrow. He was due back tomorrow morning. Say tomorrow afternoon then. Giving Greenleaf over a day clear, a day during which he’d be ahead of his nemesis. He breathed deeply and decided to pause for another cup of coffee.

When he got back from the machine, his phone was ringing. He almost spilled hot coffee all down his shirt as he lunged for the receiver.

“Yes? Greenleaf here.”

“John? Terry Willard at CC.”

“Morning, Terry.” Good. Terry Willard was one of Counterfeit Currency’s best workers. “What can you do for me?”

“You sound chirpy for a man who must’ve been in — where was it? — Folkestone? — till all hours last night. We’re not used to getting faxes after six.”

Greenleaf laughed and relaxed into his chair. “Just conscientious, Terry. So you’ve got some news, have you?”

“The notes aren’t counterfeit, I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Oh.” Greenleaf tried not to sound disappointed.

“Better than that, really,” said Willard. “I’ve already traced them.”

“What?” Greenleaf sat forward in his chair. “Terry, you’re a genius. Christ, it’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

“To be honest, it wasn’t the hardest work I’ve done. The computer picked the numbers out inside a couple of minutes. Those notes are ancient history. You probably wouldn’t have noticed that last night, the state most of them must have been in, but take it from me they are old banknotes. And they’ve been out of circulation for some time. We were beginning to doubt we’d ever see them again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re marked. The serial numbers are on record. They’re part of a kidnap payoff.”

“A kidnap? ”

“Best part of five years ago. In Italy. A British businessman’s daughter was kidnapped by some gang... It’s a bit of a long story. Want me to send you over what I’ve got?”

“Christ, yes. A kidnap? ” Greenleaf’s head was reeling. “Yes, send me what you’ve got. And Terry...?”

“Yes?”

“I owe you a beer.”

“No sweat.”

Commander Trilling showed no emotion as Greenleaf told his, or rather Willard’s, story. Greenleaf’s report was in front of Trilling, as was the file sent over from Willard, and he glanced at them from time to time as the Special Branch officer recapped.

“The father’s name is Gibson, sir. At the time, he was an executive with the Gironi chemicals company in Turin. The daughter, Christina, was in a private school near Genoa. She disappeared during a visit to an art gallery. She was missing two days before Mr. Gibson received a telephone call from the kidnappers.

“By that time the Italian police were already involved. They know that when a rich businessman’s daughter goes missing, there’s usually a ransom demand somewhere at the back of it. They’d set up telephone taps at the Gibson home and the Gironi headquarters before the first call came.”

Trilling crunched down hard on a mint and nodded.

“The problem was timing,” Greenleaf went on. “The gang telephoned on four occasions that first day, but never for more than eight seconds, not long enough for any tracing system to work. The first call merely stated that Christina had been kidnapped, the second identified the terrorist gang responsible, the third stated how much of a ransom was required, and the fourth was a plea from Christina herself.

“Another two days passed before the gang got in touch again.”

Trilling interrupted. “Was the caller male or female?”

“Male, sir.” Greenleaf had studied the case file well over the previous hour. He knew that he was leaving just enough out so that the Commander would ask him questions. He already knew the answers to those questions. It was an old trick which made you look not quite perfect but not too far off it either.

“And the gang?”

“La Croix Jaune: Yellow Cross. Nothing much about them in the files. Probably a splinter group from one of the other terrorist organizations. The name may be some obscure joke to do with the Red Brigade. They came on the scene in ’eighty-five and seemed to disappear again in ’eighty-eight. In fact, there are doubts they ever existed at all as a group. The name may just be a cover for two or three criminals working together. Two kidnaps and two armed bank robberies. They were never identified, let alone captured. The only time a bank camera caught them, they were masked.”

“You say two or three members?”

“That’s all Christina Gibson saw. They kept her blindfolded most of the time, and at others they were dressed in balaclavas and sunglasses. But she was fairly sure there were two men, one taller than the other, and one woman, as tall as the man but slimmer.”

Trilling nodded thoughtfully. “So what happened?”

“Mr. Gibson cooperated throughout with the police. It was an international effort by then, as far as these things go. Two Special Branch men were flown out to assist. Matt Duncan and Iain Campbell. The kidnappers —”

“Anyone else?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“The British contingent, did it include anyone else?”

“Not on record, sir.” Greenleaf frowned. This was the first question to have stumped him. But Trilling was smiling, nodding to himself.

“That means nothing,” he said quietly. “Go on.”

“Well, sir, the kidnappers wanted dollars, but we asked Mr. Gibson to persuade them to take sterling. He told them dollars would take some time, while he had the sterling to hand. They agreed. So we put together thirty grand’s worth of notes. The intention was to catch them cold, but there was a shoot-out and they got away. The girl was released, but the money had flown with the gang.”

“Clumsy.”

“Agreed. The Italians reckoned they wounded one of the gang, but nothing came of it. And the money disappeared, despite a check by all clearing banks. The notes on Crane’s body are the first to have surfaced.”

“Poor choice of word,” commented Trilling. “Still, good work, John.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, very good work. So, what do we make of it?”

“Well, it links Crane to a terrorist group, which indicates arms smuggling rather than drugs.”

“All it links him to, John, is dirty money. You can buy dirty money for fivepence in the pound. It’s a cheap way of paying someone a large sum when you’re not bothered what happens to the person afterwards.” Trilling thought for a moment. “You know, I’m not at all sure that we’ve been given a level playing field here.”

“Sir?”

“It all smacks of the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Who did you say contacted us in the first place?”

Christ, what was his name? Barrow... Beardsley... Barkworth... “Barclay, sir.”

“Barclay. Never heard of him. But he’s one of Joyce Parry’s. I wonder what Joyce is playing at? I think I’d better have a word with her.”

He was about to pick up his receiver when there was a knock at the door. Greenleaf rubbed his stomach to stop it from rumbling. It was quarter to one, and so far today all he’d had was five cups of coffee.

“Come in.”

It was Trilling’s secretary. She was holding two sheets of paper, stapled together. “Mr. Doyle’s report, sir.”

“Thank you, Celia.” Trilling held out his hand, took the report and laid it on his desk, on top of Greenleaf’s own report. Greenleaf stared at the closely typed top sheet. He was oblivious to Celia’s smile, or the closing of the door after she left. He kept hearing her words: Mr. Doyle’s report... Mr. Doyle’s report. When Greenleaf looked up from the desk, he saw Commander Trilling studying him.