Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

“Efficient, isn’t he?” Trilling mused.

“Very, sir. But how...?”

“Oh, quite simple really. Doyle requested a laptop computer. He’s taken it with him. Clever devices, they work on rechargeable batteries, you know. Sizable memory, too. I can never get used to the screens on them, but some people can.”

“So Doyle’s writing his report as he goes?”

“That’s it. Then he plugs the laptop into a modem, presses a few buttons, and his copy arrives at a computer here. All we have to do is run off a hard copy.” He patted Doyle’s report, then lifted it up. “Now, let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.” But instead of reading, he looked at Greenleaf over the paper. “ If there’s a case to investigate, John, I want you and Doyle to work on it together. Understand? Together. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Of course, sir.”

Trilling continued to look at him. “Good,” he said, before turning his attention to the report.

Dominic Elder was a large man, larger than Barclay had expected. That surname, Elder, had put him on the wrong track. He’d expected a hunched, defeated figure, the sort who had been elders at his mother’s Presbyterian church. But Dominic Elder was large and fit and strong. He’d be about fifty, a year or two older than Joyce Parry. His face had been handsome once, but time had done things to it. He looked out of place in the garden of the pretty cottage, on his knees and planting out seedlings in a well-kept vegetable bed.

“Mr. Elder?” Barclay had driven slowly down the lane and had parked right outside the gate before ejecting Il Trovatore from the cassette player. But, even as he pushed open the gate, the man in the garden seemed not to acknowledge his presence.

“Mr. Elder?” Barclay repeated. “Dominic Elder?”

“That’s me, Mr. Barclay,” the figure said, rising stiffly to its feet and brushing soil from its hands. “Who did you expect to find?”

“There’s no number or name on the gate,” Barclay explained. “I wasn’t sure I had the right house.”

Elder looked around him slowly. “You may not have noticed,” he said in his quiet, deep voice, “but this is the only house there is.” He said it slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child. His eyes fixed on Barclay’s as he spoke. He was massaging his back with the knuckles of one hand. “I suppose you were recruited straight from university, yes?”

Barclay made a noncommittal gesture. He wasn’t sure where this was leading. He’d had a long drive, and an exasperating one. Road work, wrong turns, and trouble with the car’s third gear. It kept slipping back into neutral. On top of which it was eighty-two degrees, and he needed a drink.

“Yes,” Elder was saying, “straight from university. What did you study?”

“Electronics.”

“‘Oh, brave new world.’” Elder chuckled. “So they put you into surveillance first, did they?”

“Yes, but —”

“But it was routine and boring. You wanted out.”

Barclay shuffled his feet. Maybe Elder was astute, but then again maybe he’d learned all this from Joyce Parry. Barclay wasn’t impressed by tricks.

“And eventually you got your transfer.” Elder checked the dirt beneath his gardener’s fingernails. “What school did you go to?”

“I really don’t see what...” Barclay sighed. Losing his patience wouldn’t do any good. Besides, this man was an old friend of Mrs. Parry’s. It might pay to humor him. “It was a comprehensive,” he conceded. “I suppose that’s what you want to know.”

“Scottish?”

“I was born there.”

“But you moved away when you were young. The name’s right, but there’s not much of an accent left. Father in the armed forces?”

“RAF.”

Elder nodded. He checked his fingernails again, then stretched a hand out towards Barclay. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Barclay.”

Barclay thought about refusing the handshake but eventually gave in. Elder’s grip was a lot firmer than he’d expected. He did his best to squeeze back.

“A rough journey, eh?” Elder commented. “I was expecting you three-quarters of an hour ago, allowing for one stop at motorway services.”

“Road work,” Barclay explained. “And my gearbox is acting up.”

“Been to Wales before?” Elder was walking back towards the cottage. Barclay followed him.

“Only to Llandudno.”

“Strange choice.”

“It was a day trip. We were on holiday in Southport.”

“Strange choice. This was when you were younger?”

“Eleven or twelve, yes. Why do you say ‘strange’?”

“Most families with children would choose Blackpool or Morecambe. I’ve always thought Southport very... reserved. Was there much to do there?”

They were at the front door now. It was already open, and Elder wandered inside and along the narrow hall. “I don’t remember,” Barclay said. “Some would say there’s not a lot to do in rural Wales either.”

“They’d be right.” At the end of the hall, Elder entered the kitchen and stood in front of the sink, rinsing his hands. Barclay, who had followed, felt awkward standing in the doorway. “That’s why I’m here,” said Elder. “To enjoy my twilight years.”

“Twilight? But you’re only —”

“Fifty. Like I say, twilight. In our profession.”

Our. For the first time, Barclay felt a little of his hostility fall away.

“Take my advice, Mr. Barclay, set your sights on retirement at fifty. Maybe even forty-five. I know, it all seems a long way off. What are you... late twenties?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five, then. In a few more years, you’ll begin to notice things. You’ll notice your reactions slowing — almost imperceptibly, but with the proper equipment you can measure the decline. You’ll start to feel aches and pains, twinges. Try testing your memory, speed and accuracy of recall. Do it every six months or so and chart your decline.”

“Very comforting.”

Elder, drying his hands on a tea towel, shook his head. “Not comforting, no. But by being aware of your limitations, you may save your own life. More important still, you might just save other people’s. Think about it. Think about our profession. That’s all I’m saying.” He reached a hand behind his back and rubbed at it slowly, thoughtfully. “Tea? Or would you prefer a beer?”

“Something cold would be gratefully received.”

“I think I’ve some bottles in the fridge. We can take a couple into the living room. It’s cooler in there.”

Cooler and darker. There were windows only to the back and side of the cottage, and these were partly overgrown with ivy. The room was small and comfortable. It had a messy, lived-in look, like a favorite pullover. The walls were whitewashed stone, and against one stretched a series of chipboard and melamine bookcases, standing at crazy angles due to the weight of books pressing down on them over the years. On a low tile-topped table sat a range of bottles — gin, Pimm’s, whiskey, vodka — full or nearly full. Various knickknacks filled the window ledges and a few of the spare shelves. The room also contained TV, video, a hi-fi, half a wall of classical LPs, a sofa, and two armchairs. Elder made for one of these. Again, he made no motion, no gesture to help Barclay decide what to do. Should he opt for the other chair or the sofa? He decided on the chair, and sank slowly into it, looking around appreciatively at the room. Yes, comfortable. But dusty, too. There were edges of fluff where the carpet met a chair or a bookcase. There was a layer of dust on the video recorder, and another covering the front of the hi-fi.

Well, thought Barclay, let’s try playing him at his own game. He swallowed a mouthful of cold beer and said: “You’re not married, Mr. Elder?”