Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

He brightened when he remembered that this was Friday night. The weekend stretched ahead of him. He wondered if he’d be able to put Witch, Elder, and the American General out of his mind. Then he recalled that he himself had set these wheels in motion. He had noticed the original report on the sinkings. He had contacted Special Branch.

“What have I let myself in for?” he wondered as the overhead sodium arc came into view, the light emanating from London.

Idres Salaam-Khan — known to everyone simply as Khan — had a good life. Khan knew it, and Khan’s chauffeur-cum-bodyguard knew it. A good life. As a senior official (though not a director) of a small, anonymous bank, his salary was kept undisclosed. It managed to bury itself amid still larger figures on the yearly accounting sheet. But whatever it was, it was enough to bring to Khan the simple and not so simple pleasures of life, such as his Belgravia mews house (a converted stables) and his country house in Scotland, his BMW 7-Series (so much less conspicuous than a Rolls-Royce) and, for when conspicuousness was the whole point, his Ferrari. These days, though, he did not use the Ferrari much, since there wasn’t really room in it for his bodyguard. These were uncomfortable times, against which luxury proved a flimsy barrier. A bodyguard was some comfort. But Khan did not look upon Henrik as a luxury; he looked upon him as a necessity.

The small anonymous bank’s small anonymous headquarters (Europe) was in London. The clients came to it precisely because it was small and anonymous. It was discreet, and it was generous in its interest rates. High players only, though: there were no sterling accounts of less than six figures. Few of the customers using the bank in the UK actually ever borrowed from it. They tended to be depositors. The borrowers were elsewhere. In truth, the largest depositors were elsewhere, too, but none of this bothered the UK operation.

Certainly, none of it bothered Khan, whose role at the bank was, to many, such a mystery. He seemed to spend three days there each week — Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday — with Friday to Monday being spent elsewhere, most often these days in Scotland. He liked Scotland, finding it, like the bank, small and anonymous. The only thing missing, really, was nightlife. Which was why he’d decided, this trip, to bring his own nightlife with him. She was called either Shari or Sherri, he’d never really worked it out. She seemed to respond to both names as easily as she responded to questions like “More champagne?” “More smoked salmon?” and “Another line?”

Khan had effortless access to the most exotic drugs. There were those in the London clubs who would have given their eyeteeth for his contacts. But Khan merely smiled with lips tightly shut, heightening the mystique around him. To have answered “diplomatic baggage” would have burst the bubble after all, wouldn’t it?

In the clubs he frequented, Khan was always “Khan the banker.” Few knew more about his life than that simple three-word statement. He always either brought with him, or else ended the evening with, the most beautiful woman around. He always ordered either Krug or Roederer Cristal. And he always paid in cash. Cash was his currency, crisp new Bank of England notes, and because of this, he found favor with every club owner and restaurateur.

He was an acknowledged creature of the night. There were stories of champagne at dawn in Hyde Park, of designer dresses being delivered out of the blue to Kensington flats — and fitting the recipient perfectly. There were gold taps in his Belgravia house, and breakfast was actually delivered from a nearby five-star hotel. But Shari or Sherri was the first person to take the trip to Scotland with him. She was an agency model, with no bookings all week. She was, with a name like that, naturally American — from Cincinnati. Her skin was soft and very lightly tanned, and she just loved what Khan did to her in bed.

There was a problem, though. It was a long and tiring drive to the Scottish residence, situated just outside Auchterarder and not a ten-minute drive from Gleneagles Hotel. Henrik and Khan had driven it in the past, but recently Khan had opted for the bank’s private twelve-seater plane, which was kept at an airfield to the southwest of London. It could be flown to a small airfield adjoining Edinburgh Airport, from where it was an hour by hired car to Auchterarder. The plane usually stood idle anyway, with a pilot on permanent contract, and Khan reckoned all he was costing his employers was some fuel and the pilot’s expenses in Edinburgh. But this week the plane was booked. Two of the bank’s Southeast Asia personnel were in Britain, and the plane was required for trips to Manchester, Newcastle, and Glasgow.

However, the airfield’s owner, recognizing a valuable customer, asked if he might be of assistance to Khan. There was an eight-seater available which could be hired for fifteen hundred pounds a day, the fee to include a pilot’s services. The airfield owner stressed that fifteen hundred was cheap these days, and Khan knew this to be the case. All the same. He would be charged per day, and staying in Scotland from Friday through Monday...

“Would the pilot be willing to fly us up there, then bring the plane back the same day, and return to Edinburgh to collect us on the Monday?” Khan listened to the silence on the other end of his car phone. The airfield owner was considering this proposition.

“I suppose that’d be all right,” the man answered at last.

“And the charge would be for the two days only?”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Khan. See, if he’s got to pick you up on the Monday, that means he’s tied up. He can’t take any other work.”

“I see,” said Khan. “I’ll get back to you.” And he terminated the call. He considered for a moment, then placed another call, this time to the Edinburgh airfield. “It’s Mr. Khan here. Would it be possible to hire a small plane, a six-seater would suffice, to bring some people back from Edinburgh to London on Monday?” He listened to the answer. “And how much would it cost?” he asked. “Two thousand? Yes, thank you. That’s a definite booking. It’s Khan. K-h-a-n. I’ll be arriving in Edinburgh this afternoon. I can pay the deposit then, if that’s all right. I don’t suppose there would be a cash discount?”

As he said this, he tried to make it sound like a joke. But it was certainly not taken as a joke at the other end of the line. There was an agreement. A ten percent discount for cash, and no receipts issued. Khan rang off, and rang the English airfield again. “I’ll take the plane and pilot for today only. One way. Fifteen hundred pounds as agreed.” Again, he terminated the call and sat back in his seat. The BMW was entering Jermyn Street. Khan needed some shirts.

Rich people are often those who are most canny with their money. At least, the people who stay rich are, and Khan had every intention of both him and his bank remaining wealthy. He was a born haggler, but only when it mattered. It was not, for example, worth asking for a cash discount on a bottle of Krug or a club membership. This would merely make one look cheap. But in business, haggling was an ancient and honorable adjunct. He didn’t really understand the British reserve in this matter. He enjoyed the London markets, where stall holders would cajole people into buying by adding another bunch of bananas to the box they were already holding. And another bunch... and another... until suddenly some invisible, unspoken point was reached, and several hands shot out holding money. Of course, only one of them was chosen.