Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

Londoners, native Londoners, working-class Londoners, were excellent hagglers. Often it was trained out of them, but many retained the habit and the skill. Just look at the City, at the young brokers who were just as likely to come from the East End as from Eton. These people were a pleasure to do business with. Khan totted up that he had just saved £2,300, either for the bank or for himself (depending on how it swung). He was pleased. But then, what was £2,300? The cost of a single bottle of Petrus at some wine merchants. The cost of an adequate vintage in several London restaurants. The cost of thirty shirts: a scant month’s worth. Of course, because the Edinburgh end of the deal involved no receipts, there could be no allowances against tax either... but then Khan and his bank were not worried by UK taxation laws.

“The parking looks difficult,” Henrik called from the driver’s seat. “Shall I drop you off and drive around the block?”

“Okay. I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car stopped, blocking the narrow street. Behind it, a taxi sounded its horn. Khan stepped slowly from the back of the BMW and gave the taxi driver a cool gaze. The sidewalks were wet, but drying fast. The summer shower was over, and the sun had appeared again. Steam rose into the sky. Khan walked on leather soles and heels through the steam and into the shop. The shop was another saving. He had found that, due to his “regular shape,” tailored shirts fitted him no better than a decent ready-made. There were four customers in the shop, each busy with an assistant.

“With you in a moment, sir,” someone said to Khan, who bowed his head in acknowledgment. He was in no hurry. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and examined the collar sizes on the rows of wooden shelves. The hand in his left pocket touched something small and cold: an alarm. If he pressed its round red button, Henrik would arrive with all speed. This, too, Khan did not perceive as a luxury.

They flew up to Scotland over the west coast. The plane’s interior was cramped yet somehow comfortable. There was something reassuring about the closeness of proximity. Henrik shifted seats half a dozen times, when he was not dispensing drinks. There was a cool box on board, in which had been placed two bottles of champagne, several rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, and small cocktail packets of pistachios and almonds. Plastic cups for the champagne, though: an obvious oversight. Khan handed two cups to Henrik.

“Ask the pilot if he’d like one.”

“Yes, sir.”

The pilot could be seen, there being no curtain between cockpit and passenger deck. This annoyed Khan, too, though it could hardly be said to be the pilot’s fault. Henrik returned with the two cups. He was grinning.

“Not while he’s driving, Mr. Khan, but he thanks you for the thought.”

Khan nodded. Sensible, really, but then some of the pilots he’d had in the past were not what one would call top-flight. They were getting old and getting fat. Fat pilots worried Khan. They should be full of nervous energy, wiry as a result. He’d waited until well into the flight before offering the champagne, just to see if the pilot’s will would crack. It hadn’t.

Khan looked across to Henrik. He, too, was showing signs of the good, easy life. He was paid well for his services, and those services so far had not exactly taxed him, either physically or mentally. When Khan had hired him, Henrik had been muscular; almost muscle-bound. Working weights and hoping to turn pro, paying his way by acting as a bouncer for a West End club owner. Khan had asked the club owner’s permission before approaching Henrik with an offer of a job. The chauffeur’s role hadn’t appealed to the Dane, but he’d taken the job anyway. He was not stupid. He knew that as bodyguard, he would have to accompany Khan just about everywhere: everywhere glamorous, everywhere expensive, everywhere that was Somewhere.

But too many hours in the driver’s seat were taking their toll. Henrik was still big, still strong, but there was excess flesh now, too. Khan, who worked out each day, appreciated Henrik’s problem; it was one of mental application. The Dane was no longer hungry. Look at him, champagne in both hands, sipping from one cup then from the other, gazing out of the window down on to the visible landscape. Khan was aware that Henrik might have to go. There might be a termination of contract, the hiring of someone new, someone strong but hungry. Would he perhaps keep Henrik on as driver? He was a good, safe driver after all. But no, that would be to denigrate the man, to humble him. More important, it might well make Henrik bitter. And a bitter man was an enemy. It didn’t do to employ potential spies, potential adversaries. No, Henrik would have to go. Soon. There was that new doorman at the Dorica Club...

“This is great, really great.” Shari or Sherri slumped her head against Khan’s shoulder. She was dressed well. He’d been relieved when they’d stopped the car outside her block and she’d opened the door and started down the steps, smiling, waving, carrying two large holdalls... and above all dressed well. Discreetly sensual. Not too much makeup, not too much perfume. A clinging red dress which just met her knees. Her tanned legs did not need covering. Her shoes were red, too. She knew how well her blond hair and high cheekbones suited red.

“You’re very special,” he told her now, rubbing one smooth knee. It was true: they were all very special.

“Touching down in ten minutes,” called the pilot. One bottle of champagne was still unopened, the sandwiches barely touched.

“You’re special, too, Khan,” said Shari or Sherri.

“Thank you, my dear.” He patted the back of her hand, which lay on his right thigh. “I’m sure we’re going to have a wonderful time.”

“Yes,” she said. “Me too.”

Across the aisle from them, Henrik drained first one cup and then the other. His chin dropped against his neck as he stifled a belch.

A wonderful time. Well, yes, at first it was. But it struck Khan that there was something not quite right. The time was wonderful but not perfect. It wasn’t that he was worrying about bank business. The bank was always in and on his mind, even on these trips north. Scotland was not a refuge. There were computers and modems and faxes and telephones in his house. A call might come on his portable phone during lunch or dinner, or to his bedside telephone in the middle of the night. New York might call to warn of an incoming fax, for his eyes only. Seoul might need information. Karachi, Lahore, Patna, Bombay, Bangkok, George Town, Shanghai... not everyone appreciated what the local hour was when they called. If it was the middle or the beginning or the end of their banking day, then it was Khan’s banking day, too.

But no, it was nothing to do with business. Business was not a problem. Was the problem Shari or Sherri? Ah, yes, maybe. Maybe that was it. She did love what he did to her in bed... and elsewhere in and out of the house. Her American accent grated, but only a little. She was not overtalkative, which was a relief to him. And she looked good all the time. She made herself presentable. What then?

Well... There came a time when, sated, he liked his women to open themselves up a little to him, to tell him about their lives. Normally, he was uninterested in pasts, but there was something about the aftermath of the sexual act. He liked to listen to their stories then, and file them away. So that he could assure himself he had been fucking someone’s history, a real flesh-and-blood human, and not just a beautiful dummy.

And it was here that Shari or Sherri had disappointed him. She had disappointed him by being at first vague, and then by making obvious mistakes. For instance, she told him about a childhood incident when a boy neighbor had lifted up her skirt and slipped his hot little hand inside her pants. She told the story twice, and the first time the boy’s hand had gone down the front of her pants, the second time the back. Khan hadn’t commented, but it had made him wonder. He made her work harder, recalling more and more of her past for him. He got her to go over the same story twice, once at breakfast and once over dinner, checking for mistakes in the retelling. There were one or two, not significant in themselves.