Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

“Morning, Michael.”

It was Elder. He had heavy bags under his eyes, which were red at their corners. Having spoken, he stifled a yawn.

“Good morning, sir.” Barclay examined Elder’s suit for bulges, and found none. Well, at least someone else around here wasn’t toting a gun.

“Bright and early, eh?”

“Well, early anyway.”

Elder nodded, stifling another yawn. “I could do with some coffee,” he said at last. A room had been set aside for the British security contingent, and in it sat a steaming coffee machine. Elder made straight for a large polyethylene bag full of cups, tipped some “creamer” into one, then poured himself coffee. Barclay refused. “Creamer,” muttered Elder. “What in God’s name’s that?”

“Something with no milk products in it,” guessed Barclay. Elder shuddered, but drank the drink anyway, screwing shut his eyes for the first couple of gulps.

He exhaled noisily. “Hit the spot,” he said. “Now listen, we’ve had some more news.”

“Oh?”

“A civil servant called Christine Jones. She’s missing. We think Witch has abducted her and is using her identity.”

Barclay whistled. “Where does she work?”

“One-nineteen Victoria Street.”

Barclay nodded. “Makes sense.”

“So today, and every day if it comes to it, Victoria Street’s our priority.”

“When did you find all this out?”

“Last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when I phoned?”

“Michael, you were overheated as it was. I didn’t want you to explode. Besides, we know a lot, but we still don’t know who Witch’s target is.”

“So you don’t think my idea about The Times is a lost cause?”

“Absolutely not.” Elder, having finished the coffee, poured himself another cup, not bothering to add creamer this time. “Absolutely not,” he repeated. “I want you and Dominique to follow it up.”

“Speaking of which... I should be in the lobby in case she arrives.”

“Fine, I’ll come with you. I’m going to take another wander along Victoria Street.” He finished the second cup.

“Feel better for that, sir?”

Elder nodded, stifling yet another yawn.

“You obviously didn’t get much sleep last night,” said Barclay solicitously.

“No,” said Elder with a smile. “Not much.”

Barclay saw that the smile was in memory of something. It didn’t take him long to work out what that memory might be.

Dominique, entering the foyer unaccompanied, was yawning, too. She looked like she’d had a heavy night of it. Barclay, who’d just been thinking about Elder and Joyce Parry, didn’t want to consider what Dominique had been doing.

“Dominique,” he said, approaching.

She raised a hand to her forehead. “Michael, please, I am dying. English beer... how do you manage to drink it?”

Barclay smiled. “Dominique, this is your near-namesake, Dominic Elder.”

She tried to brighten a little. She looked very pale, and hadn’t bothered with the morning chore of makeup. But her eyes sparkled as she smiled. “Monsieur Elder, I am pleased to meet you.” She put out a small red-gloved hand for Elder to take. “The famous author of the Witch file.”

Elder swallowed another yawn and made a noncommittal sound.

“Listen, Dominique,” said Barclay, “something’s come up. It might be a clue to Witch’s intended victim.”

“Oh yes?” She just failed to sound interested.

“Remember the Australian anarchist? His flat?”

She rolled her eyes. “Monsieur Wrightson and his apartment. Ugh, how could I forget?”

“There was a copy of The Times there.”

“Yes.” She seemed puzzled now, but her interest was growing.

“With the crossword done.”

“Yes.”

“And remember what Bandorff said... Witch liked to do crosswords.”

She nodded slowly. “So you add one to the other,” she said, “and you assume the crossword was done by Witch and not by Mr. Wrightson?”

Barclay shrugged. “It’s a theory.”

She considered this, acknowledged with a shrug of her own that it was possible. “So what?” she said.

“The thing is,” Elder broke in, “there was a page torn out of that newspaper, according to Mr. Barclay here.”

Another shrug. “A page, maybe several pages. Used for toilet paper, according to —”

“Perhaps Witch tore the page out,” continued Elder.

“You see,” said Barclay, warming to the subject, “it could be some clue to her chosen victim, a profile of them or something.”

“Oh, yes, I see.”

“So can you remember which day’s Times it was?”

She laughed. “I cannot even remember which month it was.” She saw that they looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” said Elder. But Barclay’s dejection moved her to remember.

“There was a photograph,” she said. “A large black-and-white picture on one of the inside pages. I recall it because it attracted me. A photograph of New York from the air, and lots of ballons. ”

“Balloons?” said Elder.

“Yes, the big ones with baskets beneath them.”

“Hot-air balloons?”

“Yes, lots of those, rising over New York.”

“The Picture Editor’s got to know when that one appeared,” said Barclay, brightening again.

Elder was nodding. “Off you go,” he said. “And be lucky.”

Barclay looked to Dominique. “Coming?”

She looked undecided. “I should... my colleagues... I am supposed to be the expert, you know.” Then she made up her mind. “Oh God, yes, of course I am coming.”

A broad smile spread across Barclay’s face. “Good,” he said.

Elder watched them leave. A nice young couple, but he wouldn’t want to have to depend on them. He patted his chest, and let his hand slide down the front of his suit. Then he walked outside. The morning was overcast, threatening rain. The forecast for the rest of the week was even worse. Wet weather seemed to exacerbate his back problem. God knows, after last night he felt achy enough as it was.

“You look rough,” said a voice to his left. It was Doyle, accompanied by Greenleaf.

“Maybe fragile is a better word,” Elder admitted.

Doyle laughed, and patted his jacket ostentatiously. “Well, don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Elder, we’ll look after you.” His voice fell to a dramatic whisper. “Tooled up.”

Elder stared at the bulging jacket. “I’d never have guessed.”

“It makes me nervous,” said Greenleaf. He looked nervous, wriggling at the unaccustomed weight strapped to his side, beneath his left arm. Neither Special Branch man wore a suit really fitted for carrying a gun. Not like Elder’s suit, which was unfashionably roomy to start with. Elder many years before had given the suit to a tailor in Shoreditch who had eased it out a little to the left-hand side. The result was that he could have worn a.44 Magnum without any hint of a bulge, never mind his favored pistol.

“I picked up itineraries for you,” said Elder. He took from his pocket two folded sheets of A4-sized paper, and gave one to each of them. Doyle glanced down the list.

“Not much here we didn’t know already. When d’you think she’ll make the hit? Lunchtime?”

Elder nodded. “That would be my guess. After this morning’s handshakes and champagne. The cars are supposed to leave for Buck House at noon, but I suppose it depends on how long the photo opportunity takes.”

“They won’t keep Her Maj’ waiting,” said Doyle knowledgeably.

“You’re probably right,” said Elder.

“Speaking of photo opportunities...” Greenleaf reached into the plastic carrier bag he was holding and came out with a xeroxed sheet. “We’ve had these distributed to everyone.” On the sheet was a picture of Christine Jones and a description. The picture wasn’t terribly good.