Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

“You sure?”

“Christine Jones, that wasn’t the name on her pass. I’ve been on the lookout for Christine Jones.”

The policeman was already slipping a radio out of his pocket. “This is Traynor,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I’m in number forty-five. Suspect is inside the building. I repeat, suspect is inside the building.”

There was silence, then crackle and a disembodied voice. “It’s Doyle here, Traynor. Secure all exits, and I mean all exits. Start searching the floors. We’re on our way.”

Traynor made for the stairs, then paused. “You heard him, George. No one in or out of here, okay? Anyone wants out, send them to the ground floor.” He turned, then stopped again, turned back. “George, what was she wearing?”

“Mmm... blue jacket, dark blue... white blouse, dark skirt.”

“Right.” This time Traynor started climbing the stairs. George switched his radio back on and began fiddling with the dial again. He looked out of the window, but the pinstripe man and lipstick woman had gone. Ah, Radio Two, he’d found it at last. Manuel and his Music of the Mountains, lovely. George settled back in his chair.

Doyle and Greenleaf put together reinforcements and brought them into the building. They were both a little breathless, but ready for anything. The news had been circulated, more men would be on their way.

“Any sign?” Doyle asked Traynor.

“Not yet. She’s dressed in a dark-colored two-piece and white blouse, but then so are half the women in the place.”

“Which floor was she headed for?”

Traynor shook his head.

“We’ve just got to be methodical,” said Greenleaf.

Doyle looked at him. “Methodical, right. How long have we got before the bigwigs go to lunch?”

Greenleaf checked his watch. “Quarter of an hour.”

“Right then,” said Doyle, “we can afford to be methodical for about five minutes. After that, we start screaming and kicking down doors.”

“Progress report, gentlemen.” This was said in brisk, clipped tones by Commander Trilling, almost at marching-pace as he entered the foyer and joined them.

“She’s in here somewhere, sir,” said Doyle.

“But we don’t know where,” admitted Greenleaf.

“Well, I’ll tell you one place she’s not — she’s not standing here with us!” Trilling tossed a mint into his mouth. “Let’s start from the roof down. Snipers like height, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir.” Doyle turned to Traynor. “What are you waiting for? Roof and the top floor down!”

“Yes, sir.” Traynor started giving orders to his unit.

“You start at the top, Doyle,” said Greenleaf, “I’ll start at the bottom. Keep in touch by walkie-talkie and we’ll meet halfway.”

“Right,” said Doyle.

“Where’s Elder?” asked Trilling. Greenleaf shrugged.

“I think he was headed for the lower ground floor.”

“Let’s try to keep him there, eh? He’ll only get in the way.”

Doyle grinned at this, so Greenleaf swallowed back a defense.

“Right, sir,” he said instead, heading for the stairs. The last thing he heard Doyle saying was: “And check the lift shaft, too. Remember that film with the cannibal...”

Doyle stood outside the third-floor conference room. Traynor was with him. So was a civil servant who worked on the third floor.

“It’s usually open,” she said. “I can’t think why it would be locked.” She was young and blond and chewing gum.

Doyle nodded, then put a finger to his lips and tried the door handle quietly, trying to turn it one way and then the other. It was definitely locked. He put his ear to the door and listened. Silence. Then a shuffling sound. He thought about knocking, then thought better of it. He motioned for them to follow him farther down the corridor.

“I’m lost,” he whispered. “Is this the front of the building or the back?”

“The front, sir,” Traynor whispered back.

“Can we get someone on the ledge to take a peek inside?”

“I’ll go check.” And off Traynor tiptoed.

“Back to your office,” Doyle whispered to the girl. “It’s too dangerous here.”

He thought she was going to swallow her gum. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze in his and nodded along the corridor. Off she walked, on silent tiptoe. Doyle went back to the door and listened again. Silence. He put his eye to the keyhole, but it was the wrong type. He couldn’t see into the room. There was a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. He lay down, but again could not see into the room. Traynor was coming back.

“No can do,” he said when they’d moved away from the door. “The ledge isn’t wide enough or something.”

“What about across the road? Can anyone see anything from across there?”

“I’ll radio and check.”

“And get some more men up here. We may have to storm the place.”

“Don’t we have the SAS to do that sort of thing?”

“Don’t be stupid, Traynor. It’s only a hardwood door, not the Iranian bloody embassy.”

Greenleaf appeared. A distance behind him, Doyle could see Trilling.

“Is she in there?” Greenleaf hissed.

Doyle shrugged and nodded towards the Commander. “Do me a favor,” he whispered to Greenleaf, “keep the old man away from here. He’ll only be in the bloody way, and you know he can’t keep his voice down.”

Greenleaf nodded, moved back along the corridor, and stopped in front of Commander Trilling, talking to him softly.

Elder was questioning the guard called George. He was beginning to get a sour feeling in his stomach about all of this, the whole setup.

“I’m not even sure it was her,” George was saying now. “I mean, it’s hard to tell with some women, isn’t it?”

“Well, has there been anyone else, anyone new to you?”

The guard shook his head. From Elder’s walkie-talkie came information that the procession of cars was leaving the Conference Centre, moving in slow convoy past the building he was standing in. He felt like screaming.

“Look,” said the guard, “I’ve got to get back to work.” He walked over to the outside door, where a police officer was stopping a man in a pinstriped suit from entering the building.

“He’s all right,” said the guard to the policeman. “It’s Mr. Connaught from the third floor.”

“I only went out to get these,” Mr. Connaught was explaining, waving some documents. “I’d left them in my boot.”

The policeman looked to Elder, who nodded assent. The officer moved aside, letting Connaught into the building.

“What’s going on?”

“Security,” the guard explained. “Some woman they’re after.” This reminded him of something. “Who was that blond lady you were with?”

Connaught shook his head. “Met her at the lift. Don’t know who she was exactly.”

“Oh, Christ!” said Elder, making for the stairs.

There was that shuffling sound again, like someone who was seated moving their feet on the floor. Doyle took a deep breath and knocked, keeping his back hard against the wall to the side of the door, rapping with his fist and then removing it from any line of fire. Silence.

He knocked again, a little harder. “Anyone in there? We’ve got a meeting starting in five minutes. Hello, anyone there?”

Silence. From their distance, Greenleaf and Trilling were watching him. When Greenleaf spoke, he spoke in an undertone which Doyle couldn’t catch. Trilling’s idea of an undertone, however, would not have gone unheard in a football stadium.

“I see... Yes, of course... As you see fit...” Then a message came over Greenleaf’s radio (Doyle had switched his off: it sat on the ground beside him). Greenleaf listened and mumbled something into the radio.