Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

Doyle licked his lips. No use pretending any longer; no time left in which to pretend. Traynor was returning, pushing past Greenleaf and Trilling. He had four men with him.

“Net curtains are in the way,” Traynor whispered. “Nobody across the street can see anything. No movement at all.”

Doyle nodded. “I can hear somebody, though.” Patches of sweat were spreading from beneath his arms. And now Greenleaf was creeping forwards.

“They’re passing the building right this second.”

“Can’t hang around any longer then,” said Doyle. He withdrew his pistol, raising it high above him, gripped in both hands and pointed ceilingwards. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Right,” he said to the men around him. “We’re going in.” They were all withdrawing their weapons now, a series of quiet snicks as safety catches were slipped off. Doyle looked at Traynor. “You keen to kick down that door?” Traynor nodded. “Okay, two of you behind me, two of you other side of the door. Soon as the door opens, we’re in. My side low, other side aiming over our heads. Take the diagonals. Got that?”

They nodded, assumed their positions. Doyle, back to the wall, crouched low. Traynor stood in front of the door, took a moment to size it up. Greenleaf, who had gone back along the corridor to let Trilling know the score, had withdrawn his own weapon and was now advancing again, walkie-talkie gripped in his free hand, watched by Trilling. Doyle gave Traynor the nod. Traynor took a step back, both hands around the butt of his gun, aiming it straight at whatever was behind the door. He raised his right knee, so that the sole of his shoe faced the door, just below the handle. And took a deep breath.

Dominic Elder ran up the stairs, across the reception area, and out of the glass doors on to Victoria Street. He ran into a crush of people, waving, some of them cheering, held back by metal-grilled barriers from the road. There was a dull slow roar from the motorcycle escorts. And then there was glitter in the sky, and a net curtain, blown out from its window and wafting in the breeze.

And then there was the explosion.

A dull boom. Not a large explosion by any means, but enough to panic the crowds. The motorbikes suddenly speeded up, as did the cars. Front fenders dented back fenders as the cars behind put their foot down. They were speeding away from the scene, and the security men on the street had guns in their hands and were trying to see what had happened. But it was raining glass. That was what was happening. Large and small shards and splinters, landing at velocity. And the screams were no longer solely of fear.

“What happened?” he yelled into his walkie-talkie. “John, what the hell happened?” He was jostled by people fleeing the scene. Doors were kicked open as people attempted to find shelter. Anywhere but on the street. Barriers clattered to the ground as people scrambled over them.

The walkie-talkie crackled. He struggled to hear it. “Bomb inside the door. Hair-trigger.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Traynor, leg blown off. Doyle...”

“What about Doyle?”

“Concussion.”

“The room, John... is there anyone in the room?”

A pause. “Negative, Dominic. The room’s empty. Repeat, the room is empty.” Then: “Jesus Christ.”

“What is it?”

“Chickens, two supermarket chickens.”

They’d walked straight into a bloody trap! If Witch had left nothing else, she’d left yet another warped calling card. Which meant what? That the real attempt would take place elsewhere? Up ahead maybe? The motorcade was moving off in disarray. Christ, a trap... he couldn’t believe... couldn’t take it in. Why? What was the point? Suddenly, a hand gripped his arm. He reached inside his jacket, turning towards the — But it was only Barclay.

“Jesus, you gave me a fright.” His grip on the pistol relaxed. Barclay saw what had been about to happen.

“Sorry,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Elder nodded upwards, where the curtain still fluttered like a flag. It didn’t look like a flag, though; it looked like a shroud. “Bomb,” he said. “Witch led us into a trap.”

Sirens were nearing, ambulances. Uniformed police officers were attempting to comfort the prone and wounded bodies. A helicopter surveyed the pandemonium from on high. The convoy had disappeared from view. Barclay was yelling something above the noise.

“What?” Elder yelled back.

“I said we know who she’s —”

The ambulances were drawing to a squealing halt in front of them. Barclay put his hand out towards Dominique, palm upwards, only to find that she wasn’t there. She was ten feet away, tending to a woman’s cuts. He walked over, opened the flap of her shoulder bag, and took something from it, then came back to Elder, handing him a folded page from The Times. Elder looked at it. A full-page advert for British Aerospace.

“Other side,” yelled Barclay. Elder turned the page over. The obituaries column. There were four, a couple of churchmen, head of an Oxford college, and... Marion Barker, the Home Secretary’s wife.

Elder’s face creased into a huge frown. He looked at Barclay, who was nodding. Dominique, looking paler than ever, was coming back to join them. An ambulanceman had taken over from her. She watched as he worked on the woman. The woman caught Dominique’s eye and smiled at her, mouthing “thank you.”

“You think her target’s the —”

“The Home Secretary,” said Barclay. He shrugged. “Unless you think it’s the Oxford don’s widow.”

A police sergeant was approaching, his arms stretched out like a barrier. “Clear the area, please. Please clear the area.”

“Yes, sergeant, we’re just going,” said Dominic Elder quietly, not really aware of what he was saying. Then his eyes came back into focus. “Come on then,” he said. “Back to the Centre.”

They joined the evacuation of Victoria Street. More ambulances and fire engines were blocked in a traffic jam, the traffic having been halted to allow the motorcade sole access to Victoria Street in the first place. Sirens blared, blue lights circled, but the drivers in front complained that there was nothing they could do till the barriers were moved. One ambulance mounted the pavement, only to find itself firmly wedged between the vehicle in front and a concrete lamppost.

At the Conference Centre, a crowd of people stood on the steps, wondering what had happened. Elder pushed past them and into the foyer. He walked quickly to the reception desk. “The Home Secretary,” he said, “I need to know... did he go to Buckingham Palace with the rest of them?”

“I’ll just check.” The receptionist made an internal call. “Jan, what was Mr. Barker doing this lunchtime?” She listened. “Thank you,” she said, cutting the connection. “He went home,” she said. “Car collected him ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” said Elder. Barclay and Dominique were waiting just inside the door. “He’s gone home,” Elder told them. “I know his address.” He was outside again, the young couple following him. He started to descend the steps, looking about him. “What we need now is a car.”

Dominique continued past him and perused the line of cars parked outside the building. “How about this one?” she said. It was a marked Metropolitan Police Rover 2000. “It’s even got the keys in.” She was already opening the driver’s door. “You can direct me, come on.”

Elder got into the back, Barclay into the passenger seat. Dominique had started the ignition, but was now looking at the controls around her.

“What’s the problem?” said Barclay.

“My first time in a right-hand-drive car.” She pulled the big car out of its parking space. “See if you can find the siren, Michael.” After a few false attempts, he did so. People looked at them as they pulled out into the main road. “Which way?” she called back to Elder.