Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

Elder didn’t doubt that she had taken on the London job before discovering her father’s identity. But when she did discover his identity from the newspaper in the Australian’s apartment, she had come to a decision. Instead of going ahead with the assassination, she would carry out a stunning double bluff, fooling both her employers and the security forces. It was no mistake that she’d made such a noisy and messy entry into the country. She’d wanted them to know she was there. And while security had been tightened around the summit, while all that effort and manpower had been focused on the gathering of world leaders, Witch’s real target had gone unnoticed and underprotected. She’d taken her employers’ money, doubtless with thoughts of retirement and disappearance after this last task: dealing with her father.

The Alfa Romeo had been found abandoned off the King’s Road. No doubt she’d switched cars. The Alfa had been stolen the previous night in Croydon. There was no way of knowing from where the second car had been stolen, or what make it was. Police were now on the lookout for any one of forty-six reported stolen vehicles from in and around the London area. Elder had the list with him. Roadblocks had been set up, but only on major roads, a stupid and wasteful procedure only set in motion because it would mean the police were doing something to stop her getting away with it.

Well, Elder was doing something, too. From his talk with Rose Pellengro, he had noted six possible locations, six places where Witch might take her father before... before what? Killing him? Would that be enough for her? Whatever, Elder knew she would not linger over her task, so he dare not linger over his.

Joyce Parry was in a meeting in her office when the telephone buzzed. She picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Parry? Barclay here.”

“Michael, are you still in Brighton?”

“Well... yes, actually.”

She knew from his tone that something was wrong. She sat forwards in her seat. “What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Elder. He’s gone off in my car.”

“Gone off where?”

“We don’t know. He said he had to go and fetch something...”

Joyce Parry rose to her feet, taking the telephone apparatus with her, holding the body of the telephone in one hand, the receiver in the other.

“Has he talked to the palm reader?”

“Yes.”

“What did he find out?”

“He didn’t say.”

Parry let out a sharp hiss of breath.

“Sorry,” said Barclay, sounding despondent.

“Michael, go talk to the palm reader, find out what she told him.” She looked at her visitor, as though only now remembering that he was there. “Hold on a second,” she said into the receiver, before muffling the mouthpiece against her shoulder. “Elder,” she said. “He’s gone haring off in Barclay’s car.”

Greenleaf got up from his chair. “We need a description of the car.” He came to the desk and took a notebook and pen from his pocket.

“Michael?” Parry said into the mouthpiece. “What kind of car is it?” She listened. “White Ford Fiesta, okay. And registration number?” Barclay gave it to her, and she repeated it for Greenleaf. “Right,” she said. “Go talk to Madame Whatever-her-name, and call me straight back.”

“Will do,” said Barclay’s voice. “Just the one thing. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. It’s just come back to me. What was Operation Silver—”

But Joyce Parry was already severing the connection. Greenleaf took the receiver from her and pressed some numbers home, pausing for his call to be answered.

“Inspector Greenleaf here,” he said. “I’ve got a car needs tracing. Notify every force in the country. As soon as anyone sees it, I want to be the first to know. Understood?”

Joyce Parry slumped back down onto her chair and rubbed her face with her hand. Dominic, Dominic. Where the hell are you? And why don’t you ever learn?

He drove first to Salisbury, where, according to Marion Rose, Jonathan Barker had first held her hand, first planted a kiss on her cheek. He had done so as they came out of the cathedral after attending a choral concert. Elder drove up to the cathedral, got out, walked around, got back into the car, cruised around the town for twenty minutes, then headed off. Second stop: a hotel in Henley-on-Thames. Pellengro told him this was where Marion and Barker had first made love. The fortune teller even recalled the hotel’s name.

“In my business, a good memory helps. You sometimes get a client coming back after two or three years. Helps if you can remember what you said to them last time.”

He parked in the hotel car park, and checked the other parked cars for any on the stolen list. None. The hotel itself was busy, but there was no sign of Witch. Tired, he stopped at a burger drive-in and bought coffee, then bought more later when he filled the car with petrol. He was headed north, doing this because, as with the roadblocks, there was nothing else to do. He had no leads, no real ideas. He didn’t have anything.

And no one would thank him for any of this anyway. Running off on his own, just like in the old days. Barclay would tell Joyce, and Joyce would not be pleased. She would not be pleased at all. Last night, she had massaged his back.

“It hasn’t healed,” she said. “I thought by now it would have.”

“Sometimes it clears up, then it starts again.”

She had traced the outline with her finger. “Is it sore?”

“More itchy than sore, but then if I scratch it... yes, it’s sore. And I know what you’re thinking: serves me right. Which is true. I learned my lesson.”

“Did you, Dominic? I wonder. I wonder if Silverfish taught you anything.”

Silverfish, stupid name for a stupid operation. A terrorist cell in London. Kept under surveillance. The mention of a meeting to take place in the city between senior members of four European terrorist organizations. But the whole thing had been botched, the terrorists escaping. Including a woman, a woman Elder thought he knew. There was an immediate clampdown: checks on airports, ferry terminals, fishing ports. One of the terrorists, a Spaniard, was arrested at Glasgow Airport. Then came Charlie Giltrap’s phone call.

“Might be something or nothing, Mr. Elder, just that there’s this woman been sleeping rough in an empty lot near all that building work in Docklands. She don’t talk, and she don’t look right, if you know what I mean. I mean, she don’t fit in.”

Which had been enough to send Elder down to Docklands, to an area of scrapyards, building sites, and derelict wastes. It was late evening, and he hadn’t told anyone he was going. He’d just do a recce, and if backup was needed, he’d phone for it.

Besides, he had his Browning in his pocket.

After half an hour’s hunting, he saw a crouched figure beside what remained of a warehouse wall. It was eating sliced white bread from a bag, but scurried off mouselike at his approach. So he followed.

“I only want a word,” he called. “I’m not going to move you on or anything. I just want to talk.”

He cornered her in the shell of another building. It had no roof left, just four walls, a gaping doorway, and windows without glass. She was crouched again, and her eyes were fearful, cowed. But her clothes weren’t quite ragged enough, were they? He came closer.

“I just want to talk.”

And then he was close enough to stare into her eyes, and he knew. He knew it was all pretense. She wasn’t fearful or cowed or anything like that. She was Witch. And she saw that he knew.

And she was fast. The kick hit his kneecap, almost shattering it. He stumbled, and the flat edge of her fist chopped into his throat. He was gagging, but managed somehow to get the gun out of his pocket.