Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

“I know you,” she said, kicking the gun cleanly out of his hand. “You’re called Elder. You’ve got a nice thick file on me, haven’t you?” Her next kick connected her heel to his temple. Fresh pain flared through him. “You call me Witch.” Her voice was calm, almost ethereal. A kick to the ribs. Christ, what kind of shoes was she wearing? They were like weapons. “You’re called Dominic Elder. Even we have our sources, Mr. Elder.” Then she chuckled, crouching in front of him, lifting his head. It was dark, he couldn’t make out... “Dominic Elder. A priest’s name. You should have been a priest.”

Then she rose and he heard her footsteps crunch over gravel and glass. She stopped, picked up his pistol. He heard her emptying the bullets from it. “Browning,” she mused. “Not great.” Then the gun hit the ground again. And now she was coming back towards him. “Will you put this in your file, Mr. Elder? Or will you be too ashamed? How long have you been tracking me?”

She was lifting his arms behind him, slipping off his jacket.

“Years,” he mumbled. He needed a few moments. A few moments to recover. If she’d give him a few more moments, then he’d...

“Years? You must be my biggest fan.” She chuckled again, and tore his shirt with a single tug, tore it all the way up his back. He felt his sweat begin to chill. Christ, what was...? Then her hand came to within an inch of his face and lifted a piece of broken glass. She stood up, and he thought she was moving away again. He swallowed and began to speak.

“I want to ask you something. It’s important to me.”

Too late, he felt her foot swinging towards him. The blow connected with his jaw, sending him spinning out of pain and into darkness.

“No interviews,” she was saying. “But I’d better give my biggest fan an autograph, hadn’t I?”

And then, with Elder unconscious, she had carved a huge letter W into his back, and had left him bleeding to death. But Charlie Giltrap had decided Elder might need help. It was a rough area down there; a man like Mr. Elder... well, he might need a translator if nothing else. Charlie had found him. Charlie had called for the ambulance. Charlie had saved Elder’s life.

One hundred and eighty-five stitches they gave him. And he lay on his front in a hospital bed feeling each and every one of them tightly knitting his skin. His hearing had been affected by one of her kicks — affected temporarily, but it gave him little to do but think. Think about how fast she’d been, how slow he’d been in response. Think of the mistake he’d made going there in the first place. Think maybe it was time for an easier life.

But, really, life hadn’t been easier since. In some ways it had been harder. This time he’d shoot first. Then maybe his back would heal, maybe the huge scar wouldn’t itch anymore.

His next stop was another hotel, this time near Kenilworth Castle, the probable site of Witch’s conception. Barker, usually so cautious, had one night drunk too many whiskeys, and wouldn’t let his secretary say no later on, after closing time, up in their shared room. The hotel was locked and silent for the night. There were only two cars in the car park and neither was on the stolen list. Three more to go: York, Lancaster, and Berwick. If he pushed on, he could have them all checked by late morning. If he pushed on.

Dominique booked them into the hotel, pretending that Barclay also was French and could speak no English. The receptionist looked disapproving.

“Any luggage?” she sniffed.

“No luggage,” said Dominique, barely suppressing a giggle. The woman stared at her from over the top of her half-moon glasses. Dominique looked back over her shoulder to where Barclay stood just inside the hotel door. She motioned for him to join her, but he shook his head, causing her to giggle again before calling to him: “I need some money!”

So at last, reluctantly, he came towards the desk. He was worried about Dominic Elder. He’d argued that they should go back to London, but Dominique, pragmatic as ever, had asked what good that would do? So instead they’d had a few drinks and eaten fish and chips out of paper. And they’d played some of the machines in the pier’s amusement arcade.

“This is a family hotel,” warned the receptionist.

They both nodded towards her, assuring her of their agreement. So she gave them a key and took their money and had them sign their names in the register. When Barclay signed himself Jean-Claude Separt, Dominique nearly collapsed. But upstairs, suddenly alone together in the small room with its smells of air freshener and old carpet, they were shy. They calmed. They grew sober together, lying dressed on the top of the bed, kissing, hugging.

“I wonder where Elder is,” Barclay said at last.

“Me, too,” murmured Dominique drowsily.

He continued to stroke her hair as she slept, and he turned his head towards the large window, through which seeped the light and the noises of nighttime. He thought of Susanne Elder, and of Dominique’s father. He hoped Dominic Elder would get an answer to his question. Later still, he closed his own eyes and prayed for restful dreams...

It wasn’t quite dawn when Elder reached York. The streets were deserted. This was where Marion had told Barker she was pregnant, and where he’d insisted she have an abortion. Poor Marion, she’d chosen the time and the place to tell him. She’d chosen them carefully and, no doubt to her mind, well. A weekend in York, a sunny Sunday morning. A stroll along the city walls. Radiant, bursting to tell him her news. Poor Marion. What had she thought? Had she thought he’d be pleased? She’d been disappointed. But where on the city wall had she told him? Pellengro hadn’t known, so neither would Witch. Elder, many years ago, had walked the circuit of York’s protective city wall. He knew it could take him an hour or more. He parked near Goodramgate, a large stone archway. There was a flight of steps to the side of the “gate” itself leading up on to the ramparts. A small locked gate stood in his way, but he climbed over it. It struck him that Witch would have trouble dragging a prone body over such a gate. But on second thoughts, he couldn’t imagine the Home Secretary would have much trouble climbing over it with a gun pointing at his back.

Parts of the wall were floodlit, and the street lighting was adequate for his needs. The sky was clear and the night cold. He could see his breath in the air in front of him as he walked. He could only walk so far in this direction before the wall ended. It started again, he knew, a little farther on. He retraced his steps and crossed Goodramgate, this time walking along the wall in the direction of York Minster itself. He hadn’t gone ten yards when he saw the body. It was propped against the wall, legs straight out in front of it. He bent down and saw that it was Jonathan Barker. He’d been shot once through the temple. Elder touched Barker’s skin. It was cool, slightly damp. The limbs were still mobile however. He hadn’t been dead long. Elder stood up and looked around him. Nobody, obviously, had heard the shot. There were houses in the vicinity, and pubs and hotels. It surprised him that no one had heard anything. A single shot to the temple: execution-style. Well, at least it had been quick.

There was a sudden noise of impact near him, and dust flew from the wall.

A bullet!

He flattened himself on the wall, his legs lying across Barker’s. He took his pistol from its shoulder holster and slipped off the safety. Where had the shot come from? He looked around. He was vulnerable up here, like a duck on a fairground shooting range. He had to get back to the steps. She was using a silencer. That’s why nobody had heard anything. A silencer would limit her gun’s range and accuracy, so probably she wasn’t that close. If she’d been close, she wouldn’t have missed. She was somewhere below, in the streets. He decided to run for it, moving in an awkward crouch, pistol aimed at the space in front of him, in case she should appear. She did not. He scrambled back down the steps and over the gate. The city was silent. Outside the walls, a single car rumbled past. He knew he’d never reach it in time. His own car was less than fifty yards away in any case. But he’d no intention of returning to it. He had come this far. He wasn’t going to run.