Ian Rankin - Witch Hunt

A sound of heels on cobblestones. Where? In front of him, and fading. He headed into the narrow streets of the old city, following the sound. The streets were like a maze. He’d been lost in them before, unable to believe afterwards that there were so few of them... just as those lost in a maze cannot believe it’s not bigger than it is.

He couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. He stood for a moment, turning his head, listening intently. Then he moved on. The streets grew, if anything, narrower, then widened again. A square. Then more streets. Christ, it was dark. Backup. He needed backup. Was there a police station anywhere nearby? Noise, voices... coming into the square. Three teenagers, two girls and one boy. They looked drunk, happy, heading home slowly. He hid his gun in its holster and ran up to them.

“Have you seen a woman?”

“Don’t need to, I’ve got two here.” The boy gave the two girls a squeeze.

Elder attempted a sane man’s smile. “Is there a police station?”

“No idea.”

“Are you in trouble?” asked one of the girls. Elder shook his head.

“Just looking for my... my wife. She’s tall, younger than me. We managed to get separated, and...”

“On holiday are you? Thought so.”

“Here, we did see that woman... where was she? Stonebow?”

There were shrugs.

“Down that way,” said the girl, pointing.

“Thanks,” said Elder. As he moved off, he heard the boy say “Silly sod” quite loudly. The girls giggled.

Down this way. Hold on, though... He stopped again. What was he doing? Witch had already taken a shot at him. She knew he was here. So why not let her find him? Was she behind him, following, watching patiently as he ran himself ragged? That would be typical of her, biding her time until he was exhausted, then catching him off guard. Yes, he could run this maze for hours and never find her. Not unless she wanted to be found. He walked back the way he’d come, glancing behind him. What he needed was a dead end, and he found one: an alleyway leading from The Shambles. He staggered into it, tipping over a litter bin, and leaned against the wall, breathing hoarsely, coughing. One hand was against the wall, supporting him, the other was inside his jacket, as though holding his ribs or rubbing away a stitch. Whenever he paused in his loud breathing, there was silence around him, almost oppressively heavy. And inside him, a pounding of blood.

“Hey, priest.” Her voice was quiet. He had not heard her approach. He turned his head slowly towards the mouth of the alley. It was dark in the alley itself, but the street was illuminated. He knew he could see her better than she could see him. But she knew it, too. Perhaps that’s why she was standing to one side of the alley’s mouth, partly hidden by the corner of the wall. She was aiming a pistol at him.

She looked different. Not just physically different — that was to be expected — but somehow calmer, at peace.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asked between intakes of breath. “Now that your father’s dead?”

“Ooh, Mr. Elder, and there I was thinking age had slowed you down. Yes, I’m satisfied.” She paused. “Just about.” The gun was steady in her hand. She had made no attempt to enter the alley itself. Why should she? It was a dead end. He was not going to escape.

“What now? Retirement?” he asked. “Your Dutch friend tells us you were paid a million dollars for the assassination.”

“A million, yes. Enough to buy a lot of retirement. What about you, Mr. Elder? I thought you were retired, too.”

“I was, but how could I turn down the chance of finding you?”

He saw her smile. “Finding me again, ” she corrected. “Tell me, Mr. Elder, how’s your back?”

“Good as new.”

“Really?” She was still smiling. “You must be ready for another autograph, then. Something a bit more permanent.”

“Do you remember,” he said, “in Docklands, just before you gave me that final kick...?”

“You started to ask me a question.”

“That’s right. I want to ask it now. It’s important to me.” He paused. “It’s the reason I’ve been hunting you so long.”

“Go ahead and ask.”

He swallowed drily, licked his lips. His mouth felt coated with bad coffee.

“Paris, eight years ago, in June. A bomb went off in a shopping arcade. Was it you?”

She was silent for a tantalizing moment. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“No, it was either you or it wasn’t.”

“No interviews allowed.” Her finger began to squeeze the trigger.

Elder called out: “Biddy, no!”

The use of her real name froze her for a second. A second was all Elder needed. The hand inside his jacket was already gripped around the Browning’s butt. He swung and fired, diving farther back into the darkness as he did so. He fired off three shots, stumbling backwards all the time, seeking safety in the shadows and the dustbins and the stacks of empty boxes. Three shots. None of them returned. He waited, listening. Some dogs had been startled awake and were barking in the distance. A window opened somewhere nearby.

“What the hell was that?” he heard a voice say. “Sounded like guns. Call the police, love.”

Yes, call the police. Slowly, Elder got to his feet and walked to the mouth of the alley, keeping close to the wall, his gun hand hanging at his side. Then he stuck his head out into the street.

And the cold metal mouth of a pistol touched his forehead.

Witch was standing there, smiling unsteadily. Her grip on the gun wasn’t steady either. She was wounded. He daren’t take his eyes off hers, but he could see a dark stain spreading across her right side. She placed the palm of her hand against it, then lifted the hand away, her fingers rubbing slickly against each other. Elder could smell the blood.

“Biddy,” he said, “you don’t hate me.” His whole head felt numb from the touch of the pistol against his brow. He felt dizzy, giddy. Witch’s smile grew wider.

“Hate you? Of course I don’t hate you. It’s just that I don’t want to...” she swallowed “...to disappoint you.” She fell against the shopfront, her gun arm dropping to her side. Elder took hold of her and eased her down so that she was sitting on the ground, legs in front of her, back resting against the shopfront, the same rag-doll posture in which she’d left her father. Only then did he remove the pistol from her hand. From the lack of resistance in her fingers he knew she was dying, if not already dead. He heard feet running, several pairs of feet, and calls.

“Down this way?”

“No, down here.”

“The car’s parked at Goodramgate.”

“Try The Shambles.”

“Take that street there...”

And then someone was standing in front of him.

“Found him!” the voice called. It belonged to a uniformed constable. The constable looked young, still in his teens. He stared in horror at the bloody bundle nestling against Dominic Elder.

“Is she...?”

And now more footsteps. “Dominic! Are you all right?”

Joyce crouched down in front of him, her eyes finding a level with his. He nodded.

“I’m fine, Joyce. Really.” He looked up. Greenleaf was standing there, too, now, pistol in his hand, not looking at Elder but at Witch.

“Here she is, John,” said Elder, still holding the unmoving body. “Here’s what all the fuss was about. A kid who didn’t like her dad.”

“Her dad?”

“Jonathan Barker. He’s on the wall between Goodramgate and the Minster.”

“Not alive, I presume?”

“Not alive, no.” Elder looked down at Witch again. She looked like Christine Jones. Now, she would always look like Christine Jones in his mind, just as for two years she’d looked like a down-and-out. He wondered what she looked like really. He wondered if even she knew.