Authors: Ian Rankin
‘Or swimming,’ from behind the desk.
‘At that time of night?’ Bill Moncur laughed again. Again, nobody laughed with him. ‘We didn’t talk that much really. I thought that if she got to talking about it, she’d burst into tears. That was the last thing I wanted.’
‘So would you describe her as ... what? Sullen?’
‘No, not sullen. I mean, she was pleasant enough and all. Smiled a few times. Laughed at one of my jokes.’
‘Where was she headed?’
‘She said Margate would do. At first, anyway.’
‘She didn’t specify her destination?’ asked Doyle, but now the quiet man, Greenleaf, the one with the cassette-deck, spoke.
‘What did you mean, “at first”?’
‘Well, when we got a bit closer, she asked if I was going through Cliftonville. To be honest, I wasn’t, but she looked washed out. So I asked her if that was where she wanted dropping off, and she nodded. It wasn’t much out of my way, so I took her there.’
‘Cliftonville. Somewhere specific in Cliftonville?’
‘No, anywhere along the front seemed to suit her. She wasn’t bothered. I thought it was funny at the time. I mean, saying where you want to go, then not really minding whereabouts you’re dropped off once you get there. Maybe she was going to run away with the circus, eh?’
‘Maybe.’ This from behind the desk again. ‘I’d like to hear anything she said to you, Mr Moncur, anything you can remember. It doesn’t matter how trivial you think it was, whether it was just yes or no to a question or whatever.
Anything
she said to you, I’d like to hear it.’
So he’d to go over the whole journey. It took the best part of half an hour. They’d to put in fresh tapes at one point. He noticed that they were making two copies of the interview. Finally, he asked a question of his own.
‘What’s she done then? What’s so important?’
‘We think she’s a terrorist, Mr Moncur.’
‘Terrorist?’ He sounded amazed. ‘I don’t hold no truck with that sort of—’
‘You might not
hold
any truck,’ said Doyle, ‘but you had one
in
your truck.’ And he grinned. Bill Moncur found himself unable to smile back. ‘Get it?’ Doyle asked Greenleaf.
‘I get it, Doyle,’ said Greenleaf.
‘You said she had long hair,’ the man behind the desk interrupted. ‘How long?’
Moncur tapped his back with a finger. ‘Right down to here,’ he said.
‘Could it have been a wig?’
Moncur shrugged.
Now Doyle came up to him, leaning down over him, grinning. ‘Just between us, Bill, man to man like, we all know what it’s like driving a lorry ... picking up a woman. Did you ... you know ... did you ... ?’ Doyle winked and leered. But Moncur was shaking his head.
‘Nothing like that,’ he said.
Doyle straightened up. He looked disappointed. He looked at Moncur as if he might be gay.
‘Not that I wouldn’t have or anything,’ Moncur protested. ‘But that time of night ... I was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t have got it up for a centrefold.’
Doyle still looked dubious.
‘Honest,’ said Moncur.
‘Well,’ said the one behind the desk, ‘no need to dwell on that.’
Then came the crusher.
‘Mr Moncur,’ he continued, ‘we’ll have to go to Cliftonville. We need to know exactly where you dropped her off.’
‘Fine, okay.’ Bill Moncur nodded enthusiastically. They were leaving! He’d be out of here in a minute. ‘When you go into the town,’ he said, ‘you head straight for—’
‘You don’t understand, Mr Moncur. Directions won’t do. We need you there with us to show us the spot.’
‘What?’ It dawned on him. ‘Cliftonville? Now? Aw, for Christ’s sake.’
They busied themselves with locating a detailed map of Cliftonville, ignoring Bill Moncur’s protestations. The CID man, DS Hines, appeared again to see if they needed a car. No, the one car they already had would be enough. And then the pretty WPC put her head round the door, smiling at Moncur. He blessed her for that smile.
‘Need any tea or coffee here?’ she asked.
‘Not for us, thanks. We’ve got to be going. Come on, Mr Moncur. We’ll take the same route you took that night. That way, you can show us where you picked up Witch.’
‘Picked up which what?’
The one from behind the desk smiled for a moment. ‘A slip of the tongue,’ he said, motioning towards the doorway with his arm. ‘After you.’
Eventually, at the end of his gruelling day, a police car took Bill Moncur back to Folkestone.
Elder, Doyle and Greenleaf remained in Cliftonville, their unmarked car (Doyle’s car, still messy from his French trip) parked in the forecourt of a small hotel. They’d booked rooms for the evening, despite having brought nothing with them, no change of clothes, no toothbrushes ... It was Elder’s decision, but the Special Branch men were happy to go along with it, Greenleaf despite the facts that a) he’d have to call Shirley to tell her, and b) he’d be sharing a room with Doyle. They visited a chemist’s and bought toiletries, before rendez-vousing in the hotel lounge. It was just the right side of salubrious, with a tropical theme to the furnishings which extended to an island mural on one wall. A long time ago someone had painted white seashells on the dark green linoleum floor. They had the place to themselves. Greenleaf couldn’t imagine why.
‘It’s important,’ said Elder, ‘not to let the trail grow colder than it already is. That means working through this evening.’
‘Fine,’ said Doyle, ‘but am I being stupid or was the last sighting of Witch in Auchterwhatsit, six hundred miles north of here?’
Elder smiled. ‘You’re not being stupid, Mr Doyle, but there’s something we’ve got to ask ourselves.’
Doyle said nothing, so Greenleaf provided the answer.
‘Why did she specifically want to come to Cliftonville?’
‘Exactly, Mr Greenleaf. I mean, look at the place. It’s quiet, anonymous. It’s perfect for her.’
Now Doyle spoke. ‘You think she’s got a contact here?’
Elder shrugged. ‘It’s possible her paymaster met her here with final instructions.’
‘You don’t think she’s
here
though?’
‘Mr Doyle, as my old Aberdonian tailor used to say, discount nothing.’
Doyle thought about this for a moment, realised a joke had been made, and laughed. Greenleaf didn’t: his mother had come from Aberdeen.
‘So what do we do this evening?’
‘We cover as much ground as possible. That means splitting up. I’d suggest one of us makes contact with the local police, one asks around in the pubs, and one asks taxi drivers and so on. We’re talking about the wee sma’ hours of a Monday morning. A woman dropped off and having, presumably, to walk to some destination. A late-night patrol car may have spotted her. Taxi drivers may have slowed to see if they had a fare. Were there any nightclubs emptying around the time she arrived? Someone may, without knowing it, have seen something. Perhaps she’d prearranged her late arrival with a hotel or boarding-house. Or maybe some early-day fisherman saw her - we can’t possibly cover all the angles, that’s where the local police will come in.’
‘We should set up a Portakabin on the front, put up posters: have you seen this woman, that sort of thing. Ask everybody who passes ...’
But Elder was shaking his head. ‘No, Doyle, that’s precisely what we don’t want.’
‘Because,’ Greenleaf added, ‘if she is still around here, we don’t want to chase her away.’
‘Precisely. Softly softly, as the saying goes. Now, sitting here like this, we’re already losing valuable time. Let’s get down to some
real
work.’
Walking through the blowy streets that night, his feet swelling in his shoes, Dominic Elder was worried. It wasn’t Greenleaf and Doyle who worried him. They seemed capable sorts, if slightly curious as a twosome. Well, perhaps not. It was the old interrogation two-step: bad guy and nice guy. It could be a useful combination.
Elder did something he hadn’t done in years. He bought some cod and chips. The meal came on a polystyrene tray with a small wooden fork, the whole wrapped in a custom paper bag. Different to the way Elder remembered it: greasy newsprint coming off on his hands, picking at the fish-flesh with his fingers. The cod had texture but no flavour at all. And the chips tasted mass-produced. There was a regularity about their size which depressed him, but it did not worry him.
Witch worried him.
He could almost smell her, almost taste her behind the seaside flavours and aromas. She had been here. And not long enough ago for her taint to have left the place. Was she still here? He didn’t think so. But if the hunt started to close in on her, she might just come back. A safe port in a storm. This had been her first lair on arriving in England. It would have meaning and resonance for her. Wounded, she might come crawling back. It would do no harm for Elder to learn the ground, her home-ground. So he walked, stopping to talk with people. Was the bakery all-night? It was, but the shift didn’t come on till eleven. He could come back and ask his questions then. As he walked, he became more comfortable with his story. She was his daughter. She’d run away, and he wanted to find her. Doyle and Greenleaf were to tell similar tales in the pubs and clubs, with the necessary alteration turning Witch into their sister rather than daughter.
Elder knew he was getting old. Despite living in the country, tonight was as much walking as he’d done in a year or more. Doyle and Greenleaf were younger, fitter and faster than him. They’d be fast making a life or death decision. Would he be too slow? Say he came up against Witch, came up against her again. Would she be so much faster than him? Or was she ageing too? No, not judging by the Khan assassination. If anything, she was sharper than ever, damn her. He’d been rusty at the police station, interviewing the lorry driver. He’d asked leading questions rather than waiting for Moncur to tell his version. That was bad.
That
worried him.
Something else worried him, too. She wouldn’t have come to Britain unless she was after very big game indeed. He didn’t know why he felt this, but he did. Britain was enemy territory to her, Elder’s territory. He couldn’t help but think of the whole thing on the personal level. Which was dangerous. Things might start getting out of perspective. He might start reading too much or not enough into certain situations. He wished he knew who her target was. It crossed his mind - it had crossed his mind all week - that maybe
he
was her target. But, really, this was nothing but ego. It didn’t make sense. He was no threat to her. He was in retirement, off the scene. Unless ... unless there was something in his file on her, something he’d overlooked and which could be dangerous to her. Well, Barclay had the file now; maybe he would see something, something Elder couldn’t see.
Her target had to be the summit. But wasn’t it at the same time just too obvious, as Greenleaf had hinted? All those heads of state ... But look at the challenge it presented to her. The security services of nine countries would be there, protecting their leaders. Over seven hundred and fifty security personnel in total (the majority supplied, of course, by the host nation), and more if you counted the uniformed police officers who would line the routes, holding back traffic and the public. Oh yes, it was a challenge all right, but then challenges had never been Witch’s thing. She worked on a smaller scale. Yes, there was the Pope, but they’d scared her off there with fewer personnel. Besides, that was Wolf Bandorff’s plan, not hers. Kidnappings, peace campaigners ... these were her arena. Would she bother, these days, with a head of state?
God alone knew. God, and the woman herself.
Dominic Elder. A priest’s name. You should have been a priest.
That’s what she’d told him. Remembering, he rubbed his back.
He had come to the outskirts of the town. The wind was sharp and salty, the sea a distant clash. Maybe a storm was coming. The wind, though sharp, was warm. Clouds moved fast against the sky. He paused to rub at his back, and stared at the spotlit frontage of a small pub. Pubs were Doyle’s and Greenleaf’s territory. But all the same, the vinegary chips had left him with a dry throat. He stared at the pub’s name.
The Cat over the Broomstick.
The name decided him. He pushed open the door and entered smoke and noise. It was a young people’s pub. Jukebox, video games, loud conversations peppered with swearing, and necking in the few dark corners available. He hesitated, but walked up to the bar anyway. The youth in front of him, being served with seven pints of lager, wore a denim jacket with its arms shorn off, and beneath it a leather jacket, arms intact. Elder recognised biker gear when he saw it. A biker pub then, the dull offspring of the original Hell’s Angels. Someone behind him called out ‘Hey, Grandad!’ to snorts of laughter. Elder stood his ground. The pints had been loaded onto a tray, the tray taken away. The barman was Elder’s age, and sweating. He wore an apologetic look for his new customer, a look which said, ‘It’s business. If they weren’t spending money here they’d be doing it somewhere else.’
‘Whisky, please,’ said Elder, ‘a double.’