Authors: Ian Rankin
‘She’s twenty-nine,’ Elder said. Ted looked suitably surprised.
‘So it’s not a case of the kid running away with the fair?’ he said, more to himself than to Elder. ‘Twenty-nine, eh? Got a photo of her?’
‘Not on me, no. I was in Cliftonville, and when I heard about your fair, well, I rushed down here without thinking.’
‘Twenty-nine ... and she likes fairs, you say?’
‘I’m afraid she’s ... well, she’s a little
backward,
Ted. An accident as a child ...’
Ted raised a hand. ‘Say no more, Mr Elder. Understood. Well, I can certainly put the word about. You’d better give me a description.’
‘Of course. She’s slim, five foot ten inches.’
‘Tall then?’
‘Tall, yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, the problem is ... she may have disguised herself. You know, dyed her hair, bought a wig. Her hair’s usually short, dark brown.’
‘Doesn’t matter really. A woman her age, hanging around the rides, someone’ll have clocked her. Are you sticking around Brighton, Mr Elder? Only, there’s a few more fairs on the go - Eastbourne, Guildford, Newbury - I could give you the names of some people to talk with ...’
‘That’s very kind of you, Ted.’
‘Hold on, I’ll get a bit of paper.’
He went through to another room, probably his office. Elder thought about getting to his feet but decided that his best bet was to stay seated, that way he could be fairly sure of maintaining the sympathy vote. The standing/sitting psychology only worked if, when you were standing, the person who was seated was trying to be your equal. But Elder, in confessing to having a ‘backward’ daughter, had relinquished such a role, placing the burden of responsibility on the ‘stronger’ Ted.
It was the sort of stuff you learned early on in Elder’s profession. Another trick of the tradecraft.
The door to the caravan opened and a woman clambered aboard. She seemed surprised to see Elder. He took her for Ted’s wife until she spoke.
‘Sorry, is Ted about?’
‘Here, Rosa,’ called Ted, emerging from his office. He pointed a biro at Elder. ‘This is Mr Elder. His daughter’s run away. Last seen in Cliftonville. He was wondering if we’d come across her.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. She perched herself on the edge of an armchair. ‘What’s her name, lovey?’
‘Diana,’ said Elder.
Ted laughed. ‘Trust Rosa to get down to nuts and bolts. I clean forgot to ask you what she was called. Mr Elder, this is Gypsy Rose Pellengro, mistress of the crystal ball.’
Elder nodded his greeting towards Gypsy Rose, and she smiled back.
‘Diana,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely name, sir. Your wife’s choice or yours?’
Elder laughed. ‘I can’t honestly remember. It was a long time ago.’
‘Mr Elder’s daughter is twenty-nine,’ Ted informed Gypsy Rose. He had settled at a table, slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, and was scratching on a piece of notepaper with his pen.
‘Twenty-nine?’ said Gypsy Rose. ‘I thought she was—’
‘Me, too,’ said Ted. ‘Preconceptions, Rosa. You see, Mr Elder, we get a lot of parents coming to us. Oh, yes, a lot. Their kiddies have gone missing and they’re desperate to find them. One woman ... up in Watford, I think it is ... she’s been coming to see me for six or seven years. Very sad, clinging to hope like that.’
‘Sad,’ echoed Gypsy Rose.
‘Diana’s tall and slim,’ Ted informed Gypsy Rose, ‘and she’s maybe got short dark hair. I don’t suppose she came to you for a consultation while we were in Cliftonville?’
‘No.’ Gypsy Rose shook her head. ‘No, I’d have remembered someone like that.’
Like what? thought Elder. The description was vague to the point of uselessness.
‘Well, ask around the other stalls, will you, Rosa?’ Ted had taken off his glasses and risen from his chair. He handed Elder the slip of paper, which Elder read. Four different fairs in four locations, with dates and a contact name for each.
‘Thank you very much,’ Elder said, pocketing the note. ‘They’re not as big as this, mind. We all join up for the bigger events. Tell them Ted sent you, they should see you right.’
‘Thanks again,’ Elder said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small notebook and a pen. ‘I’m staying at a hotel in Cliftonville. I may have to move on, but they can forward any messages to me.’ He wrote down the telephone number, tore out the page, and handed it to Ted.
‘If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,’ said Ted.
‘I’d be very grateful.’ Elder rose to his feet. ‘It’s been nice to meet you,’ he said to Gypsy Rose.
‘Likewise.’
Ted saw him to the door. The two men shook hands.
‘Mind how you go, Mr Elder,’ said Ted. ‘And good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ said Elder. ‘Goodbye.’
He walked with care across the snaking lengths of power-cable, squeezed between two closed stalls, and was back on the road again. He wandered the length of the fair, and stopped beside the caravan belonging to Gypsy Rose Pellengro, reading the citations pinned to the board beside her door. He peered in through the window. The interior looked neat and plain.
‘She’ll be back in five minutes!’ someone yelled from further along. Elder walked towards the voice. A middle-aged man was unhooking chains from in front of the ghost train. Already, two young children, brother and sister, stood waiting for the ride to open. Elder nodded a greeting at the man. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘maybe I’ll come by later.’
‘Please yourself.’ The man looked at the children and jerked his head towards the carriages. ‘On you go then, hop in.’ They fairly sprinted for the train’s front carriage. The man smiled, watching them go. Then he headed for his booth, leaning into it. ‘Hold tight,’ he warned. ‘Or the goblins’ll grab you.’ He grinned towards Elder. ‘And being grabbed by the goblins,’ he said, ‘is no laughing matter.’
Elder obliged with a laugh, then watched as the train jolted forwards, hit the doors, and rattled its way through them into darkness. The doors swung shut again, showing a picture of a leering demon.
‘Your two, are they?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ said Elder, listening for shrieks from the interior.
‘No?’ The man sounded surprised. ‘I thought they were. If I’d known, I’d have had the money off them first.’
Elder brought out some coins from his pocket. ‘They can have this ride on me anyway,’ he said, handing over the money. Then he moved off again, passing rides and booths and Barnaby’s Gun Stall. Outside the Gun Stall, which was locked shut, there was a wooden figure, its sex indeterminate. Pinned to the centre of its chest was what remained of a small paper target, only the four right-angled edges left. Above this, taped to the figure’s head, was a crudely written message: ‘A young lady did this. Can YOU do better?’ Elder smiled.
A voice came from behind him. ‘Well, could you?’
He turned. A young man was standing there, head cocked to one side, hands in the greasy pockets of his denims. Elder looked at the target.
‘Probably not,’ he said.
‘Come back in an hour, guv, and you can see if you’re right. Only two quid a go.’
‘The young woman... she must have been quite something.’
The man winked. ‘Maybe I’m lying, eh? Maybe I just tore the middle out myself.’ And he snorted a short-lived laugh. ‘Open in an hour,’ he repeated, moving away. Elder watched him go.
A travelling fair. What connection could Witch possibly have with a travelling fair? None that he could think of.
I’d have remembered someone like that.
Rosa Pellengro had sounded very sure of herself. Very sure. But then she was supposed to be a clairvoyant. He wondered if it was worthwhile keeping a watch on the fair. Maybe Witch had been here. If so, she might come back or she might not.
He was in a thoughtful mood as he reached Doyle’s car. Two gulls cackled somewhere in the distance. They had left generous gifts on the windscreen and bonnet. Elder sighed. Time to find a car-wash.
‘I’m glad you’ve called,’ Michael Barclay said into the receiver.
‘And who was that delightful French lady?’ Dominic Elder asked.
‘My colleague’s mother.’ Just then Dominique herself came into the hall and handed Barclay a glass of cold beer, with which he toasted her. It had been another long day.
‘Since you’re glad I called,’ Elder went on, ‘I take it you’re either in trouble or you’re on to something.’
‘Maybe both,’ said Barclay. ‘When I bugged Separt’s apartment, I copied some of his computer disks.’
‘Clever boy.’
‘I bet Mrs Parry would say something different. Anyway, we’ve been reading through them. Mostly ideas for cartoon strips, but there’s a lot of personal correspondence too, including a couple of letters to Wolf Bandorff.’
‘Well well.’
‘Discussing some project of Separt’s, a cartoon book about Bandorff’s career.’
‘The world is a strange place, Michael. So what does this tell us?’
‘It connects Separt to Witch’s old teacher.’
‘It does indeed. It’s almost as if she’s living her life again backwards.’
‘Sorry?’ Barclay had finished the beer. He held the cold glass against his face, like a second telephone receiver.
‘She started her life in Britain, but early on joined Bandorff’s gang. The link seems still to be there.’
Barclay still wasn’t sure what Elder was getting at. ‘You told me,’ he said, ‘always work the idea all the way through.’
There was a pause. ‘You’re thinking of taking another trip?’
‘Yes. Do you think I could get it past Mrs Parry?’
Elder considered this. ‘To be frank, almost certainly not. It’s getting too far out of our territory.’ He paused. ‘Then again, maybe there’s just a chance.’
‘How?’
Elder’s voice seemed to have faded slightly. ‘You’ve lied to her before, haven’t you ... ?’
Dominique had already made
her
necessary telephone calls, and now all Barclay had to do, before taking her to dinner, was make one call himself. To Joyce Parry.
Elder was right, he’d lied to her before. Well, he’d been economical with the truth, say. But this time he was going to deliver a whopper. He went over his story two or three times in his head, Dominique goading him into making the call right now and getting it over and done with. At last he picked up the phone.
‘Joyce Parry speaking.’
‘It’s Michael Barclay here.’
‘Ah, Michael, I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘Well, there’s a bit of a lull here.’
‘You’re on your way home then?’
‘Ah ... not exactly. Any progress?’
‘Special Branch and Mr Elder are still in Cliftonville. A lorry driver picked up a hitch-hiker and dropped her there, did you know? Anyway, it seems a note was left for Mr Elder at a pub in the town.’
‘A note?’
‘Vaguely threatening, signed with the initial W.’
‘God, that must have shaken him up a bit.’ He swallowed. He’d almost said, He didn’t tell me.
‘He seemed very calm when I spoke to him. Now then, what about you?’
He swallowed again. ‘DST are keeping watch on a couple of men. One of them, the one who had his car stolen, he’s a left-wing sympathiser. He didn’t report the car stolen until
after
the explosions on the two boats. DST think that’s suspicious, and I tend to agree with them.’
‘Go on.’
‘This man has made contact with an anarchist. We ... that is, DST ... think the anarchist may know Witch. They think maybe the anarchist persuaded the other man to turn a blind eye while his car was taken.’
‘Not to say anything, you mean?’
‘Yes, until
after
Witch was home and dry ... so to speak.’
‘You sound tired, Michael. Are they treating you all right?’
He almost laughed. ‘Oh yes, no complaints.’
‘So what now?’
‘As I say, they’re keeping a watch on both men. I thought I’d give it until Monday, see if anything happens.’
‘A weekend in Paris, eh?’
‘A working weekend, ma’am.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Her tone was good-humoured. Barclay hated himself for what he was doing. But it had to be done. No way would she sanction a trip to Germany, especially when explaining the trip would mean explaining how he’d come upon Separt’s correspondence and Wrightson’s leaflets.
‘Okay, take the weekend,’ Joyce Parry was saying. ‘But be back here Monday. The summit begins Tuesday, and I want you in London. God knows, we’ll be stretched as it is.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And let me know the minute you learn anything.’
‘Of course.’
‘And Michael... ?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘You’ve already proved a point. You found something Special Branch missed. Okay?’
‘Yes, thank you, ma’am. Goodbye.’
He noticed that his hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver.