Authors: Ian Rankin
‘I shouldn’t think so. She wasn’t the type to keep that sort of knowledge to herself.’
Now Barclay interrupted. ‘There’s no suspicion surrounding her death?’
‘No, the post mortem was meticulous. She died from natural causes.’
‘To wit?’
‘Lung cancer. She was a heavy smoker.’
‘Yes,’ said Elder, ‘so I seem to remember. What about Barker during this time?’
‘What time?’
‘The time he was having an affair with Marion Rose. How was his career shaping up?’
‘Pretty well. He wasn’t quite in politics then, of course. But he was in the running for a candidacy. He got it, won the seat, and that was him into parliament.’
‘At quite a young age.’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘Yes, twenty-nine. No children by the first marriage?’
‘No.’
‘Did the first marriage have its problems then?’
‘Not that we know of. Apart from the glaring fact that Barker was having at least one affair.’
‘This was his second marriage - Marion’s first?’
‘That’s right.’
‘A quiet woman?’
‘Yes, until recently. I mean, her profile increased.’
‘Mmm, the image-men got their hands on her. Charitable good works and so on, but unassuming with it ... the model MP’s wife.’
‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘He didn’t get into parliament at the first attempt, did he?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he lost.’
‘Yes, but
why
did he lose?’
A shrug. ‘Swing to the—’
‘But
why,
Joyce?’
She paused, swallowed. ‘There was a rumour he was a bit of a ladies’ man. A localised rumour, but it put enough voters off.’
‘But by the second by-election?’
‘He was cleaner than clean.’
‘And has been since?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s risen and risen.’
‘Not exactly meteoric though.’
‘No, slow, meticulous, I agree with you there. And there’ve been no scandals?’
‘Not in parliament, no.’
‘But outside parliament?’
‘Just the one you referred to, and that was never public.’
‘What? His fling with Marion? Mm, wouldn’t have gone down well though, would it? Wouldn’t go down well even now, even as ancient history - MP sleeping with secretary while wife’s dying of cancer. Bit of a black mark. He was a millionaire?’
‘By the time he was twenty-one.’
‘Father’s money?’
‘Mostly, yes, but he put it to good use.’
‘A wise investor.’
‘A chain of record shops, actually, just in time to clean up on the Beatles and the Stones.’
‘Like I say, a wise investor.’ Elder rubbed at his forehead. ‘To get back to his affair with Marion, what do we know about it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘All right,’ said Elder, ‘I will. What happened to the child?’
‘Child?’
‘There
was
a child, wasn’t there?’
Joyce Parry looked down at the desk. ‘We don’t know for sure.’
‘No? But there were “localised rumours”, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear me, a pregnant secretary, a wife dying of cancer, and he’s put himself forward as a constituency candidate. Maybe for the second and potentially the last time. I mean, the last time if he didn’t win.’ Elder tutted and turned to Barclay. ‘What would
you
do, Michael?’
Barclay started at the mention of his name, then thought for a second. ‘If I was a millionaire ... pay off the secretary. She could go and look after the kid in secret, a monthly allowance or something.’
‘Mmm ... what about you, Miss Herault?’
‘Me?’ Dominique looked startled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I would perhaps persuade my lover to abort.’
Elder nodded. ‘Yes, that’s probably what I’d do. What about you, Joyce?’
‘An abortion, yes, if she’d agree to it.’
‘Ah ...’ Elder raised his index finger. ‘If she’d agree to it. What if she wouldn’t?’
‘Tell her it’s finished between us?’ suggested Barclay.
‘That would break her heart, Michael,’ said Elder. ‘She loves you. She’d do anything but leave you. It would turn her against you if you spurned her. She might go to anybody with her story, the papers, the TV, anybody.’
‘Then we’re back to square one,’ said Joyce Parry.
‘If she loves this man,’ said Dominique, ‘surely she will agree eventually to the termination, no?’
‘Yes,’ said Elder. ‘Yes, she’d agree all right. The question is: would she go through with it?’
Dominique gave a big shrug. ‘We cannot ask her, she is dead ... isn’t she?’
‘Oh yes, she’s dead all right.’
‘Then who can we ask? I do not understand.’
‘It’s not as though we’ve got a crystal ball,’ said Barclay.
‘Michael,’ said Elder, turning to him and slapping a hand down onto his knee, ‘but that’s precisely what we
have
got. And that’s exactly what we’ll use ...’
With Trilling’s blessing, Greenleaf took a breather long enough for him to visit Doyle in hospital. Doyle’s head had been bandaged, and his face was bruised. He was awake, but kept his eyes tightly shut for most of the short visit and complained of a thumping headache. A nurse had warned Greenleaf of this, and he had been told not to spend too long ‘with your friend’.
Walking towards the bed, Greenleaf wondered about that word ‘friend’.
Were
Doyle and he friends? Certainly they were closer than they had been a scant fortnight before. They worked well enough together, but that was only because they were so utterly different in outlook and temperament. The shortcomings of each were made up by the other.
The hospital was hectic. Victoria Street victims, being treated for cuts and shock. In some operating theatre, they were working on what remained of Traynor’s leg. But Doyle’s ward was quiet enough. He was lying with his head propped on a single white pillow. They’d changed him out of his suit and into regulation pyjamas, thick cotton with vertical stripes the colour of uncooked liver. The nurse had asked Greenleaf what they should do with Mr Doyle’s handgun. Greenleaf carried it with him now, inside a rolled-up white carrier. Doyle’s shoulder-holster was in there too.
Greenleaf still hadn’t handed in his own gun. Somehow he was getting used to it, nestling beneath his jacket there.
‘Hello, Doyle.’ He dragged a chair over to the bedside. The cabinet was empty save for a jug of water and a plastic beaker. Greenleaf placed the carrier beside the water-jug. Doyle opened his eyes long enough to watch this happening.
‘Is that my gun in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God for that. Thought maybe I’d lost the bloody thing. Bet they’d have taken it out of my wages.’
‘There’s these too.’ Greenleaf produced a packet of mints. ‘From Commander Trilling.’
‘It’s the thought that counts, so they say.’
Greenleaf smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Chipper. Can you get me out of here?’
‘They’re holding you overnight.’
Doyle groaned. ‘I was seeing my bird tonight.’
‘Give me her number and I’ll send your apologies.’
Doyle grinned, showing stained teeth. ‘I’ll bet you would, John-boy. No, it’s all right, let her sweat. She’ll be all the keener tomorrow. Have we caught that bitch yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Leading us a merry dance, isn’t she?’
‘Have you heard about Barker?’
‘Yeah, couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke. What does she want with him?’
Greenleaf shrugged. ‘Nobody seems to know.’
‘We were set up, weren’t we?’
‘It looks like she set
everybody
up, Doyle.’
‘Yeah, everybody. What does Elder say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know much, do you, pal? Where is he?’
‘Back in his office, I suppose.’
Doyle tried to sit up, though the effort cost him dear. He gritted his teeth and levered himself on to his elbows. Greenleaf rose from his chair to help, but Doyle growled the offer aside. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘stick close to Elder, John. He knows something we don’t, believe me. If anyone catches her, it’s going to be him. Stick close, and
we’ll
get a pop at her too. Savvy?’
Greenleaf nodded, then saw that Doyle’s eyes were closed again. ‘I savvy,’ he said. Doyle nodded back at him, and let his head fall back on to the pillow.
Greenleaf was remembering ... remembering the note Witch had left for Elder. What special bond was there between them? Maybe Doyle had a point.
‘Last time I had a head like this,’ Doyle said, ‘was the morning after that party in the boxing club. Remember it?’
‘I remember it.’
Doyle smiled faintly. ‘Good night that, wasn’t it? Knew back then that you were a good man, John. Knew it even back then.’ Doyle’s voice grew slurred and faint. ‘I’ve still got that French booze. When I get out we’ll have a bit of a party. Good man ...’
Greenleaf waited till he was asleep, the breathing regular, then he got up, moved the chair away, and lifted the carrier bag from the bedside cabinet. He touched Doyle’s shoulder lightly, smiling down on the sleeping figure.
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ he said quietly, almost too quietly to be heard.
Barclay’s car had been brought back from Calais, so they drove south in that. Barclay did the driving, while Dominique sat beside him thumping his leg and demanding that he go faster.
‘Either that or we swap places. And turn off that noise.’
‘Noise?’ Barclay bristled. ‘That’s Verdi.’
Elder sat alone in the back seat. He wasn’t in a mood for conversation, so he stared from the window and kept his responses brief whenever a question was asked of him, until both Barclay and Dominique seemed to take the hint.
He had seen it suddenly, crystal clear. Barker’s second wife, so recently deceased, had been a spiritualist. When Elder had visited the fairground, the palm-reader had been too direct in her denial of having seen Witch. It had jarred at the time, but there’d seemed no real connection until now. His back was burning, and he had to sit forward in his seat so as not to graze it against the car’s rough fabric. Have patience, Susanne, he thought to himself. Have patience. He knew he was addressing not his daughter but himself.
This time when they reached Brighton he knew exactly where to go. A few of the bigger rides had already been packed away and transported elsewhere. He still had Ted’s list in his diary, all the other fairs taking place in the region.
As they headed for The Level, he sat right forward, his head between Dominique’s and Barclay’s. ‘Now listen,’ he said, ‘hopefully I’m going to have a word with a ball-gazer. If she’s still around, that is. I want you two to take a look around ... a
good
look around.’
‘You think Witch may be here?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Shouldn’t we have some back-up?’
‘Does she know what you look like?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do we need back-up? Anyway, there’ll be back-up. Turn left here.’
Barclay turned left. It was early evening and the fair was doing some business, but not much. A late-afternoon downpour had drenched the spirits of the holidaymakers. Elder knew where Gypsy Rose’s caravan was. It was near the ghost train. Only the ghost train had gone, and in its place was a stall of some kind. But the palmist’s caravan was still there, hooked up to an estate-car. He could see it from the road. ‘Drop me here,’ Elder ordered. The car slowed to a stop, and he got out. ‘Park at the end of the road and walk back. Remember, you’re on holiday. You’re just having a look. Don’t go behaving like snoopers or coppers or anything else. Just behave ... naturally.’ The door closed, and Elder watched the car move off. Dominique seemed to put her hand to Barclay’s hair, ruffling it. He watched a moment longer before walking across the grass towards Gypsy Rose Pellengro’s caravan.
‘Mr Elder?’
The man who confronted him was heavy-built, balding. He had his hands deep in the pockets of a windcheater beneath which he wore a white T-shirt. He looked like a manual worker, maybe a carpenter or builder, but respectable. He was one of Special Branch’s best.
Elder nodded, looking around. ‘Anything?’
‘Quiet as the grave. I don’t know how she affords that Volvo of hers.’
‘Her kid has money.’
Late on Sunday night, Joyce Parry had reported to Elder Bandorff’s mentions of tarots, clairvoyance and psychoanalysis. First thing Monday morning, Elder had briefed the man supplied by Special Branch. Not that he thought Witch would creep back to the fair, but there was always the chance.