Witch Hunt

  ‘It shouldn’t come to that. Three days should suffice. What about your housemates?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’ll be worried if you suddenly disappear.’

  ‘Not them. I don’t think they’d bother. I go away with my boyfriend all the time without saying anything.’

  ‘But you’ve split up with your boyfriend.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Witch smiled. ‘And you’re lying about your housemates. They’ll be worried if they don’t hear from you.’ She reached into her bag and produced a card of some kind. Christine saw it was a postcard. There were four separate views on the front and some writing: ‘Greetings from Auchterarder’. Witch untied Christine’s right hand. ‘I want you to send them a postcard.’ The card, which had been sitting on the bed, slipped off on to the floor. Before she realised the enormity of her mistake, Witch had leaned halfway towards the floor to retrieve it.

  Christine’s free hand shot to the bedside cabinet and snatched at the iron, stabbing at Witch with it. But Witch was too quick. She leapt from the bed and stood at a safe distance.

  ‘Get out!’ screamed Christine. ‘Go on, get out of here!’ Then she started to yell at the top of her voice. ‘Help! Someone, please! Help!’

  There was no time for indecision. Witch turned and left the room, closing the door after her. Christine might stop yelling for a moment to listen for sounds of her leaving. At the bottom of the stairs, Witch walked along the hall, opened the front door, checked that no one was in the street, then slammed it shut. On tiptoe, she walked back along the hall to the cupboard beside the living-room door, the cupboard under the stairs. Christine would have put the iron down so that, with her one free hand, she could untie her other bonds. They were difficult knots. It would take her some seconds.

  The switch on the fusebox went from On to Off. The lights went off. The noisy fridge clunked to a halt. The display on the bedside clock went blank. Christine realised what was happening and started yelling again. Witch was climbing the stairs, her eyes cold and hard. She opened the door to Christine’s room. The evening was still light, even though Witch had closed the curtains. There was the beginning of an orange glow from the street-lighting. They stared at one another, Witch utterly silent, Christine almost hoarse from shouting, and crying too. Of course, Christine knew that the iron she was again holding, the only thing that held Witch at bay, was cooling and would not get hot again. If she put it down, she could untie the knots, but if she put it down...

  She did what Witch had hoped she would. She grew frustrated. And she tried to throw the iron not at Witch - Christine was cleverer than that - but at the window. But the plug held in the socket and the iron fell to the floor with a dull thud. It took two seconds for Witch to reach the bed, raise a fist, and strike Christine Jones back into unconsciousness.

  Stillness. Peace. She peered out through the curtains. Someone in the house across the street was staring from their window. Someone else joined them, then they gave up and turned away. She had to act fast now. Things were becoming dangerous. She went to the fusebox and turned it back on. Then, in the living-room, she made a telephone call.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said into the receiver.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d call.’ He pronounced the final word as ‘gall’.

  ‘I need a package picked up,’ Witch said. ‘A large package. I’ll give you the address. The package needs to be stored for a few days. Can you do that?’

  ‘It’s in one piece, is it? Damaged goods might be a problem.’

  ‘It’s in one piece.’

  ‘All right, give me the address.’

  She did so.

  ‘We need to meet,’ said the voice, a European voice, Dutch perhaps.

  ‘Monday,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you. The package needs to be picked up within the hour, sooner if possible.’

  ‘To Stoke Newington? Twenty minutes.’

  ‘Good.’ She put down the telephone. She returned to Christine’s room and opened the wardrobe. On top was a small suitcase, which she lifted down. She began to pack clothes, enough for a few days’ travel. Good clothes, too, including the smartest-looking dress. She also packed make-up, and a few toiletries from the bathroom. Christine seemed to keep her things in a wash-bag. The wash-bag and its contents went into the case. Shoes, too. And one of the fat new library books.

  She took her own carrier bag downstairs and placed it next to the front door. Beside it she left Christine’s attaché case and satchel, having first checked that her security pass was in the satchel, along with other documentation allowing access to canteens, clubs, sports facilities. She stared for a moment at the photograph on the security pass. The photo showed head and shoulders only, as these things always did. Another lapse: anyone with similar facial features could use another person’s card, even if, like Witch and Christine, one of them was a good four inches taller than the other.

  With make-up and a little hairdressing, she could pass for Christine Jones. She felt sure of it. She looked again out into the street. No signs of police or even curious neighbours. If anyone had heard the cries, they were ignoring them. Witch lifted the postcard from beside Christine’s bed, took up a pen, and printed the message: HARD WORK BUT FUN. SEE YOU SOON. c. She then also printed the address of the house, leaving the space for names blank. An envelope on Christine’s study-desk gave her the correct postcode. She reread the card. It was by no means perfect, but it would have to suffice... under the circumstances. The card had already been stamped with a Scottish-issue stamp, the lion rampant in one corner. She’d been so careful in Auchterarder. So careful. The card was delicious. Elder and company wouldn’t see it till afterwards, till long after she’d gone.

  The case was all packed. Time to tidy up. She put the iron back where she’d found it, and plugged the lamp back in. She reset the time on the clock-alarm, and went through to the other bedrooms to do the same. There was a humming from one bedroom. It was a computer, its screen white and blank and flickering, sitting on a large table. It had been left on. She ejected the disk, found the start-up disk, and rebooted the system. Then she put the original disk back in. Had it been set at the menu screen? That would make sense, nobody would leave it halfway through a file when they were going off for the weekend. Unless... She looked down the file names on the menu. One caught her eye: CHRIS. BYE. She opened the file. It was a message, short and to the point:

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE? DON’T YOU DARE READ MY LETTERS!!

  Witch smiled. It was a message left for Christine. She began typing, her fingers efficient.

  WOULDN’T DREAM OF IT! ANYWAY, GOT A CALL THIS EVENING. SOMEONE’S DROPPED OUT OF A CONFERENCE AT GLENEAGLES, AND DTI WANT ME TO GOI

  She pondered the exclamation marks: were they Christine’s style? Yes, probably. A woman on the way up in the civil service, and now a chance to shine at an important conference... yes, they were excusable. Witch typed on.

  OFF TOMORROW MORNING, BACK LATER IN THE WEEK, CHRIS.

  She saved, and considered leaving the screen on. But Christine wouldn’t, not all weekend with no one in the house. So Witch ejected the disk and switched off the computer. She reset the room’s clock-alarm and, with a last look around, headed for the stairs. There was a soft knock at the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Come to pick up a package,’ called the voice. Witch opened the door and stood back so that the two men could enter the hall. One of them carried a long, flat-packed section of cardboard.

  ‘Upstairs on the right,’ said Witch. ‘And listen...’ She handed one of the men the postcard. ‘This has to be posted by Monday morning in Scotland, to arrive here Tuesday or Wednesday morning.’

  ‘No problem,’ said the man, taking the card from her and slipping it inside his shirt. ‘Might even manage it tomorrow.’ Then the two men went upstairs. Minutes later, they appeared at the top of the stairs grappling with a large cardboard box, no longer flat-packed. Inside, Chr
istine Jones would be trussed like a Christmas bird, knees tucked up into her chest, plastic restraining cords wrapped around her, arms tied against her sides. The human body, positioned just right, could make a smaller package than might be imagined. The box was barely four feet long.

  They brought her downstairs slowly, careful not to topple or trip. Witch held open the door for them, and held the suitcase out towards the man at the back. ‘This too,’ she said. ‘It can stay with her.’ The man took the case with difficulty by its handle, but said nothing. Witch closed the door after the men. She watched from the upstairs bedroom window as they loaded the van, got in, and drove off. The street still did not stir. It took more than odd comings and goings to produce a reaction here. Now, alone in the house, Witch went about her final tidying-up. She untied the tights from the bedposts and put them back in Christine’s drawer, then straightened the bed. Having made sure things looked neat and tidy, she went back downstairs and picked up her bags. She let herself out and closed the door behind her. Then she took out Christine’s bunch of keys and locked the mortice. There, just the way Christine would have left the place. Yes, she’d been in a hurry. Yes, the conference had come as a surprise. But she’d still left the house without fuss or undue mess. A very proper young woman.

  Then Witch remembered the trick with the iron, and the way Christine had screamed the place down. She didn’t blame her; she blamed herself. Next time, she’d have to do better. Get everything ready before loosing the knot around the hand.

  Preparation, that was the secret. Be prepared. She’d learned her lesson. She was just glad she hadn’t had to learn it the hard way. Christine Jones was still alive. Witch was still unscarred. She knew why she’d made the mistake, too. Her mind was running along two parallel roads, with occasional jolts from one road onto the other. In those moments, she was weak. She knew she couldn’t afford any weakness. She was taking a risk this time, bigger than any she’d taken before. The deceit was greater, the sense of treachery more impending. If she double-crossed them... when she double-crossed them, they would be far from pleased. They’d perhaps send another assassin after her. She smiled at that. Who would they hire? Who would take the job? The answer to the second question was obvious: if the price was right, anyone would take the job, no matter how dangerous.

  Witch closed the gate. A police car was drawing up on the other side of the road. One of the officers called to her. She crossed the road towards the car. The policeman sat with his elbow resting on the sill of his wound-down window.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, miss. There’s been a report of some screaming or yelling. Heard anything?’

  Witch thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘Hard to tell in this street though. They’re always yelling at each other.’

  The policeman smiled back and turned to his colleague. ‘It was number twenty-seven made the call, wasn’t it? Better go have a word.’ He turned back to Witch and nodded in the direction of Christine Jones’s house. ‘You live there?’ Witch nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s one to cross off the list then, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Witch. ‘I’ve just locked the place up. I’m going away for a few days.’

  ‘Lucky you. Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘Locked all your windows?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Burglar alarm?’

  ‘We don’t have one.’

  He puckered his lips. ‘Think about getting one, that’s my advice. Well, thanks anyway.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Witch answered politely, crossing the road again and walking on steady legs in the direction of Stoke Newington railway station.

  The policeman turned to his companion. ‘Travels light, doesn’t she?’ he said.

  Saturday 13 June

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Joyce Parry was not best pleased at being summoned to her own office on a Saturday morning, and all because Elder didn’t like using computers. She sat at her desk in front of the terminal while Dominic rested his hands on the back of her chair and leaned his head close to her right shoulder.

  ‘Someone this end helped her enter the country,’ he answered. ‘She’s travelling, she’s hiding, she’s already had help on the Khan hit. There has to be someone else, however loose a tie they might be.’ He checked that he wasn’t about to give away more than he should know. ‘Your man Barclay has found a link between Witch and two men in Paris.’

  ‘DST found it, he’s just tagging along.’

  Elder looked at the back of her head. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if there’s another terrorist loose over here, someone she knows she can call on for help.’

  ‘You want to access MI6’s files?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How wide a search?’

  ‘I’m still thinking about the American woman, Khan’s lover.’

  Parry nodded. ‘It’s a starting point.’ She half-turned to him. ‘Could be a long day.’ She didn’t sound angry with him any more. He squeezed her shoulder and she began tapping in her security code. Then she had a thought, and swung her chair towards the telephone. ‘I’d better just clear this with my oppo.’

  After a short conversation, she was back at the screen. Moments later, the first file appeared - a brief description and history with a head and shoulders picture. Elder wanted to study every one of them as they came up. After a dozen or so, Joyce smiled at the screen. He saw the reflection of her face there.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s just a bit like old times.’

  A few dozen files later, Elder made her go back a couple of files. It wasn’t a woman’s face on the screen, it was a man’s, going bald.

  ‘Someone we should know?’ Joyce asked.

  ‘Someone we do know.’

  The phone rang, and she swivelled towards it, leaving him staring at the picture on the screen.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said.

  He tore his gaze away and took the receiver from her. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Doyle here.’

  ‘Good, I think I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Me too.’ There was a pause. He was waiting for Elder to ask, so Elder obliged.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Khan’s tart, Shari Capri. I know who she is.’

  It was oppressively hot in Trilling’s office. Outside there was a generous summer’s day. The building was quiet, it being the weekend. Yet here they were - Dominic Elder, Doyle and Greenleaf, and Trilling himself - stuck in darkness behind a firmly shut door and closed venetian blinds. ‘It’s the bleedin’ black hole of Calcutta,’ Doyle said, shifting on his chair. Doyle, Greenleaf and Elder sat on a row of three stiff-backed chairs facing the wall behind Trilling’s desk where a white screen had been erected, the sort used for slide-shows and home movies. Not that anyone bothered with Super 8 any more; it was all videos these days.

  ‘When does the usherette come round?’ Doyle asked, changing his metaphor but not the irritation in his voice. He had something to say and he wanted to say it, but first there was all this to be gone through. Trilling was behind them, fiddling with a slide projector which had been set up on a tripod. Its piercing beam shot between Greenleaf ’s left and Doyle’s right shoulder and wavered against the screen as Trilling made adjustments to height and attempted to level the slightly askew - ‘pissed’ was Doyle’s word - beam.

  ‘Can I help you with that, sir?’ asked Greenleaf, not for the first time.

  ‘Perfectly capable myself,’ muttered Trilling, also not for the first time. He was grinding a peppermint to powder between his teeth.

  Elder was thinking of Joyce Parry. They were dining out together tonight, a celebration of their morning’s work and, as Elder put it, a chance to relax before the storm came. He’d chosen a small, intimate restaurant near Kew Gardens, and he’d been in luck: a booking had just fallen through, there was a spare table.

  He
wondered now why he’d chosen that particular restaurant. The answer, of course, was its intimacy. It was a restaurant for seduction. The fact that it was run by an apparently brilliant young chef had little to do with it. He wanted Joyce to get his message, loud and clear, which meant soft lighting and low music...

  ‘That looks about right,’ said Trilling.

  ‘Maybe move the tripod an inch to the left, sir,’ commented Greenleaf.

  Lab analysis of Witch’s letter to Elder had thrown up nothing, not even saliva on the flap: Barman Joe told them she’d dabbed her finger into her drink and wet the seal with that. The lab confirmed that the drink had been neat tonic water with a slice of lemon. Joe’s session with the two Special Branch men had been long, but totally unproductive. She’d only come into the bar the once, and he hadn’t seen her around before or since. An artist drew up a sketch from Joe’s description, and this had been run off for the officers whose job it now was to check hotels, boarding-houses, taxi-ranks, and so on. The sketch had been turned into a small wanted-style poster. Information wanted on the whereabouts of this woman. Details were given beneath the drawing itself: approximate age, height, what she’d been last seen wearing.

  The van driver, Bill Moncur, who’d given her the lift from Folkestone to Cliftonville said all she’d had with her was the one rucksack of stuff, and it hadn’t looked full, yet already she’d worn two outfits - the one described by Moncur and the one described by Barman Joe. Maybe she’d done some shopping in Cliftonville. Shops, too, would be shown the artist’s impression. The poster would go up in clubs and pubs, on the off-chance that some pissed late-night punter had seen her.

  The drawing had been shown to Moncur, who had shrugged. ‘Hard to tell,’ he’d said. ‘Maybe it’s the same woman, maybe not.’

  More copies had been made, too, of the drawing of the man Mike McKillip had seen his employer talking to in the bar. To be shown around Cliftonville at the same time as the Witch drawings. Yes, they were going through the procedures, the correct and proper routine. But Elder thought he had something better than an artist’s impression.