[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  'So what does the doctor say?'

  Doyle smiled at Greenleafs impatience. 'Well, for a start the bodies suffered some puncture wounds.'

  'What sort?'

  'Splinters of wood, metal, glass. Lagarde took a nine-incher out of some poor sod. Embedded itself in the stomach and punctured the heart.'

  'Meaning there was force behind it?'

  'Oh, yes, there was force all right. Upward force. And burn marks too.

  One of the bodies in particular was badly scorched.'

  'An explosion,' Greenleaf commented.

  'Absolutely.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Only what they found floating around in the surface oil. Hundred-dollar bills. Fifteen of them, not in very good nick. They got a couple of serial numbers. The Americans are checking.'

  'Fifteen hundred dollars. What do you reckon, drugs?'

  'Drugs or arms, but probably drugs.'

  'You think the two boats met mid-Channel?'

  'It's an idea. There's only one way to tell for sure. We need the PM

  results from Folkestone. Want me to give you a lift?'

  'What?'

  Doyle leaned down behind his desk and raised a bulging holdall high.

  'I'm off to Calais on the evening ferry. Spending the night there, do a bit of sniffing tomorrow, then hit the hypermarche before heading back. I got the nod from Trilling an hour ago.'

  'The luck of the Irish.'

  Doyle's face darkened a little. What had he said? Ah, Doyle was touchy about his name's Irishness, was he? Got you, thought Greenleaf, got you!

  When Doyle spoke, he was still subdued. 'I've got to alter my headlights, dip them the right way, but after that I'm ready to leave. So if you're heading for Folkestone . . .'

  'I'll take my own car, thanks.'

  'Suit yourself,' said Doyle. He seemed to be staring at Greenleaf s straining suit as he said it.

  'I wish you'd come to me with this earlier, Michael.'

  It wasn't quite the opening line Michael Barclay had expected from his boss. Joyce Parry sat there, invulnerable behind thick-rimmed spectacles, his report held up in front of her. Having glanced at it for effect, she laid it back down and slipped off her glasses. They hung around her neck by a string, and she let them dangle against her chest. From time to time, they grazed the triple-string of Ciro pearls resting just below her throat. Her throat, thought Barclay, was the oldest part of her, permanently lined and stretched. Her good legs, face and hair might say early-40s, but the neck gave the lie to this.

  Late-40s, the neck said to Barclay.

  'Sit down,' Joyce Parry's mouth told him.

  Barclay had always believed that he was attractive to women. To women and to men actually. He had used his good looks and steady unblinking gaze to good effect both socially and professionally. He felt that he'd always got on well with Joyce Parry, being at his charming best in her office and at meetings where she was present. So much so in fact that someone had sent him an anonymous Valentine addressed: 'To a creeping, slimy, boss-loving toad'. The card was pinned above his desk, its sender still a mystery.

  Barclay didn't mind it. He didn't mind envy in the workplace. He didn't mind that others thought he was getting on well with the boss. He'd always imagined that there was something special between Mrs Parry and him. He might almost have called it a 'special relationship'.

  And now this.

  'I really wish you'd shown me this earlier, Michael.' She used his first name softly, the sentence fading away, to show that she was disappointed in him. As he sat in front of her, his legs felt overlong and clumsy.

  He rested his hands on his knees, hiding them.

  'I did try, but you were—'

  'You should have tried later. Any news from Commander Trilling?'

  'Just that he has two men working on it. One of them's off to France, the other to Folkestone.'

  'A bit too early for Special Branch,' she said. 'You should have done some digging of your own first. You should have spoken to me first.'

  Now the endings of her sentences were like stabs at him. 'You jumped the gun.' She nodded slowly towards him, letting this sink in, then wheeled her chair to the corner of her desk where it met with another in an L-shape. Her main desk was all paperwork, but on the side desk stood a computer, the screen angled just enough so that no one sitting where Barclay was could see it. This large desk also hosted printer and modem, while in a far corner of the room sat a fax machine and document shredder. There were three telephones on the main desk. One of them rang just as

  she was accessing the computer. She pushed her chair back into place and, instead of lifting the receiver, hit one of the buttons.

  'Mrs Parry here,' she said, swivelling back to her computer screen.

  A small female voice came from the telephone's loudspeaker. 'I checked the computer files—'

  'I told you not to bother, didn't I?'

  'Yes, but I—'

  'Mr Elder belongs to the pre-microchip days. He believed in paper files.'

  Sensible man, thought Barclay. Elder . .. the name was familiar. The voice was speaking again.

  'Yes, well, I've got those files too.'

  'Good,' said Joyce Parry. 'All I need to know is ... no, on second thoughts, bring them in here.'

  Once more she wheeled back, this time to cut the connection. Then forwards again, her fingers fast on the keyboard. Barclay knew that his superior had computer clearance far above his own. He knew too that he could beat the computer system, given time and the will. If he wanted to, he could access anything. If he wanted to.

  'Ah, here we are,' said Joyce Parry. He studied her profile. Classically English, whatever that meant. The way she raised her chin as she read from the screen. A long straightish nose, thin lips, short well-kept hair, showing just a little grey. Grey eyes too. She was one of those women who grow better looking as they get older. She pressed a few more keys, checked that the printer was on, then pressed two more keys. The laser printer began its quick quiet work. She swivelled back to the main desk and handed the first sheet to him. He had to rise from his chair to take it. The paper was still warm from the machine.

  There was a sudden tapping on the wide-open door.

  Parry signalled for the secretary to come in. She was carrying two bulging folders, tied securely with what looked like shoelaces.

  'Thanks, Angela, leave them on the desk.' Joyce Parry extracted two more sheets from the printer. Barclay tried to concentrate on the piece of paper he was holding but it was difficult not to stare at those two files, the files of someone called Elder. The name definitely stirred a memory, but this wasn't the time for reflection. Joyce Parry began untying the shoelaces while Barclay read from the laser-printed page.

  The report was dated six years before, and had been filed originally by the CIA before being passed along 'for information' to the British authorities. What Barclay now held was formed as a precis, as abridged by D. Elder.

  'On 16 May,' he read, 'a small fishing boat left the South Korean port of Pusan. Crew of six. Known and well liked in the port. No hint that the crew were involved in any illegal activities prior to this time, though most boatmen in the area regard smuggling as above the law anyway.

  'On 17 May, debris and bodies (six) washed up on the island of Mishima, off the Japanese mainland. Earlier reported sighting of the boat near the Japanese coastal town of Susa. No reason why boat should have been in this area. Skipper/owner an experienced sailor. Scale of damage to vessel suggested an explosion rather than collision, grounding, etc.

  However, no report of anyone seeing or hearing a blast. (Southern-Asian ears and eyes not always fully functional. Remember, to them pirates are still an occupational hazard rather than a 1930s Errol Flynn film.)'

  Barclay smiled and started on the second sheet.

  'Investigation undertaken by Japanese and South Korean authorities.

  No further evidence uncovered up to

  date of this report. H
owever, there was talk in Pusan of a young woman who had been seen talking with the boat's owner in a bar a few days prior to the final voyage. She is described as being tall with short dark hair, probably speaking English.

  'From 18-20 May, International Conference for World Peace (ICWP) based at various locations in Hiroshima, Japan. Conference attended by delegates from forty-six countries, supplemented by invited guests (e.g.: from Japanese universities, media) and, to some events, general public. World media invited to attend. Four intelligence agents among those accepting. (See file no. CI/46377/J/DE.) Six keynote speeches given prominence during conference. Other activities included film shows, art exhibition, theatre events, and concert by Music for Peace (the latter with its HQ in London, investigated 1984: see file no.

  UK/0/223660/L/JP).'

  JP: Joyce Parry's initials. Barclay was beginning to sense what this was all about. His hands grew clammy, sticking to the sheet as he read on.

  'On closing day, 20 May, final keynote address was to be given by international peace activist Jerome Hassan (CI/38225/USP/DG). However, Mr Hassan was taken ill with suspected food poisoning and his speech (much abbreviated - Hassan was known to work by improvisation) was delivered by a colleague, Dr Danielle Brecht.

  'Mr Hassan died in hospital on evening of 20 May, just as live telecast at closing concert was beaming messages by pop and film luminaries into Japan.

  'Post mortem was carried out on morning of 21 May, with Mr Hassan's hotel (and over 100 diners from the previous day) keenly awaiting findings. Laboratory analysis showed atropine poisoning. (Atropine is an alkaline found in Deadly Nightshade. From the Greek atropos, “the Fate that cuts the thread of life”.)

  'While still conscious, but thought to be delirious, Hassan spoke of a girl, a student probably. He spoke of her “beauty and generosity”.

  Hotel staff when interviewed acknowledged that on the night of 19 May, a young woman had accompanied Mr Hassan to his room. No one saw her leave, despite a twenty-four-hour reception area. Descriptions given varied. One assessed her height at nearly six foot, another at only five foot six. One said black hair, another brown. Hair was probably cropped short, and woman was fair-skinned though tanned. European perhaps, or Asian. No one heard her speak. She had crossed the lobby with Mr Hassan and entered the lift with him. She was dressed in black denims, light T-shirt, light-coloured jacket. Mr Hassan was carrying a plastic carrier bag, weighted down with books. Reception staff got the impression the bag belonged to the woman.

  'Woman has never been traced. Hassan's previous sexual history questioned. (Widow not forthcoming.) As a footnote, woman's entry to the country was clumsy, creating immediate suspicion. And her use of atropine, or at least the dosage used, was also clumsy, since it allowed the victim time to talk before dying. Pity is, he did not say anything useful.

  'See: witch file.

  'Final footnote: Susa is c. fifty miles from Hiroshima.'

  Barclay turned to the third and final sheet, expecting more. But all he read were edited newspaper reports of Jerome Hassan's murder, mentioning poison and the mysterious young woman. A jealous lover was hinted at. He looked up and saw that Joyce Parry was immersed in the contents of one of the Elder files. He glanced through his own sheets again, quite liking Elder's tone - the explanation of the word atropine; the mention of the

  final night's rock concert; that nice late mention that Hassan was a married man.

  'You see the coincidence,' Parry said without warning. She was looking at him now. 'An assassin is dropped off on the Japanese mainland and then destroys the boat which landed her. Now, six years later, something similar occurs.'

  Barclay considered this. 'Special Branch are thinking more along the lines of drugs or arms.'

  'Exactly. And that's why I'd rather you hadn't alerted them this early on. They may be off on half a dozen wild goose chases. Then, if we approach them with new information, they'll wonder why we didn't come up with it sooner. Do you see what I mean?' Her glasses glinted. Barclay was nodding.

  'It makes us look bad.'

  'It makes me look bad.' She wet two fingers with the tip of her tongue and turned a page.

  'What's the Witch file?' Barclay asked.

  But she was busy reading, too busy to answer. She seemed to be suppressing an occasional smile, as though reminiscing. Eventually she glanced up at him again.

  'The Witch file doesn't exist. It was an idea of Mr Elder's.'

  'So what is Witch?'

  She closed the file carefully, and thought for a moment before speaking.

  'I think it would be best if you asked Dominic Elder that, don't you?'

  Once a year, the fairground came to Cliftonville.

  Cliftonville liked to think itself the genteel equivalent to next-door neighbour Margate. It attracted coach tours, retired people. The younger holidaymakers usually made for Margate. So did the weekenders, down from London for a spot of seaside mayhem. But Cliftonville was struggling with a different problem, a crisis of identity. Afternoon bingo and a deckchair in front of the promenade organist just weren't enough. Candy floss and an arcade of one-armed bandits weren't enough.

  Too much of the town lingered in the 1950s. Few wanted the squeal and glitter of the 90s, yet without them the town would surely die, just as its clientele was dying.

  If the town council had wanted to ask about survival, they might have consulted someone at the travelling fairground. It had changed too.

  The rides had become a little more 'daring' and more expensive. Barnaby's Gun Stall was a good example. The original Barnaby (whose real name had been Eric) had used rifles which fired air-propelled corks at painted tins. But Barnaby had died in 1978. His brother Randolph had replaced the cork-guns with proper pellet-firing rifles, using circular targets attached to silhouette human figures. But then Randolph had succumbed to alcohol and the charms of a woman who hated the fair, so his son Keith - the present Barnaby - had taken over. Nowadays the Gun Stall boasted serious entertainment in the form of an automatic-firing airgun rigged up to a compression pump. This machine gun could fire one hundred large-bore pellets every minute. You just had to keep your finger on the trigger. The young men paid their money gladly, just to feel the sheer exhilaration of that minute's lethal action. Afterwards, the target would be brought forward. Keith still used cardboard circles marked off from the outer to the small black bullseye, and attached to the heart of a human silhouette. The thing about the automatic was, it couldn't be said to be accurate. If enough pellets hit the target, the cardboard was reduced to tatters. But more often than not the kids missed, dazed by the recoil and the noise and the speed.

  The more dazed they were, the more likely they were to come back for more. It was a living. And yet in other ways the fair was very much an old-fashioned place. It had its ghost train and its waltzers, though this evening the ghost train was closed. There were smells of spun sugar and diesel, and the scratchy sounds of the next-to-latest pop records.

  Onions, the roar of machinery, and three-balls-for-fifty-pee at the kiddie stalls.

  Gypsy Rose Pellengro's small caravan was still attached to its Volvo estate car, as though she was thinking of heading off. On a board outside the caravan door were letters of thanks from grateful clients. These letters were looking rather frail, and none of them seemed to include the date on which it had been written. Beside them was a scrawled note announcing 'Gypsy Rose back in an hour'.

  The two windows of the caravan were tightly closed, and covered with thick net curtains. Inside, it was much like any holiday caravan. The small sink still held two unwashed plates, and on the table sat not a crystal ball but a portable black and white television, hooked up to the battery of the Volvo estate. The interior was lit by calor gas, the wall-mounted lamps roaring away. A woman was watching TV.

  There was a knock at the door.

  'Come in, sir, please,' she called, rising to switch off the set. The door was pulled open and a man climbed into the caravan. He was so tal
l that he had to stoop to avoid the ceiling. He was quite young, very thin, and dark-skinned.

  'How did you know it was a man?' he asked, taking in the scene around him.

  'I saw you peering in through the window.'

  The man smiled at this, and Gypsy Rose Pellengro laughed, showing the four gold teeth in her mouth.

  'What can I do for you, sir? Didn't you see the notice outside?'

  'Yes. But I really would like my fortune told.' He paused, stroking a thick black moustache, before adding meaningfully: 'I think I have a lucky future ahead of me.'

  Gypsy Rose nodded, not that she'd been in any doubt. 'Then you've come to the right place,' she said. 'I'm in the futures market myself. Would you like to sit down?'

  'No, thank you. I'll just leave this . . .' He reached inside his jacket and brought out a large brown envelope. As he made to place it on the table in front of the woman, she snatched at his wrist and turned his hand palm upwards.

  'Yes,' she said, releasing it after a moment. 'I can see you've been disappointed in love, but don't worry. The right woman isn't so very far away.'

  He seemed scandalised that she had dared to touch him. He rubbed at his wrist, standing over her, his black pupils shadowed by his eyebrows.

  For a moment, violence was very close. But the woman just sat there with her old, stubborn look. Weary, too. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn't already been done. So instead he turned and, muttering foreign sounds, pushed open the caravan door, slamming it shut behind him so hard that it bounced back open again. Now Gypsy Rose could see out onto the slow procession of fairground visitors, some of whom stared back.

  Slowly, she rose from the table, closed and locked the door, and returned to her seat, switching on the television. From time to time she fingered the large brown envelope. Eventually, when enough time had passed, she got up and pulled her shawl around her. She left the lamps burning in the caravan, but locked the door behind her when she left. The air was hot, the night sticky. She moved quickly, expertly, through the crowds, occasionally slipping between two stalls and behind the vans and the lorries, picking her way over cables, looking behind her to see if anyone was following. Then back between two more stalls and into the crowd again. Her path seemed to lack coordination, so that at one point she'd almost doubled back to her starting point before striking off in another direction. In all, she walked for nearly fifteen tiring minutes. Fifteen minutes for a journey of less than four hundred yards.