by Ian Rankin
At other times, she'd been a busy office worker, rushing with the best of them, with only enough free time for a lunch of a takeaway burger.
And she'd been unemployed, too, with too much time on her hands, sitting against a wall with her knees hugged to her beneath her chin. All these things she had been. Nobody paid much attention to her several incarnations. To passers-by, the tourist was merely another obstacle in their way as they manoeuvred past her while she stood in Victoria Street, staring up in the direction of Westminster Abbey. And as the office worker ate her burger, seated in the plaza between Victoria Street and Westminster Cathedral, only one young man attempted to chat her up. But he was in a hurry, too, and so a single shake of her head was enough to deter him.
While the unemployed girl, the pale and tired-looking girl - well, everybody chose to ignore her existence. She was moved on once or twice by doormen and police officers. The police asked her where she stayed.
'Lewisham.'
'Well, bugger off back there then. And don't go hanging around Victoria Station either. We'll be along there in an hour, and if you're still there we'll take you down the nick. All right?'
She sniffed, nodded, picked up her cheap blue nylon shopping-bag. There were tears in her eyes as the policemen moved away. An old man took pity on her and handed her a one-pound coin. She took it with muttered thanks. She wandered off towards Victoria Station, where, in a toilet cubicle, she stripped down and
swapped her clothes for another set in the shopping-bag. Then the shopping-bag itself was folded and slipped into a better-quality bag, along with the clothes. At the washbasin, she combed the snags out of her hair, washed her face, dried it, and applied make-up. Girl about town again. In the station concourse, true to their word but half an hour ahead of schedule, the two police constables were passing through.
She smiled at one as she passed them. He smiled back, and turned to watch her go.
'Thought you'd cracked it there,' his colleague said.
'Some of them just can't resist the uniform.'
Girl about town went back to Victoria Street, walked its length, pausing only outside the building which was 1-19 Victoria Street, headquarters of the Department of Trade and Industry. She had a momentary feeling of claustrophobia. She was within a five-minute walk of the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Westminster Cathedral, New Scotland Yard, the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. Not much further to Whitehall, Downing Street, Buckingham Palace even ... So many targets to choose from, all so convenient. One really huge device and you could wreak mayhem.
It was an idle thought, an idle moment, the stuff of crank anarchists'
dreams, anarchists like John Wright-son. She let it pass and checked her watch. Quarter to six. Friday evening at quarter to six. The offices had started their weekend evacuation at four-thirty. Pubs and wine-bars would be rilling. Train carriages would be squeezing in just one last body. The discharge of the city. It was hard to tell, but she thought she probably had another ten minutes. She didn't like the thought of loitering, not in her girl about town disguise. But of course, if anyone should ask, she was waiting for a boyfriend who worked for the DTI.
She was respectable. She wasn't suspicious. She rose onto her tiptoes then
rocked back onto her heels. Waiting for her boyfriend. A few drinks after work, then a meal, maybe a film . . . no, not a film: she didn't know what films were on where. A meal, one of the little Chinese restaurants off Leicester Square. Then back to his place . .. The perfect start to the weekend.
Another five or ten minutes. She hoped to God she hadn't missed her quarry. It was unlikely. The first day Witch had spotted her, she'd worked till six-thirty, the next day six-fifteen. She would knock off early on a Friday, of course she would. But not that early. She had an important position. Let the others in the office leave her behind, she'd be the last out, feeling virtuous, another hard professional week over. Maybe a last-minute task would keep her. Maybe she'd been taken ill and had gone home early . ..
Witch had spent some time choosing. She was a fussy shopper. There had been false starts: one woman was perfect in build and face, but too junior. Witch needed someone with a modicum of clout, the sort of person the security guards would look up to. Another woman had seemed senior enough for the purpose, but she was also too striking, the sort of person people would notice, so that they'd notice, too, if she went missing for a few days or if someone else brandished her security pass.
Security. She'd wandered into one of the DTI buildings at lunchtime one day. There were seats in the reception area, tedious-looking literature to pass the time. A businessman sat leafing through the contents of his briefcase. A young man stepped from an elevator and called to him. The businessman shook hands with the young man, the young man signed him in at the desk, a chitty was given to the businessman, and both headed for the elevator again.
'Yes, miss?' the security man called from behind his large desk.
There were two of them seated behind the desk. The one who had called to Witch, and another who was talking with another colleague, a black woman. Witch approached the desk and smiled.
'I'm meeting my boyfriend for lunch.' She looked at her watch. 'I'm a bit early. Is it all right if I wait?'
'Of course, miss. If you'll just take a seat. You can call up to him if you like, maybe he can knock off early.'
She smiled gratefully. 'No, he's always complaining I'm too early for things.'
'You're not like my wife then,' said the security man, laughing, turning to share the joke with his colleagues.
'I'll just wait for him,' said Witch.
So she sat in the reception area, watching the civil servants come and go. Most were going - it was lunchtime - but a few were already returning with sandwiches and cans of soft drinks. As they passed the security desk, heading for the elevators, some merely smiled and nodded in the direction of the guards, some showed passes, and some just glided by without acknowledging the guards' existence - which was also the guards'
response to the flow: they barely looked up from their desk. The legitimate workers had a breeziness about them. Yes, breeziness was the word. It was the feeling that came with a certain power - the power to move past an official barrier which kept others out, the power of belonging.
If she moved breezily, holding her pass out like every other day, would the guards look up? And if they did, would they go any further? Would they frown, ask her to step over to the desk, scrutinise her pass? She doubted it. They'd blink. She'd smiled at them so she must know them. They'd return to their telephone call or their tabloid newspaper or the conversation they were having.
What alerted them to strangers were the movements of the strangers themselves. Someone pushed open the glass door slowly, uncertainly.
They hesitated once inside, looking around, getting their bearings.
And they walked almost reluctantly towards the desk, where the guard, who had caught these signs, was already asking if he could help. Yes, visitors gave themselves away. If they knew the layout, if they breezed towards the elevators rather than staring dumbly at the desk .. . anyone could walk into the building. Anyone could take the elevator to any floor they liked, floors where ministers and senior civil servants might be meeting.
Oh, how Witch loved a democracy. They took their freedoms too easily, treated them too casually. This wasn't security; it was the opposite of security. It was a soft job, and the guards were happy to acknowledge this. She got up from her seat and walked one circuit of the reception area, then stood by the glass door. When the guards were busy, she pushed the door open and walked back out on to the street, sure that they would have forgotten her existence by the time the next tea-break came.
How long had she been waiting now? Maybe her fears of an illness were well-founded . .. Ah, but no ... here came the woman now. Calling back over her shoulder to the security guard. Then pushing open the heavy glass door. Outside, she stopped and took a deep invigorating breath.
>
Her weekend started here, started now. She held two briefcases, one a plain brown attache case - her own - the other looking like an expensive school satchel, made from black leather and bearing a small crown insignia above the name-plate. This was government property, and a sign that she wasn't just some clerical
worker. She had achieved a good grade, not quite senior but certainly on her way there. She was vivacious, full of life and hope. She made friends quite easily. The security guard would know her name. Yet she didn't seem to go out much. She shared a house with two other young professional women in Stoke Newington. Perhaps the house was rented, or perhaps they'd clubbed together and bought it between them before the government had changed the law on mortgage tax relief. Some things, even Witch couldn't be sure of.
She travelled to work by overland railway and tube. She travelled home the same way. It was a fairly hellish journey, and the later she worked or stayed on in town, the less teeming the crowds were on the trip home.
So, one night, she'd hung around for an hour in a nearby wine-bar, having a drink with some of the other office staff. They were celebrating someone's birthday. But she hadn't stuck around for the Indian vegetarian meal. She'd kept looking surreptitiously at her watch. She'd made her apologies at half-past seven.
No boyfriend to meet, despite the nods and winks and oohs of her colleagues, just the tube and train and the short walk home. To stay in all the rest of the evening, as all her other evenings, watching TV.
Wondering what her weekend plans would be, today, after all three women had left for work, Witch had entered their house. Inside, she'd found a pleasant surprise: the other residents were going away for the weekend.
There were signs of planned departure: packed and half-packed bags, raids on the bathroom toiletries. They'd tried to pack this morning before leaving for work, but had blearily only half succeeded. Only Christine Jones's room was tidy. No luggage there.
In the kitchen was the brochure for a Welsh campsite. Its telephone number had been ringed. Obviously it was
there in case Christine needed it: Christine's idea probably. She seemed so much more organised than her housemates. And on a wall calendar was marked a time this evening when 'Garry and Ed' would be calling. Another look in the housemates' bedrooms confirmed that Garry and Ed were the boyfriends. The four of them were off to Wales on a camping expedition.
Lovely.
Witch wondered how Christine Jones would spend her weekend. There didn't seem any clues that she was planning to go away, or to have someone over, or to hold a party, even a dinner party. She was doing German at night school, and it looked like part of her time would be spent catching up on her assignments. There were also three fat and newly borrowed library books to be read, and a video club membership card was handy on the coffee table in the living-room, in case she wanted to rent a film or two . ..
There'd be a spot of shopping on Saturday morning. Not having transport, she tended to use the local shops -though someone in the flat had access to a car, since there had been supermarket buying in bulk, shown in the contents of the refrigerator. Christine Jones wouldn't go hungry, not for food. But it wasn't party food, not social food; it was fast food, the stuff of days spent doing homework and nights spent watching TV.
One of her housemates, Tessa, kept a diary, and recent entries, when not running on about Garry and his physique and his bedroom athletics, showed concern for 'Chris', who had split up with a boyfriend several months before and seemed to have just lost interest ...
'Hope she'll be okay this weekend,' the entry ended. Witch was tempted to take up a pen and add: 'She'll be fine, honest.'
She didn't.
When the mail arrived, she glanced at it, leaving it untouched on the hall floor. Then, having satisfied herself with the layout of the house, she left it as neatly as she had entered it, and walked back to the railway station, a lazy stroll, nothing better to do, just whiling away the hours . . .
Until now. As she follows Christine Jones along Victoria Street, she',s thinking, ticking things off on a list in her mind. Christine knows the guard, but that probably doesn't matter. Another of the DTI buildings further along Victoria Street would do just as well, once Witch has a security pass. She's studying the way Christine moves, the way she walks, how far she places one foot in front of the other, the way she turns her head when she wants to cross the road. None of this is necessary
- she doesn't intend to impersonate Christine Jones after all - but it is useful and it is interesting. Witch is learning to move like a professional woman, a woman on the way up in the civil service. She's thinking too of the evening ahead, of what must be done immediately, and what can be left till later. And, briefly, she's thinking of Khan, of how pleased her employers were, how generous. And she spares a thought, too, for Dominic Elder and all the other people who may be chasing her shadow just now. She's thinking all these things, but her walk is that of the girl about town, making her way home.
Home to Stoke Newington. Directly home. Poor Christine Jones, her eyes fixed on yet another book, a fat paperback this time. (She's almost finished it. Probably she's already looking forward to the three fat library books waiting for her at home.) No after-work drinks for her.
Probably she wants to make it back to the house before her housemates leave. Sending her best wishes with them. Yes, better to return to a few minutes of
chaotic farewell than to an absolute forty-eight-hour emptiness. Poor Christine Jones.
She stops in at a newsagent on the way home. She buys a couple of magazines, and then, biting her lip guiltily, adds several chocolate bars to her purchases. Comfort food. The newsagent puts the whole lot into a white paper bag. It is awkward to carry. She might stop for a moment, open her satchel, and place the magazines and sweets inside, but she's hurrying now. Bloody London bloody public bloody transport. The bane of her existence. Late home as usual. It's nearly seven. The girls will be leaving soon. Yes, the car is parked outside the house. A tanned young man is carrying out two suitcases.
'Hello, Garry,' says Christine.
Garry lifts the cases higher. The action shows off his physique. 'Look at this,' he says. 'You'd think we were off for a fortnight on the QE2.
I wish now I was staying behind with you, Chris. We could get nice and cosy, eh?'
'Leave my flatmate alone!' yells Tessa from the front door, half-jokingly at least.
The other housemate emerges with more bags. Behind her, her boyfriend is manoeuvring a large suitcase out of the door.
'We'll never get it all in!' calls Garry.
'As the actress said to the bishop,' retorts his friend. The girls laugh, the way they're supposed to. This is fun. Christine's smile is fixed.
Witch can see that she is in a quandary. She's holding the paper bag to her, while she wonders whether to offer the chocolate to the foursome for their journey, or whether to say nothing about it. Witch is surprised, but pleased too, to see that self-gratification wins. Christine keeps the chocolate to herself.
Witch has passed the scene now, eyes on the cracks in the pavement ahead. She's on the other side of the street from them, but not quite invisible enough. Garry gives her a half-hearted wolf whistle, almost drawing unwanted attention. But no one seems to pay him any heed. The cases will all go in, but only if some of the bags sit on the floor in the back and under the driver's and front-passenger's seats, and even then it's going to be tight.
'As the actress said—'
A thump silences the end of the sentence. Witch has turned the corner now. She stops, pretending to rummage in her bag for something. The car doors are opening, closing, opening again. Kisses and hugs are exchanged.
'It's only for the weekend,' complains Garry as the housemates make their farewells. 'It's not like a fortnight on the QE2 or anything The doors close. All four of them. The engine starts with a throaty roar. Not one to hang about, the driver lets the tyres squeal as he releases the handbrake, and he fairly races to the end of
the road, signalling left, turning left, and revving away in the opposite direction from Witch.
Moments later, the front door of the house closes, leaving Christine Jones indoors on her own.
Witch waited at the corner for a few minutes, not looking in her bag any more but waiting for a gentleman friend. She peered up this road and down along that, searching for him. And glanced at her watch, for the benefit of anyone looking from their windows. Not that anyone did.
They minded their business and got down to the proper work of the evening: watching the television.
A few people hurried past, refugees from the latest train, she guessed.
They looked worn out and glanced at her, nothing more. Nobody smiled, nobody offered a
chat-up line or a joke or a 'Can I help you?' The time passed without incident.
She walked back around the corner then started into a brisk run, clutching her carrier bag to her to stop the contents from spilling out. She ran up to the gate, pushed it open, climbed the steps noisily, and rang the doorbell.
Christine Jones had hardly had time to start her first chocolate bar of the evening. She'd taken off jacket and shoes, nothing more. She opened the door wide, then looked disappointed.
'Have I missed her?' said Witch, panting, trying to catch her breath.
'Who?'
'Tessa, only there was something I wanted to give her.' She winked.
'For the weekend, if you know what I mean.'
'You just missed her,' said Christine. 'Funny, I thought maybe that was her coming back to say she'd forgotten something.'
'Oh shit!' Witch threw back her head and exhaled noisily. 'Shit, shit, shit.' Then she caught herself, grinned. 'Sorry, you must be Chris.
She's told me about you. I'm Anna.'
'Hello, Anna. Do you work beside—? God, listen to me.' Christine rolled her eyes. 'Do you want to come in? You look like you could use a drink.'
'Too right I could.'
'Me too. After all, it is the weekend.'