by Ian Rankin
Christine Jones stepped back so Witch could walk into her home. Then Christine closed the door. Witch was standing, waiting. 'Along here,'
said Christine, signalling with the chocolate bar, leading her towards the living-room. 'You didn't say, do you work beside Tessa?'
'Well, sort of, yes.'
As Christine pushed open the door to the living-room, Witch hit her at the base of the skull. Christine froze for a moment, then fell forwards, turning sideways as she did so, so that her left shoulder hit the rug first, her head following it with an almighty thump.
She was aware that she couldn't move, aware too of a heat-source near her face. She opened her eyes to agony, the blood beating in her head.
Immediately she opened her eyes, a hand descended on to her mouth, the thumb hooking itself under her chin. The side of the hand left just enough room below her nose to allow her to breathe. She looked up into the eyes of the woman who had tricked her way indoors. And she knew why she couldn't move.
Witch had tied Christine Jones to her own bed, using pairs of grey tights.
There was an electrical socket just beside the bed, hidden behind the bedside cabinet. A clock-alarm and a reading-lamp had been plugged into the double socket. She'd unplugged the lamp and plugged in the iron, turning the heat all the way up. Now, while one hand gagged Christine Jones, the other gripped the handle of the iron and held it close to her face. Witch turned away from Christine and spat on to the dull metal face of the iron. Her saliva sizzled and bubbled.
'A nice hot iron,' she said quietly. 'You've got to be careful with a hot iron. Place it on the wrong kind of material and you can do terrible damage. Place it on delicate material, and you can ruin the material forever.' Christine's nostrils. flared as she fought for breath, hyperventilating.
'Now,' said Witch, 'I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth.
You could scream if you wanted to, but I'm not sure anyone would hear.
There's no one else
in the house, your windows are double-glazed and shut tight, and your room's on the end of the house. A good solid end wall rather than a connecting wall. No neighbours to hear. You understand what I'm saying?
If you scream, nobody will hear, and you might startle me. I might drop the iron. I don't think you'll scream. I don't want to hurt you. It's not necessary to hurt you. I just need you to answer a few questions about your work.' She paused. 'Now, do you want me to repeat anything I've said?'
Beneath the pressure of her hand, Witch felt Christine Jones try to shake her head. She brought the iron down until it was inches above Christine's face, causing the young woman to screw shut her eyes. The iron went 'click' occasionally, its light coming on to show that it was heating up again, then another 'click' as maximum heat was achieved and the light went off, the iron starting to cool . ..
Witch lifted away her hand. Christine gulped in air, licked her lips.
There was sweat on her face. She suddenly started thrashing, but Witch had expected this and sat still on the edge of the bed, waiting for the thrashing to stop. The bonds were holding. Christine calmed down.
'Oh God,' she said, trembling. 'Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.'
Witch smiled. 'It's all right, Christine. It's only natural. Chain up any animal and it'll do the same thing ... for a moment or two, until it realises it really is chained.'
'How do you know who I am?'
'I've been watching you. I'm interested in where you work.'
She seemed confused. 'DTI?'
'Yes, all those buildings along Victoria Street.'
'What about them?'
'I want you to tell me about them, anything you know, no matter how trivial.'
'What? Is this some Kind of—' But of course it wasn't a joke. She could feel the heat of the iron. No, whatever else this was, it wasn't a joke.
'Take it floor by floor,' said Witch, 'starting with the ground.'
'Why? I don't understand.'
'You don't need to understand. All you have to do is tell me.'
'About the buildings?'
'Yes, about the buildings.' Another click from the iron. 'Take it floor by floor,' Witch repeated.
Christine Jones took it floor by floor.
After a while, Witch saw that she didn't need the iron. She rested it on its end on the bedside cabinet. She even left the room long enough to fetch water and paracetamol from the bathroom. It didn't look as though Christine had struggled at all during her absence, but of course she had. Witch merely smiled.
'I know how to make a knot,' she said.
'Why do you want to know all this?' asked Christine.
'Open wide,' said Witch. She held a tablet above Christine's mouth, and, when the mouth with its good solid teeth opened, she dropped the tablet in, placing the cup of water against her bottom lip and pouring some in. Christine swallowed the tablet, and Witch repeated the process.
'You're bound to have a sore head,' she said. 'It'll wear off in time.
No lasting effects, I promise. I know how to hit people, too.'
'You know a lot,' said Christine, refreshed by the water. She'd been talking for over an hour.
'Knowledge is power,' said Witch quietly. Then she smiled. 'And I'm power-crazy, Christine. You're an
intelligent woman. By now you're beginning to guess why I might want to know so much about Victoria Street. You won't say anything, because if you did, you think I might think I'd have to silence you. Permanently.
Am I right?' Christine said nothing: answer in itself. 'Well, don't worry. I don't kill people for pleasure, only for profit.' She paused, seeming to think of something. Then she came to herself. 'And there's no profit in killing you, Christine. But I can't have you telling anyone either.'
'I wouldn't tell, I'd keep my mouth—'
Witch shook her head. 'So I'm going to have to hide you somewhere until this is all over. Probably Wednesday. It's not a long time, Friday night until Wednesday. It'll be uncomfortable, but no more than that. Now, because of this, because you're going to be my . .. guest over the next few days, I need some more information, different information this time.'
'Yes?'
'Who's your doctor, Christine?'
'My doctor?' Witch nodded. 'Doctor Woodcourt.'
'Male or female?'
'Female.'
'With a practice where?'
'Ebury Road ... just at the end of the street.'
'And does Doctor Woodcourt know you?'
'Know me?'
'Do you visit regularly? Would she know you to look at?'
'I went a year or so ago for some jabs, holiday vaccinations. But now that I think about it, some locum saw me. I can't think when I last saw Doctor Woodcourt .. . maybe two years ago, when I was going on the pill.'
'Two years is a long time. I don't think she'd recognise you, do you?'
'Probably not. I don't see what—'
'On Monday morning, I'm going to call in sick to your office on your behalf. You're allowed several sick days before you need notification from your doctor.'
'A sick-line, yes.' And then Christine Jones saw. 'You'd pretend to be me? Just to get a sick-line?'
'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 attache 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 EN 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 GO!
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, Christine 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.