by Ian Rankin
Any idea where she is?'
'Not a clue. Want me to push it a bit further?'
Elder shook his head. 'It's a dead end. I'm sure she only took the job because she knew it would stretch us, lead us away from the real action.
No, she's here now. Let's remember that and act on it.'
They left the office as a team.
The first thing to be done was to distribute photos of the Dutchman to police stations in central and greater London. The weekend wasn't really the time to accomplish this, but they did their best. A computer was used to create an A4-sized poster containing a description of the Dutchman and his photograph. The quality of reproduction of the photo left a little to be desired, and Elder doubted that, faxed, it would remain recognisable.
'The woman who really knows this machine is on holiday,' was the excuse offered.
'Then bring her back.'
They brought her back, and she sharpened the image to Elder's satisfaction, after which they laser-printed a few dozen copies. As well as police stations, the first target remained the Conference Centre itself. The description would go to every delegation, and to the various security organisations involved in the summit. The Dutchman probably wouldn't risk getting close to the summit itself, but the warning was worth making. Here was someone tangible for everyone to keep an eye open for. Here was something to keep them on their toes. Here was, at the very least, a photograph.
The day passed quickly. Doyle was sent to have a word with his snitches and least salubrious contacts.
'Bit out of their league,' he said, 'but you never know.'
There were Dutch-style pubs and Dutch restaurants in the capital.
Greenleaf went to talk with owners, staff and regular clients. Again, they could be pretty sure that the Dutchman would steer clear of such places. Again, it was still worth a try.
Elder thought of his own contacts in London . .. and came to the conclusion that none of them was left; none, at least, who could be of any possible use. Apart from Charlie Giltrap. He wondered if Charlie was still around. He wasn't in the phone book, and a check showed that he wasn't unlisted either. Not that either of these meant anything.
It was over two years since he'd seen Charlie, over two years since Charlie had given him his last, near-fatal tip-off.
'Just popping out for a minute,' he said. He made for the nearest newsagent's where he flicked through a listings magazine, concentrating on 'Events'. Sure enough, there was a record buyers' mart in London today, and ironically it was taking place at Westminster Central Hall, within spitting distance of the Conference Centre and not a five-minute walk from where he was standing. He put the magazine back on the rack and set off. It was just another long-shot . .. either that or fate.
At the Central Hall, he paid his entrance money and squeezed into a mayhem of noise and too many people crammed into the narrow aisles.
Most of the music seemed to be heavy metal, not what he'd been expecting.
The clientele was young and bedenimed and greasy-haired. They were listening to tapes on personal cassette-players before deciding whether to buy. Rare LPs were displayed against walls, some of the asking prices reaching three figures. A young woman, a heavy metal fan by the look of her, was attracting attention and comment as she browsed, apparently unaware of the hungry stares behind her. She was wearing a tight red leather skirt, zipped up both sides, and a black leather jacket. Elder found himself examining her too. He was looking for someone he knew beneath all that make-up and dishevelled hair. He failed to find her.
A few old-timers, and he put himself in this category, did their best to move through the crush, seeking out stalls selling older stuff: 50s and 60s music. He did one circuit of the hall without seeing Charlie Giltrap. And then, in a corner, stooped as he rifled through a
cardboard box full of LPs, there he was. Grinning, Elder tapped him on the shoulder.
Charlie Giltrap turned around, his fingers still keeping his place in the box. Then his eyes opened wide and he let the records fall back, both his hands coming round to clasp Elder's.
'Dom! Where the hell did you spring from?' He was pumping Elder's right hand with both of his own, his grin near-toothless, cheeks slightly sunken where the extractions had been made. His eyes were dark-ringed, nose red-veined. Typically, he wore clothes too young for him: faded, patched denims, cheesecloth shirt, and a leather thong around his neck.
His long grey hair was tied back in a ponytail.
'You never did send me your address, you bastard,' he said.
'I didn't have an address for you, remember,' replied Elder. 'But as it happens, I did send you a note.'
'Yeah?'
'Care of your father.'
A snort. 'That explains it then. Mind like a sieve. He probably chucked it out without telling me.'
'How is he?'
'Six feet under, God rest his soul. Went last Christmas.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Comes to us all, Dom. Maybe if I start smoking forty a day I'll live to be eighty-six like him. He used to say he'd smoked so much he'd been cured.' Charlie's laughter spluttered out of him.
'Yes, I remember,' said Elder.
'How are you doing anyway? What brings you back to the Smoke?'
'Work brings me back, Charlie.'
'Yeah, didn't think you'd just want to talk over old times.'
'Still get out and about, do you?'
'Not as much as before, but I keep my hand in.' Charlie winked. 'Let me settle up here and we'll go for a drink, yeah?'
Charlie turned back to the stall-holder. Elder noticed that half a dozen LPs had been lifted from the box and placed flat down on top of another box. Charlie picked them up and handed them over. The stall-holder totted up the prices and put them in a plastic carrier.
'Thirty quid, mate,' he said. Charlie handed over a fifty and, waiting for his change, turned to Elder.
'This place has gone right downhill, Dom. All hip-hop records and thrash bootleg tapes.'
'So I noticed.'
'Thing is, it's about the only place in London where you can stiE buy LPs. The shops all sell CDs, bigger markup, see. Phasing out vinyl.
It's a catastrophe.' He took his change and his albums. 'Cheers, mate.
See you next time.'
'Right you are, Charlie.'
Charlie and Elder squeezed back through the crowds in the aisles until they reached the doors to the lobby. Elder noticed that the heavy metal girl was standing chatting to some friends. As she laughed, he saw she was about ten years too young to be Witch . ..
'What a relief,' said Charlie, glad to be out of the crowd. 'My motor's parked round the side of the cathedral. Come on.'
'Where are we going?' asked Elder. Charlie looked at him.
'We're going to find you a pint of Young's best,' he said.
Elder laughed. T haven't had any of that in over two years.'
'You used to knock it back.'
'So where do we find Young's round here?'
'It's in a few places. The best I've tasted's in Soho.'
They drove into the middle of Soho and, the car park being full, cruised until they found someone pulling away from a parking meter.
'God bless you,' Charlie called to the departing car, slipping his own resprayed Escort into the space. Elder noticed that Charlie hid his LPs under the driver's seat, and then unslotted his radio and did the same with it.
'These days . ...' he said, simply, locking the car. He put some more money in the meter and led Elder into the dark interior of a pub. No jukebox, no television, no video games, and only a single fruit-machine.
'It's an oasis,' commented Elder, who thought such pubs no longer existed in London.
'It gets noisy at night,' said Charlie, ordering two pints of Young's Special. The beer when it came was dark and rich. 'Just like my landlord,'
said Charlie. They perched on stools at the bar and exchanged histories of the past two years. Charlie had cut down on cigarettes and
also on drugs and drink.
'Doctor's orders,' he said. He thumped his chest. 'Dodgy bellows, plus high blood pressure.'
Meantime, his album collection had risen from three thousand to nearer five, most of the records bought secondhand, few of them more contemporary than 1972.
The conversation was stilted, awkward. They were at the same time recalling past events and attempting to evade making mention of them.
They both knew they were doing this, and smiled a few times in embarrassment as the conversation lapsed into silence.
'So,' Charlie said at last, 'what can I do for you, Dom?'
Dominic Elder ordered two more pints and a couple of filled rolls. 'I'm looking for a Dutchman,' he said.
'Uh-huh.'
'I thought maybe you could do your sniffer-dog routine.'
'Long time since anyone's said that to me: sniffer-dog. Private matter, is it?'
'No, strictly company business.'
'Uh-huh.' Charlie sipped his drink thoughtfully, then shook his head.
I'm not sure, Dom. I mean, after that last time . ..'
'This is a team effort.'
'Yeah, but so was that. Didn't stop you going off and ... I don't know.
I'd be worried, that's all.'
'About me?' Elder smiled. 'I'm touched, Charlie, but I meant what I said, this time it's a team effort.'
'No individual skills, eh? Playing for the team.'
'That's right.'
'Yeah, well.. .' He straightened his back, scratched his nose, slumped again, studying his glass. 'All right then, can't do any harm. Mind, I don't have the eyes and ears I once had.'
'Just do what you can.' Elder handed over one of the descriptions of the Dutchman. Charlie read through it.
'Dutch pubs?' he said.
'We're already covering them.'
'Clubs, restaurants?'
'Those too.'
'Wonder if he's hired a car while he's here . ..'
'We'll check.'
Charlie nodded. He refolded the piece of paper and put it in his back pocket. 'Like I say, Dom, I'll do what I can.'
'What's the going rate these days, Charlie? I'm a bit out of touch.'
'You and me both. We'll sort the money out later. Don't worry, there's a discount for friends. Where can I find you?'
Elder gave the name of his hotel.
Using your own name?' asked Charlie. Elder nodded, then thought: I shouldn't be, though. I shouldn't be using my own name. How long would it take her to find him. phoning all the hotels alphabetically, asking for him at reception? A day, two at most ... if she wanted to, if she didn't have anything else to keep her busy.
'Have another?' said Charlie. Elder shook his head.
'Better get back,' he said. 'I want a clear head for tonight.'
'Oh, yes? Still up to your old tricks, eh? Who is she?'
'Never mind.'
'Dinner, is it?' Elder nodded. 'Listen, do me a favour. After you've bought the forty-quid bottle of wine and you're tasting it, just ask yourself this: does it taste any better than the pint I had this afternoon?
I can tell you now what the answer'll be.'
Elder laughed. 'You're probably right, Charlie.'
'That's me, Dom, a right Charlie. Come on, I'll give you a lift back.'
Joyce Parry came naked from her bathroom into her bedroom and stood there again, hands on hips, staring at the clothes laid out on her bed.
She just couldn't make up her mind. Two dresses and a skirt and blouse: she could not for the life of her choose between them. And until she'd decided that, she couldn't decide on her colour of tights or stockings, which meant she couldn't yet choose her shoes, never mind her accessories.
She was used to dressing to suit the occasion. Perhaps that was the very problem: she wasn't sure just what the occasion tonight actually was. She wasn't sure of Dominic's intentions, of how he felt. Was her confusion his fault or her own? She was nervous as a cornered rat, and afraid of coming to wrong conclusions. If she dressed one way, perhaps he would come to some wrong conclusion, too.
It was so easy usually. For the office, she dressed hard and efficient, because that was what the office required. For a dinner party, she would be elegant and intelligent. Receiving friends at home, she was just slovenly enough so that they felt comfortable in her house.
And for an intimate dinner with a man .. . ? That depended on what she thought the man felt about her, and what she felt - if anything - in return. There was her long ice-blue dress, covering most of her body like a shield. Then there was the jersey dress, which came to her knees and showed a lot of her arms and shoulders too. Or there was the skirt and blouse. The blouse could be worn open-necked, or else clamped shut and tied at the neck with a bow.
Decisions, decisions. She turned and went back into the bathroom. If she left the choice of outfit until the last minute, she'd have to make a snap judgement. So be it. God, he'd laugh to see her getting in such a state. The unflappable Joyce. She'd flapped all right, the first time she'd met him. They'd become lovers only several years later, and then for a matter of weeks. He'd still been married then - though only just.
It didn't work. It could never have worked. But that hadn't stopped it being good at the time.
She cleaned her teeth, rinsed, spat. Turned off the tap and stared at herself in the mirror, her hands on the rim of the washbasin.
Silverfish had aged Dominic, but she wasn't looking so young herself.
She patted her hair self-consciously. She still wasn't sure whether bringing Dominic to London had been such a good idea. He certainly seemed full of energy and ideas, his mind sharp. He'd covered good ground in Folkestone, Cliftonville, Brighton. He got results from people, mainly because he looked like he was there to be obeyed and impressed. Even the Special Branch pair worked well with him. Not under him, but with him. That was another thing about Dominic, he consciously underplayed his role. He didn't need to brandish his authority in anyone's face. Yet all the time he was manipulating them.
Maybe there were still a few things she could learn from him, a few of his strengths that she'd forgotten all about. But she knew his weaknesses of old, too. The way he bottled things up, always thinking more than he said, not sharing. And now Witch had threatened him: what must the shock of finding that note have done to him? She'd find out tonight, she'd sit at the table and ask him outright, and she'd go on asking until he told her.
She'd considered putting a guard on him. After all, he was the one real and actual person so far threatened by Witch. But Dominic wouldn't have agreed to a bodyguard. Besides, he was working most of the time alongside two bodyguards of a sort - Doyle and Green-leaf. But she'd phoned Trilling anyway, and had asked him to have a quiet word with his men, telling them to keep an eye open for Elder's safety. Trilling had been sympathetic, and had given her a progress report.
Too many fish, all of them possible red herrings. They were heading towards confusion rather than clarity. It wasn't Joyce Parry's way.
The phone rang in the bedroom. Maybe Barclay and another of his too-vague reports. Maybe Dominic to say there was a fresh lead and he was cancelling dinner. She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.
'Joyce Parry speaking.'
She listened for a moment, frowned, shifted a little on the bed. She pulled the corner of the duvet over her lap, as though her nakedness suddenly embarrassed her.
'What?' she said. She listened to more. 'I see,' she said. 'Yes, I quite understand. Thank you.' But the conversation lasted for several more minutes before she hung up.
Half an hour later, Dominic Elder rang the doorbell. She was dressed for travel, and knew she looked flustered and angry. Still, she opened the door to him. He was beaming. She swallowed before speaking.
'Dominic, I tried ringing you but you'd already left. Sorry, I've got to call off tonight.'
'What?' She stood at the door, holding the door itself by its edge.
There was to be no invita
tion in.
'I know, I know. Somewhere I've got to be, cropped up less than half an hour ago. I really am sorry.'
He looked pitiable. His shoulders had collapsed forwards. He stared at the doorbell as though trying to make sense of the conversation.
'But .. . where? What's so important it can't—'
She raised her free hand. 'I know, believe me. But this can't wait.
A car's picking me up in ten minutes and I haven't finished packing.'
'Packing?'
'Just overnight.' A pause. 'It's Barclay.'
'What's happened to him?'
'Nothing, he's just .. .' Her eyes narrowed. 'Tell me this is nothing to do with you.' He stood there, saying nothing. 'Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.' She pulled the door open wide. 'Get in here and tell me. Tell me everything.'
The schnapps before bed was probably not necessary. Barclay would have slept on a street of broken glass, never mind between the clean white sheets provided by the Gasthof Hirschen. It had been a hell of a drive.
Dominique was of the let's-press-on school of travel, so that stops were few and far between, and what stops
they made were perfunctory. Then a tyre went on the 2CV and the spare turned out to be in a distressed condition. And when a new tyre had been found and fitted, at what seemed to both of them major expense (whether converted into francs or sterling), a small red light had come on on the dashboard, and wouldn't go off, despite Dominique's attempts at tapping it into submission with her finger.
'What is it?'
'Just a warning light,' said Dominique.
'What's it warning us of?'
'I don't know. The owner's manual is under your seat.'
Barclay flicked through it, but his French wasn't up to the task. So Dominique pulled over and snatched the book from him.
'You're welcome,' Barclay muttered, but she ignored the jibe. He was dying for a cup of tea, and for the simple pleasures of Saturday in London: shopping for clothes and new classical CDs, reading a book or the newspaper with the CD playing on the hi-fi, preparing for a dinner party or drinks . ..
'Oil,' Dominique said.
'Let's take a look then,' said Barclay, getting out of the car. But the bonnet was almost impossible to open and he had to wait for Dominique, who was in no hurry to assist, to come and unhook the thing for him.