by Ian Rankin
He stared towards the corner around which the Dutchman had disappeared.
'Yeah, fits the bill, Charlie. He's here just now. Right, cheers.' He put down the receiver and tucked the phone back beneath the bar. 'Now then, Terry, what's the order?'
'Two bottles of Chablis.'
The barman shook his head. 'Try me with something else, son. I just sold the last one.'
Back in their little corner, Witch and the Dutchman were talking. Witch had chosen a spot close to one of the wall-speakers. The bar's music was not loud, but it would mask their conversation should anyone happen to be listening.
She paused to savour the wine. 'Nice,' she said. 'So, is my little package safe?'
'The one my men picked up from the house? Oh yes, it's safe all right.
Safe and well. I've stored it in a garage.'
'I don't want to know. I just want to know it's safe.'
'Rest assured.'
Witch nodded. She remembered the iron, hot in Christine Jones's hand.
The first mistake.
'Do you need anything else?' asked the Dutchman.
Witch shook her head. 'I'm ready.'
'Really?'
'Really.'
'So when will you ... ?' He raised a hand, apologising. 'Sorry, I don't need to know that, do I?'
'No, you don't.'
'And you're clear in your mind? I can't be of any more assistance?'
'No.'
'Well, I'll be at my telephone number until .. . well, until the job's done.'
She nodded, drank more wine. Her glass was nearly empty. The Dutchman filled it again. Then he lifted his own glass.
'Here's to the free world,' he said.
She smiled. 'Here's to love.' And she took a sip of her wine.
'I'll drink to that,' said the Dutchman. He couldn't keep his eyes off her. She was incredible. The first time they'd met - the only other time they'd met - had been in Paris. The initial briefing. He'd suggested working closely, but she'd turned him down. She preferred working alone.
When he learned a little more about her - most of it hearsay, but accurate
- he knew this for the truth. She was a loner, a mystery. She almost didn't exist at all, but then, once a year or so, would come some atrocity, some murder or bombing, a disappearance or a jailbreak, and 'she' would be mentioned. That was all anyone called her: she. 'She's been active again.' 'Who did it?' 'We think probably she did.' Stories were whispered, the myth grew.
And now here he was with her for their second and final meeting. And she'd changed so much since Paris. He hadn't recognised her at the tube station. She'd been standing against a wall, fretting, checking her watch. He hadn't seen through her disguise, until, after five minutes, he too checked his watch. Then saw her grinning in his direction. He looked to left and right, but she was grinning at him. And walking towards him. Christ, even her walk was different; every single thing about her was different. And yet it was her. It was her. He shivered at the thought.
'What about your exit?' he asked her now, trying to show that he cared.
'It'll happen.'
'I can help if you need any—'
'You've done your work.' She paused. 'And done it well. Now it's my turn. Okay?'
'Yes, yes, fine.'
'Tell me, why did we need to meet?'
'What?'
'Today, why did you need to see me?'
He was flustered. 'Well ... for the ... for your final briefing.'
She smiled. 'Unnecessary.'
'And to wish you luck,' he blurted out.
'Also unnecessary.'
'And because . . . well, I'm interested.'
'Don't be.' She finished her second glass of Chablis and rose to her feet, picking up her shoulder-bag and satchel. 'Enjoy the rest of the bottle,' she said. 'Stay here at least five minutes after I've gone.
Goodbye.'
'See you,' he said, knowing even as he said it that it wasn't true.
He would almost certainly never see her again. He looked at the bottle, then at his glass. Well, if his work really was over, why not? He poured a generous measure, and toasted the wall in front of him.
Witch walked on. The Dutchman was like all the others: weak. All the men she'd met in her life, all the ones she'd worked with. The left-wing terrorists who agreed with radical feminism then got drunk or stoned and tried to sleep with her. The leaders of the various groups who used too many words, filling a huge void with them, but had no conception of anything beyond the 'word' and the 'idea'. The anarchists: political shoplifters. She'd seen them all, spent time with them. In the early days, maybe she'd even believed in them for a time. It was easy to believe when you were sitting in a
stinking garret passing round a joint of middling-quality Moroccan.
Why had she drunk that wine? The Dutchman would worry about her now.
He'd think maybe she wasn't as coldly perfect as people said. Was that why she'd done it? No, she'd done it because she felt like it. She felt like a drink. Chablis and Meursault were her father's favourite wines.
It said so in the book she'd read about him . ..
She felt queasy suddenly. There were too many people around her. She ducked into an alley and felt better. The air was cooler in the alley.
She began to walk along it. It was a narrow street, the backs of tall brick buildings backing on to it. Emergency exits, steel-barred and openable only from within. There was litter in the gutter. Dirty city.
Cramped, crammed city. She despised it. She despised them all.
Shuffling footsteps behind her. She half-turned. Two youths, shambling along. One black, one white. The black massive for his age, bare arms taut and bulging. The white youth pale and wiry. They wore ludicrously large training-shoes, and metal medallions jangled round their necks.
They weren't talking. And they were looking at her. The wine dissipated through her; she was ready for them. They still didn't say anything as they snatched her shoulder-bag. She held it beneath her elbow and struck out. Her right hand went for the black youth first. He represented the real physical danger. She chopped at his windpipe, and jerked a knee up into his groin. The white youth half-turned to look at his friend, and she caught him with the side of her forehead on his nose. Blood burst across his face. One hand went to cover his nose, the other scrabbled for the pocket of his denims. No, she couldn't allow that, no knives. She caught the hand and twisted it, all the way around and up his back, breaking the wrist for good measure.
The black youth, who had fallen on all fours, caught an ankle in his vice-like grip and tugged, trying to pull her down. She kicked him in the ribs, then in the temple. The white youth was howling now, and running for the end of the street. She looked past him, at the busy thoroughfare, but no one was paying any attention. That was the city for you. She could be mugged, assaulted, and no' one would dare help. She looked down on the black youth. She had backed four feet from him, and he was pushing himself to his feet. She allowed him to stand up. He presented no threat any more.
'Go find your friend,' she said.
But he had other ideas. There was a loud k-schick as the blade sprung open. She raised her eyebrows. Couldn't he see? Where was the intelligence? Where was the basic survival instinct? She hadn't broken sweat yet. She hadn't even warmed up. There was a shout from the far end of the street.
'Oi! What's going on?' The youth turned. Two police constables stood in the mouth of the alley. He looked at Witch, brandishing the knife.
'Next time, bitch.' Then he ran in the same direction as the white youth, while the policemen came jogging from the opposite direction. Witch composed herself. She took several deep breaths, let her shoulders slump, and forced a few tears up into her eyes. She raised her fingers to her hair, rubbing it slowly, tousling it.
'You all right, miss?' asked the first policeman.
She nodded, but said nothing.
The second policeman ran to the end of the alleyway and looked around, then started ba
ck, shrugging.
'Never catch them now,' he said. 'These roads are like a bloody warren.
How you feeling, love?'
'I'm all right,' she said faintly, nodding. 'Yes, I'm fine, really.'
'Course you are. Did they get anything?'
She looked at her left arm, with the shoulder-bag tucked beneath it, her left hand still clutching her satchel. 'No,' she said.
'Looked to me like you was holding your own,' said the first policeman.
'I went to some self-defence classes.'
'Very wise. Not so wise coming down a street like this.'
'It's the middle of the day,' she complained.
'They don't bother about that, not these days. Morning, noon and night.
Mugging's a full-time occupation now.'
She smiled a little.
'That's better, love. Come on, let's get you down the station.'
'The station?'
'It's only two minutes' walk. Or we could radio for a car?'
'No, I can walk.'
'We'll get you a cup of tea, and let the doc have a look.'
'But I'm fine.'
'Could be in shock though, see. And then after that, we'll get a description from you, eh? See if we can catch those bastards before they pick on someone else . .. some woman who's not done self-defence.
Okay?'
Witch nodded slowly. 'Okay,' she said, searching in her shoulder-bag for a tissue with which to wipe her eyes.
Down at the station, they really were very kind, very sympathetic. They asked her if there was anyone she'd like them to phone. A friend? Or her work maybe, to say she'd be back late from lunch? No, there was no need, she explained, thanking them. A WPC brought her some sweet tea, and a doctor took a look at her and said she'd had a fright but she was all right now. The constables looked like they were glad of an excuse to be back in their station. They sat with their helmets off, drinking tea and chatting. She gave a description - a detailed and accurate description. After all, they had a point: why shouldn't she help catch the two thugs? The thought of them attacking someone else infuriated her. If she'd thought of it at the time, she would have disabled them more thoroughly.
'And the white one,' she said, 'he sort of stumbled and I think he hurt his wrist. He said something about it cracking.'
'Broken wrist, eh? That would be handy. We could check with the local hospital casualties.'
The other constable was laughing. 'Broken wrist . .. handy,' he explained.
There was excitement elsewhere in the station. One of the constables disappeared to find out what was going on. He returned and shrugged.
'Just brought in some Dutch geezer, according to the Sarge. The Yard are on their way to fetch him, Anti-Terrorist Branch or something.'
'Yeah?' His colleague seemed to lose interest in Witch. Now this was action. But the blood had drained from Witch's face.
'Excuse me,' she said, 'is there a toilet I could use?'
They directed her along the corridor. She wandered along it, glancing into offices. Some men pushed open a set of swing-doors and marched a dishevelled man into an office. The door closed after them. Oh Christ, it was the Dutchman. How the .. . ? Who .. . ? Elder? Dominic Elder?
Was he clever enough . . . ? She knew she needn't fear the Dutchman.
He might not hold out forever, but he would certainly say nothing until after the operation was complete. If he wanted to save his skin, that was,
and she thought probably he would want to save his skin. He'd rather face interrogation and a prison sentence than the thought that his ex-employers might put a contract out on him. And that's just what they'd do if he said anything. No, he'd keep his mouth shut. Tightly shut.
But all the same, it was another setback. The swing-doors were pushed open again. A man came through them carrying two large polythene bags.
Behind him, another man brought a single bag. They held them carefully, as though they contained eggs, and both men disappeared into the office, the office which held the Dutchman.
She knew what those plastic bags contained. Not eggs: two wine glasses and a bottle. So they'd have her fingerprints now. Not that it mattered.
Her prints had been altered before, they could be altered again. Painful and expensive, but an option. She wondered if she should ... if she dare creep closer to the door so she could listen.
There was a call from behind her. 'You've gone past it, love. It's that door behind you.'
She turned. One of the constables was standing in the doorway, pointing behind her. She smiled in apology: sorry, still a bit shocked. He nodded back. Then she pushed open the door to the ladies' toilets. She sat in a cubicle for a few minutes, working things out. Only one thing really stood out: the Yard were on their way here. Which meant, in all probability, that Dominic Elder was on his way here. Would he recognise her after all this time? If anyone could, he could. It was too risky.
She had to get out of this police station.
She flushed the toilet, looked at herself in the soap-splashed mirror over the wash-basin, and composed her victim's face again. She'd given them Christine Jones's
name and Christine's address, but had stressed that she was leaving London later today and would be out of town till tomorrow night. They hadn't bothered asking for her out-of-town address. As she walked back down the corridor, she knew, too, that she could not afford to wait.
The hit must take place tomorrow, Tuesday. It would not wait till Wednesday.
Tomorrow.
'Feel better, love?' asked the constable.
'Yes, thank you. I'd like to go now.'
'No problem there. If you do think of anything else, anything you could add to your description of the two assailants ..."
'I'll let you know.'
He scribbled his surname and the station's telephone number on to a pad of paper, tore off the page, and handed it to her.
'Normally,' he said, 'it'd be a CID matter. Maybe it will be, but they've got their hands full at the moment.'
'Yes, you said ... something about a Dutchman?'
'That's right. Don't ask me what though. I only work here.'
She smiled. 'If I do think of anything, I'll let you know.'
'Appreciate it. Now, can we get you a cab?'
'That's all right, I'll walk I think. Some fresh air.'
'Fresh air? Round here? Some hope.'
She shook hands with both constables (they seemed embarrassed by the gesture), and even said a polite goodbye to the desk sergeant. She was about to pull open the main door when it was pushed from outside with sudden force. She took a couple of steps back.
'Sorry,' said the man, coming in. He didn't sound sorry. She shook her head, saying nothing. He paused,
taking her silence as reproof, and held the door open for her.
'Thanks,' she said, brushing past him.
Outside, she felt giddy. She crossed the street quickly and melted into a queue at a bus shelter. She watched the entrance of the police station, but he didn't come out again. He hadn't recognised her.
He'd grown old. Not weak, but certainly old. Older than his years. She smiled, knowing the cause. Ah, but it was him all right, recognisably him. Dominic Elder. She wondered if he'd got her note, the one she'd left at that pub in Cliftonville. She was sure he had. He might even have gone after the fairground, talked to the boss, Ted. A dead end.
Nobody there would tell him anything. And now he'd be busy with the Dutchman, interrogating him, tracking his history through Interpol.
Yes, Elder would be busy, which suited her. It left her free to get on with her work. She'd best get busy. She had to steal a vehicle . ..
two vehicles . .. and she had to drive some routes. She only had until tomorrow. Tomorrow, some time around noon, the cavalcade of world leaders would drive slowly along Victoria Street, heading for lunch at Buckingham Palace. Right past her nose.
A bus arrived and she took it, for no other reason than that she had some thinking
still to do, and time to kill before evening. She climbed to the top deck and found a seat to herself near the front. Two things bothered her, both out of her hands now. One was that she had given the police Christine Jones's name and address. It had seemed prudent at the time. They only had to look in her handbag or at the label on her satchel to know who she was supposed to be. But now they had the Dutchman, and if they connected him to the assault in the alley, they would have a name and an address.
The second thing, well, the second thing wasn't nearly so important. Even so, she couldn't help wondering, with the Dutchman in custody, would anyone be feeding and watering Christine Jones?
Elder was nursing a mug of tea and chatting to CID when Greenleaf arrived.
'Hello, John.'
'Sorry I'm late',' said Greenleaf. 'Couldn't track down Doyle.'
'Then we'll just have to do without him, won't we? Let's call it, using our own initiative. Now, using your initiative, John, did you manage to get in touch with Mr McKillip?'
Greenleaf nodded. 'I said we'd send a car to fetch him, but he'd rather make it up here under his own steam. His train gets into Victoria Station.'
'Handy for the Yard then.'
'Which is why I said I'd meet him there.'
'What time does he get in?'
'Five-ish.'
'So, by six we'll have a witness that our Dutch friend met with George Crane in Folkestone.'
'Hopefully. Speaking of the Dutchman . ..'
'He's in a holding cell. They'll bring him to an interview room when we're ready.' Elder looked at Greenleaf above the rim of his mug. 'Can I take it we're ready?'
Greenleaf nodded. 'Good and ready.'
So the Dutchman was brought up to one of the interview rooms. He was complaining all the time: he was a tourist, was this how they treated visitors to their country? He demanded to contact his consulate, his embassy, anyone. He was just a tourist . .. they'd no right.
'No right at all, treating me like a criminal.'
Elder and Greenleaf, seated impassively at the small metal-framed table,' let him have his say. From the way his eyes refused to meet theirs, they knew he knew they were trouble. They both liked that. For a few moments more, they thrived on his discomfort.