by Ian Rankin
Barclay nearly collapsed. It was Dominique. She saw him, pointed, and laughed. Then she bounced over and kissed him right cheek, left cheek, right and left again.
'Hello, Michael. What are you doing here?'
'Never mind me, what are you doing here?'
Elder turned around. 'Keep the noise down!'
Barclay took Dominique's arm and led her away from the reception desk.
He was trembling and couldn't control it.
'I'm here with the French delegation,' said Dominique.
T was expecting you to be in chains in the Bastille.'
She laughed again. 'There is no Bastille, not for a long time.'
'Well, you know what I—'
'Yes, but your superior, the woman . ..'
'Joyce Parry?'
'Parry, yes. She told Monsieur Roche all about the threat posed by Witch.
Our own President could be her target. So now Monsieur Roche is worried.
And guess who is the French expert on Witch?'
Barclay nodded, understanding.
'There may be a punishment for me when I go back to Paris, but for now . . .'
She opened her arms wide. 'Here I am!'
One of her crowd called to her.
'Oui,' she called back, 'j'arrive!' She turned back to Barclay. 'I must go with them.'
'Yes, but where are you staying? When can I see you? What about tonight?'
'No, tonight I have to work. But you are attending the summit, so we will meet.'
'Yes, but—'
There was a sudden tug at his arm. It was Dominic Elder.
'Come on,' Elder said, 'things to do.'
'Yes, just a—' But Dominique was waving a farewell as she headed back to the French group.
'That was Doyle on the phone,' insisted Elder, still tugging a reluctant Barclay towards the exit. 'They've located Breuckner's hotel. Let's go take a look.'
'What?' Barclay twisted his neck for a final glimpse of Dominique. She was in conversation with a tall, long-faced man. The man was looking towards Barclay. Dominique was not. 'Who's Doyle?' he said. 'Who's Breuckner?'
'Christ, you are out of touch, aren't you? Hasn't Joyce told you anything?'
'No.' They were out of the building now.
'Then I'll bring you up to date on the way. By the way, was that . .. ?'
'Yes, that was her.'
'Pretty girl,' Elder said, pulling Barclay further and further away from her. She reminded him a little of the woman he'd opened the police station door for, the woman he was sure had been Witch. He kept hold of Barclay's arm. 'By the way, you've got lipstick on both cheeks.'
The hotel in Bloomsbury was every bit as upmarket as Elder had been expecting, this being the age of expense-account terrorism, of legitimised terrorism. You could bomb a place of worship, strafe a busful of women, then a few months later be sitting down to peace talks with a posse of well-known politicians and negotiators, your photo snapped for front-page posterity and the six o'clock news.
'Very strict about his privacy,' said the manageress, leading them upstairs. She had her hair swept into a beehive, revealing large ears and a bulbous forehead. 'Only wanted his room cleaned once a week.'
'How long has he been a guest, Mrs Hawkins?'
'Almost a month now. Prompt with payment, beginning of each week.'
'He paid cash?'
'Yes, cash. Along here.' She led them to the room, and produced a key from the folds of her skirt. 'Very quiet man, but secretive. Well, I always try to mind my business .. .'
'Yes, Mrs Hawkins, thank you. A policeman will be along shortly to take your statement.'
She nodded with sharp jolts of her head. 'Always happy to help the authorities.'
'Thank you, Mrs Hawkins. Leave the key, and we'll lock up afterwards.'
'Right you are.'
'And remember, nobody else is to enter before the forensics team gets here.'
'Forensics .. .' She jabbed her head again, then giggled, the tremor running all the way through her large frame. 'It's just like on the television, isn't it?'
Elder smiled. 'Just so, Mrs Hawkins, just so.'
He pushed Barclay into the room then followed him, closing the door softly but determinedly on the hotelier. Then he swivelled Barclay round to face him.
'You'll see her tomorrow,' he said. 'Now snap out of it.
You're no good to me like this. I'd be as well sending you back to the bloody office.'
That did it. Barclay straightened up, and his eyes seemed to come into focus.
'Sorry,' he said.
'Okay, now let's see what we've got here. Remember, don't touch if you don't need to. We might find some prints when forensics get here - if they ever bother to turn up.'
'Whose prints?'
'Witch's maybe. Or - outside chance - whoever's paying her. But that really is an outside chance.' He paused. 'You did a good job in that cartoonist's apartment, let's see you do it again now.'
Breuckner wasn't messy. The bedclothes had been pulled back and straightened, his clothes were hanging neatly in the wardrobe, and on the bedside table sat a copy of the previous day's evening paper, a travel alarm, and a used ticket to Madame Tussaud's.
'Travels light, doesn't he?' said Elder. 'To say he's been here a month.'
'For a holidaymaker, he certainly hasn't collected many souvenirs.'
Barclay reached down and lifted a shoe. 'Shall I check the heel for a radio transmitter?'
Elder smiled. 'Radio transmitters are more your line.'
'You know I left a couple of bugs at the cartoonist's?'
'Don't worry, someone'U take care of them.'
'Really?' The relief in Barclay's voice was all too evident.
'But don't tell Joyce I told you. She'll want you to sweat for a bit.'
'Understood.'
The search continued, throwing up nothing out of the ordinary except the sheer lack of the usual traveller's
detritus: no used travel tickets, used carrier bags, stamps, foreign change, no guide books or souvenirs.
Barclay squatted down and angled his head to peer beneath the bed.
'Something under here.' He looked around him, then got up and went into the small bathroom adjoining the room. He came back with, of all things, a loo-brush, which he used to manoeuvre out from under the bed whatever was there.
'No fingers, you said,' he informed Elder, who stood over him smiling.
'I just hope that brush was clean,' said Elder.
Magazines. Glossy magazines. Dutch writing on their covers. There were three of them. Still using the loo-brush, Barclay awkwardly turned some of the pages.
'Yes, I get the gist,' said Elder.
'S and M,' said Barclay, closing the magazines. 'Heavy duty stuff.'
'Really? You have some expertise in this area?'
'I know what's legal, and this stuff isn't.'
Elder clapped his hands together. 'Bloody good point, Michael. If we nab friend Breuckner for nothing else, we can have him under the Obscene Publications Act. Importation of material likely to offend. Anything else under there?'
Barclay had another look. 'Over the other side,' he said. 'Looks like a paperback.' He walked round the bed, crouched again, and swept from beneath the bed an A-Z book of London streets.
'I'll bet the pages for the city centre are missing,' said Elder. 'He had them in his pocket.'
'There's a piece of card.' Barclay pointed to where a cardboard edge protruded from the book. Elder took a pen from his pocket and eased it between the pages marked by the card. Then slowly he used the pen to open the book. The piece of card was a one-day travelcard, nearly a month old. The pages opened were those showing Hackney, Leyton and Clapton.
'Interesting,' said Elder. His first thought was of the address given to the police by the woman calling herself Christine Jones. It had been around this area. But no, not quite .. . her address was just off this particular map, one page back in the book in fact. So, rule that
out.
'What do you think, sir?' asked Barclay. They were both crouching now, with the book between them on the floor.
'There was a key in the Dutchman's pocket.'
'Yes, so you said.'
'Greenleaf—'
'Doyle's partner?'
Elder nodded. 'Greenleaf reckoned it might be the key to a lock-up.'
'Plenty of lock-ups round there,' Barclay said, nodding towards the map.
'Really?'
'Yes. Lots of tower blocks. Well, at least there used to be in Hackney.
I had a friend lived on the top floor of one.'
'Well, it's worth a try. At least it gives us a starting-point. I'd better get on to Special Branch and tell Greenleaf. What time is it?'
He checked his watch. 'No, he'll still be out at Christine Jones's address. Not that that'll take long. My guess is, nobody at that address will even have heard of anyone called Christine Jones. The lock-up idea is more interesting though.'
'Maybe we should get some copies made, help speed up the search.'
Elder nodded. 'Copies are being made.' He looked around the room.
'Nothing else for us here, is there?'
'We haven't checked the bathroom or under the carpets or
'Not really our department. The police'11 do all that. I just wanted a quick look at the place before they started. Hold on though.' He walked up to the bedside cabinet and looked at the evening paper. 'Open at the crossword, but he's hardly even started it.' Elder stared at the clues and the answers entered in the grid. 'Mmm, no, nothing there.'
'You thought maybe a code?'
'It's a handy way of leaving a message for someone if you're in a hurry.
Stick the message in a crossword grid, no one gives it a second look.'
'Unless they like crosswords.' The thought struck Barclay . .. what was it Wolf Bandorff had said? 'She was fascinated by word games and crosswords.' Word games and crosswords.
'Did I ever tell you what Dominique and I found at the Australian's?'
'Pamphlets about Wolf Bandorff?'
'Yes, but there was a crossword too, from the Times. Strange paper for an Australian anarchist to be reading in Paris.'
'Go on.'
'Well, the crossword had been done. The Australian said he liked crosswords.'
'But we know from Bandorff that Witch likes word puzzles. You think the crossword belonged to Witch? It's possible she spent time at the flat before taking away the cartoonist's car. Still, it's a bit late in the day to be any help.'
'No, hold on, something else. There was a page torn out of the paper.
The Australian said something about it saving on toilet paper. But why only the one page? And why wasn't the newspaper in the toilet if that was its function?'
Elder smiled. 'You're learning,' he said. 'So what you're wondering is, what was on the torn-out page?' Barclay nodded. 'Maybe it was something to do with the summit, or with her particular target. We don't know who her target is yet. There could have been some clue in that newspaper.'
'Well, which day was it? Which edition?' Barclay shook his head. 'I don't know.' 'But Dominique might.' 'And she's at the Conference Centre.' 'Come on then,' said Elder. 'Let's go find her.' There was a knock at the door. It was the fingerprint team. 'All yours, gentlemen,'
said Elder. He was now as anxious to be back at the Conference Centre as he had been to leave it in the first place.
But when they got to the foyer and asked at the desk, they were told that the new additions to the French security retinue had already left the building, and no one knew where they were headed.
Greenleaf and Doyle returned to the house in the evening, just after seven. They'd tried in the late-afternoon, but no one had been home.
So then they'd hared off back to Victoria Station to meet McKillip off his train and deposited him at Paddington Green, where he was delivered into the hands of other Special Branch men. And now they were back in Stoke Newington again.
'Wild goose chase,' muttered Doyle, pressing the doorbell. 'Have you noticed how Elder's started giving orders? I mean, who the fuck is he to give orders?'
'He's all right,' said Greenleaf.
Doyle turned to him. 'Oh, yes? You would think that, wouldn't you? Very pally, the two of you.'
'We're all together on this. It doesn't help if personalities become the issue.' Greenleaf pressed the bell.
Doyle feigned amazement. 'When did your Chair come through?'
'What?'
'Your Chair in Psychology, when did it come through?'
'Don't talk daft.'
As Doyle was reaching yet again for the beE, the door flew open. A frazzled-looking young woman stood there. Behind her, along the entrance hall, lay a trail of dirty clothes issuing from a rucksack.
'Yes?' she said.
'Good evening, miss,' said Doyle; showing his ID. 'We're police officers.
We're looking for Christine Jones. Does she live here by any chance?'
'Yes, Chris lives here.' The woman frowned. 'I'm Tessa Briggs. Has anything happened to Chris?'
'Not that we know of, miss. Could we come in for a minute?'
'Yes, of course.' She left the door open for them, and started back down the hall. 'Come into the living-room. Sorry everything's such a state. We just got back from a short holiday. It was supposed to be a weekend away, but we couldn't drag ourselves back.'
'I can appreciate that,' said Doyle.
There was a yell from upstairs. 'Tess, have you started that wash yet?
I can't hear the machine. Who was that at the door?'
'Two policemen,' Tessa yelled back. 'Asking about Chris. Come downstairs!'
In stepping over the threshold, Doyle and Greenleaf had to step over some mail still lying on the carpet where it had dropped through the letterbox. Greenleaf stooped to pick it up. Two letters for C. Jones, one for T. Briggs. and a postcard. There was a small table in the hall, and
he dropped the mail on to it before following Doyle into the living-room.
Doyle, already seated on the sofa, was asking Tessa Briggs about her weekend.
'It was great,' she said. 'We went canoeing. First time I've been. Scared the life out of me, but I'd do it again.'
'We being ... ?'
'Oh, Rachel and me and our two boyfriends.'
'Not Miss Jones then?'
'No, Chris stayed here. Only she's not here just now, she's gone off for a couple of days . .. she left a note on my computer.'
The two policemen looked at one another. This seemed to tally with the story given to the constables by the person calling herself Christine Jones. Doyle raised an eyebrow. The meaning to Greenleaf was clear: wild goose chase. There was a framed photo on the mantelpiece: three young women, arms around shoulders, grinning towards the camera.
Greenleaf picked it up.
'Which one's Miss Jones?'
'In the middle,' said Tessa Briggs.
Yes, he'd have known that: her photo pretty well matched the description of her given by the two constables and by Elder, who apparently had seen her leave the police station. Greenleaf handed the photo to Doyle, who looked at Christine Jones and nodded, handing it back. Even to Greenleaf, it was beginning to look like a dead end.
'When did Miss Jones leave?'
'No idea.'
'You didn't contact her over the weekend?'
Tessa Briggs shrugged, as though the thought had never crossed her mind.
Now another woman came into the room. She looked red-faced from exertion.
'It's all right,' she said with a big smile, 'I've hidden the crack beneath the arms cache.'
Greenleaf managed a wan smile; Doyle just stared at her.
'Only joking,' she said. 'I'm Rachel Maguire. What's up?'
Greenleaf noticed how Doyle reacted to the name -Maguire. An Irish'
name, as Irish a name as Doyle. And suddenly it came to Greenleaf: terrorists had Irish names, that's why Doyle was so defensive about his own na
me.
'Yes,' Tessa was saying. 'What is up? You haven't said.'
'It's Miss Jones,' said Doyle, recovering. 'She was mugged this morning.'
'Mugged?' The two women spoke in horrified unison. 'Is she all right?'
'She's fine,' Greenleaf said, calming them. 'Not a scratch on her. The attackers ran off. They didn't get a thing.'
'God, that's horrible. Where did it happen?'
'Near Covent Garden,' said Doyle.
'In broad daylight?'
'It's when most crimes occur, miss.'
'Where does Miss Jones work?' asked Greenleaf.
'She's a civil servant,' said Tessa.
'DTI,' said Rachel. 'On Victoria Street somewhere.'
'Right at the start of Victoria Street,' Tessa added.
'Number 1-16 or 1-18, something like that.'
Again, Greenleaf and Doyle exchanged a glance. Victoria Street. . .
that was a bit close to the Conference Centre.
'How has she seemed lately?' asked Greenleaf. 'I mean, has she been worried about anything?'
The women shrugged. 'What's that got to do with her being mugged?' asked Tessa.
'Nothing,' said Greenleaf. 'I was just wondering, that's all.'
'Look,' said Rachel, 'if she was mugged but she's all right .. . just what exactly are you doing here?'
There was no answer to that, so Greenleaf supplied one.
'Just routine, like I say, miss, in cases like this. We like to check afterwards to see whether the victim's remembered anything else.'
'Oh, like a description?'
'That's it, yes.'
Doyle rose to his feet. 'Anyway, we would like to talk to Miss Jones when she gets back.' He took a card from his wallet. 'Maybe she could give us a call. Or if she gets in touch with you
'Yes, we'll let you know,' said Tessa, accepting the card.
'We'd appreciate it,' said Doyle. 'Goodbye, Miss Maguire. We'll leave you to get on with your laundry and your crack dealing.'
Rachel Maguire managed a weak smile.
"Bye, miss,' said Greenleaf. Tessa accompanied the two policemen to the door. 'Oh,' said Greenleaf, 'I put your mail on the table there.'
'Thanks, biEs probably.'
'Probably,' agreed Greenleaf. 'And a postcard, too.'