[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  'Here, George,' the policeman said, 'has anyone given you one of these?'

  The guard slipped his spectacles back on. 'What is it? No, nobody's given me nothing.'

  'Typical,' said the policeman. 'If you want a job doing, do it yourself.

  Well, you can keep that one anyway.'

  A bell sounded once as the lift doors opened. A couple got out, a man in a pinstripe suit and a tall, big-boned woman.

  'Back in ten minutes,' the man said.

  'Right you are, sir,' said the guard. The policeman watched the couple leave.

  'Dirty sods couldn't wait till knocking-off time, eh?'

  The guard was laughing as he turned his attention to the sheet of paper.

  He recognised the name, he'd been told to look out for it. But now there was a photo, too.

  'I don't know,' he said.

  'What's up, George?'

  The guard tapped the photo with a finger yellow from cigarettes smoked to the nub. 'I think I've seen her this morning, about twenty minutes ago.'

  'You sure?'

  'Christine Jones, that wasn't the name on her pass. I've been on the lookout for Christine Jones.'

  The policeman was already slipping a radio out of his pocket. 'This is Traynor,' he said into the mouthpiece. 'I'm in number 45. Suspect is inside the building. I repeat, suspect is inside the building.'

  There was silence, then crackle and a disembodied voice. 'It's Doyle here, Traynor. Secure all exits, and I mean all exits. Start searching the floors. We're on our way.'

  Traynor made for the stairs then paused. 'You heard him, George. No one in or out of here, okay? Anyone wants out, send them to the ground floor.' He turned, then stopped again, turned back. 'George, what was she wearing?'

  'Mmm . . . blue jacket, dark blue . .. white blouse, dark skirt.'

  'Right.' This time Traynor started climbing the stairs. George switched his radio back on and began fiddling with the dial again. He looked out of the window, but the pinstripe man and lipstick woman had gone.

  Ah, Radio Two, he'd found it at last. Manuel and his Music of the Mountains, lovely. George settled back in his chair.

  Doyle and Greenleaf put together reinforcements and brought them into the building. They were both a little breathless, but ready for anything.

  The news had been circulated, more men would be on their way.

  'Any sign?' Doyle asked Traynor.

  'Not yet. She's dressed in a dark-coloured two-piece and white blouse, but then so are half the women in the place.'

  'Which floor was she headed for?'

  Traynor shook his head.

  'We've just got to be methodical,' said Greenleaf.

  Doyle looked at him. 'Methodical, right. How long have we got before the bigwigs go to lunch?'

  Greenleaf checked his watch. 'Quarter of an hour.'

  'Right then,' said Doyle,,'we can afford to be methodical for about five minutes. After that, we start screaming and kicking down doors.'

  'Progress report, gentlemen.' This was said in brisk, clipped tones by Commander Trilling, almost at marching-pace as he entered the foyer and joined them.

  'She's in here somewhere, sir,' said Doyle.

  'But we don't know where,' admitted Greenleaf.

  'Well, I'll tell you one place she's not - she's not standing here with us!' Trilling tossed a mint into his mouth. 'Let's start from the roof down. Snipers like height, don't they?'

  'Yes, sir.' Doyle turned to Traynor. 'What are you waiting for? Roof and the top floor down!'

  'Yes, sir.' Traynor started giving orders to his unit.

  'You start at the top, Doyle,' said Greenleaf, 'I'll start at the bottom.

  Keep in touch by walkie-talkie and we'll meet halfway.'

  'Right,' said Doyle.

  'Where's Elder?' asked Trilling. Greenleaf shrugged.

  T think he was headed for the lower ground floor.'

  'Let's try to keep him there, eh? He'll only get in the way.'

  Doyle grinned at this, so Greenleaf swallowed back a defence.

  'Right, sir,' he said instead, heading for the stairs. The last thing he heard Doyle saying was: 'And check the lift-shaft, too.

  Remember that film with the cannibal ..."

  Doyle stood outside the third-floor conference room. Traynor was with him. So was a civil servant who worked on the third floor.

  'It's usually open,' she said. 'I can't think why it would be locked.'

  She was young and blonde and chewing gum.

  Doyle nodded, then put a finger to his lips and tried the doorhandle quietly, trying to turn it one way and then the other. It was definitely locked. He put his ear to the door and listened. Silence. Then a shuffling sound. He thought about knocking, then thought better of it. He motioned for them to follow him further down the corridor.

  'I'm lost,' he whispered. 'Is this the front of the building or the back?'

  'The front, sir,' Traynor whispered back.

  'Can we get someone on the ledge to take a peek inside?'

  'I'll go check.' And off Traynor tiptoed.

  'Back to your office,' Doyle whispered to the girl. 'It's too dangerous here.'

  He thought she was going to swallow her gum. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze in his and nodded along the corridor. Off she walked, on silent tiptoe. Doyle went back to the door and listened again. Silence. He put his eye to the keyhole, but it was the wrong type. He couldn't see into the room. There was a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. He lay down, but again could not see into the room. Traynor was coming back.

  'No can do,' he said when they'd moved away from the door. 'The ledge isn't wide enough or something.'

  'What about across the road? Can anyone see anything from across there?'

  'I'll radio and check.'

  'And get some more men up here. We may have to storm the place.'

  'Don't we have the SAS to do that sort of thing?'

  'Don't be stupid, Traynor. It's only a hardwood door, not the Iranian bloody Embassy.'

  Greenleaf appeared. A distance behind him, Doyle could see Trilling.

  'Is she in there?' Greenleaf hissed.

  Doyle shrugged and nodded towards the Commander. 'Do me a favour,' he whispered to Greenleaf, 'keep the old man away from here. He'll only be in the bloody way, and you know he can't keep his voice down.'

  Greenleaf nodded, moved back along the corridor, and stopped in front of Commander Trilling, talking to him softly.

  Elder was questioning the guard called George. He was beginning to get a sour feeling in his stomach about all of this, the whole set-up.

  'I'm not even sure it was her,' George was saying now. 'I mean, it's hard to tell with some women, isn't it?'

  'Well, has there been anyone else, anyone new to you?'

  The guard shook his head. From Elder's walkie-talkie came information that the procession of cars was leaving the Conference Centre, moving in slow convoy past the building he was standing in. He felt like screaming.

  'Look,' said the guard, 'I've got to get back to work.' He walked over to the outside door, where a police officer was stopping a man in a pinstriped suit from entering the building.

  He's all right,' said the guard to the policeman. 'It's Mr Connaught from the third floor.'

  1 only went out to get these,' Mr Connaught was explaining, waving some documents. 'I'd left them in my boot'

  The policeman looked to Elder, who nodded assent. The officer moved aside, letting Connaught into the building.

  'What's going on?'

  'Security,' the guard explained. 'Some woman they're after.' This reminded him of something. 'Who was that blonde lady you were with?'

  Connaught shook his head. 'Met her at the lift. Don't know who she was exactly.'

  'Oh, Christ!' said Elder, making for the stairs.

  There was that shuffling sound again, like someone who was seated moving their feet on the floor. Doyle took a deep breath and knocked, keeping his back
hard against the wall to the side of the door, rapping with his fist and then removing it from any line of fire. Silence.

  He knocked again, a little harder. 'Anyone in there? We've got a meeting starting in five minutes. Hello, anyone there?'

  Silence. From their distance, Greenleaf and Trilling were watching him.

  When Greenleaf spoke, he spoke in an undertone which Doyle couldn't catch. Trilling's idea of an undertone, however, would not have gone unheard in a football stadium.

  'I see ... Yes, of course ... As you see fit...' Then a message came over Greenleafs radio (Doyle had switched his off: it sat on the ground beside him). Greenleaf listened and mumbled something into the radio.

  Doyle licked his lips. No use pretending any longer; no time left in which to pretend. Traynor was returning, pushing past Greenleaf and Trilling. He had four men with him.

  'Net curtains are in the way,' Traynor whispered. 'Nobody across the street can see anything. No movement at all.'

  Doyle nodded. 'I can hear somebody though.' Patches of sweat were spreading from beneath his arms. And now Greenleaf was creeping forwards.

  'They're passing the building right this second.'

  'Can't hang around any longer then,' said Doyle. He withdrew his pistol, raising it high above him, gripped in both hands and pointed ceilingwards.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Right,' he said to the men around him. 'We're going in.' They were all withdrawing their weapons now, a series of quiet snicks as safety catches were slipped off. Doyle looked at Traynor. 'You keen to kick down that door?' Traynor nodded. 'Okay, two of you behind me, two of you other side of the door. Soon as the door opens, we're in. My side low, other side aiming over our heads.

  Take the diagonals. Got that?'

  They nodded, assumed their positions. Doyle, back to the wall, crouched low. Traynor stood in front of the door, took a moment to size it up.

  Greenleaf, who had gone back along the corridor to let Trilling know the score, had withdrawn his own weapon and was now advancing again, walkie-talkie gripped in his free hand, watched by Trilling. Doyle gave Traynor the nod. Traynor took a step back, both hands around the butt of his gun, aiming it straight at whatever was behind the door. He raised his right knee, so that the sole of his shoe faced the door, just below the handle. And took a deep breath.

  Dominic Elder ran up the stairs, across the reception area, and out of the glass doors on to Victoria Street. He ran into a crush of people, waving, some of them cheering, held back by metal-grilled barriers from the

  road. There was a dull slow roar from the motorcycle escorts. And then there was glitter in the sky, and a net-curtain, blown out from its window and wafting in the breeze.

  And then there was the explosion.

  A dull boom. Not a large explosion by any means, but enough to panic the crowds. The motorbikes suddenly speeded up, as did the cars. Front fenders dented back fenders as the cars behind put their foot down.

  They were speeding away from the scene, and the security men on the street had guns in their hands and were trying to see what had happened.

  But it was raining glass. That was what was happening. Large and small shards and splinters, landing at velocity. And the screams were no longer solely of fear.

  'What happened?' he yelled into his walkie-talkie. 'John, what the hell happened?' He was jostled by people fleeing the scene. Doors were kicked open as people attempted to find shelter. Anywhere but on the street.

  Barriers clattered to the ground as people scrambled over them.

  The walkie-talkie crackled. He struggled to hear it. 'Bomb inside the door. Hair-trigger.'

  'Anybody hurt?'

  'Traynor, leg blown off. Doyle .. .'

  'What about Doyle?'

  'Concussion.'

  'The room, John ... is there anyone in the room?'

  A pause. 'Negative, Dominic. The room's empty. Repeat, the room is empty.' Then: 'Jesus Christ.'

  'What is it?'

  'Chickens, two supermarket chickens.'

  They'd walked straight into a bloody trap! If Witch had left nothing else, she'd left yet another warped calling card. Which meant what?

  That the real attempt

  would take place elsewhere? Up ahead maybe? The motorcade was moving off in disarray. Christ, a trap . . . he couldn't believe . . . couldn't take it in. Why? What was the point? Suddenly, a hand gripped his arm.

  He reached inside his jacket, turning towards the— But it was only Barclay.

  'Jesus, you gave me a fright.' His grip on the pistol relaxed. Barclay saw what had been about to happen.

  'Sorry,' he said. 'What's going on?'

  Elder nodded upwards, where the curtain still fluttered like a flag.

  It didn't look like a flag though; it looked like a shroud. 'Bomb,'

  he said. 'Witch led us into a trap.'

  Sirens were nearing, ambulances. Uniformed police officers were attempting to comfort the prone and wounded bodies. A helicopter surveyed the pandemonium from on high. The convoy had disappeared from view. Barclay was yelling something above the noise.

  'What?' Elder yelled back.

  T said we know who she's—'

  The ambulances were drawing to a squealing halt in front of them. Barclay put his hand out towards Dominique, palm upwards, only to find that she wasn't there. She was ten feet away, tending to a woman's cuts.

  He walked over, opened the flap of her shoulder-bag, and took something from it, then came back to Elder, handing him a folded page from The Times. Elder looked at it. A full-page advert for British Aerospace.

  'Other side,' yelled Barclay. Elder turned the page over. The obituaries column. There were four, a couple of churchmen, head of an Oxford college, and . . . Marion Barker, the Home Secretary's wife.

  Elder's face creased into a huge frown. He looked at Barclay, who was nodding. Dominique, looking paler than ever, was coming back to join them. An ambulanceman had taken over from her. She watched as he worked on the woman. The woman caught Dominique's eye and smiled at her, mouthing 'thank you'.

  'You think her target's the—'

  'The Home Secretary,' said Barclay. He shrugged. 'Unless you think it's the Oxford don's widow.'

  A police sergeant was approaching, his arms stretched out like a barrier.

  'Clear the area, please. Please clear the area.'

  'Yes, sergeant, we're just going,' said Dominic Elder quietly, not really aware of what he was saying. Then his eyes came back into focus.

  'Come on then,' he said. 'Back to the Centre.'

  They joined the evacuation of Victoria Street. More ambulances and fire engines were blocked in a traffic jam, the traffic having been halted to allow the motorcade sole access to Victoria Street in the first place.

  Sirens blared, blue lights circled, but the drivers in front complained that there was nothing they could do till the barriers were moved. One ambulance mounted the pavement, only to find itself firmly wedged between the vehicle in front and a concrete lamppost.

  At the Conference Centre, a crowd of people stood on the steps, wondering what had happened. Elder pushed past them and into the foyer. He walked quickly to the reception desk. 'The Home Secretary,' he said, 'I need to know . . . did he go to Buckingham Palace with the rest of them?'

  'I'll just check.' The receptionist made an internal call. 'Jan, what was Mr Barker doing this lunchtime?' She listened. 'Thank you,' she said, cutting the connection. 'He went home,' she said. 'Car collected him ten minutes ago.'

  'Thank you,' said Elder. Barclay and Dominique were waiting just inside the door. 'He's gone home,' Elder told them. 'I know his address.' He was outside again, the

  young couple following him. He started to descend the steps, looking about him. 'What we need now is a car.'

  Dominique continued past him and perused the line of cars parked outside the building. 'How about this one?' she said. It was a marked Metropolitan Police Rover 2000. 'It's even got the keys in.' She was already op
ening the driver's door. 'You can direct me, come on.'

  Elder got into the back, Barclay into the passenger seat. Dominique had started the ignition, but was now looking at the controls around her.

  'What's the problem?' said Barclay.

  'My first time in a right-hand-drive car.' She pulled the big car out of its parking space. 'See if you can find the siren, Michael.' After a few false attempts, he did so. People looked at them as they pulled out into the main road. 'Which way?' she called back to Elder.

  'Keep going along here,' he said. 'I'll tell you when to turn.'

  Dominique nodded, shifted up a gear, then thought better of it, shifted down again, and slammed her foot on the accelerator. Barclay was thrown against the back of his seat. He looked around, but Elder didn't seem at all fazed. He was yelling into his walkie-talkie.

  'John? John?'

  'Dominic, where are you? I can hardly—' The signal broke up.

  'I'm heading towards Jonathan Barker's home. We think he's Witch's target. Over.'

  He listened to a lot of crackle and static. Then: 'Sorry. Dom ... signal's break ... didn't catch a ... please rep—'

  We're out of range,' said Barclay.

  'Yes.' said Elder, throwing the walkie-talkie on to the scat beside him. It bounced off the seat and on to the ioor. where it erupted into static before dying. Elder

  looked out of the window. 'Right here!' Dominique slammed on the brakes and sent the car whipping around the corner. Barclay was desperately trying to fasten his seatbelt.

  'You don't trust me, Michael?' she called. 'I am a Parisian driver.

  C'est facile!'

  Elder reached between them for the police radio.

  Jonathan Barker, Home Secretary, had a town house in Belgravia's Holbein Place. It was one of his three UK residences, the others being a converted vicarage in Dorset and an old hunting-lodge on Speyside. His address in London wasn't quite public knowledge, but neither was he a low-key minister - he'd given several early-morning doorstep interviews to the media during his short time in office. The parking space in front of the house was kept free, courtesy of two bright red traffic-cones which sat in the road whenever Barker's chauf-feured car was elsewhere. It was an arrangement which worked, mostly. The most frequent transgressors were workmen and tourists, who would shift the cones on to the pavement so as to have room to park their vans or BMWs.