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She considered this, acknowledged with a shrug of her own
that it was possible. So what? she said.
The thing is, Elder broke in, there was a page torn out of
that newspaper, according to Mr. Barclay here.
Another shrug. A page, maybe several pages. Used for toilet
paper, according to
Perhaps Witch tore the page out, continued Elder.
You see, said Barclay, warming to the subject, it could be
some clue to her chosen victim, a profile of them or something.
Oh, yes, I see.
So can you remember which day s Times it was?
She laughed. I cannot even remember which month it was.
She saw that they looked crestfallen. I m sorry, she said.
Don t be, said Elder. But Barclay s dejection moved her to
remember.
There was a photograph, she said. A large black-and-white
picture on one of the inside pages. I recall it because it attracted
me. A photograph of New York from the air, and lots of ballons.
Balloons? said Elder.
Yes, the big ones with baskets beneath them.
Hot-air balloons?
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Witch Hunt
Yes, lots of those, rising over New York.
The Picture Editor s got to know when that one appeared,
said Barclay, brightening again.
Elder was nodding. Off you go, he said. And be lucky.
Barclay looked to Dominique. Coming?
She looked undecided. I should . . . my colleagues . . . I am
supposed to be the expert, you know. Then she made up her
mind. Oh God, yes, of course I am coming.
A broad smile spread across Barclay s face. Good, he said.
Elder watched them leave. A nice young couple, but he
wouldn t want to have to depend on them. He patted his chest,
and let his hand slide down the front of his suit. Then he walked
outside. The morning was overcast, threatening rain. The fore-
cast for the rest of the week was even worse. Wet weather
seemed to exacerbate his back problem. God knows, after last
night he felt achy enough as it was.
You look rough, said a voice to his left. It was Doyle,
accompanied by Greenleaf.
Maybe fragile is a better word, Elder admitted.
Doyle laughed, and patted his jacket ostentatiously. Well,
don t worry about a thing, Mr. Elder, we ll look after you. His
voice fell to a dramatic whisper. Tooled up.
Elder stared at the bulging jacket. I d never have guessed.
It makes me nervous, said Greenleaf. He looked nervous,
wriggling at the unaccustomed weight strapped to his side,
beneath his left arm. Neither Special Branch man wore a suit
really fitted for carrying a gun. Not like Elder s suit, which was
unfashionably roomy to start with. Elder many years before had
given the suit to a tailor in Shoreditch who had eased it out a
little to the left-hand side. The result was that he could have
worn a .44 Magnum without any hint of a bulge, never mind his
favored pistol.
I picked up itineraries for you, said Elder. He took from his
pocket two folded sheets of A4-sized paper, and gave one to each
of them. Doyle glanced down the list.
Not much here we didn t know already. When d you think
she ll make the hit? Lunchtime?
Elder nodded. That would be my guess. After this morn-
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Ian Rankin
ing s handshakes and champagne. The cars are supposed to leave
for Buck House at noon, but I suppose it depends on how long
the photo opportunity takes.
They won t keep Her Maj waiting, said Doyle knowledge-
ably.
You re probably right, said Elder.
Speaking of photo opportunities . . . Greenleaf reached
into the plastic carrier bag he was holding and came out with a
xeroxed sheet. We ve had these distributed to everyone. On
the sheet was a picture of Christine Jones and a description. The
picture wasn t terribly good.
I got it last night, Doyle said proudly. Went back to the
house. There weren t many snaps to choose from. We had to
crop that one as it was. He reached into his jacket pocket.
Here s the original.
Elder studied the photo. It showed Christine Jones and a
female friend posing on a beach. Christine was wearing a one-
piece swimsuit, her friend a very brief bikini.
Mmm, said Elder. He looked up at Doyle, who was look-
ing at the photo, then he glanced towards Greenleaf, who
smiled. Yes, they both had their ideas as to why Doyle had cho-
sen this particular photograph.
And, added Greenleaf meaningfully, there are extra men
on guard inside one-nineteen.
Not inside the other buildings?
We couldn t stretch to it.
No way, said Doyle, retrieving the picture. We re like
india-rubber men as it is.
Greenleaf was rummaging in the bag again. We thought
these might come in handy. He lifted a walkie-talkie out of
the bag and handed it to Elder. It was heavier than it looked.
They ve not got much range, but . . . Another walkie-talkie
was handed to Doyle. When Greenleaf lifted out the third, the
bag was empty. He crumpled it and stuffed it into his pocket.
Not exactly unobtrusive, commented Elder.
True, said Doyle. Carry one of these and every bugger
knows what your game is.
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Witch Hunt
Greenleaf said nothing but looked slighted. Elder guessed
the walkie-talkies had been his idea. I m sure they ll be invalu-
able, Elder said.
Here they come, said Doyle. Which was, in a sense, true.
Cordons had been hastily erected, traffic stopped. Uniformed
policemen were suddenly in greater evidence than ever. Motor-
bikes arrived with their indicators flashing, the drivers had a
word with someone, then they turned and headed back the way
they d come.
Yes, said Doyle, here they come.
The three men stood well out of the way as they watched the
delegations arrive. Doyle was not impressed. Why do they need
all these cars and all this razzamatazz? Be a lot cheaper if they
just flew the big cheeses in first-class, natch and had them
all sit around a table. Look at all these bloody hangers-on.
I believe, said Elder, smiling, the term is aides.
Hangers-on, Doyle insisted.
One car deposited the Home Secretary and his private secre-
tary. Jonathan Barker fastened a button on his suit jacket as he
emerged, smiling for the cameras. A gust caught the parting in
his hair, and he swept the stray locks back into place. He glanced
towards where Elder and the others stood, and frowned slightly,
bowing his head so the newsmen wouldn t catch the look.
Shagger Barker we call him, said Doyle from the side of
his mouth. Elder laughed, quite loudly, further discomfiting the
Home Secretary. The private secretary scowled openly at the
trio as he followed his minister into the building.
Why Shagger ?
Doyle shrugged. He just looks the type, doesn t he?
He was happily married until a couple of months ago.
Yeah, to his secretary. Says a lot about him, doesn t it?
Does it?
When the last delegation had entered the Conference Cen-
tre, Greenleaf expelled a long whistle of air between his teeth.
The collective sigh of relief, said Elder. The police and
other security people all looked a bit easier now that everyone
was safely inside.
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Ian Rankin
To think, said Greenleaf, we re going to be doing this at
least twice a day for the rest of the week.
Well, let s hope we are, said Elder. I d rather breathe a
sigh of relief than a gasp of panic.
Doyle chuckled. I wish I could say clever things like that.
I take that as a compliment, Doyle, coming from the man
who invented Shagger Barker.
Doyle made a little bow. Now what? he asked.
Victoria Street, said Elder. Fun s over here. Let s see how
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