Witch Hunt (34 page)

Another dead end, but it opened other routes. How had she travelled to Perth? Had she bought any other materials there? Had she stayed there for any time? The local CID were now busy finding answers to these questions. Patience and manpower were the necessities. But they were already stretching things to the limit and beyond. This close to the summit, they should be focusing in, instead of which the hunt seemed to be spreading wider and wider. He thought for a moment of Barclay. He hoped he would be all right. No, that wasn’t exactly true: he hoped he would get results.

The summit started on Tuesday, meaning Witch was probably already in town calculating her plan of attack and her escape routes. She’d have more than one escape route. Unless this really was to be her swansong, her kamikaze trip. Elder was beginning to wonder. He’d stared long and hard at the drawing of her conjured up by the police artist’s hand and Barman Joe’s memory, trying to place the face... failing...

‘Here we are,’ said Trilling. There was no longer white on the screen in front of them, but colour. Greenleaf adjusted the focusing before sitting down. ‘Thank you, John.’

In focus, the slide showed a man leaving a building. It had been shot with a powerful zoom, looking down from an angle. Probably taken, thought Elder, from the second or third storey of the building across the road from where the man was emerging. There was a car standing at the kerbside and he was heading purposefully for it, his lips pursed. In the second slide he was looking to his right, and in the third to his left, checking both ways along the street as he stooped to get into the passenger seat. A careful man, quite a nervous man. He had blond hair, but was mostly bald. What was left of his hair he wore quite long, in strands which fell down around his ears and over the back of his neck. His face was pale, cheekbones prominent. He didn’t have much in the way of eyebrows.

‘We don’t know his name,’ said Trilling. ‘Or rather, we know too many of them - at least a dozen aliases in the past three or four years, and those are only the ones we know about.’

‘So who is he?’ asked Doyle, wanting Trilling to get on with it. Trilling did not reply. Instead, the projector clicked its way to slide number four. Same man, at a café table, enjoying a joke with an olive-skinned man.

‘The Arab gentleman is known as Mahmoud. He works for an arms dealer. Or should I say, he works for the owner of an import-export business located in Cairo.’

‘I went there once on holiday,’ commented Doyle. ‘You think the traffic’s bad here...’

Cli-chack, cli-chack. Slide five. A street scene. The camera had just about managed to focus on a conversation between two men who looked to be arguing about something. The bald blond, and this time a small fat Asian-looking man.

‘Spokesman for a now-defunct terrorist group. This is a rare photo of him, made more rare by the fact that he died last year. Not natural causes.’

Cli-chack. Slide six. Cli-chack. Slide seven. And so it went. In a few of the photos, the bald blond had disguised his appearance. There was a particularly risible hairpiece. There were sunglasses, of course, and what looked like an authentic moustache. Eventually, the slides came to an end.

‘So he doesn’t mix with royalty,’ said Doyle. ‘But, with respect, sir, who the hell is he?’

Trilling switched off the projector. Greenleaf went to the window and tugged up the venetian blinds. Elder walked to the projection screen and stood in front of it.

‘He’s a go-between,’ he said. ‘Just that. He has made a profession and a reputation out of liaising between people - terrorist groups and arms suppliers, crooked politicians and drug dealers, all sorts of organisations. He’s worked in India, Czechoslovakia, Beirut, Austria, Egypt, Colombia...’

‘A one-man United Nations.’

‘I think divided nations would be nearer the mark, Doyle. He’s Dutch, that much we’re sure of. These slides came courtesy of MI6, who were given them by the Dutch authorities. There was, and still is, a long-term operation to arrest this man.’ He paused.

‘But not,’ suggested Trilling, ‘until his usefulness is past.’

‘I can’t comment on that,’ said Elder.

‘What do you mean, sir?’ Greenleaf asked Trilling.

‘I mean,’ Trilling was happy to explain, ‘just now they keep a watch on him, and they learn what he’s up to. They amass information about all these groups he seems to work for. He’s more useful as an unwitting source of information than he is behind bars.’

‘The old story,’ Doyle said simply.

‘The old story,’ Elder agreed.

‘Like with Khan,’ Doyle added.

‘I can’t comment on that either,’ said Elder with a smile.

‘So anyway,’ said Greenleaf, ‘what about him?’

‘Two things,’ Elder said. ‘One, he’s in Britain. That, at any rate, is what the Dutch think. His trail’s gone cold, and they’d quite like to pick it up again.’

‘As if we don’t have enough on our plates,’ said Doyle.

‘I don’t think you quite see,’ Elder told him.

‘Oh? What don’t I see? We’re up to our arses in the summit and Witch and everything...’

‘And so,’ said Elder quietly, ‘is the Dutchman. My second point. Think back to the description of the man Crane was seen having a drink with. Do you remember?’

Ever-ready Greenleaf supplied the answer. ‘Fair and balding, according to Mr McKillip.’

Elder nodded, while Doyle took it all in.

‘It does seem a mighty coincidence,’ said Trilling. He handed a copy of the McKillip drawing to Doyle so that Doyle could take in the resemblance for himself.

‘It could well be that this Dutchman is the link between the assassin and her paymasters,’ said Elder.

‘You mean her paymasters on the Khan hit?’

Elder shook his head. ‘Nobody brings an expensive assassin like Witch into the country for a hit like that. There’s another job, and those paymasters will have supplied the Dutchman.’

‘I thought,’ said Greenleaf, ‘she did one paid hit to finance her own private vendettas, isn’t that what you told us?’

‘Yes, but aspects of this operation make it unique. It doesn’t quite fit her previous profile.’

Doyle was pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose. ‘So now you’re saying we change tack completely? Leave Witch and start looking for this Dutchman? New posters made up, more questions at hotels and boarding-houses...’

‘Starting here in London,’ Greenleaf added. ‘It’s the obvious place.’

‘Which is probably precisely why he’ll be based elsewhere,’ said Elder. ‘Somewhere out in the suburbs, pretending to be the rep for a Dutch company or something.’

Doyle counted on his fingers. ‘Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Three days before the summit opens. It’s too much ground even to
start
to cover.’

‘So what should we do? Ignore the information?’

‘You know that’s not what I’m saying.’

‘I know what you’re saying, Doyle. You’re saying you object to the workload, you object to grafting all weekend - again. You’re tired and you need a break. Am I right?’

Doyle shifted his weight on the chair.

‘We all need a break,’ Trilling said quietly. Then he smiled. ‘Maybe our Dutch friend will be
precisely
the break we need.’

Only Greenleaf laughed at the pun, and then not for long.

‘Find the Dutchman,’ said Elder levelly, ‘and we find who Witch’s target is. He’s almost bound to know. We may even catch Witch herself.’

Trilling nodded. After a moment, Doyle nodded too. He looked around at the three faces.

‘Well?’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘What are we waiting for? I’ll just phone my bird and tell her I’m not available for lechery this weekend.’

Greenleaf sighed. ‘And I suppose I’d better phone Shirley. I’ve hardly seen her recently. She’ll go spare.’

‘And I,’ said Trilling, ‘have to cancel a race meeting I was supposed to be attending. You see, we all make sacrifices.’

Elder was pleased, but didn’t let it show. He was wondering how he would break it to his colleagues that he had to make a progress report to Joyce Parry this evening, a briefing he just couldn’t cancel. Then Doyle remembered something.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I know who the American bird is. An old mate of mine, Pete Allison—I used to work with him in CID, he runs his own security firm these days. He phoned me to say he’d been working for Khan, trying to find out about Shari Capri.’

‘Why did he want you to know?’

Doyle shrugged. ‘He was a bit sweaty about Khan being bumped off like that. He thought it through and decided he’d better come clean.’

‘So what did he find?’

‘She’s a hooker, not a cheap one. That was all crap about her being a model. The story Pete heard is that another security firm had hired her to sniff around Khan.’

‘Commercial espionage?’

Doyle nodded. ‘Women and money, that’s what it boils down to in the end. Another bank wanted to know what Khan’s bank was up to, so they hired themselves a spy.’ He turned to Elder. ‘You still think she was working with Witch?’

Elder shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But Witch did know a lot about Khan’s movements. Maybe she had the Dutchman put a bit of money about, ask a few questions.’

‘The security firm?’

‘That’d be my guess. Someone there would have known what Ms Capri knew. 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.