Witch Hunt (42 page)

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 back, 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.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘look!’ And he raised a shoe in the air, the tongue of leather flapping loose where the shoelaces had been removed. ‘They take away my shoelaces, my trouser-belt, my necktie. In case I
injure
myself, they say. Why in God’s name should I injure myself? I am a tourist. I don’t...’

Elder reached into a large manila envelope which he’d brought with him. He drew out a black and white photograph and threw it on to the desk, so that it faced the Dutchman who glanced at it, then looked away again, addressing his words to the police officers behind him, all four of them, standing massively between him and the door.

‘I am treated like a common criminal ... British justice, law and order, a farce, I tell you! A farce! We in the Netherlands have more respect for the ...’

Another photograph landed on the desk, then another. They were the photographs supplied to Commander Trilling by SIS, the ones which had accompanied the slides. The Dutchman saw himself again and again, in different places, different situations, in conversation with different people, and all during different operations.

Then Elder spoke.

‘We want to know what she’s planning, and we want to know where she is. We want to know quickly.’

The Dutchman met Elder’s eyes for a dull second.

‘What are you talking about?’ he said. ‘I’m a tourist.’

‘No, you’re not. We both know what you are. The authorities in several countries would like to speak with you. Most of them are less law-abiding than we are. They wouldn’t hesitate to use ... well, whatever means they see fit, to prise information from you.’ Elder paused to let this sink in. ‘If you don’t tell us where she is and what she’s intending to do, I’ll see to it that you’re handed over to the least ... the least
hesitant
country possible. Speak to us now, and you’ll be kept here in the UK. Do you understand?’