Witch Hunt (9 page)

‘Yes. From warlock to witch, once we knew the sex.’

‘But there’s no proof it was the woman who killed the—’

‘Not a shred of proof. I never said there was. Suppositions, Mr Barclay.’

‘Then we’re no further forward really, are we?’ Barclay was in a mood to wind things up. What had he learned here tonight? Stories, that’s all. Merely stories.

‘Perhaps not,’ Elder said ruefully. ‘You know best.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘No, no, I know what you meant, Mr Barclay. You think this file represents the most tenuous speculation. Maybe you’re right.’ He stared at Barclay. ‘Maybe I’m being paranoid, a symptom of the whole organisation.’

There was silence between them, Elder still staring. Barclay had heard those words before. Suddenly he realised they were his words, the ones he’d used at his selection-board.

‘You,’ he said. ‘You were on my interview panel, weren’t you?’ Elder smiled, bowing his head a little. ‘You didn’t say a word the whole time, not one.’

‘And that unsettled you,’ Elder stated.

‘Of course it did.’

‘But it did not stop you making your little speech. And as you can see, I was listening.’

‘I thought I knew your name, I wasn’t sure how.’

Elder had begun slotting the photos back in their proper places inside the file. Barclay realised suddenly just how much this file meant to Elder.

‘Mr Elder, could I take your report with me to look at?’

Elder considered this. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready yet.’ He rose and tucked the file beneath his arm. ‘You’ve got a long drive ahead. We’d better have some coffee. Come on, it’s too dark out here. Let’s go inside where it’s light.’

Over coffee, Elder would speak only of opera, of
Il
Trovatore, of performances seen and performances heard. Barclay tried consistently to bring the conversation back to Witch, but Elder was having none of it. Eventually, Barclay gave up. They moved from opera to the cricket season. And then it was time for Barclay to leave. He drove back to London in silence, wondering what else was in Dominic Elder’s file on Witch, wondering what was in Joyce Parry’s files on Elder. The word acolyte bounced around in his head.
You’re not ready yet.
Was Elder inviting him to ... to what? To learn? He wasn’t sure.

He brightened when he remembered that this was Friday night. The weekend stretched ahead of him. He wondered if he’d be able to put Witch, Elder, and the American General out of his mind. Then he recalled that he himself had set these wheels in motion. He had noticed the original report on the sinkings. He had contacted Special Branch.

‘What have I let myself in for?’ he wondered as the overhead sodium arc came into view, the light emanating from London.

The Operating Theatre

Friday, Saturday, Sunday

Idres Salaam-Khan - known to everyone simply as Khan - had a good life. Khan knew it, and Khan’s chauffeur-cum-bodyguard knew it. A good life. As a senior official (though not a director) of a small, anonymous bank, his salary was kept undisclosed. It managed to bury itself amidst still larger figures on the yearly accounting sheet. But whatever it was, it was enough to bring to Khan the simple and not so simple pleasures of life, such as his Belgravia mews house (a converted stables) and his country house in Scotland, his BMW 7-Series (so much less conspicuous than a Rolls-Royce) and, for when conspicuousness was the whole point, his Ferrari. These days, though, he did not use the Ferrari much, since there wasn’t really room in it for his bodyguard. These were uncomfortable times, against which luxury proved a flimsy barrier. A bodyguard was some comfort. But Khan did not look upon Henrik as a luxury; he looked upon him as a necessity.

The small anonymous bank’s small anonymous headquarters (Europe) was in London. The clients came to it precisely because it was small and anonymous. It was discreet, and it was generous in its interest rates. High players only though: there were no sterling accounts of less than six figures. Few of the customers using the bank in the UK actually ever borrowed from it. They tended to be depositors. The borrowers were elsewhere. In truth, the largest depositors were elsewhere too, but none of this bothered the UK operation.

Certainly, none of it bothered Khan, whose role at the bank was, to many, such a mystery. He seemed to spend three days there each week - Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday - with Friday to Monday being spent elsewhere, most often these days in Scotland. He liked Scotland, finding it, like the bank, small and anonymous. The only thing missing, really, was nightlife. Which was why he’d decided, this trip, to bring his own nightlife with him. She was called either Shari or Sherri, he’d never really worked it out. She seemed to respond to both names as easily as she responded to questions like ‘More champagne?’, ‘More smoked salmon?’, and ‘Another line?’

Khan had effortless access to the most exotic drugs. There were those in the London clubs who would have given their eye-teeth for his contacts. But Khan merely smiled with lips tightly shut, heightening the mystique around him. To have answered ‘diplomatic baggage’ would have burst the bubble after all, wouldn’t it?

In the clubs he frequented, Khan was always ‘Khan the banker’. Few knew more about his life than that simple three-word statement. He always either brought with him, or else ended the evening with, the most beautiful woman around. He always ordered either Krug or Roederer Cristal. And he always paid in cash. Cash was his currency, crisp new Bank of England notes, and because of this he found favour with every club owner and restaurateur.

He was an acknowledged creature of the night. There were stories of champagne at dawn in Hyde Park, of designer dresses being delivered out of the blue to Kensington flats - and fitting the recipient perfectly. There were gold taps in his Belgravia house, and breakfast was actually
delivered
from a nearby five-star hotel. But Shari or Sherri was the first person to take the trip to Scotland with him. She was an agency model, with no bookings all week. She was, with a name like that, naturally American - from Cincinnati. Her skin was soft and very lightly tanned, and she just loved what Khan did to her in bed.

There was a problem though. It was a long and tiring drive to the Scottish residence, situated just outside Auchterarder and not a ten-minute drive from Gleneagles Hotel. Henrik and Khan had driven it in the past, but recently Khan had opted for the bank’s private twelve-seater plane which was kept at an airfield to the south-west of London. It could be flown to a small airfield adjoining Edinburgh Airport, from where it was an hour by hired car to Auchterarder. The plane usually stood idle anyway, with a pilot on permanent contract, and Khan reckoned all he was costing his employers were some fuel and the pilot’s expenses in Edinburgh. But this week, the plane was booked. Two of the bank’s South-East Asia personnel were in Britain, and the plane was required for trips to Manchester, Newcastle, and Glasgow.

However, the airfield’s owner, recognising valued custom, asked if he might be of assistance to Khan. There was an eight-seater available which could be hired for fifteen hundred pounds a day, the fee to include a pilot’s services. The airfield owner stressed that fifteen hundred was cheap these days, and Khan knew this to be the case. All the same. He would be charged per day, and staying in Scotland from Friday through Monday ...

‘Would the pilot be willing to fly us up there then bring the plane back the same day, and return to Edinburgh to collect us on the Monday?’ Khan listened to the silence on the other end of his car-phone. The airfield owner was considering this proposition.

‘I suppose that’d be all right,’ the man answered at last.

‘And the charge would be for the two days only?’

‘I don’t know about that, Mr Khan. See, if he’s got to pick you up on the Monday, that means he’s tied up. He can’t take any other work.’

‘I see,’ said Khan. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ And he terminated the call. He considered for a moment, then placed another call, this time to the Edinburgh airfield. ‘It’s Mr Khan here. Would it be possible to hire a small plane, a six-seater would suffice, to bring some people back from Edinburgh to London on Monday?’ He listened to the answer. ‘And how much would it cost?’ he asked. ‘Two thousand? Yes, thank you. That’s a definite booking. It’s Khan. K-h-a-n. I’ll be arriving in Edinburgh this afternoon. I can pay the deposit then, if that’s all right. I don’t suppose there would be a cash discount?’

As he said this, he tried to make it sound like a joke. But it was certainly not taken as a joke at the other end of the line. There was an agreement. A ten percent discount for cash, and no receipts issued. Khan rang off, and rang the English airfield again. ‘I’ll take the plane and pilot for today only. One way. Fifteen hundred pounds as agreed.’ Again, he terminated the call and sat back in his seat. The BMW was entering Jermyn Street. Khan needed some shirts.

Rich people are often those who are most canny with their money. At least, the people who stay rich are, and Khan had every intention of both him and his bank remaining wealthy. He was a born haggler, but only when it mattered. It was not, for example, worth asking for a cash discount on a bottle of Krug or a club membership. This would merely make one look cheap. But in business, haggling was an ancient and honourable adjunct. He didn’t really understand the British reserve in this matter. He enjoyed the London markets, where stall-holders would cajole people into buying by adding another bunch of bananas to the box they were already holding. And another bunch ... and another ... until suddenly some invisible, unspoken point was reached, and several hands shot out holding money. Of course, only one of them was chosen.

Londoners, native Londoners, working-class Londoners, were excellent hagglers. Often it was trained out of them, but many retained the habit and the skill. Just look at the City, at the young brokers who were just as likely to come from the East End as from Eton. These people were a pleasure to do business with. Khan totted up that he had just saved £2,300, either for the bank or for himself (depending on how it swung). He was pleased. But then, what was £2,300? The cost of a single bottle of Petrus at some wine merchants. The cost of an adequate vintage in several London restaurants. The cost of thirty shirts: a scant month’s worth. Of course, because the Edinburgh end of the deal involved no receipts, there could be no allowances against tax either ... but then Khan and his bank were not worried by UK taxation laws.

‘The parking looks difficult,’ Henrik called from the driver’s seat. ‘Shall I drop you off and drive around the block?’

‘Okay. I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The car stopped, blocking the narrow street. Behind it, a taxi sounded its horn. Khan stepped slowly from the back of the BMW and gave the taxi driver a cool gaze. The pavements were wet, but drying fast. The summer shower was over, and the sun had appeared again. Steam rose into the sky. Khan walked on leather soles and heels through the steam and into the shop. The shop was another saving. He had found that, due to his ‘regular shape’, tailored shirts fitted him no better than a decent ready-made. There were four customers in the shop, each busy with an assistant.

‘With you in a moment, sir,’ someone said to Khan, who bowed his head in acknowledgement. He was in no hurry. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and examined the collar-sizes on the rows of wooden shelves. The hand in his left pocket touched something small and cold: an alarm. If he pressed its round red button, Henrik would arrive with all speed. This, too, Khan did not perceive as a luxury.

They flew up to Scotland over the west coast. The plane’s interior was cramped yet somehow comfortable. There was something reassuring about the closeness of proximity. Henrik shifted seats half a dozen times, when he was not dispensing drinks. There was a cool-box on board, in which had been placed two bottles of champagne, several rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches, and small cocktail packets of pistachios and almonds. Plastic cups for the champagne though: an obvious oversight. Khan handed two cups to Henrik.

‘Ask the pilot if he’d like one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The pilot could be seen, there being no curtain between cockpit and passenger deck. This annoyed Khan, too, though it could hardly be said to be the pilot’s fault. Henrik returned with the two beakers. He was grinning.

‘Not while he’s driving, Mr Khan, but he thanks you for the thought.’

Khan nodded. Sensible, really, but then some of the pilots he’d had in the past were not what one would call top-flight. They were getting old and getting fat. Fat pilots worried Khan. They should be full of nervous energy, wiry as a result. He’d waited until well into the flight before offering the champagne, just to see if the pilot’s will would crack. It hadn’t.

Khan looked across to Henrik. He too was showing signs of the good, easy life. He was paid well for his services, and those services so far had not exactly taxed him, either physically or mentally. When Khan had hired him, Henrik had been muscular; almost muscle-bound. Working weights and hoping to turn pro, paying his way by acting as bouncer for a West End club owner. Khan had asked the club owner’s permission before approaching Henrik with an offer of a job. The chauffeur’s role hadn’t appealed to the Dane, but he’d taken the job anyway. He was not stupid. He knew that as bodyguard he would have to accompany Khan just about everywhere: everywhere glamorous, everywhere expensive, everywhere that was Somewhere.