[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt Page 5

  'La Croix Jaune: Yellow Cross. Nothing much about them on the files.

  Probably a splinter group from one of the other terrorist organisations.

  The name may be some obscure joke to do with the Red Brigade. They came on the scene in '85 and seemed to disappear again in '88. In fact, there are doubts they ever existed at all as a group. The name may just be a cover for two or three criminals working together. Two kidnaps and two armed bank robberies. They were never identified, let alone captured.

  The only time a bank camera caught them they were masked.'

  'You say two or three members?'

  'That's all Christina Gibson saw. They kept her blindfolded most of the time, and at others they were dressed in balaclavas and sunglasses.

  But she was fairly sure there were two men, one taller than the other, and one woman, as tall as the men but slimmer.'

  Trilling nodded thoughtfully. 'So what happened?'

  'Mr Gibson cooperated throughout with the police. It was an international effort by then, as far as these things go. Two Special Branch men were flown out to assist. Matt Duncan and Iain Campbell.

  The kidnappers—'

  'Anyone else?'

  'Sorry, sir?'

  'The British contingent: did it include anyone else?'

  'Not on record, sir.' Greenleaf frowned. This was the first question to have stumped him. But Trilling was smiling, nodding to himself.

  'That means nothing,' he said quietly. 'Go on.'

  'Well, sir, the kidnappers wanted dollars, but we asked Mr Gibson to persuade them to take sterling. He told them dollars would take some time, while he had the sterling to hand. They agreed. So we put together thirty grand's worth of notes. The intention was to catch them cold, but there was a shoot-out and they got away. The girl was released, but the money had flown with the gang.'

  'Clumsy.'

  'Agreed. The Italians reckoned they wounded one of the gang, but nothing came of it. And the money disappeared, despite a check by all clearing banks. The notes on Crane's body are the first to have surfaced.'

  'Poor choice of word,' commented Trilling. 'Still, good work, John.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Yes, very good work. So, what do we make of it?'

  'Well, it links Crane to a terrorist group, which indicates arms smuggling rather than drugs.'

  'All it links him to, John, is dirty money. You can buy dirty money for fivepence in the pound. It's a cheap way of paying someone a large sum when you're not

  bothered what happens to the person afterwards.' Trilling thought for a moment. 'You know, I'm not at all sure that we've been given a level playing field here.'

  'Sir?'

  'It all smacks of the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Who did you say contacted us in the first place?'

  Christ, what was his name? Barrow . . . Beardsley . .. Barkworth . . .

  'Barclay, sir.'

  'Barclay. Never heard of him. But he's one of Joyce Parry's. I wonder what Joyce is playing at? I think I'd better have a word with her.'

  He was about to pick up his receiver when there was a knock at the door.

  Greenleaf rubbed his stomach to stop it from rumbling. It was quarter to one, and so far today all he'd had was five cups of coffee.

  'Come in.'

  It was Trilling's secretary. She was holding two sheets of paper, stapled together. 'Mr Doyle's report, sir.'

  'Thank you, Celia.' Trilling held out his hand, took the report and laid it on his desk, on top of Greenleaf's own report. Greenleaf stared at the closely typed top sheet. He was oblivious to Celia's smile, or the closing of the door after she left. He kept hearing her words: Mr Doyle's report ... Mr Doyle's report. When Greenleaf looked up from the desk, he saw Commander Trilling studying him.

  'Efficient, isn't he?' Trilling mused.

  'Very, sir. But how . .. ?'

  'Oh, quite simple really. Doyle requested a laptop computer. He's taken it with him. Clever devices, they work on rechargeable batteries you know. Sizeable memory, too. I can never get on with the screens on them, but some people can.'

  'So Doyle's writing his report as he goes?'

  'That's it. Then he plugs the laptop into a modem, presses a few buttons, and his copy arrives at a computer

  here. All we have to do is run off a hard copy.' He patted Doyle's report, then lifted it up. 'Now, let's see what he's got to say for himself.'

  But instead of reading, he looked at Greenleaf over the paper. 'If there's a case to investigate, John, I want you and Doyle to work on it together. Understand? Together. Do you think you can manage that?'

  'Of course, sir.'

  Trilling continued to look at him. 'Good,' he said, before turning his attention to the report.

  Dominic Elder was a large man, larger than Barclay had expected. That surname, Elder, had put him on the wrong track. He'd expected a hunched, defeated figure, the sort who had been elders at his mother's Presbyterian church. But Dominic Elder was large and fit and strong.

  He'd be about fifty, a year or two older than Joyce Parry. His face had been handsome once, but time had done things to it. He looked out of place in the garden of the pretty cottage, on his knees and planting out seedlings in a well-kept vegetable-bed.

  'Mr Elder?' Barclay had driven slowly down the lane, and had parked right outside the gate before ejecting Il Trovatore from the cassette player. But, even as he pushed open the gate, the man in the garden seemed not to acknowledge his presence.

  'Mr Elder?' Barclay repeated. 'Dominic Elder?'

  'That's me, Mr Barclay,' the figure said, rising stiffly to its feet and brushing soil from its hands. 'Who did you expect to find?'

  'There's no number or name on the gate,' Barclay explained. T wasn't sure I had the right house.'

  Elder looked around him slowly. 'You may not have noticed,' he said in his quiet, deep voice, 'but this is the only house there is.' He said it slowly, as if he were

  explaining something to a child. His eyes fixed on Barclay's as he spoke.

  He was massaging his back with the knuckles of one hand. 'I suppose you were recruited straight from university, yes?'

  Barclay made a non-committal gesture. He wasn't sure where this was leading. He'd had a long drive, and an exasperating one. Roadworks, wrong turnings, and trouble with the car's third gear. It kept slipping back into neutral. On top of which it was twenty-eight degrees, and he needed a drink.

  'Yes,' Elder was saying, 'straight from university. What did you study?'

  'Electronics.'

  '“Oh, brave new world.'” Elder chuckled. 'So they put you into surveillance first, did they?'

  'Yes, but—'

  'But it was routine and boring. You wanted out.'

  Barclay shuffled his feet. Maybe Elder was astute, but then again maybe he'd learned all this from Joyce Parry. Barclay wasn't impressed by tricks.

  'And eventually you got your transfer.' Elder checked the dirt beneath his gardener's fingernails. 'What school did you go to?'

  'I really don't see what ..." Barclay sighed. Losing his patience wouldn't do any good. Besides, this man was an old friend of Mrs Parry's.

  It might pay to humour him. 'It was a comprehensive,' he conceded. 'I suppose that's what you want to know.'

  'Scottish?'

  'I was born there.'

  'But you moved away when you were young. The name's right, but there's not much of an accent left. Father in the armed forces?'

  'RAF.'

  Elder nodded. He checked his fingernails again, then stretched a hand out towards Barclay. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Barclay.'

  Barclay thought about refusing the handshake, but eventually gave in.

  Elder's grip was a lot firmer than he'd expected. He did his best to squeeze back.

  'A rough journey, eh?' Elder commented. 'I was expecting you three-quarters of an hour ago, allowing for one stop at motorway services.'

  'Roadworks,' Barclay explained. 'And my gearbox is playing up.'
>
  'Been to Wales before?' Elder was walking back towards the cottage.

  Barclay followed him.

  'Only to Llandudno.'

  'Strange choice.'

  'It was a day trip. We were on holiday in Southport.'

  'Strange choice. This was when you were younger?'

  'Eleven or twelve, yes. Why do you say “strange”?'

  'Most families with children would choose Blackpool or Morecambe. I've always thought Southport very ... reserved. Was there much to do there?'

  They were at the front door now. It was already open, and Elder wandered inside and along the narrow hall. 'I don't remember,' Barclay said.

  'Some would say there's not a lot to do in rural Wales either.'

  'They'd be right.' At the end of the hall, Elder entered the kitchen and stood in front of the sink, rinsing his hands. Barclay, who had followed, felt awkward standing in the doorway. 'That's why I'm here,'

  said Elder. 'To enjoy my twilight years.'

  'Twilight? But you're only—'

  'Fifty. Like I say, twilight. In our profession.'

  Our. For the first time, Barclay felt a little of his hostility fall away.

  'Take my advice, Mr Barclay, set your sights on retirement at fifty. Maybe even at forty-five. I know, it all seems a long way off. What are you . .. late-twenties?'

  'Twenty-five.'

  'Twenty-five then. In a few more years, you'll begin to notice things.

  You'll notice your reactions slowing -almost imperceptibly, but with the proper equipment you can measure the decline. You'll start to feel aches and pains, twinges. Try testing your memory, speed and accuracy of recall. Do it every six months or so and chart your decline.'

  'Very comforting.'

  Elder, drying his hands on a teatowel, shook his head. 'Not comforting, no. But by being aware of your limitations, you may save your own life.

  More important still, you might just save other people's. Think about it. Think about our profession. That's all I'm saying.' He reached a hand behind his back and rubbed at it slowly, thoughtfully. 'Tea? Or would you prefer a beer?'

  'Something cold would be gratefully received.'

  'I think I've some bottles in the fridge. We can take a couple into the living-room. It's cooler in there.'

  Cooler and darker. There were windows only to the back and side of the cottage, and these were part-overgrown with ivy. The room was small and comfortable. It had a messy, lived-in look, like a favourite pullover.

  The walls were whitewashed stone, and against one stretched a series of chipboard and melamine bookcases, standing at crazy angles due to the weight of books pressing down on them over the years. On a low tile-topped table sat a range of bottles - gin, Pimm's, whisky, vodka

  - full or nearly full. Various knick-knacks filled the window ledges and a few of the spare shelves. The room also contained TV, video, a hi-fi, half a wall of classical LPs, a sofa, and two armchairs. Elder made for one of these. Again, he made no motion, no gesture to help Barclay decide what to do. Should he opt for the other chair or the sofa? He decided on the chair, and sank slowly into it, looking round appreciatively at the room. Yes, comfortable. But dusty, too.

  There were edges of fluff where the carpet met a chair or a bookcase.

  There was a layer of dust on the video recorder, and another covering the front of the hi-fi.

  Well, thought Barclay, let's try playing him at his own game. He swallowed a mouthful of cold beer and said: 'You're not married, Mr Elder?'

  But Elder was nodding. He waved his left hand towards Barclay. There was a ring on the wedding-finger. 'Didn't you notice? I suppose you've got computers to do that sort of thing for you.'

  Barclay knew now what Joyce Parry had been getting at when she'd talked of Elder as though he were some dinosaur from the ancient past. He'd retired only two years ago, yet his ideas were Stone Age. Barclay had come across them before, these troglodytes who thought the Enigma code-breaker was a bit too high-tech to deal with. They belonged to old spy novels, left unread in second-hand bookshops.

  'A penny for them,' Elder said, startling Barclay.

  'Oh, I was just wondering about your wife.'

  'Why?'

  'Curious, I suppose.'

  'We're separated. Have been for years. No plans for divorce. Funny, we get on fine when we're not living together. We can meet for dinner or the theatre.'

  'And you still wear your ring.'

  'No reason not to.'

  Barclay noticed a small framed photograph on one of the shelves. He got up the better to study it. A young girl dressed in pale colours.

  A big gap-toothed grin and short

  black hair. It looked like an old photo. He waited for Elder to say something, but Elder was ignoring him.

  'Your daughter?' Barclay offered.

  Elder nodded. 'Deceased.'

  Barclay put the photograph back carefully. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'How did she—'

  'So,' Elder interrupted, 'how's Joyce Parry?'

  'Fine.' Barclay sat down again.

  'It was nice to hear from her. We haven't really kept in touch.' A pause.

  'We should have. Have you worked it out yet?'

  'Worked out what?'

  Elder smiled. 'Something we all used to wonder: whether she's an iron fist in a velvet glove, or a velvet fist in an iron one.'

  Barclay smiled back. 'Both have the same effect, surely?'

  'Not when the gloves are off.' Elder took another mouthful of beer.

  'So,' he said, sounding suddenly businesslike, 'you're here to tell me something.'

  'Well, yes.'

  'Something about Witch.'

  'We don't know that yet, even supposing Witch exists

  'She exists.'

  'She?'

  'She, Mr Barclay. One woman.'

  'I thought it was a group.'

  Elder shook his head. 'That's what the department thought at the time.

  It's what Joyce believes to this day. It's not a gang, Mr Barclay, it's an individual, an assassin.'

  'And female?'

  'Female.'

  'Because of the Hiroshima murder?'

  'No, not just that. Hiroshima was merely her entrance. And now something similar has happened?'

  'Two boats, one either side of the Channel—'

  'Yes, so Joyce said. One off Calais, the other near Folkestone

  'The Cassandra Christa.'

  'What?'

  'The English boat, it was called the Cassandra Christa.'

  'Cassandra . . . extraordinary.'

  Barclay didn't follow. 'You know it?'

  But Elder shook his head. 'I meant the parallel. You didn't have a classical education, Mr Barclay?'

  Barclay's voice was as cold as his drink. 'Apparently not.'

  'Cassandra,' Elder was saying, 'was the daughter of Priam, King of Troy.

  The god Apollo endowed her with the gift of prophecy . .. but not of being believed.'

  Barclay nodded slowly, smiling. 'And you're Cassandra, Mr Elder?'

  His eyes twinkled. 'In the present case, yes, perhaps I am.' He paused.

  'Mr Barclay, do you know why Joyce has sent you here?'

  Barclay took a deep breath. 'To be honest, off the record, no.'

  'Me neither. I admit I'm intrigued. Are Special Branch investigating the sinkings?'

  'Yes.'

  'They'll probably plump for an arms shipment. Believable scenario.

  Strange, if it is Witch ..."

  'Yes?'

  'She's a quick learner, Mr Barclay. That's why she's survived so long.

  We haven't seen hide or hair of her for a couple of years. I thought maybe she'd retired. Yet here she is, announcing herself loud and clear.

  You see, she didn't use that particular trick again. She tends not to use the same trick twice, ever. She enters and leaves countries in different ways, using different disguises, different means of killing her victims. Now she seems to have returned to her
original calling-card.

  Why?'

  'Maybe she's run out of ideas, gone back to square one.'

  'Maybe.'

  'Mr Elder, you say this group ... you say she's an assassin.'

  'Yes.'

  'For money, or for an ideal?'

  'Both. Having an ideal costs money.'

  'And what is her ideal?'

  Elder shook his head. 'If I knew that, I might have caught her by now.'

  He sat up suddenly. 'There are two ways of doing this, the fast and the slow. I'd prefer the slow. Do you have any plans for this evening?'

  'No.' This was a lie, but Barclay was intrigued.

  'Then I'll cook some supper. Come on.' He rose to his feet. 'Let's see what needs picking in the garden.'

  The evening stayed balmy, and they were able to eat at a picnic table in the back garden. Apart from the immaculate vegetable plot, the garden itself had been left wild. But there was order in the wilderness. The phrase that sprang to Barclay's mind was: the organisation of chaos.

  He didn't know what to make of Elder. Partly, he thought the man intelligent, cautious, impressive; partly, he thought him just another old service crank. The story he told seemed harshly at odds with the scenery surrounding them as they sat into the twilight and beyond.

  'Hiroshima was the first,' Elder said, almost drowsily. 'Except that it wasn't. That sounds like a riddle, but I'll explain it as I go along. I filed the report on the Hassan killing.'

  'Yes, I read it.'

  'But of course, I couldn't know then .. . well, nobody could know about Witch. Then there were other incidents, other operations. Most of them terrorist-related. I like to imagine Witch as a pure terrorist.' He smiled. 'I'm sure she isn't though.' He seemed to be drifting away.

  Barclay feared the man was about to fall asleep.

  'And after Hassan?' he asked.

  Elder stirred himself. 'After Hassan . .. well, there was an Italian kidnapping. A British businessman, working for some chemical conglomerate. They took his daughter. I was sent over there to liaise with police. It was an utter farce. The gang got away, and with the ransom.'

  'The daughter?'

  'Oh, freed. But she's been a nervous wreck ever since, poor child.'

  'You said a gang: not Witch then?'

  'Not just Witch, no. Two men and a woman. You see, this was her training period, a term of probation on the one hand and learning on the other.