Witch Hunt (10 page)

But too many hours in the driving seat were taking their toll. Henrik was still big, still strong, but there was excess flesh now, too. Khan, who worked out each day, appreciated Henrik’s problem; it was one of mental application. The Dane was no longer hungry. Look at him, champagne in both hands, sipping from one cup then from the other, gazing out of the window down on to the visible landscape. Khan was aware that Henrik might have to go. There might be a termination of contract, the hiring of someone new, someone strong but hungry. Would he perhaps keep Henrik on as driver? He was a good, safe driver after all. But no, that would be to denigrate the man, to humble him. More importantly, it might well make Henrik bitter. And a bitter man was an enemy. It didn’t do to employ potential spies, potential adversaries. No, Henrik would have to go. Soon. There was that new doorman at the Dorica Club ...

‘This is great, really great.’ Shari or Sherri slumped her head against Khan’s shoulder. She was dressed well. He’d been relieved when they’d stopped the car outside her block and she’d opened the door and started down the steps, smiling, waving, carrying two large holdalls ... and above all dressed well. Discreetly sensual. Not too much make-up, not too much perfume. A clinging red dress which just met her knees. Her tanned legs did not need covering. Her shoes were red too. She knew how well her blonde hair and high cheekbones suited red.

‘You’re very special,’ he told her now, rubbing one smooth knee. It was true: they were
all
very special.

‘Touching down in ten minutes,’ called the pilot. One bottle of champagne was still unopened, the sandwiches barely touched.

‘You’re special too, Khan,’ said Shari or Sherri.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He patted the back of her hand, which lay on his right thigh. ‘I’m sure we’re going to have a wonderful time.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me too.’

Across the aisle from them, Henrik drained first one beaker and then the other. His chin dropped against his neck as he stifled a belch.

A wonderful time. Well, yes, at first it was. But it struck Khan that there was something not quite right. The time was wonderful but not perfect. It wasn’t that he was worrying about bank business. The bank was always in and on his mind, even on these trips north. Scotland was not a refuge. There were computers and modems and faxes and telephones in his house. A call might come on his portable phone during lunch or dinner, or to his bedside telephone in the middle of the night. New York might call to warn of an incoming fax, for his eyes only. Seoul might need information. Karachi, Lahore, Patna, Bombay, Bangkok, George Town, Shanghai ... not everyone appreciated what the local hour was when they called. If it was the middle or the beginning or the end of their banking day, then it was Khan’s banking day too.

But no, it was nothing to do with business. Business was not a problem. Was the problem Shari or Sherri? Ah, yes, maybe. Maybe that was it. She did love what he did to her in bed ... and elsewhere in and out of the house. Her American accent grated, but only a little. She was not over-talkative, which was a relief to him. And she looked good all the time. She made herself presentable. What then?

Well ... There came a time when, sated, he liked his women to open themselves up a little to him, to tell him about their lives. Normally, he was uninterested in pasts, but there was something about the aftermath of the sexual act. He liked to listen to their stories then, and file them away. So that he could assure himself he had been fucking someone’s history, a real flesh and blood human, and not just a beautiful dummy.

And it was here that Shari or Sherri had disappointed him. She had disappointed him by being at first vague, and then by making obvious mistakes. For instance, she told him about a childhood incident when a boy neighbour had lifted up her skirt and slipped his hot little hand inside her pants. She told the story twice, and the first time the boy’s hand had gone down the front of her pants, the second time the back. Khan hadn’t commented, but it had made him wonder. He made her work harder, recalling more and more of her past for him. He got her to go over the same story twice, once at breakfast and once over dinner, checking for mistakes in the retelling. There were one or two, not significant in themselves.

He remembered how he met her. In a club. She’d been with a friend, a male friend, an admirer perhaps. She’d caught Khan’s eye several times, and he’d held her glances, until eye contact between them became more prolonged and meaningful. He was a sucker for this kind of conquest, the kind where he almost literally tore a woman from another man’s arms. By the end of the evening she was at his table, and the other suitor had vanished. It had been easy, and she’d been ravishing, and he’d felt the sweet, warm glow of success.

He knew she worked as a model. Well, he knew she
said
she worked as a model. He’d once picked her up outside a prestigious model agency off Oxford Street, but then when his car had arrived she’d already been waiting on the pavement, hadn’t she? How was he to know that she’d ever actually been inside the building? What really did he
know
about her? Precious little, it suddenly seemed to him. He’d liked that in the past, had preferred it. Keeping things casual, no hint of a more meaningful, a more lasting relationship. But now ... Suddenly he wanted to know more about her. What was her last name? Kazowski? Kaprinski? Something East European. She told him she’d changed it to Capri for modelling purposes. Shari Capri or Sherri Capri. Stupid name. Stupid names.

And another thing, wasn’t she overfriendly towards Henrik? With her ‘Thank you, Henrik’ whenever she stepped into or out of the car. Her smiles to him. The way she lightly touched his arm if she wanted to ask him something. Checking that she was in the bath, Khan strode quickly to his study, unlocked the door (he was never so foolish, so trusting as to leave it unlocked, but then locks were easy to pick, weren’t they?), and made for his desk. He glanced at it, looking for signs that things had been moved, pages turned over. Nothing. He checked his computer for a certain phone number, then picked up the telephone and dialled London. An 081 number, Outer London. There was a young firm used by the bank sometimes. They were dynamic, and they got results. Nobody wanted to know how they got results, but they got them. There was no one in the office, but as he’d expected a recording gave him another phone number where he could reach one of the partners. He entered this number onto his computer for future reference, then dialled it. The call was answered almost immediately.

‘Hello, is that Mr Allison? It’s Khan here. I’m calling from Scotland. There’s a job I’d like done. Private, not on the bank’s account. I want you to check on a Miss Sherri S-h-e-r-r-i or Shari S-h-a-r-i Capri C-a-p-r-i. I’ll give you her home address and where she says she works. I want anything on her you can find. Oh, and Mr Allison, she’s up here with me, so there should be no problems. I mean, you won’t bump into her should you happen to ... well, you know what I mean. Her home address? Yes, of course ...’

Afterwards, he felt a little relieved. Allison was
extremely
capable, ex-CID. And his partner Crichton had a pedigree which took in both the Parachute Regiment and the SAS. Yes, a trouble shared was a trouble halved. Khan felt better. So much so that he was able to put his troubles out of his mind for quarter of an hour, time spent in the bathroom with a wet and so very slippery Shari or Sherri Capri ...

On their last evening, they dined in. There was a local chef who, on days off, could occasionally be persuaded to cook for Khan and his guests.

Usually, Khan reserved this treat for larger dinner parties. But on Sunday morning news came through of a spectacular deal which had been concluded by the South-East Asia personnel during their whistlestop tour of the British Isles. A great deal of money would be travelling from the UK to the bank’s South-East Asia office, and it would travel via the London office where a certain amount, as always, would be held back in the name of handling fees. A sum slightly in excess of one million sterling.

It was a job well done, and Khan, who had played no part in it, felt a little of its success rub off on him. A quick call to the chef, Gordon Sinclair, had secured his services, and when all was said and done it was practically as cheap as eating out since this way Khan would drink champagne, wine and spirits from his own well-stocked cellar. And at the end of the evening it was always pleasant to share a malt with Gordon and talk about food and the appreciation of food. Gordon knew that Khan had contacts in London, that he had eaten in all the top restaurants and was on first-name terms with many of the restaurateurs and chefs - not merely in London but, it seemed, all over. And Khan knew that Gordon had itchy feet, that the only thing tying him to Scotland was his Scottishness. He would have to flee soon if he were really to start - the term came to Khan with a smile-
cooking
: a quality London restaurant, where he could make a name for himself, and then his own restaurant under his own name. That was the route to success.

They would talk about these things and more. Perhaps Shari would be listening, or perhaps she would have retired for the night, to be joined by Khan later.

Yes, it was Shari, not Sherri. Shari Capri. Allison had phoned with this information, and with a few other snippets. But as he pointed out, weekends weren’t the best time to track down information, especially not from places of employment. Come Monday, he could work on the model agency, but not before. It was half in Khan’s mind to ask if he’d considered breaking and entering, but such a question would have been in considerable bad taste besides which, if his phone were bugged, he could be accused of incitement to commit a criminal act. That would never do. So he had to accept what scant information Allison had gleaned, and wait until Monday. By Monday he would be back in London, he would have said goodbye to Shari, with promises of phone calls and meetings for dinner - promises he seldom kept as a rule. But it might be that he’d have to keep tabs on her for a little while longer, just until he knew the truth.

‘More wine, Shari?’

They were alone in the dining room. The kitchen was a long way away. Henrik, dismissed for the evening, would be in one of the bars in Auchterarder. He’d told Khan about a barmaid with whom he’d become friendly. So it was just Shari and Khan, and, his presence no more than a distant clang of pots and sizzle of fat, Gordon Sinclair. And Gordon’s girlfriend, who had come to help him in the kitchen. She would leave before dessert was served, while Gordon would linger, clearing up a little and loading his excess ingredients back into the boot of his small sports car. Khan hadn’t met the girlfriend before. She was attractive, if a bit red in the cheeks. Very Scottish: shy, elusive even. Plump too, or at least well-rounded. Khan had the idea that Gordon and she might make a go of a restaurant together. Perhaps she was the knot which tied him to the area. Khan was beginning to form an idea about a restaurant, financed by him and run by Gordon and his girlfriend ...

‘Yes, please,’ said Shari. ‘This is delicious.’

Trout in almonds. Local trout, naturally, with the cream sauce flavoured by a little island malt. The sauce succeeded in not overpowering the delicate fish. The julienne of vegetables remained a little overcooked for Khan’s tastes, but he knew Shari liked them soft almost to the point of mush. She retained the annoying American habit of cutting and spooning everything up with the use of just her fork.

‘Delicious,’ she said again.

He looked at her and smiled. Maybe he was becoming paranoid. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Look at her - beautiful, fragile. Everything about her was surface. She couldn’t possibly be hiding anything from him. No, he was being stupid. He should forget everything and just enjoy this final night with her.

‘Yes, it is delicious, isn’t it?’ he said, pouring a little more Meursault. Meursault was a little rich for trout on its own, but the sauce both deserved and could cope with it. He knew Gordon liked to surprise him, but Khan guessed some prime beef would be next (albeit in a sauce of exotic provenance), followed by an Orkney cheese and freshly made crannachan. And the beauty was that all the mess in the kitchen and the plates and things in the dining-room could be left just as they were. Mrs MacArthur would come in on Monday afternoon and tidy the lot up.

Before he’d employed her, and again twice since, Khan had had Mrs MacArthur checked over by a detective agency in Dundee. The agency reckoned that not only was she clean, she was practically unbribable. So Khan didn’t mind that she held a set of keys to the house and to the alarm system. Besides, she never entered the study, which was kept on a separate alarm circuit anyway (to which Khan and the local police held the only keys).

‘Delicious,’ he said, raising his glass as if in a toast.

It was one of those special pubs where at weekends after closing time the lights are turned off and the regulars drink on in darkness. But not on a Sunday. Some traditions held fast on a Sunday, and the pub closed at ten-thirty sharp. Which suited Henrik really, since he’d offered to drive Nessa home and she had laughingly accepted.

‘Though it’s only a five-minute walk,’ she’d added.

‘Well, we can always drive home the long way.’ She’d said nothing at that. He’d been waiting outside in the rented Ford Scorpio, the stereo playing, engine running. She said goodnight to the barman, who was locking up, then walked smartly to the edge of the kerb. Henrik was already out of the car, so he could hold the passenger door open for her. She gave him a funny look.