Witch Hunt (13 page)

‘No, it’s just something Dominic Elder thought up.’

‘What about Operation Bedknobs then?’ Doyle suggested. ‘You know,
Bedknobs and Broomsticks.’

‘Or just Witch Hunt,’ Greenleaf added.

‘I don’t like the connotations of witch hunt,’ commented Trilling. ‘And Bedknobs is merely stupid. Let’s go with Broomstick. Operation Broomstick. Now, both of you, get sweeping!’

In unison: ‘Yes, sir.’

She sat staring from her desk, staring towards and out of her open door. It had been an uncomfortable conversation, and thinking back on it Joyce Parry realised that she might have phrased things differently; that she might, unusually for her, have played it all wrong. There were strong ties between her department and Special Branch. The secret services held no powers of arrest, and depended on Special Branch help in that, as in many other things. It didn’t do to fall out. Especially not with Bill Trilling, who was a crotchety sod at the best of times, and not the easiest person either to work or merely to liaise with.

No, she’d played him all wrong. She’d tried to soothe things, to work
around
the problem. Best just to have dived in, admitting a cock-up, giving assurances that it wouldn’t happen again. A little bit of grovelling and Trilling would have been satisfied. But having seen her grovel once, wouldn’t he have demanded more? She didn’t like to look weak. She certainly didn’t like to look weak to people like Trilling. No, in the long run she’d probably done the right thing. She’d been strong and she’d tried to be diplomatic, and he would remember that. Always supposing one or both of them kept their present jobs ...

If the woman Dominic Elder called Witch had entered the country, and if she carried out an assassination, then questions would be asked of the security and intelligence services. There could be no doubting where the buck would stop: it would stop with Bill Trilling and with her. But Trilling had a trump card. His men had been sent to investigate the double sinking without knowing of the possible link with the Japanese sinking six years before. So the buck came, finally, to Joyce Parry. In her defence, she could point out that it was six years ago, that it was merely a notion that had come into her head. There was nothing to prove that Witch was in Britain. Probably, there would be no proof until she or he or they made her or his or their move. But by then it would be too late. Of course, Barclay should have spoken to her before contacting Special Branch. He’d take a certain portion of the blame, but not enough to save her from forced resignation ... She shivered at the thought. She’d worked so hard to get here, harder than any man would have had to work to achieve the same high office.

She didn’t need Bill Trilling as an enemy; she needed him as a friend. But she was damned if she’d crawl or beg or even simper. She’d be herself. If he helped, he would help because it was in everyone’s interests for him to and not because she’d asked him ‘please’. Yes, she was stubborn. Dominic had always said it was her least alluring attribute.

He was one to talk.

Did Dominic hold the key? She should talk to him anyway about his meeting with Barclay. She wondered what he’d made of Michael Barclay ... She thought she knew the answer, but it would be interesting to hear it. Besides, Dominic knew such a lot - or thought he did - about Witch. She needed friends. She needed people working for her rather than against her. If Witch was in the country, and if Witch was going to be caught, she could ignore nobody.

She picked up her receiver and, from memory, dialled his number. For her efforts, she got a constant tone: number unobtainable. She checked his phone number on the computer: she’d transposed the last two numbers. She dialled again. This time, he picked up the telephone on the first ring.

‘Hello, Dominic, it’s Joyce.’

‘Yes, hello. I thought you’d call. I’ve been thinking about you.’

‘Oh?’

‘You just can’t get the staff these days, can you?’

‘I take it Barclay didn’t meet with your approval?’

‘Let’s say he strikes me as ... naive.’

‘Weren’t we all once?’

He ignored this. ‘I blame computers. People sit in front of them all day thinking they’re the answer.’ Joyce, staring at his phone number on her computer screen, smiled at this. ‘They’re just the
tools.
People don’t go out into the world any more.’

‘I don’t remember going out into the world.’

‘Oh come on, Joyce, you were a field agent for - what? - five years?’

‘And much good did it do me.’

‘It broadened your mind.’

‘I had to be broad-minded, Dominic, working with you.’

‘That joke’s a decade old, Joyce.’

‘Then let’s change the subject. I take it you weren’t able to help Barclay?’

‘He wasn’t able to focus on what I was telling him.’

‘So you did tell him about Witch?’

‘I told him
all
about Witch. Much good will it do any of us. Joyce, if you need my help, I’m here. But I can be anywhere you want, just say the word.’

‘I may take you up on that, Dominic.’

‘Do.’

‘I’m not sure there’s funding for a freelancer.’

‘I don’t want money, Joyce. I want
her.’

Joyce Parry smiled. Yes, he was committed all right. More, he was obsessed. Was she merely opening an old wound, or could she help him exorcise the ghost?

‘I’ll call you,’ she said merely. ‘Meantime, any suggestions?’

‘I take it Special Branch are covering this end of things?’

‘At the moment, yes.’

‘Then at the moment, I’d leave them to it. What about sending someone to Calais?’

‘Why?’

‘It was her leaping-off point this trip. Someone may know something.’

‘Special Branch already sent someone.’

‘What? Some detective from New Scotland Yard? Spoke French did he? What was he looking for? How long was he there?’

Still sharp, Dominic. Maybe this
will
be good for you. God knows, you’re not old enough for the cottage-and-garden routine, she thought. ‘I believe he stayed there overnight, and he spoke a little French.’

‘One night? Dinner at his hotel and a few gifts for his mistress. He’ll have listened to what the local
gendarmes
tell him, then reported it back verbatim. It’s hardly what you’d call Intelligence.’

‘So you think we should send one of our own?’

‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Send Barclay.’

‘Barclay?’

‘Why not? He speaks French, and travel
does
broaden the mind.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t like him?’

‘I don’t recall saying anything of the kind. Remind me to play back the tape I’m making of our conversation, just to check. No, but let’s say I think he could do with some ... training. On his feet, so to speak, rather than with them stuck beneath a terminal screen. Terminal being the operative word.’

Joyce Parry smiled at the pun, whether it was intended or not. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re not up to your old tricks, Dominic.’

‘Old tricks?’

‘Using people, getting them to run your errands.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

She saw that Barclay himself was standing in her doorway, ready to report on his meeting with Elder. ‘I’d better go. Talk to you later.’

‘Joyce, I’m serious about wanting to help. You know that.’

‘I know.’Bye.’ She put down the receiver.
’Bonjour,
Michael,’ she said.
‘Comment ça va?’

Greenleaf was back at his desk barely quarter of an hour when the phone call came from Folkestone. It was Chief Inspector Rennie.

‘Inspector Greenleaf?’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector. What can I do for you, sir?’

‘Might be nothing. We’ve been talking with Mr Crane’s employees, present and past.’

‘Yes?’

‘One man, a Mr McKillip, said something quite interesting. I thought you might like to talk to him yourself...’

It was a slow drive to Folkestone. Roadworks and holiday caravans. But Trilling had been adamant: Greenleaf should go straight away. God knew, they’d been moving through treacle these past few days, ever since the original phone call from Michael Barclay.

Mike McKillip wasn’t at the police station. He’d got tired of waiting and had gone home. It took Greenleaf a further twenty minutes to locate McKillip’s house from the directions given him at the police station’s front desk. You take a left here, then a right at the chip shop, then third on the left past the postbox... What chip shop? What postbox? McKillip was watching TV when Greenleaf finally arrived, hungry and parched. McKillip lay slumped along the sagging sofa, guzzling beer from the tin. He did not offer the policeman any, nor did he bother switching off the TV, or even turning the sound down. He just kept complaining about how the firm was going to the wall now that Crane was dead, and what was he supposed to do for work around these parts, and who’d have him at his age anyway when there were younger men out there?

Mike McKillip was thirty-seven. About six foot two tall, Greenleaf would guess, and probably fifteen stones. It wasn’t a
fit
fifteen stones, but it was weight, weight to be thrown about, imposing weight. Which was why George Crane had paid him twenty quid to drink in a pub one lunchtime.

‘What did he tell you, Mr McKillip?’

‘Just that he had to talk business with some geezer, and the geezer might turn nasty. He didn’t say why or anything, just that it might turn nasty. I was supposed to stand at the bar and have a drink, not stare at them or anything, just casual like. But if anything happened...’ McKillip punched a meaty fist down into the soft fabric of the sofa.

‘And did anything happen?’

‘Nah. Soon as I saw the geezer I thought, He’s not going to give any trouble. Big... tall, I mean. Though I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’ Another huge slurp of beer. Christ, Greenleaf would murder for a drink.

‘Anything else about the man?’

‘Fair hair, I think. Youngish, early-thirties. Going a bit thin on top.
Seriously
thin on top, now that I think about it. They had one drink, bit of a natter. I wasn’t watching particularly. The geezer wasn’t to know I was there. I just did me drinking. Easiest score I’ve ever made, I can tell you.’ A low throaty chuckle. The can was empty. He crushed it and placed it on the carpet beside three other derelict cans, then gave a belch.

‘Did Mr Crane say anything afterwards?’

McKillip shook his head. ‘Looked pleased as punch though, so I asked him if it had all gone off all right after all. He said yeah, it was fine. That was the end of it, far as I was concerned.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

‘Which pub was this?’

‘The Wheatsheaf.’

‘At lunchtime, you say?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Would you know the man again, Mr McKillip?’

‘No sweat. I’ve got a memory for faces.’

Greenleaf nodded, not that he believed McKillip ... not as far as he could throw him. He was desperate to be out of here, desperate to assuage both thirst and hunger. He swallowed drily. ‘You hadn’t seen him before?’

‘Nor since.’

‘How was the meeting arranged?’

‘I don’t know. Christ, man, I was just the muscle. I wasn’t the boss’s lawyer or anything.’

‘And you didn’t see anything change hands between Mr Crane and this other man?’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything. A parcel, a bag, some money maybe...?’

‘Nah, nothing. They’d cooked something up all right though. The gaffer was chipper all that afternoon and the next day.’

‘When was this meeting exactly, Mr McKillip?’

‘God, now you’re asking... No idea. Weeks ago.’

‘Weeks?’

‘Well, a couple of weeks anyway, maybe more like a month.’

‘Between a fortnight and a month. I see. Thank you.’

‘I told them down the station. I said, it’s not much. Not worth bothering about. But they had to report it, they said. You come down from London?’ Greenleaf nodded. McKillip shook his head. ‘That’s my taxes, you know, paying for all this farting about. Not that I’ll be paying taxes much longer.
You’ll
be paying my dole instead. That wife of his is winding the company up. Bloody shame that. If there’d been a son ... maybe he could have made a go of it, but not her. Bloody women, you can’t trust them. Soon as your pocket’s empty, they’re off. I’m speaking from experience, mind. Wife took the kids with her, back to her mum’s in Croydon. Good luck to her. I like it fine here ...’

‘Yes,’ said Greenleaf, rising from the tactile surface of his armchair, ‘I’m sure you do, Mr McKillip.’

McKillip wished him a good drive back as Greenleaf made his exit. He got back in his car but stopped at the first pub he saw and drank several orange juices, using them to wash down a cheese and onion sandwich. Too late, he remembered that Shirley hated it when his mouth tasted of onion. Afterwards, he headed back to the police station where he made arrangements for an artist to make an appointment with McKillip. They’d get a sketch of the stranger in the pub. It might come in handy. Then again ... Still, best to be thorough. Christ knows, if Doyle had come down here, he’d return to London with an oil painting of the man.