A short nervous laugh. “I don’t know. She heaved it into the van herself.”
The man behind the desk nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay, Mr. Moncur,” Doyle continued. “Is there anything else you can tell us about her appearance? Her shoes, for example.”
“Never noticed them.”
“Was she wearing makeup?”
“No. She could have done with a bit. Pale face. I suppose it was the cold.”
“And her accent, was it local?”
“No.”
“But English?”
“Oh, yeah, she was English. Definitely.”
“Right, so you picked her up. You’ve given us her description. What did you talk about?”
“She wasn’t all that talkative. I got the idea she was doing a runner. Well, that time of night...”
“Running from whom exactly?”
“Boyfriend probably. She wasn’t wearing any rings, not married or anything. I reckoned boyfriend. She looked like she’d been crying.”
“Or swimming,” from behind the desk.
“At that time of night?” Bill Moncur laughed again. Again, nobody laughed with him. “We didn’t talk that much really. I thought that if she got to talking about it, she’d burst into tears. That was the last thing I wanted.”
“So would you describe her as... what? Sullen?”
“No, not sullen. I mean, she was pleasant enough and all. Smiled a few times. Laughed at one of my jokes.”
“Where was she headed?”
“She said Margate would do. At first, anyway.”
“She didn’t specify her destination?” asked Doyle, but now the quiet man, Greenleaf, the one with the cassette deck, spoke.
“What did you mean, ‘at first’?”
“Well, when we got a bit closer, she asked if I was going through Cliftonville. To be honest, I wasn’t, but she looked washed out. So I asked her if that was where she wanted dropping off, and she nodded. It wasn’t much out of my way, so I took her there.”
“Cliftonville. Somewhere specific in Cliftonville?”
“No, anywhere along the front seemed to suit her. She wasn’t bothered. I thought it was funny at the time. I mean, saying where you want to go, then not really minding whereabouts you’re dropped off once you get there. Maybe she was going to run away with the circus, eh?”
“Maybe.” This from behind the desk again. “I’d like to hear anything she said to you, Mr. Moncur, anything you can remember. It doesn’t matter how trivial you think it was, whether it was just yes or no to a question or whatever. Anything she said to you, I’d like to hear it.”
So he’d had to go over the whole journey. It took the best part of half an hour. They’d had to put in fresh tapes at one point. He noticed that they were making two copies of the interview. Finally, he asked a question of his own.
“What’s she done, then? What’s so important?”
“We think she’s a terrorist, Mr. Moncur.”
“Terrorist?” He sounded amazed. “I don’t hold no truck with that sort of —”
“You might not hold any truck,” said Doyle, “but you had one in your truck.” And he grinned. Bill Moncur found himself unable to smile back. “Get it?” Doyle asked Greenleaf.
“I get it, Doyle,” said Greenleaf.
“You said she had long hair,” the man behind the desk interrupted. “How long?”
Moncur tapped his back with a finger. “Right down to here,” he said.
“Could it have been a wig?”
Moncur shrugged.
Now Doyle came up to him, leaning down over him, grinning. “Just between us, Bill, man to man like, we all know what it’s like driving a lorry... picking up a woman. Did you... you know... did you...?” Doyle winked and leered. But Moncur was shaking his head.
“Nothing like that,” he said.
Doyle straightened up. He looked disappointed. He looked at Moncur as if he might be gay.
“Not that I wouldn’t have or anything,” Moncur protested. “But that time of night... I was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t have got it up for a centerfold.”
Doyle still looked dubious.
“Honest,” said Moncur.
“Well,” said the one behind the desk, “no need to dwell on that.”
Then came the crusher.
“Mr. Moncur,” he continued, “we’ll have to go to Cliftonville. We need to know exactly where you dropped her off.”
“Fine, okay.” Bill Moncur nodded enthusiastically. They were leaving! He’d be out of here in a minute. “When you go into the town,” he said, “you head straight for —”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Moncur. Directions won’t do. We need you there with us to show us the spot.”
“What?” It dawned on him. “Cliftonville? Now? Aw, for Christ’s sake.”
They busied themselves with locating a detailed map of Cliftonville, ignoring Bill Moncur’s protestations. The CID man, Detective Sergeant Hines, appeared again to see if they needed a car. No, the one car they already had would be enough. And then the pretty WPC put her head around the door, smiling at Moncur. He blessed her for that smile.
“Need any tea or coffee here?” she asked.
“Not for us, thanks. We’ve got to be going. Come on, Mr. Moncur. We’ll take the same route you took that night. That way, you can show us where you picked up Witch.”
“Picked up which what?”
The one from behind the desk smiled for a moment. “A slip of the tongue,” he said, motioning towards the doorway with his arm. “After you.”
Eventually, at the end of his grueling day, a police car took Bill Moncur back to Folkestone.
Elder, Doyle, and Greenleaf remained in Cliftonville, their unmarked car (Doyle’s car, still messy from his French trip) parked in the forecourt of a small hotel. They’d booked rooms for the evening, despite having brought nothing with them, no change of clothes, no toothbrushes... It was Elder’s decision, but the Special Branch men were happy to go along with it, Greenleaf despite the facts that (a) he’d have to call Shirley to tell her, and (b) he’d be sharing a room with Doyle. They visited a drugstore and bought toiletries before rendezvousing in the hotel lounge. It was just the right side of salubrious, with a tropical theme to the furnishings which extended to an island mural on one wall. A long time ago someone had painted white seashells on the dark green linoleum floor. They had the place to themselves. Greenleaf couldn’t imagine why.
“It’s important,” said Elder, “not to let the trail grow colder than it already is. That means working through this evening.”
“Fine,” said Doyle, “but am I being stupid or was the last sighting of Witch in Auchterwhatsit, six hundred miles north of here?”
Elder smiled. “You’re not being stupid, Mr. Doyle, but there’s something we’ve got to ask ourselves.”
Doyle said nothing, so Greenleaf provided the answer.
“Why did she specifically want to come to Cliftonville?”
“Exactly, Mr. Greenleaf. I mean, look at the place. It’s quiet, anonymous. It’s perfect for her.”
Now Doyle spoke. “You think she’s got a contact here?”
Elder shrugged. “It’s possible her paymaster met her here with final instructions.”
“You don’t think she’s here, though?”
“Mr. Doyle, as my old Aberdonian tailor used to say, discount nothing.”
Doyle thought about this for a moment, realized a joke had been made, and laughed. Greenleaf didn’t: his mother had come from Aberdeen.
“So what do we do this evening?”
“We cover as much ground as possible. That means splitting up. I’d suggest one of us makes contact with the local police, one asks around in the pubs, and one asks taxi drivers and so on. We’re talking about the wee sma’ hours of a Monday morning. A woman dropped off and having, presumably, to walk to some destination. A late-night patrol car may have spotted her. Taxi drivers may have slowed to see if they had a fare. Were there any nightclubs emptying around the time she arrived? Someone may, without knowing it, have seen something. Perhaps she’d prearranged her late arrival with a hotel or boardinghouse. Or maybe some early-day fisherman saw her — we can’t possibly cover all the angles, that’s where the local police will come in.”