“We should set up a notice board on the front, put up posters: have you seen this woman, that sort of thing. Ask everybody who passes...”
But Elder was shaking his head. “No, Doyle, that’s precisely what we don’t want.”
“Because,” Greenleaf added, “if she is still around here, we don’t want to chase her away.”
“Precisely. Softly softly, as the saying goes. Now, sitting here like this, we’re already losing valuable time. Let’s get down to some real work.”
Walking through the blowy streets that night, his feet swelling in his shoes, Dominic Elder was worried. It wasn’t Greenleaf and Doyle who worried him. They seemed capable sorts, if slightly curious as a twosome. Well, perhaps not. It was the old interrogation two-step: good cop and bad cop. It could be a useful combination.
Elder did something he hadn’t done in years. He bought some cod and chips. The meal came on a Styrofoam tray with a small wooden fork, the whole wrapped in a custom paper bag. Different from the way Elder remembered it: greasy newsprint coming off on his hands, picking at the fish flesh with his fingers. The cod had texture but no flavor at all. And the chips tasted mass-produced. There was a regularity about their size which depressed him, but it did not worry him.
Witch worried him.
He could almost smell her, almost taste her behind the seaside flavors and aromas. She had been here. And not long enough ago for her taint to have left the place. Was she still here? He didn’t think so. But if the hunt started to close in on her, she might just come back. A safe port in a storm. This had been her first lair on arriving in England. It would have meaning and resonance for her. Wounded, she might come crawling back. It would do no harm for Elder to learn the ground, her home ground. So he walked, stopping to talk with people. Was the bakery all-night? It was, but the shift didn’t come on till eleven. He could come back and ask his questions then. As he walked, he became more comfortable with his story. She was his daughter. She’d run away, and he wanted to find her. Doyle and Greenleaf were to tell similar tales in the pubs and clubs, with the necessary alteration turning Witch into their sister rather than daughter.
Elder knew he was getting old. Despite living in the country, tonight was as much walking as he’d done in a year or more. Doyle and Greenleaf were younger, fitter and faster than him. They’d be fast making a life-or-death decision. Would he be too slow? Say he came up against Witch, came up against her again. Would she be so much faster than him? Or was she aging too? No, not judging by the Khan assassination. If anything, she was sharper than ever, damn her. He’d been rusty at the police station, interviewing the lorry driver. He’d asked leading questions rather than waiting for Moncur to tell his version. That was bad. That worried him.
Something else worried him, too. She wouldn’t have come to Britain unless she was after very big game indeed. He didn’t know why he felt this, but he did. Britain was enemy territory to her, Elder’s territory. He couldn’t help but think of the whole thing on the personal level. Which was dangerous. Things might start getting out of perspective. He might start reading too much or not enough into certain situations. He wished he knew who her target was. It crossed his mind — it had crossed his mind all week — that maybe he was her target. But, really, this was nothing but ego. It didn’t make sense. He was no threat to her. He was in retirement, off the scene. Unless... unless there was something in his file on her, something he’d overlooked and which could be dangerous to her. Well, Barclay had the file now; maybe he would see something, something Elder couldn’t see.
Her target had to be the summit. But wasn’t it at the same time just too obvious, as Greenleaf had hinted? All those heads of state... But look at the challenge it presented to her. The security services of nine countries would be there, protecting their leaders. Over 750 security personnel in total (the majority supplied, of course, by the host nation), and more if you counted the uniformed police officers who would line the routes, holding back traffic and the public. Oh yes, it was a challenge all right, but then challenges had never been Witch’s thing. She worked on a smaller scale. Yes, there was the Pope, but they’d scared her off there with fewer personnel. Besides, that was Wolf Bandorff’s plan, not hers. Kidnappings, peace campaigners... these were her arena. Would she bother, these days, with a head of state?
God alone knew. God, and the woman herself.
Dominic Elder. A priest’s name. You should have been a priest. That’s what she’d told him. Remembering, he rubbed his back.
He had come to the outskirts of the town. The wind was sharp and salty, the sea a distant clash. Maybe a storm was coming. The wind, though sharp, was warm. Clouds moved fast against the sky. He paused to rub at his back, and stared at the spotlit frontage of a small pub. Pubs were Doyle’s and Greenleaf’s territory. But all the same, the vinegary chips had left him with a dry throat. He stared at the pub’s name.
The Cat over the Broomstick.
The name decided him. He pushed open the door and entered smoke and noise. It was a young people’s pub. Jukebox, video games, loud conversations peppered with swearing, and necking in the few dark corners available. He hesitated, but walked up to the bar anyway. The youth in front of him, being served with seven pints of lager, wore a denim jacket with its arms shorn off, and beneath it a leather jacket, arms intact. Elder recognized biker gear when he saw it. A biker pub, then, the dull offspring of the original Hell’s Angels. Someone behind him called out “Hey, Grandad!” to snorts of laughter. Elder stood his ground. The pints had been loaded onto a tray, the tray taken away. The barman was Elder’s age, and sweating. He wore an apologetic look for his new customer, a look which said, “It’s business. If they weren’t spending money here, they’d be doing it somewhere else.”
“Whiskey, please,” said Elder, “a double.”
He wondered if Doyle and Greenleaf had made it out this far yet. Somehow he doubted it. They’d most probably have a drink in every pub they visited... He gave the barman a fiver and, while waiting for his change, added plenty of water to his drink from a jug on the bar.
“I’m looking for my daughter,” he told the barman. But as he started to speak, a particularly thunderous track started on the jukebox, gaining a roar of approval from the drinkers.
“What?” said the barman, leaning his ear towards Elder.
“My daughter!” Elder yelled. “I’m looking for her.”
The barman shook his head, and then jerked it towards one of the loudspeakers. The message was clear: We’ll talk when the music stops. He went off to serve another customer. Another tray was needed. At one point, the barman twiddled with a knob mounted on the wall behind the array of liquor bottles. He did this as the song was ending. Another started up, but not so loud anymore.
“Turn it up, Joe!”
“Come on, Joe, we can hardly hear it!”
“Crank it up!”
He shook his head and smiled. “In a minute,” he called. “Just give me a minute’s rest, eh?”