“Was it delivered?”
“She left it at a pub, The Cat over the Broomstick.”
“What?”
“That’s the name of the pub. I think she left it on the off chance.”
“You don’t think she’s following you?”
“No.”
“But she knows you’re after her.”
“I’m not even sure about that. Could just be a shrewd guess. She may not know I’ve retired.”
“Has Forensics had a —”
“They’re checking it this morning. I don’t expect they’ll find anything. She left the note with a barman. Doyle and Greenleaf are interviewing him this morning. We had a word with him last night, but today they’re really going to put him through it. For what it’s worth.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she got him to write the note for her. Pretended her wrist was sprained.”
“Clever girl.” Joyce Parry almost purred the words.
“Few more like her on our side,” Elder conceded, “and we might still be an Empire.”
There was a choked sound as Joyce Parry stifled a yawn. “Description?” she asked at last.
“Come on, Joyce, wakey wakey. She could have changed her looks a dozen times since then. No description the barman can give is going to be valid.”
“You sound disheartened.” She almost sounded concerned.
“Do I?” He managed a smile. “Maybe it’s because I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I thought you’d want to —”
“And now I do know. So go and have your breakfast. And Dominic...?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t do too much. Rely on Greenleaf and Doyle, that’s what they’re there for.”
“You mean I should ask them to push my wheelchair?”
“I mean it isn’t all on your shoulders. You’re not a one-man band.”
“I have a strange feeling of déjà vu...”
“Don’t joke about it! I warned you at the start of —”
“Operation Silverfish, I know.”
“And I’m warning you now. You didn’t listen then. But listen now, Dominic: if I get any hint that you’re going solo on this, I’ll send you back to the valleys. Understood?”
“Jesus, next time I’ll phone after we’ve both had breakfast.”
“Do you understand me?”
He punched his pillow before replying. “Yes, Joyce,” he said sweetly, “loud and impeccably clear.”
“Good. Now go and eat, there’s a good boy.”
“Yes, Joyce. Thank you, Joyce. Oh, one last thing. How’s the kid doing?”
“I take it you mean Barclay. He’s in Paris, following a lead.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. Pleasantly so. Field experience, Joyce. There’s no substitute for it.”
“I don’t recall it doing you much good on Silverfish.”
There was a moment’s silence. He was waiting for her to apologize. She didn’t.
“Good-bye, Joyce,” he said. “Oh, hold on. Did you ever find out where Ms. Capri found Khan’s tongue?”
“Between her thighs,” Joyce Parry said quietly.
“Exactly. Remember the rough trade NATO General? Same modus operandi. It goes all the way back, Joyce, just like I told you.”
He put down the receiver. Then, going over the conversation again as he knotted his tie and slipped on his jacket, he smiled to himself. Same old Joyce. Prudent and cautious. She hadn’t gotten where she was today by going out on a limb. He’d always been the limb-creeper. And damn it, some things just didn’t and couldn’t change. He’d spoken to Barclay a quarter of an hour ago. He knew what Barclay had done; he’d have done the same himself. Elder was smiling as he left his room, locking the door after him.
He was impressed to find that Greenleaf and Doyle had already eaten and were on their way to the police station, where Joe the barman had agreed to meet them. So he took breakfast alone, staring out of the window at the early sunshine, thinking about his garden. A drinking companion, Tommy Bridges, had agreed at short notice to water the garden as necessary. But Tommy’s memory wasn’t so hot these days — too many bottles of rum had cascaded down his throat; perhaps Elder should phone and remind him. But according to the paper, it had rained in southwest Wales yesterday, with more to come today. He hoped his seedlings wouldn’t be drowned.
After a filling breakfast and too much weak coffee, he headed back onto the streets, stomach swilling, and decided to concentrate his efforts on the town center. Witch’s note had been a nice shortcut in one respect, in that they now knew she’d been here, had spent at least a little time here. But exactly where had she stayed? Doyle was to spend today organizing door-to-door inquiries of the resort’s hotels and guesthouses. Officers were being drafted in from Margate, but Elder doubted they’d be enough. They might have to start recruiting farther afield. The problem with that was that it increased the visible presence, and while it was unlikely Witch was still here, it might be that too many coppers suddenly appearing on the streets would scare off accomplices or witnesses.
He’d stressed to Doyle that it had to be low-key. Doyle in turn had argued that low-key was slow, and speed was of the essence. In a hostage situation, Doyle would not hesitate to kick the door down and go in shooting. Megaphone diplomacy, waiting it out, these were not his style. And it niggled Elder, for maybe Doyle was right at that. Greenleaf, the quiet one, had made no comment. He’d been fairly docile ever since his outburst at that first meeting in London. If careful Greenleaf, rather than wham-bam Doyle, had been sent to Calais in the first place, perhaps there would have been no new lead for Barclay to find. Now that he thought about it, Joyce hadn’t said what was happening in Paris. Keeping it close to her chest, in case nothing came of it: prudent and cautious. And he, Elder, hadn’t asked, hadn’t probed. Another slip-up on his part, and Joyce would doubtless realize it.
He’d been too long out of the game, it was true. Whatever his failings, someone like Barclay at least had youth on his side. Elder stopped on the pavement and considered this. Yes, he’d wanted Barclay sent to France because he’d thought it would teach the young man a lesson. But what kind of lesson: the useful kind, or the cruel kind? He wasn’t sure now. It seemed so long ago. He was standing outside a butcher’s shop, busy despite the early hour. Inside the large plate-glass window was displayed an array of red, glistening meat, gray sausages, pink pork loins. The butcher and his young assistant were working speedily, chatting all the time with the customers, who were also passing the time talking among themselves. Pleasures of the flesh-ing.
Then his eyes focused on the window itself. There was a small poster advertising a craft exhibition. And on the glass door to the shop, a door wedged open, there was a larger poster advertising a traveling fair. He’d passed similar flyers last night during his walk, but he hadn’t actually seen the fair itself. He recalled someone saying, “Maybe she was going to run away with the circus...” Moncur the lorry driver had said it. A traveling fair. Night people. Maybe one of them would have seen something. She’d been making for Cliftonville, and there’d been a fair here. Now she’d gone, and so it seemed had the fair. Elder walked briskly into the shop.
The women stared at him suspiciously as he failed to join the queue. Instead, he leaned over the counter.
“Excuse me, that fair...” He pointed to the poster on the door. “Is it still in town?”
The butcher, busy wrapping a package, glanced at the door. “Don’t know, sorry,” he said, taking a pencil from behind his ear. “Now, Mrs. Slattery, is that it?” The woman nodded, and he began totting up figures on a scrap of paper. “That’s four pounds and fifty pence, then,” he said.