She saved, and considered leaving the screen on. But Christine wouldn’t, not all weekend with no one in the house. So Witch ejected the disk and switched off the computer. She reset the room’s clock alarm and, with a last look around, headed for the stairs. There was a soft knock at the door.
“Yes?”
“Come to pick up a package,” called the voice. Witch opened the door and stood back so that the two men could enter the hall. One of them carried a long, flat-packed section of cardboard.
“Upstairs on the right,” said Witch. “And listen...” She handed one of the men the postcard. “This has to be posted by Monday morning in Scotland, to arrive here Tuesday or Wednesday morning.”
“No problem,” said the man, taking the card from her and slipping it inside his shirt. “Might even manage it tomorrow.” Then the two men went upstairs. Minutes later, they appeared at the top of the stairs grappling with a large cardboard box, no longer flat-packed. Inside, Christine Jones would be trussed like a Christmas bird, knees tucked up into her chest, plastic restraining cords wrapped around her, arms tied against her sides. The human body, positioned just right, could make a smaller package than might be imagined. The box was barely four feet long.
They brought her downstairs slowly, careful not to topple or trip. Witch held open the door for them, and held the suitcase out towards the man at the back. “This too,” she said. “It can stay with her.” The man took the case with difficulty by its handle, but said nothing. Witch closed the door after the men. She watched from the upstairs bedroom window as they loaded the van, got in, and drove off. The street still did not stir. It took more than odd comings and goings to produce a reaction here. Now, alone in the house, Witch went about her final tidying up. She untied the tights from the bedposts and put them back in Christine’s drawer, then straightened the bed. Having made sure things looked neat and tidy, she went back downstairs and picked up her bags. She let herself out and closed the door behind her. Then she took out Christine’s bunch of keys and locked the mortise. There, just the way Christine would have left the place. Yes, she’d been in a hurry. Yes, the conference had come as a surprise. But she’d still left the house without fuss or undue mess. A very proper young woman.
Then Witch remembered the trick with the iron, and the way Christine had screamed the place down. She didn’t blame her; she blamed herself. Next time, she’d have to do better. Get everything ready before loosing the knot around the hand.
Preparation, that was the secret. Be prepared. She’d learned her lesson. She was just glad she hadn’t had to learn it the hard way. Christine Jones was still alive. Witch was still unscarred. She knew why she’d made the mistake, too. Her mind was running along two parallel roads, with occasional jolts from one road onto the other. In those moments, she was weak. She knew she couldn’t afford any weakness. She was taking a risk this time, bigger than any she’d taken before. The deceit was greater, the sense of treachery more impending. If she double-crossed them... when she double-crossed them, they would be far from pleased. They’d perhaps send another assassin after her. She smiled at that. Who would they hire? Who would take the job? The answer to the second question was obvious: if the price was right, anyone would take the job, no matter how dangerous.
Witch closed the gate. A police car was drawing up on the other side of the road. One of the officers called to her. She crossed the road towards the car. The policeman sat with his elbow resting on the sill of his wound-down window.
“Sorry to trouble you, miss. There’s been a report of some screaming or yelling. Heard anything?”
Witch thought for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she said. Then she smiled. “Hard to tell in this street, though. They’re always yelling at each other.”
The policeman smiled back and turned to his colleague. “It was number twenty-seven made the call, wasn’t it? Better go have a word.” He turned back to Witch and nodded in the direction of Christine Jones’s house. “You live there?” Witch nodded slowly. “Well, that’s one to cross off the list, then, eh?”
“Yes,” said Witch. “I’ve just locked the place up. I’m going away for a few days.”
“Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”
“Scotland.”
“Locked all your windows?”
“Of course.”
“Burglar alarm?”
“We don’t have one.”
He puckered his lips. “Think about getting one, that’s my advice. Well, thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome,” Witch answered politely, crossing the road again and walking on steady legs in the direction of Stoke Newington railway station.
The policeman turned to his companion. “Travels light, doesn’t she?” he said.
Saturday 13 June
“What are we looking for?”
Joyce Parry was not best pleased at being summoned to her own office on a Saturday morning, and all because Elder didn’t like using computers. She sat at her desk in front of the terminal while Dominic rested his hands on the back of her chair and leaned his head close to her right shoulder.
“Someone this end helped her enter the country,” he answered. “She’s traveling, she’s hiding, she’s already had help on the Khan hit. There has to be someone else, however loose a tie they might be.” He checked that he wasn’t about to give away more than he should know. “Your man Barclay has found a link between Witch and two men in Paris.”
“DST found it, he’s just tagging along.”
Elder looked at the back of her head. “Whatever,” he said. “I’m wondering if there’s another terrorist loose over here, someone she knows she can call on for help.”
“You want to access MI6’s files?”
“Yes.”
“How wide a search?”
“I’m still thinking about the American woman, Khan’s lover.”
Parry nodded. “It’s a starting point.” She half-turned to him. “Could be a long day.” She didn’t sound angry with him anymore. He squeezed her shoulder and she began tapping in her security code. Then she had a thought, and swung her chair towards the telephone. “I’d better just clear this with MI6.”
After a short conversation, she was back at the screen. Moments later, the first file appeared — a brief description and history with a head and shoulders picture. Elder wanted to study every one of them as they came up. After a dozen or so, Joyce smiled at the screen. He saw the reflection of her face there.
“What’s so funny?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just a bit like old times.”
A few dozen files later, Elder made her go back a couple of files. It wasn’t a woman’s face on the screen, it was a man’s, going bald.
“Someone we should know?” Joyce asked.
“Someone we do know.”
The phone rang, and she swiveled towards it, leaving him staring at the picture on the screen.
“It’s for you,” she said.
He tore his gaze away and took the receiver from her. “Hello?”
“It’s Doyle here.”
“Good, I think I’ve got something for you.”
“Me, too.” There was a pause. He was waiting for Elder to ask, so Elder obliged.
“And what would that be?”
“Khan’s tart, Shari Capri. I know who she is.”
It was oppressively hot in Trilling’s office. Outside there was a generous summer’s day. The building was quiet, it being the weekend. Yet here they were — Dominic Elder, Doyle and Greenleaf, and Trilling himself — stuck in darkness behind a firmly shut door and closed venetian blinds.