He drove first to Salisbury, where, according to Marion Rose, Jonathan Barker had first held her hand, first planted a kiss on her cheek. He had done so as they came out of the cathedral after attending a choral concert. Elder drove up to the cathedral, got out, walked around, got back into the car, cruised around the town for twenty minutes, then headed off. Second stop: a hotel in Henley-on-Thames. Pellengro told him this was where Marion and Barker had first made love. The fortune teller even recalled the hotel’s name.
“In my business, a good memory helps. You sometimes get a client coming back after two or three years. Helps if you can remember what you said to them last time.”
He parked in the hotel car park, and checked the other parked cars for any on the stolen list. None. The hotel itself was busy, but there was no sign of Witch. Tired, he stopped at a burger drive-in and bought coffee, then bought more later when he filled the car with petrol. He was headed north, doing this because, as with the roadblocks, there was nothing else to do. He had no leads, no real ideas. He didn’t have anything.
And no one would thank him for any of this anyway. Running off on his own, just like in the old days. Barclay would tell Joyce, and Joyce would not be pleased. She would not be pleased at all. Last night, she had massaged his back.
“It hasn’t healed,” she said. “I thought by now it would have.”
“Sometimes it clears up, then it starts again.”
She had traced the outline with her finger. “Is it sore?”
“More itchy than sore, but then if I scratch it... yes, it’s sore. And I know what you’re thinking: serves me right. Which is true. I learned my lesson.”
“Did you, Dominic? I wonder. I wonder if Silverfish taught you anything.”
Silverfish, stupid name for a stupid operation. A terrorist cell in London. Kept under surveillance. The mention of a meeting to take place in the city between senior members of four European terrorist organizations. But the whole thing had been botched, the terrorists escaping. Including a woman, a woman Elder thought he knew. There was an immediate clampdown: checks on airports, ferry terminals, fishing ports. One of the terrorists, a Spaniard, was arrested at Glasgow Airport. Then came Charlie Giltrap’s phone call.
“Might be something or nothing, Mr. Elder, just that there’s this woman been sleeping rough in an empty lot near all that building work in Docklands. She don’t talk, and she don’t look right, if you know what I mean. I mean, she don’t fit in.”
Which had been enough to send Elder down to Docklands, to an area of scrapyards, building sites, and derelict wastes. It was late evening, and he hadn’t told anyone he was going. He’d just do a recce, and if backup was needed, he’d phone for it.
Besides, he had his Browning in his pocket.
After half an hour’s hunting, he saw a crouched figure beside what remained of a warehouse wall. It was eating sliced white bread from a bag, but scurried off mouselike at his approach. So he followed.
“I only want a word,” he called. “I’m not going to move you on or anything. I just want to talk.”
He cornered her in the shell of another building. It had no roof left, just four walls, a gaping doorway, and windows without glass. She was crouched again, and her eyes were fearful, cowed. But her clothes weren’t quite ragged enough, were they? He came closer.
“I just want to talk.”
And then he was close enough to stare into her eyes, and he knew. He knew it was all pretense. She wasn’t fearful or cowed or anything like that. She was Witch. And she saw that he knew.
And she was fast. The kick hit his kneecap, almost shattering it. He stumbled, and the flat edge of her fist chopped into his throat. He was gagging, but managed somehow to get the gun out of his pocket.
“I know you,” she said, kicking the gun cleanly out of his hand. “You’re called Elder. You’ve got a nice thick file on me, haven’t you?” Her next kick connected her heel to his temple. Fresh pain flared through him. “You call me Witch.” Her voice was calm, almost ethereal. A kick to the ribs. Christ, what kind of shoes was she wearing? They were like weapons. “You’re called Dominic Elder. Even we have our sources, Mr. Elder.” Then she chuckled, crouching in front of him, lifting his head. It was dark, he couldn’t make out... “Dominic Elder. A priest’s name. You should have been a priest.”
Then she rose and he heard her footsteps crunch over gravel and glass. She stopped, picked up his pistol. He heard her emptying the bullets from it. “Browning,” she mused. “Not great.” Then the gun hit the ground again. And now she was coming back towards him. “Will you put this in your file, Mr. Elder? Or will you be too ashamed? How long have you been tracking me?”
She was lifting his arms behind him, slipping off his jacket.
“Years,” he mumbled. He needed a few moments. A few moments to recover. If she’d give him a few more moments, then he’d...
“Years? You must be my biggest fan.” She chuckled again, and tore his shirt with a single tug, tore it all the way up his back. He felt his sweat begin to chill. Christ, what was...? Then her hand came to within an inch of his face and lifted a piece of broken glass. She stood up, and he thought she was moving away again. He swallowed and began to speak.
“I want to ask you something. It’s important to me.”
Too late, he felt her foot swinging towards him. The blow connected with his jaw, sending him spinning out of pain and into darkness.
“No interviews,” she was saying. “But I’d better give my biggest fan an autograph, hadn’t I?”
And then, with Elder unconscious, she had carved a huge letter W into his back, and had left him bleeding to death. But Charlie Giltrap had decided Elder might need help. It was a rough area down there; a man like Mr. Elder... well, he might need a translator if nothing else. Charlie had found him. Charlie had called for the ambulance. Charlie had saved Elder’s life.
One hundred and eighty-five stitches they gave him. And he lay on his front in a hospital bed feeling each and every one of them tightly knitting his skin. His hearing had been affected by one of her kicks — affected temporarily, but it gave him little to do but think. Think about how fast she’d been, how slow he’d been in response. Think of the mistake he’d made going there in the first place. Think maybe it was time for an easier life.
But, really, life hadn’t been easier since. In some ways it had been harder. This time he’d shoot first. Then maybe his back would heal, maybe the huge scar wouldn’t itch anymore.
His next stop was another hotel, this time near Kenilworth Castle, the probable site of Witch’s conception. Barker, usually so cautious, had one night drunk too many whiskeys, and wouldn’t let his secretary say no later on, after closing time, up in their shared room. The hotel was locked and silent for the night. There were only two cars in the car park and neither was on the stolen list. Three more to go: York, Lancaster, and Berwick. If he pushed on, he could have them all checked by late morning. If he pushed on.
Dominique booked them into the hotel, pretending that Barclay also was French and could speak no English. The receptionist looked disapproving.
“Any luggage?” she sniffed.
“No luggage,” said Dominique, barely suppressing a giggle. The woman stared at her from over the top of her half-moon glasses. Dominique looked back over her shoulder to where Barclay stood just inside the hotel door. She motioned for him to join her, but he shook his head, causing her to giggle again before calling to him: “I need some money!”
So at last, reluctantly, he came towards the desk. He was worried about Dominic Elder. He’d argued that they should go back to London, but Dominique, pragmatic as ever, had asked what good that would do? So instead they’d had a few drinks and eaten fish and chips out of paper. And they’d played some of the machines in the pier’s amusement arcade.