“This is a family hotel,” warned the receptionist.
They both nodded towards her, assuring her of their agreement. So she gave them a key and took their money and had them sign their names in the register. When Barclay signed himself Jean-Claude Separt, Dominique nearly collapsed. But upstairs, suddenly alone together in the small room with its smells of air freshener and old carpet, they were shy. They calmed. They grew sober together, lying dressed on the top of the bed, kissing, hugging.
“I wonder where Elder is,” Barclay said at last.
“Me, too,” murmured Dominique drowsily.
He continued to stroke her hair as she slept, and he turned his head towards the large window, through which seeped the light and the noises of nighttime. He thought of Susanne Elder, and of Dominique’s father. He hoped Dominic Elder would get an answer to his question. Later still, he closed his own eyes and prayed for restful dreams...
It wasn’t quite dawn when Elder reached York. The streets were deserted. This was where Marion had told Barker she was pregnant, and where he’d insisted she have an abortion. Poor Marion, she’d chosen the time and the place to tell him. She’d chosen them carefully and, no doubt to her mind, well. A weekend in York, a sunny Sunday morning. A stroll along the city walls. Radiant, bursting to tell him her news. Poor Marion. What had she thought? Had she thought he’d be pleased? She’d been disappointed. But where on the city wall had she told him? Pellengro hadn’t known, so neither would Witch. Elder, many years ago, had walked the circuit of York’s protective city wall. He knew it could take him an hour or more. He parked near Goodramgate, a large stone archway. There was a flight of steps to the side of the “gate” itself leading up on to the ramparts. A small locked gate stood in his way, but he climbed over it. It struck him that Witch would have trouble dragging a prone body over such a gate. But on second thoughts, he couldn’t imagine the Home Secretary would have much trouble climbing over it with a gun pointing at his back.
Parts of the wall were floodlit, and the street lighting was adequate for his needs. The sky was clear and the night cold. He could see his breath in the air in front of him as he walked. He could only walk so far in this direction before the wall ended. It started again, he knew, a little farther on. He retraced his steps and crossed Goodramgate, this time walking along the wall in the direction of York Minster itself. He hadn’t gone ten yards when he saw the body. It was propped against the wall, legs straight out in front of it. He bent down and saw that it was Jonathan Barker. He’d been shot once through the temple. Elder touched Barker’s skin. It was cool, slightly damp. The limbs were still mobile however. He hadn’t been dead long. Elder stood up and looked around him. Nobody, obviously, had heard the shot. There were houses in the vicinity, and pubs and hotels. It surprised him that no one had heard anything. A single shot to the temple: execution-style. Well, at least it had been quick.
There was a sudden noise of impact near him, and dust flew from the wall.
A bullet!
He flattened himself on the wall, his legs lying across Barker’s. He took his pistol from its shoulder holster and slipped off the safety. Where had the shot come from? He looked around. He was vulnerable up here, like a duck on a fairground shooting range. He had to get back to the steps. She was using a silencer. That’s why nobody had heard anything. A silencer would limit her gun’s range and accuracy, so probably she wasn’t that close. If she’d been close, she wouldn’t have missed. She was somewhere below, in the streets. He decided to run for it, moving in an awkward crouch, pistol aimed at the space in front of him, in case she should appear. She did not. He scrambled back down the steps and over the gate. The city was silent. Outside the walls, a single car rumbled past. He knew he’d never reach it in time. His own car was less than fifty yards away in any case. But he’d no intention of returning to it. He had come this far. He wasn’t going to run.
A sound of heels on cobblestones. Where? In front of him, and fading. He headed into the narrow streets of the old city, following the sound. The streets were like a maze. He’d been lost in them before, unable to believe afterwards that there were so few of them... just as those lost in a maze cannot believe it’s not bigger than it is.
He couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. He stood for a moment, turning his head, listening intently. Then he moved on. The streets grew, if anything, narrower, then widened again. A square. Then more streets. Christ, it was dark. Backup. He needed backup. Was there a police station anywhere nearby? Noise, voices... coming into the square. Three teenagers, two girls and one boy. They looked drunk, happy, heading home slowly. He hid his gun in its holster and ran up to them.
“Have you seen a woman?”
“Don’t need to, I’ve got two here.” The boy gave the two girls a squeeze.
Elder attempted a sane man’s smile. “Is there a police station?”
“No idea.”
“Are you in trouble?” asked one of the girls. Elder shook his head.
“Just looking for my... my wife. She’s tall, younger than me. We managed to get separated, and...”
“On holiday are you? Thought so.”
“Here, we did see that woman... where was she? Stonebow?”
There were shrugs.
“Down that way,” said the girl, pointing.
“Thanks,” said Elder. As he moved off, he heard the boy say “Silly sod” quite loudly. The girls giggled.
Down this way. Hold on, though... He stopped again. What was he doing? Witch had already taken a shot at him. She knew he was here. So why not let her find him? Was she behind him, following, watching patiently as he ran himself ragged? That would be typical of her, biding her time until he was exhausted, then catching him off guard. Yes, he could run this maze for hours and never find her. Not unless she wanted to be found. He walked back the way he’d come, glancing behind him. What he needed was a dead end, and he found one: an alleyway leading from The Shambles. He staggered into it, tipping over a litter bin, and leaned against the wall, breathing hoarsely, coughing. One hand was against the wall, supporting him, the other was inside his jacket, as though holding his ribs or rubbing away a stitch. Whenever he paused in his loud breathing, there was silence around him, almost oppressively heavy. And inside him, a pounding of blood.
“Hey, priest.” Her voice was quiet. He had not heard her approach. He turned his head slowly towards the mouth of the alley. It was dark in the alley itself, but the street was illuminated. He knew he could see her better than she could see him. But she knew it, too. Perhaps that’s why she was standing to one side of the alley’s mouth, partly hidden by the corner of the wall. She was aiming a pistol at him.
She looked different. Not just physically different — that was to be expected — but somehow calmer, at peace.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked between intakes of breath. “Now that your father’s dead?”
“Ooh, Mr. Elder, and there I was thinking age had slowed you down. Yes, I’m satisfied.” She paused. “Just about.” The gun was steady in her hand. She had made no attempt to enter the alley itself. Why should she? It was a dead end. He was not going to escape.
“What now? Retirement?” he asked. “Your Dutch friend tells us you were paid a million dollars for the assassination.”
“A million, yes. Enough to buy a lot of retirement. What about you, Mr. Elder? I thought you were retired, too.”