[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.
379
Ian Rankin
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.
I was, but how could I turn down the chance of finding you?
He saw her smile. Finding me again, she corrected. Tell
me, Mr. Elder, how s your back?
Good as new.
Really? She was still smiling. You must be ready for
another autograph, then. Something a bit more permanent.
Do you remember, he said, in Docklands, just before you
gave me that final kick . . . ?
You started to ask me a question.
That s right. I want to ask it now. It s important to me. He
paused. It s the reason I ve been hunting you so long.
Go ahead and ask.
He swallowed drily, licked his lips. His mouth felt coated
with bad coffee.
Paris, eight years ago, in June. A bomb went off in a shop-
ping arcade. Was it you?
She was silent for a tantalizing moment. You ll have to be
more specific.
No, it was either you or it wasn t.
No interviews allowed. Her finger began to squeeze the
trigger.
Elder called out: Biddy, no!
The use of her real name froze her for a second. A second
was all Elder needed. The hand inside his jacket was already
gripped around the Browning s butt. He swung and fired, diving
farther back into the darkness as he did so. He fired off three
shots, stumbling backwards all the time, seeking safety in the
shadows and the dustbins and the stacks of empty boxes. Three
shots. None of them returned. He waited, listening. Some dogs
had been startled awake and were barking in the distance. A win-
dow opened somewhere nearby.
What the hell was that? he heard a voice say. Sounded like
guns. Call the police, love.
380
Witch Hunt
Yes, call the police. Slowly, Elder got to his feet and walked
to the mouth of the alley, keeping close to the wall, his gun hand
hanging at his side. Then he stuck his head out into the street.
And the cold metal mouth of a pistol touched his forehead.
Witch was standing there, smiling unsteadily. Her grip on
the gun wasn t steady either. She was wounded. He daren t take
his eyes off hers, but he could see a dark stain spreading across
her right side. She placed the palm of her hand against it, then
lifted the hand away, her fingers rubbing slickly against each
other. Elder could smell the blood.
Biddy, he said, you don t hate me. His whole head felt
numb from the touch of the pistol against his brow. He felt dizzy,
giddy. Witch s smile grew wider.
Hate you? Of course I don t hate you. It s just that I don t
want to . . . she swallowed . . . to disappoint you. She fell
against the shopfront, her gun arm dropping to her side. Elder
took hold of her and eased her down so that she was sitting on
the ground, legs in front of her, back resting against the
shopfront, the same rag-doll posture in which she d left her
father. Only then did he remove the pistol from her hand. From
the lack of resistance in her fingers he knew she was dying, if not
already dead. He heard feet running, several pairs of feet, and
calls.
Down this way?
No, down here.
The car s parked at Goodramgate.
Try The Shambles.
Take that street there . . .
And then someone was standing in front of him.
Found him! the voice called. It belonged to a uniformed
constable. The constable looked young, still in his teens. He
stared in horror at the bloody bundle nestling against Dominic
Elder.
Is she . . . ?
And now more footsteps. Dominic! Are you all right?
Joyce crouched down in front of him, her eyes finding a level
with his. He nodded.
381
Ian Rankin
I m fine, Joyce. Really. He looked up. Greenleaf was stand-
ing there, too, now, pistol in his hand, not looking at Elder but at
Witch.
Here she is, John, said Elder, still holding the unmoving
body. Here s what all the fuss was about. A kid who didn t like
her dad.
Her dad?
Jonathan Barker. He s on the wall between Goodramgate
and the Minster.
Not alive, I presume?
Not alive, no. Elder looked down at Witch again. She
looked like Christine Jones. Now, she would always look like
Christine Jones in his mind, just as for two years she d looked
like a down-and-out. He wondered what she looked like really.
He wondered if even she knew.
Greenleaf holstered his gun. We call them domestics on
the force, he said. Family fallings-out . . .
That s what this was, then, said Elder, letting the body go
and rising slowly to his feet. A domestic.
Joyce Parry slipped her arm around his waist. Her fingers
spread out across his back. His back had no feeling at all.
382
Departure
Doyle kept his head bandaged for a few days, even though
the doctors had told him he needn t bother. But he said he liked
the way it made him look, and so did his girlfriend.
She says I look like a war hero.
Or a lobotomy patient, added Greenleaf.
Elder laughed. They were standing in the East End boxing
club, which again had been hired for one of Doyle s by now
notorious parties. The French lager was piled high in cardboard
boxes of forty-eight bottles per box. The punching bags were in
use, as were the parallel bars.
He s sharp, isn t he, Dom? said Doyle, nodding towards
Greenleaf.
Elder nodded. But how do you feel really, Doyle?
Oh, I m fine. Just a spot of amnesia.
Oh?
I seem to have forgotten all my character defects. Ay-ay,
here comes lover boy.
They turned towards the door. Barclay was walking tall, hav-
ing just arranged by phone with Dominique that he d be spend-
ing next weekend in Paris with her.
Mama s idea, she d said, but he hadn t believed it.
Doyle had turned away from Barclay and towards the table.
When he turned around again, he was holding a bottle of beer.
385
Ian Rankin
There you go, Mikey. You don t need a bottle opener, just
twist the top.
Right, cheers, said Barclay. Greenleaf knew what was com-
ing. As Barclay twisted the bottle top, a welt of foam burst from
the bottle and sprayed his shirt.
Doyle tutted. Still a bit lively from the trip.
Later, while discussion raged as to which curry house should
receive the party s late-night custom, the one they d used last
time having said never again, Elder slipped away. He was going
to hunt down a black taxi, but saw in the distance a seedily lit cab
office, so started walking towards it.
Stealing my car again?
He turned and saw Barclay following him. And when he
looked, he was indeed standing next to the white Ford Fiesta.
Barclay unlocked the passenger door.
Hop in, I ll give you a lift.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]