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God, there was one . . . when was it? Back in April.
March, her friend corrected.
March, was it? Yes, when that whassisname was in town. He
visited just along the road. They had policemen on the ledges
then. The one outside our office . . .
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Witch Hunt
God, what a hunk!
Witch laughed with them, asked them to describe the man.
They did, then they all laughed again. The two girls hugged
their files to their chests.
I hope we get him again.
I ll keep my fingers crossed for you, said Witch. How do
they get out onto the ledges?
Oh, some of the windows open. You know, like in the minis-
ter s office. You can get out that way.
I ve never been in the minister s office, Witch admitted.
No? We re in there all the time, aren t we, Shelley?
All the time, she agreed. He s got his own telly and every-
thing in there.
Drinks cabinet, all the papers, and paintings on the wall,
supposed to be really valuable.
Yes? said Witch.
Oh yes, said Shelley. And if he doesn t like them, they
fetch him some more.
I don t know about paintings. Give me a big poster of that
police hunk any day!
Witch left them to their giggles and walked along the third-
floor corridor. She was keeping an eye out for Folded-arms.
Maybe he d follow her, try another chat-up line. She did not want
him directing her personally to Mrs. Spurrier s office.
She came to a solid wooden door with a plate reading con-
ference room. Pinned to the door was a sheet of typed paper
with dates, times, and names on it. Presumably bookings for use
of the room. There was no booking for just now. She turned the
door handle. The door, though it had a lock, was open. She
slipped inside and closed the door again. The room had a stuffy,
unused smell. There was a plain oval table, five lime green chairs,
a single uninspired painting on one wall. Two glass ashtrays sat
on the table, and on the floor by the window sat an empty metal
wastebasket.
Utilitarian; Witch quite liked it. She went to the window and
stared out, resting her hands on the inner sill. The window was not
the opening kind. It was swathed in yards of off-white gauze cur-
taining, the kind popular in public offices because, the popular
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Ian Rankin
wisdom went, the curtains would catch shards of glass exploding
inwards after a blast. Witch s blurred view was of the traffic and
the pedestrians below in Victoria Street. The holdup for the VIP
convoy had led to frayed tempers and congestion. She thought
for a moment of the drive she was going to take tomorrow or
Wednesday. She had to get her routes right. She had to find a car
tonight and make a test run. She had to find two cars tonight.
There was so much still to do. The ledge, she noted with pleas-
ure, was hardly wide enough to accommodate a man. The ledges
on the next floor down, she knew, were wide enough. What was
more, the ledge outside her window had crumbled a little, ren-
dering it unsafe. Good. Very good. She examined the face of the
building across the road, then spent a little time looking down
onto the road itself, her lips pursed thoughtfully.
Back at the door, she examined the keyhole. An uncompli-
cated affair, as easy to lock as it would be to unlock. Better and
better. She opened the door again and stepped out into the corri-
dor, closed it behind her and checked the list on the door. There
were no scheduled meetings tomorrow at all, and only two on
Wednesday, one at 10 and the other at 4:15. A nice gap between.
Excellent. Witch was in no doubt. At last, she d found her bolt-
hole, her assassin s perch. Sometimes it happened like that, you
just wandered into a place or up to a place and you saw it
straightaway, the perfect position. Other times, you had to
search and scour and scratch your head and maybe even make
other plans, look at other sites. She d lost weeks of her life
changing initial plans, executing apt word new ones. But
today it had come easy. Perhaps her luck was changing. She
turned around and saw, coming towards her, Folded-arms. Only
his arms weren t folded anymore. They were spread out, palms
towards her.
You see, he said, you see? I just knew if I left you alone
you d get lost again.
I m not lost, replied Witch crisply. I was checking the time
of Wednesday s meeting. Then she bit her lip. Risk, risk, risk.
Folded-arms looked both delighted and amazed. What?
The four-fifteen? But I m going to that. Are you going to be
there, too?
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Witch Hunt
She shook her head. The ten o clock.
Pity, he said. Still, we must have coffee afterwards. What
do you say?
Great.
My name s Jack by the way. Jack Blishen.
Christine, she said. She shook the proffered hand. After-
wards, he held on to her hand just a little too long, his eyes wolf-
ing her. She managed a smile throughout.
Room two-twenty-six, he said.
Two-twenty-six, she repeated, nodding.
Have you time for a drink just now? Canteen s
No, really. I ve got to get back. There are some papers I for-
got to bring.
Dear, oh dear, not very bright today, are we?
Monday morning, she explained.
You don t need to tell me, love, he said, grinning with
wolf s teeth. Witch had an image of herself ramming the heel of
her hand into his nose, thrusting upwards, of bone and cartilage
piercing the brain. It took no more than a second. She blinked
the image away. Or slice his fat gut open. She blinked again.
You haven t seen Madam yet, then? he was saying.
Madam?
Spurrier.
No, not yet.
I shouldn t bother if I were you. Not unless you re bringing
her good news. She s brutal, Christine, believe me. Have you met
her before?
No.
He sucked in his breath. Careful how you go, then. She ll
tear your throat out. I ve seen her do it.
Look, sorry, Jack, but I really must . . .
Sure, don t mind me. Spurrier s not so bad really. I was
exaggerating. Didn t mean to . . . here, I ll walk you back to the
lift.
Thank you, she said. Then he put his hand on her shoul-
der, and she felt a fresh wave of revulsion. Fight it, she thought
to herself. Fight it. She had to be strong for her meeting with the
Dutchman. She had to look strong, more than strong invincible.
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Ian Rankin
She had to keep him fooled. By Wednesday at the latest, nothing
would matter anymore. She clung to that thought, pulled it to
her, embraced it the way the secretaries had embraced their card-
board files. Two more days at most. She would last. She would.
She had to.
There were times when the Dutchman subscribed to the notion
that public was private. In London, he certainly subscribed to
it. What was suspicious about two people having a lunchtime
drink in a Covent Garden pub, crammed with other people
doing exactly the same thing? Answer: nothing. What was suspi-
cious about two people meeting clandestinely in some locked
room or on some tract of wasteland? Answer: everything.
So it was that he had arranged the meeting in Covent Gar-
den, just outside the tube station entrance in James Street. So it
was that he took her into the heart of Covent Garden itself, past
the piazza with its jugglers and musicians, past the racks and the
stalls with their glittering clothes and jewelry, and down some
stairs to a wine bar. Witch eventually balked when he suggested
they sit at a table outside. People on the level above could lean on
the guardrails and watch them, as they were watching the other
people at the tables.
I d feel like an animal in a zoo, she spat.
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