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efficient, because that was what the office required. For a dinner
party, she would be elegant and intelligent. Receiving friends at
home, she was just slovenly enough so that they felt comfortable
in her house.
And for an intimate dinner with a man . . . ? That depended
on what she thought the man felt about her, and what she felt
if anything in return. There was her long ice-blue dress, cov-
ering most of her body like a shield. Then there was the jersey
dress, which came to her knees and showed a lot of her arms and
shoulders too. Or there was the skirt and blouse. The blouse
could be worn open-necked, or else clamped shut and tied at the
neck with a bow.
Decisions, decisions. She turned and went back into the
bathroom. If she left the choice of outfit until the last minute,
she d have to make a snap judgment. So be it. God, he d laugh to
see her getting in such a state. The unflappable Joyce. She d
flapped all right, the first time she d met him. They d become
lovers only several years later, and then for a matter of weeks.
He d still been married then though only just. It didn t work.
It could never have worked. But that hadn t stopped it being
good at the time.
She cleaned her teeth, rinsed, spat. Turned off the tap and
stared at herself in the mirror, her hands on the rim of the wash-
basin.
Silverfish had aged Dominic, but she wasn t looking so young
247
Ian Rankin
herself. She patted her hair self-consciously. She still wasn t sure
whether bringing Dominic to London had been such a good
idea. He certainly seemed full of energy and ideas, his mind
sharp. He d covered good ground in Folkestone, Cliftonville,
Brighton. He got results from people, mainly because he looked
like he was there to be obeyed and impressed. Even the Special
Branch pair worked well with him. Not under him, but with him.
That was another thing about Dominic, he consciously under-
played his role. He didn t need to brandish his authority in any-
one s face. Yet all the time he was manipulating them.
Maybe there were still a few things she could learn from him,
a few of his strengths that she d forgotten all about. But she knew
his weaknesses of old, too. The way he bottled things up, always
thinking more than he said, not sharing. And now Witch had
threatened him: what must the shock of finding that note have
done to him? She d find out tonight, she d sit at the table and ask
him outright, and she d go on asking until he told her.
She d considered putting a guard on him. After all, he was
the one real and actual person so far threatened by Witch. But
Dominic wouldn t have agreed to a bodyguard. Besides, he was
working most of the time alongside two bodyguards of a sort
Doyle and Greenleaf. But she d phoned Trilling anyway, and had
asked him to have a quiet word with his men, telling them to
keep an eye open for Elder s safety. Trilling had been sympa-
thetic, and had given her a progress report.
Too many fish, all of them possible red herrings. They were
heading towards confusion rather than clarity. It wasn t Joyce
Parry s way. The phone rang in the bedroom. Maybe Barclay and
another of his too-vague reports. Maybe Dominic to say there
was a fresh lead and he was canceling dinner. She sat on the edge
of the bed and picked up the receiver.
Joyce Parry speaking.
She listened for a moment, frowned, shifted a little on the
bed. She pulled the corner of the duvet over her lap, as though
her nakedness suddenly embarrassed her.
What? she said. She listened to more. I see, she said.
Yes, I quite understand. Thank you. But the conversation
lasted for several more minutes before she hung up.
248
Witch Hunt
Half an hour later, Dominic Elder rang the doorbell. She
was dressed for travel, and knew she looked flustered and angry.
Still, she opened the door to him. He was beaming. She swal-
lowed before speaking.
Dominic, I tried ringing you but you d already left. Sorry,
I ve got to call off tonight.
What? She stood at the door, holding the door itself by its
edge. There was to be no invitation in.
I know, I know. Somewhere I ve got to be cropped up less
than half an hour ago. I really am sorry.
He looked pitiable. His shoulders had collapsed forwards.
He stared at the doorbell as though trying to make sense of the
conversation. But . . . where? What s so important it can t
She raised her free hand. I know, believe me. But this can t
wait. A car s picking me up in ten minutes and I haven t finished
packing.
Packing?
Just overnight. A pause. It s Barclay.
What s happened to him?
Nothing, he s just . . . Her eyes narrowed. Tell me this is
nothing to do with you. He stood there, saying nothing. Well,
thanks for the vote of confidence. She pulled the door open
wide. Get in here and tell me. Tell me everything.
The schnapps before bed was probably not necessary . . . Barclay
would have slept on a street of broken glass, never mind between
the clean white sheets provided by the Gasthof Hirschen. It had
been a hell of a drive. Dominique was of the let s-press-on school
of travel, so that stops were few and far between, and what stops
they made were perfunctory. Then a tire went on the 2CV and
the spare turned out to be in a distressed condition. And when a
new tire had been found and fitted, at what seemed to both of
them major expense (whether converted into francs or sterling),
a small red light had come on on the dashboard, and wouldn t go
off, despite Dominique s attempts at tapping it into submission
with her finger.
What is it?
249
Ian Rankin
Just a warning light, said Dominique.
What s it warning us of?
I don t know. The owner s manual is under your seat.
Barclay flicked through it, but his French wasn t up to the
task. So Dominique pulled over and snatched the book from him.
You re welcome, Barclay muttered, but she ignored the
gibe. He was dying for a cup of tea, and for the simple pleasures
of Saturday in London: shopping for clothes and new classical
CDs, reading a book or the newspaper with the CD playing on
the hi-fi, preparing for a dinner party or drinks . . .
Oil, Dominique said.
Let s take a look, then, said Barclay, getting out of the car.
But the bonnet was almost impossible to open and he had to wait
for Dominique, who was in no hurry to assist, to come and unhook
the thing for him. There was less to the motor than he d imagined.
Do you have a rag or something?
She shook her head.
Fine. He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, pulled
out the dipstick; wiped it, pushed it back into place again, and
lifted it out again. Dominique consulted the owner s manual.
Yes, she said. The oil level is low.
Practically nonexistent. Barclay s voice was furiously calm.
And do we have a can of oil with us?
She looked at him as if he were mad even to ask.
Fine, he said again.
They were parked by the side of the autobahn. The road
itself looked, to Barclay, like some old airstrip, short, pitted con-
crete sections with joins every few yards. The sound of the 2CV
rumbling over each join had become monotonous and infuriat-
ing, but even that was preferable to this.
Then it started to rain.
They sat together in the front of the car, not even bothering
with the windscreen wipers. Drops of rain thudded down on the
vinyl roof, trickling in at a few places where the vinyl had either
perished or been breached. Inside the damp car, not a word was
exchanged for several minutes.
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