Free Witch Hunt by Ian Rankin

“pressed the flesh”, so to speak, was a young supporter with bleached hair. Despite those distinctive looks, she was never seen again.’
    Barclay turned the photo towards Elder, who nodded slowly back at him before sliding the Wolf Bandorff photo across the table.
    ‘Look again, Mr Barclay. Look at Wolfs acolyte.’
    ‘You think they’re the same person?’
    ‘I’m sure of it.’ Elder watched as Barclay compared the two photographs. ‘I see you’re not convinced.’
    ‘I can’t really see any resemblance.’
    Elder took the photos from him and stared at them. Barclay got the impression the older man had done this many times over the years. ‘No, maybe you’re right. The resemblance is below the skin. And the eyes of course. That look in the eyes ... I know it’s her. It’s Witch.’
    ‘Is that how she got her name? Operation Warlock?’
    ‘Yes. From warlock to witch, once we knew the sex.’
    ‘But there’s no proof it was the woman who killed the—’
    ‘Not a shred of proof. I never said there was. Suppositions, Mr Barclay.’
    ‘Then we’re no further forward really, are we?’ Barclay was in a mood to wind things up. What had he learned here tonight? Stories, that’s all. Merely stories.
    ‘Perhaps not,’ Elder said ruefully. ‘You know best.’
    ‘I didn’t mean—’
    ‘No, no, I know what you meant, Mr Barclay. You think this file represents the most tenuous speculation. Maybe you’re right.’ He stared at Barclay. ‘Maybe I’m being paranoid, a symptom of the whole organisation.’
    There was silence between them, Elder still staring. Barclay had heard those words before. Suddenly he realised they were his words, the ones he’d used at his selection-board.
    ‘You,’ he said. ‘You were on my interview panel, weren’t you?’ Elder smiled, bowing his head a little. ‘You didn’t say a word the whole time, not one.’
    ‘And that unsettled you,’ Elder stated.
    ‘Of course it did.’
    ‘But it did not stop you making your little speech. And as you can see, I was listening.’
    ‘I thought I knew your name, I wasn’t sure how.’
    Elder had begun slotting the photos back in their proper places inside the file. Barclay realised suddenly just how much this file meant to Elder.
    ‘Mr Elder, could I take your report with me to look at?’
    Elder considered this. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready yet.’ He rose and tucked the file beneath his arm. ‘You’ve got a long drive ahead. We’d better have some coffee. Come on, it’s too dark out here. Let’s go inside where it’s light.’
    Over coffee, Elder would speak only of opera, of Il Trovatore, of performances seen and performances heard. Barclay tried consistently to bring the conversation back to Witch, but Elder was having none of it. Eventually, Barclay gave up. They moved from opera to the cricket season. And then it was time for Barclay to leave. He drove back to London in silence, wondering what else was in Dominic Elder’s file on Witch, wondering what was in Joyce Parry’s files on Elder. The word acolyte bounced around in his head. You’re not ready yet. Was Elder inviting him to ... to what? To learn? He wasn’t sure.
     
    He brightened when he remembered that this was Friday night. The weekend stretched ahead of him. He wondered if he’d be able to put Witch, Elder, and the American General out of his mind. Then he recalled that he himself had set these wheels in motion. He had noticed the original report on the sinkings. He had contacted Special Branch.
    ‘What have I let myself in for?’ he wondered as the overhead sodium arc came into view, the light emanating from London.

 
    The Operating Theatre

Friday, Saturday, Sunday
    Idres Salaam-Khan - known to everyone simply as Khan - had a good life. Khan knew it, and Khan’s chauffeur-cum-bodyguard knew it. A good life. As a senior official (though not a director) of a small, anonymous bank, his salary was kept undisclosed.