Witch Hunt (49 page)

Elder was questioning the guard called George. He was beginning to get a sour feeling in his stomach about all of this, the whole set-up.

‘I’m not even sure it was her,’ George was saying now.

‘I mean, it’s hard to tell with some women, isn’t it?’

‘Well, has there been anyone else, anyone new to you?’

The guard shook his head. From Elder’s walkie-talkie came information that the procession of cars was leaving the Conference Centre, moving in slow convoy past the building he was standing in. He felt like screaming.

‘Look,’ said the guard, ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’ He walked over to the outside door, where a police officer was stopping a man in a pinstriped suit from entering the building.

‘He’s all right,’ said the guard to the policeman. ‘It’s Mr Connaught from the third floor.’

‘I only went out to get these,’ Mr Connaught was explaining, waving some documents. ‘I’d left them in my boot.’

The policeman looked to Elder, who nodded assent. The officer moved aside, letting Connaught into the building.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Security,’ the guard explained. ‘Some woman they’re after.’ This reminded him of something. ‘Who was that blonde lady you were with?’

Connaught shook his head. ‘Met her at the lift. Don’t know who she was exactly.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ said Elder, making for the stairs.

There was that shuffling sound again, like someone who was seated moving their feet on the floor. Doyle took a deep breath and knocked, keeping his back hard against the wall to the side of the door, rapping with his fist and then removing it from any line of fire. Silence.

He knocked again, a little harder. ‘Anyone in there? We’ve got a meeting starting in five minutes. Hello, anyone there?’

Silence. From their distance, Greenleaf and Trilling were watching him. When Greenleaf spoke, he spoke in an undertone which Doyle couldn’t catch. Trilling’s idea of an undertone, however, would not have gone unheard in a football stadium.

‘I see ... Yes, of course ... As you see fit ...’ Then a message came over Greenleaf’s radio (Doyle had switched his off: it sat on the ground beside him). Greenleaf listened and mumbled something into the radio.

Doyle licked his lips. No use pretending any longer; no time left in which to pretend. Traynor was returning, pushing past Greenleaf and Trilling. He had four men with him.

‘Net curtains are in the way,’ Traynor whispered. ‘Nobody across the street can see anything. No movement at all.’

Doyle nodded. ‘I can hear somebody though.’ Patches of sweat were spreading from beneath his arms. And now Greenleaf was creeping forwards.

‘They’re passing the building right this second.’

‘Can’t hang around any longer then,’ said Doyle. He withdrew his pistol, raising it high above him, gripped in both hands and pointed ceilingwards. He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Right,’ he said to the men around him. ‘We’re going in.’ They were all withdrawing their weapons now, a series of quiet snicks as safety catches were slipped off. Doyle looked at Traynor. ‘You keen to kick down that door?’ Traynor nodded. ‘Okay, two of you behind me, two of you other side of the door. Soon as the door opens, we’re in. My side low, other side aiming over our heads. Take the diagonals. Got that?’

They nodded, assumed their positions. Doyle, back to the wall, crouched low. Traynor stood in front of the door, took a moment to size it up. Greenleaf, who had gone back along the corridor to let Trilling know the score, had withdrawn his own weapon and was now advancing again, walkie-talkie gripped in his free hand, watched by Trilling. Doyle gave Traynor the nod. Traynor took a step back, both hands around the butt of his gun, aiming it straight at whatever was behind the door. He raised his right knee, so that the sole of his shoe faced the door, just below the handle. And took a deep breath.

Dominic Elder ran up the stairs, across the reception area, and out of the glass doors on to Victoria Street. He ran into a crush of people, waving, some of them cheering, held back by metal-grilled barriers from the road. There was a dull slow roar from the motorcycle escorts. And then there was glitter in the sky, and a net-curtain, blown out from its window and wafting in the breeze.

And then there was the explosion.

A dull boom. Not a large explosion by any means, but enough to panic the crowds. The motorbikes suddenly speeded up, as did the cars. Front fenders dented back fenders as the cars behind put their foot down. They were speeding away from the scene, and the security men on the street had guns in their hands and were trying to see what had happened. But it was raining glass. That was what was happening. Large and small shards and splinters, landing at velocity. And the screams were no longer solely of fear.

‘What happened?’ he yelled into his walkie-talkie. ‘John, what the hell happened?’ He was jostled by people fleeing the scene. Doors were kicked open as people attempted to find shelter. Anywhere but on the street. Barriers clattered to the ground as people scrambled over them.

The walkie-talkie crackled. He struggled to hear it. ‘Bomb inside the door. Hair-trigger.’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘Traynor, leg blown off. Doyle ...’

‘What about Doyle?’

‘Concussion.’

‘The room, John ... is there anyone in the room?’

A pause. ‘Negative, Dominic. The room’s empty. Repeat, the room is empty.’ Then: ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘What is it?’

‘Chickens, two supermarket chickens.’

They’d walked straight into a bloody trap! If Witch had left nothing else, she’d left yet another warped calling card. Which meant what? That the real attempt would take place elsewhere? Up ahead maybe? The motorcade was moving off in disarray. Christ, a trap ... he couldn’t believe ... couldn’t take it in. Why? What was the point? Suddenly, a hand gripped his arm. He reached inside his jacket, turning towards the—But it was only Barclay.

‘Jesus, you gave me a fright.’ His grip on the pistol relaxed. Barclay saw what had been about to happen.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

Elder nodded upwards, where the curtain still fluttered like a flag. It didn’t look like a flag though; it looked like a shroud. ‘Bomb,’ he said. ‘Witch led us into a trap.’

Sirens were nearing, ambulances. Uniformed police officers were attempting to comfort the prone and wounded bodies. A helicopter surveyed the pandemonium from on high. The convoy had disappeared from view. Barclay was yelling something above the noise.

‘What?’ Elder yelled back.

‘I said we know who she’s—’

The ambulances were drawing to a squealing halt in front of them. Barclay put his hand out towards Dominique, palm upwards, only to find that she wasn’t there. She was ten feet away, tending to a woman’s cuts. He walked over, opened the flap of her shoulder-bag, and took something from it, then came back to Elder, handing him a folded page from
The Times.
Elder looked at it. A full-page advert for British Aerospace.

‘Other side,’ yelled Barclay. Elder turned the page over. The obituaries column. There were four, a couple of churchmen, head of an Oxford college, and ... Marion Barker, the Home Secretary’s wife.

Elder’s face creased into a huge frown. He looked at Barclay, who was nodding. Dominique, looking paler than ever, was coming back to join them. An ambulanceman had taken over from her. She watched as he worked on the woman. The woman caught Dominique’s eye and smiled at her, mouthing ‘thank you’.

‘You think her target’s the—’

‘The Home Secretary,’ said Barclay. He shrugged. ‘Unless you think it’s the Oxford don’s widow.’

A police sergeant was approaching, his arms stretched out like a barrier. ‘Clear the area, please. Please clear the area.’

‘Yes, sergeant, we’re just going,’ said Dominic Elder quietly, not really aware of what he was saying. Then his eyes came back into focus. ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Back to the Centre.’

They joined the evacuation of Victoria Street. More ambulances and fire engines were blocked in a traffic jam, the traffic having been halted to allow the motorcade sole access to Victoria Street in the first place. Sirens blared, blue lights circled, but the drivers in front complained that there was nothing they could do till the barriers were moved. One ambulance mounted the pavement, only to find itself firmly wedged between the vehicle in front and a concrete lamppost.

At the Conference Centre, a crowd of people stood on the steps, wondering what had happened. Elder pushed past them and into the foyer. He walked quickly to the reception desk. ‘The Home Secretary,’ he said, ‘I need to know ... did he go to Buckingham Palace with the rest of them?’

‘I’ll just check.’ The receptionist made an internal call. ‘Jan, what was Mr Barker doing this lunchtime?’ She listened. ‘Thank you,’ she said, cutting the connection. ‘He went home,’ she said. ‘Car collected him ten minutes ago.’

‘Thank you,’ said Elder. Barclay and Dominique were waiting just inside the door. ‘He’s gone home,’ Elder told them. ‘I know his address.’ He was outside again, the young couple following him. He started to descend the steps, looking about him. ‘What we need now is a car.’

Dominique continued past him and perused the line of cars parked outside the building. ‘How about this one?’ she said. It was a marked Metropolitan Police Rover 2000. ‘It’s even got the keys in.’ She was already opening the driver’s door. ‘You can direct me, come on.’

Elder got into the back, Barclay into the passenger seat. Dominique had started the ignition, but was now looking at the controls around her.

‘What’s the problem?’ said Barclay.

‘My first time in a right-hand-drive car.’ She pulled the big car out of its parking space. ‘See if you can find the siren, Michael.’ After a few false attempts, he did so. People looked at them as they pulled out into the main road. ‘Which way?’ she called back to Elder.

‘Keep going along here,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when to turn.’

Dominique nodded, shifted up a gear, then thought better of it, shifted down again, and slammed her foot on the accelerator. Barclay was thrown against the back of his seat. He looked around, but Elder didn’t seem at all fazed. He was yelling into his walkie-talkie.

‘John? John?
_’

‘Dominic, where are you? I can hardly—’ The signal broke up.

‘I’m heading towards Jonathan Barker’s home. We think he’s Witch’s target. Over.’

He listened to a lot of crackle and static. Then: ‘Sorry, Dom ... signal’s break ... didn’t catch a ... please rep—’

‘We’re out of range,’ said Barclay.

‘Yes,’ said Elder, throwing the walkie-talkie on to the seat beside him. It bounced off the seat and on to the floor, where it erupted into static before dying. Elder looked out of the window. ‘Right here!’ Dominique slammed on the brakes and sent the car whipping around the corner. Barclay was desperately trying to fasten his seatbelt.

‘You don’t trust me, Michael?’ she called. ‘I am a Parisian driver.
C’est facile!‘

Elder reached between them for the police radio.

Jonathan Barker, Home Secretary, had a town house in Belgravia’s Holbein Place. It was one of his three UK residences, the others being a converted vicarage in Dorset and an old hunting-lodge on Speyside. His address in London wasn’t quite public knowledge, but neither was he a low-key minister - he’d given several early-morning doorstep interviews to the media during his short time in office. The parking space in front of the house was kept free, courtesy of two bright red traffic-cones which sat in the road whenever Barker’s chauffeured car was elsewhere. It was an arrangement which worked, mostly. The most frequent transgressors were workmen and tourists, who would shift the cones on to the pavement so as to have room to park their vans or BMWs.

Today, it was an Alfa Romeo.

The chauffeur swore under his breath and stopped the minister’s car in the road, a little way behind the Alfa, giving the driver room to move it. Always supposing the driver was anywhere around. The chauffeur sounded the car-horn, just in case the driver was in one of the houses near the minister’s.

The minister’s bodyguard spotted something from his passenger seat. ‘There’s somebody still in the car,’ he said. And so there was, a woman. She appeared to be consulting a map. The driver sounded his horn again.

‘Come on, you dozy bint.’

‘She must be deaf.’

‘Come on.’

Throughout this exchange, Jonathan Barker sat in the back of the car with his private secretary. They were discussing an afternoon meeting, with the aid of an agenda on which the minister was scratching with a slim gold fountain-pen. Suddenly, the minister seemed to realise it was lunchtime. He handed the agenda to his private secretary and slipped the pen into his breast pocket.

‘Sort it out, will you?’ he said to the men in the front of the car. ‘I’m going inside.’

And with that, he got out of his car. So did the private secretary. And so, with a muttered, ‘I’ll sort it out all right,’ did the bodyguard.

And so did the woman. The chauffeur couldn’t believe it. He rested his hand on the horn again and called out: ‘Come on, darling, you can’t park there!’ But she appeared not to have heard him. The bodyguard was just behind her as she bent down, looking as though she was locking her car door. The minister and his private secretary were mounting the pavement behind the Alfa Romeo.