Witch Hunt

  Witch Hunt

  IAN RANKIN

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  Praise for Ian Rankin

  ‘Rankin’s ability to create a credible character, delivering convincing dialogue to complement sinister and hard-hitting plots set against vividly detailed atmosphere, is simply awesome’ Time Out

  ‘Rankin writes laconic, sophisticated, well-paced thrillers’ The Scotsman

  ‘Ian Rankin bridges the gulf between the straight novel and the mystery with enviable ease’ Allan Massie

  ‘First-rate crime fiction with a fierce realism’ Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Rankin uses his laconic prose as a literary paint stripper, scouring away pretensions to reveal the unwholesome reality beneath’ Independent

  ‘His fiction buzzes with energy ... Essentially, he is a romantic storyteller in the tradition of Robert Louis Stevenson ... His prose is as vivid and terse as the next man’s, yet its flexibility and rhythm give it a potential for lyrical expression which is distinctively Rankin’s own’ Scotland on Sunday

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Inspector Rebus Series

  Knots & Crosses

  Hide & Seek

  Tooth & Nail (previously published as Wolfman)

  A Good Hanging and Other Stories

  Strip Jack

  The Black Book

  Mortal Causes

  Let It Bleed

  Black & Blue

  The Hanging Garden

  Dead Souls

  Set in Darkness

  Other Novels

  The Flood

  Watchman

  Westwind

  Writing as Jack Harvey

  Witch Hunt

  Bleeding Hearts

  Blood Hunt

  Born in the Kingdom of Fife in 1960, Ian Rankin graduated from the University of Edinburgh and has since been employed as grape-picker, swineherd, taxman, alcohol researcher, hi-fi journalist and punk musician. His first Rebus novel, Knots &Crosses, was published in 1987 and the Rebus books have now been translated into over a dozen languages and are increasingly popular in the USA. Ian Rankin has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and is a past winner of the prestigious Chandler-Fulbright Award, as well as two CWA short-story ‘Daggers’ and the 1997 CWA Macallan Gold Dagger for Fiction for Black & Blue, which was also shortlisted for the Mystery Writers of America ‘Edgar’ award for best novel. Both Black & Blue and The Hanging Garden have been televised on ITV, starring John Hannah as Inspector Rebus. Dead Souls, the eleventh novel in the series, was shortlisted for the CWA Gold Digger Award in 1999. An Alumnus of the Year at Edinburgh University, he has also been awarded two honorary doctorates, one from the University of Abertay Dundee in 1999, and another, more recently, from the University of St Andrews. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and two sons.

  An Orion paperback

  First published in Great Britain in 1993

  by Headline

  This paperback edition published in 2000

  by Orion Books Ltd,

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  Reissued 2006

  11

  Copyright © John Rebus Limited 1993

  The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

  permission of the copyright owner.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 4091 1082 8

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that

  are natural, renewable and recyclable products and

  made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging

  and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to

  the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  For Peter Robinson

  ‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male’

  —Rudyard Kipling, The Female of the Species

  ‘If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some think even greater’ —Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

  ‘A woman’s desire for revenge outlasts all her other emotions’

  —Cyril Connolly

  Arrival

  Monday 1 June

  It was a pleasure boat. At least, that’s how owner and skipper George Crane would have described it. It had been bought for pleasure back in the late-1980s when business was thriving, money both plentiful and cheap. He’d bought it to indulge himself. His wife had nagged about the waste of money, but then she suffered from chronic sea-sickness and wouldn’t set foot on it. She wouldn’t set foot on it, but there were plenty of women who would. Plenty of women for George Crane and his friends. There was Liza, for example, who liked to stand on deck clad only in her bikini bottom, waving at passing vessels. God, Liza, Siren of the South Coast. Where was she now? And all the others: Gail, Tracy, Debbie, Francesca ... He smiled at the memories: of routes to France, Portugal, Spain; of trips taken around the treacherous British Isles. Trips taken with women aboard, or with women picked up en route. Wine and good food and perhaps a few lines of coke at the end of the evening. Good days, good memories. Memories of the pleasure boat Cassandra Christa.

  But no pleasure tonight, the boat gliding across a calm British Channel. This was a business trip, the client below decks. Crane hadn’t caught much more than a glimpse of her as she’d clambered aboard with her rucksack. Brian had gone to help her, but she hadn’t needed any. She was tall, he was certain of that. Dark maybe, as in dark-haired, not dark-skinned. European? He couldn’t say. Brian hadn’t been able to add much either.

  ‘Just asked if she could go below. Better down there than up here getting in the way.’

  ‘She said that?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘All she said was “I’m going below”. Not even a question, more like an order.’

  ‘Did she sound English?’

  Brian shrugged. He was a good and honest soul, unburdened by intellect. Still, he would keep his mouth shut about tonight’s work. And he came cheap, since he was already one of George Crane’s employees, one of that dwindling band. The business had overextended itself, that was the problem. Too big a loan to push the business into new areas, areas drying up just as George Crane arrived. More loans to cover the earlier loan ... It was bad luck. Still, the business would weather it.

  Cassandra Christa, however, might not. He’d put word out that she was for sale, and an ad had been placed in a couple of newspapers: one quality Sunday, one daily. There had been just the one phone call so far but it was early days, besides which maybe he wouldn’t have to sell after all. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes short of three in the morning. Crane stifled a yawn.

  ‘Want me to check the cargo?’ Brian asked. Crane smiled.

  ‘You stay where you are, you randy little sod. The cargo can look after itself.’

  Crane had been told - had been ordered— not to be interested, not to be nosy. No chit-chat, no questions. It was just a delivery, that was all. He didn’t know quite what he’d expected. Some chisel-chinned IRA bastard or
ex-pat felon. He certainly hadn’t expected a young woman. Young? Well, she moved like a young woman. He had to admit he was intrigued, despite the warning. The worst part would be coming up soon: the landing on the coast. But she spoke English, so that shouldn’t pose any problem even if they were stopped. A midnight cruise, take the boat out, breathe in the ozone, that sort of thing. A nod and a wink to Customs or whoever. They understood these things. The pleasure of making love on the deck of a boat, sky above, water all around. He shivered slightly. It had been a long time. The good days seemed an awful long time ago. But maybe they’d return. A few more runs like this wouldn’t go amiss. Money for old rope. And to think he’d worried about it for weeks. Shame really that he was selling the boat. But if he did a good job, a smooth job of work, they might employ his talents again. Another job or two would save the Cassandra Christa. Another couple of jobs like this one and he’d be home and dry.

  ‘Shoreline, Skip.’

  ‘I told you I don’t like “Skip”. Skipper’s okay.’

  ‘Sorry, Skipper.’

  Crane nodded. Brian’s attributes included sharp night vision. Yes, there it was now. The coastline. Hythe and Sandgate probably. Folkestone just a little to the east, their destination. Folkestone was the drop-off, the danger point. Then they’d turn the boat back towards Sandgate where it had its mooring. More instructions: after depositing the cargo, head back out to sea before making for final mooring. Do not hug the coastline as this would make them more likely to be spotted.

  A silly order really, but he’d been told at the start: you either follow the orders to the letter or you don’t take the job.

  ‘I’ll take the job,’ he’d said. But the man had shaken his head.

  ‘Don’t make up your mind so quickly, Mr Grane.’ That was the way he’d said it - Grane. He had trouble with consonants. Danish? Something Scandinavian? Or Dutch maybe? ‘Take your time. You need to be sure for yourself. I’ll telephone you next week. Meantime, happy sailing.’

  Happy sailing? Well, plain sailing anyway. Crane didn’t expect trouble. There was no Customs activity to speak of round here these days. Cutbacks. The British coastline was like a net - full of holes through which you could push unseen anything you liked. Crane had been definite about that.

  ‘Not if it’s drugs. I won’t have anything to do with drugs.’

  The foreigner had shaken his head slowly. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just a body.’

  ‘A body?’

  ‘A live body, Mr Grane. Very much alive. Someone who wants to see England but finds themself stranded on the Continent without a passport.’

  ‘Ah.’ Crane had nodded at that. He had his ideas: missing peers, runaways, crooks from the Costa Del Sol who’d decided they’d pay anything for the pleasure of an afternoon in a British boozer. ‘What about a name then?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘No names, Mr Grane.’

  ‘So how will I know I’ve got the right person?’

  An indulgent smile. ‘How many people do you think will be in the middle of the English Channel at midnight, waiting to meet a boat?’

  Crane had laughed. ‘Not many, I suppose. Any night in particular?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. I must warn you now, you won’t get much notice, a few hours at most. So make sure you are home every evening. Make sure you remain available. And Mr Grane ... ?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Better think up a story to tell your wife.’

  His wife! Least of his problems, he’d assured the man. But the man had seemed to know quite a lot about his problems, hadn’t he? The way he’d approached Crane that early morning outside the office, telling him he might have some work for him. But he hadn’t wanted to discuss it in Crane’s office. They’d arranged to meet in a pub instead, that lunchtime.

  With nothing to lose, but suspecting some kind of trap, Crane had gone along. What he hadn’t told the man was that one of his own men, Mike McKillip, was in the bar too. First sign of trouble, Mike’s orders were to wade in. Mike liked a bit of a barney, and Crane had slipped him a twenty as drinking money.

  But there’d been no barney, no trap, just a muted conversation, mostly one way. A business proposition ... believe you own a boat ... financial difficulties ... would like to hire your services. That was the way he’d put it: ‘I would like to hire your services.’ Like George Crane was some tugboat skipper. But then the man had started to talk serious money. He offered £1,000 on acceptance of the contract - he’d called it that too, making it sound like ‘gontrag’—£2,000 on delivery, and a further and final £2,000 twelve weeks after delivery.

  ‘Three months? How do I know you won’t ... I mean, I’m not suggesting ... but all the same.’ Crane’s head spun with thoughts of money. He gulped a mouthful of whisky.

  Cue the smile. ‘You are a businessman, Mr Grane. Cautious, prudent, and suspicious. You are quite right. But the time-lag is so we can assure ourselves of your silence. If we don’t pay, you could go to the police with your story.’

  ‘Hardly! I’d be an accomplice.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you could tell your story. We would rather pay for your silence. Two thousand seems to me a small price to pay for the gift of silence.’

  George Crane still wasn’t sure about that. What story could he possibly tell? Still, he’d have done the job for three grand in any case, and three grand was what he’d have by the end of tonight’s little adventure. Three thousand beautiful pounds, a thousand of which had already been lodged in what he called his ‘Number Four Account’, one of several he’d managed to keep hidden from the Inland Revenue’s sniffer-dogs (the same sniffer-dogs he’d suspected of laying a trap for him in the first place). There was fifty quid to pay Brian, of course. It didn’t seem much, but anything higher and he might start to get suspicious. Fifty was just right for Brian: enough to buy his fidelity, but not enough to get him excited.

  There were lights along the coast, welcoming lights. He turned to Brian now. ‘Better tell her we’re home.’

  ‘I think she already knows.’

  And here she was, coming in a crouch through the small doorway and on to deck, pulling her rucksack behind her. She stood up straight, stretching her back. She was tall, five-ten or thereabouts. Tall and thin. Hard to tell much more through the waterproof she was wearing. She had a package with her which she held out to Crane. He accepted it.

  ‘Brian,’ he said, ‘take over here for a sec.’

  ‘Right, Skipper.’

  Crane made his way to the side of the boat, nearest to the land. There was enough light to see by. He didn’t want Brian to see how much money was involved. He tore open the package and flipped through the wad of notes. Fifties. Looked like about forty of them. Well, he wasn’t going to stand here counting them out like Shylock. He stuffed them into his inside jacket pocket, creating a comfortable bulge, and returned to the wheel. The woman was looking at him, so he nodded towards her. Only towards her, not at her. It was difficult to meet her eyes, difficult to hold their gaze. It wasn’t that she was beautiful or anything (though she might be in daylight). But she was ... intense. And almost scowling, like she was spoiling for a fight.

  ‘Round the coast a little way yet, Brian,’ Crane said. ‘Just outside the town, that’s the drop.’

  ‘How much longer?’ she asked. Yes, European, thought Crane. Probably British, but she looked as if she’d been away for a while.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said. He produced a hip flask from his pocket and unscrewed the top. ‘A drop of malt,’ he explained. ‘Care for a tot?’

  She shook her head, but as he drank deep she said: ‘Good health.’

  He exhaled noisily. ‘Thank you. And here’s to yours.’ Then he passed the depleted flask to Brian, who finished it off in a mouthful.

  ‘We’ve got a dinghy,’ Crane announced. It was good policy to look helpful if he wanted future contracts. ‘We can row you ashore.’

  ‘I’ll swim. Just get me close.’

  �
�The water’s freezing,’ Brian protested. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  But she was shaking her head.

  ‘And what about your bag?’

  ‘It’s waterproof, and so am I.’

  ‘It’ll sink like a—’

  She was taking off the waterproof, slipping out of her shoes, undoing her jeans. The two men watched. Underneath, she was wearing a one-piece black bathing costume.

  ‘I must get one of those for the wife,’ Crane muttered. She was stuffing her clothes into the rucksack. ‘I’ll change back when I reach shore.’

  Brian, staring at her long white legs, seemed to be picturing this. Truth be told, Crane was picturing it too. She might not be beautiful, but she had a body. Christ, she had a body.

  ‘Thanks for the thought,’ she said finally, with a slight twist of her lips. It was as if she’d been reading their minds.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ said Crane. ‘A pleasure.’

  They dropped her off and watched for a few moments as she struck for shore. She swam strongly, dragging the rucksack after her. They were no more than a hundred yards from land. It looked like she’d make it with ease. Then Crane remembered his orders.

  ‘Back out to sea with her, Brian. We’ll come around to Sandgate. Home before dawn with a bit of luck.’

  ‘She was something, wasn’t she, Skip?’ Brian was still gazing towards shore.