And she drank her tea, though “tea” was not the most suitable description for the liquid in front of her. On the menu the drink was described as fresh-leaf tea. Well, it had been fresh once upon a time, she supposed, in some other country.
After her hectic morning — so many people who needed to be notified of Khan’s demise and of the manner of his dying — she’d found time in her office for a moment’s reflection... again, curiously enough, over a cup of tea. She’d reflected, then she’d made yet another call.
To Dominic Elder.
“Dominic, it’s Joyce.”
“Ah, Joyce, I was beginning to wonder... Can I assume something has happened?”
“A killing.”
“Someone important?”
“No.”
“Someone murdered to order?”
“Yes.”
“I thought that’s how it would be. She’s just earned the money she needs for her own future hit.”
“What makes you so sure it was Witch?”
“You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.”
She’d smiled at that. So simple. “Of course,” she’d said. “Well, it was a woman. We don’t have a description.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” he said calmly.
“No.”
“So what now?”
“Special Branch is checking —”
“Yes, fine, but what now?” The voice not so calm anymore. “The police can check till Doomsday. They’ll find only as much as she wants them to.”
“You don’t think Witch’s job is finished?”
“Joyce, I don’t think it’s even begun...”
The door of the buffet opened, interrupting her reverie. He was carrying a suitcase, which he placed on the floor beside her booth before sliding onto the seat opposite her.
“Hello, Joyce. I was expecting more of a welcome.”
“Your train’s early. I was going to wait for you on the platform.”
He smiled. “I was being ironic.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her hands. They lay palms down on the tabletop, either side of her cup. Then she slid one of them across the table towards him and lightly touched his fingers. “It’s nice to see you again, Dominic.”
“Nice to be here. How’s the tea?”
She laughed. “Terrible.”
“Thought as much. What about a drink?”
“A drink?”
“It’s what people do in pubs.”
“A drink.” She thought for a moment. “Yes, all right.”
“You can even treat me to dinner if you like.”
She almost winced. “Sorry, Dominic, previous engagement.”
“Oh.”
“Official business. I can’t worm out of it this late.”
“No problem. I shall dine alone in the teeming city. Is Delpuy’s still open?”
“Delpuy’s? God, I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t been there in — well, since well, not for ages.”
“I’ll give it a try. Did you find me a room?”
“Yes. Quite central, quite reasonable. I can drop you off if you like.”
“Is there time for that drink?”
“Just about.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” He slid back out of the booth. She pushed the tea aside and stood up, too. For a moment they were inches apart, facing one another. He leaned towards her and pecked her on the cheek before picking up his case. “After you,” he said.
Making to unlock her car-boot, she dropped her keys and had to bend to pick them up. Elder was asking her a question, but she didn’t catch it.
“Sorry?” she said.
“I said, who’s my contact at Special Branch?”
“Contacts. There are two of them, Doyle and... Greenleaf, I think the other one’s called.” She thought again of the tea, fresh-leaf. A bit like green-leaf... She unlocked the boot and opened it. Elder heaved in his case.
“I’ve heard of Doyle. He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know. They both work for Trilling.” She slammed shut the boot.
“Bill Trilling? Jesus, is he still around?”
“Very much so. I should warn you, he’s not very pleased with us just at the minute. I’ll tell you about it en route.” She unlocked the car and eased herself into the driver’s seat, fumbling in her bag for her glasses. As they fastened their seat belts, their hands touched. She started as though from a static shock. She couldn’t help it. She’d thought she could handle this with her usual... well, whatever it was. But it was turning stupid. Meantime, Elder had asked another question.
“Sorry?” she said.
“Trouble with your ears, Joyce? That’s twice I’ve had to repeat myself. I said, how’s young Barclay getting on?”
“I don’t know. Okay, I suppose.” She started the car. The sooner she’d delivered him to his hotel room, the better.
Better for all concerned.
“You sent him, didn’t you?” He framed it as a question, but really it was a statement.
“Yes,” she said, reversing the car out of its parking space. “I sent him.”
“Good.”
“Let’s get one thing straight from the start, Dominic. You’re here in a consultative capacity. I don’t want you going rogue, and I don’t want you...”
“Manipulating others to serve my needs? Dumping them afterwards?” He was quoting from memory; she’d given him this speech before. “You’re prejudging me, Joyce.”
“On past experience.” She felt more confident now, more like herself. She knew that given free rein, Dominic would have the whole department looking for ghosts. He’d tried it before. “Why the interest in Barclay?”
“Am I interested?”
“You wanted him sent to France. That smacks of the old Dominic Elder.”
“Maybe he reminds me of someone.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure. Tell me about our friend Khan.”
Elder listened as she spoke, his eyes on the world outside the car. A tedious evening might lie ahead, and he had grown to loathe London, yet he felt quite calm, quite satisfied for the moment. He rubbed against the back of the seat. When Joyce had finished talking, he was thoughtful for a moment.
“The model interests me,” he said.
“How so?”
“Witch must have had inside information. She knew where Khan was going to be, and she seems to have known he’d have company. It can’t have been the bodyguard, she damned near killed him. We should be asking questions about the model.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Just the obvious question really.”
“And what’s that?”
He turned to her. “Where exactly did they find Khan’s tongue?”
Calais was grim. Bloody French. They waited, seemingly with infinite patience, while he tried in his stumbling French to ask his questions, then it turned out half of them spoke English anyway. They would stare at him and explain slowly and carefully that an English policeman had already asked them these questions before. One of them had even had the gall to ask, at the end of a particularly fraught session, if Barclay wasn’t going to ask him about the financial affairs of the sunken boat’s skipper.
“The other policeman,” explained the Frenchman, “he thought this was a very important question to ask.”
“Yes,” said Barclay through gritted teeth, “I was just getting around to it.”
“Ah,” said the Frenchman, sitting back, hands resting easily on thighs. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind: this young man was a tyro, sent here for some mysterious reason but certainly not to gain any new information. There was no new information. Monsieur Doyle, the boisterous drinks-buying Englishman, had covered the ground before. Barclay didn’t feel like a tyro. He felt like a retreaded tire — all the miles had been covered before he’d appeared on the scene. He was driving an old circuit, a loop. No one could understand why. Not even Barclay.