Witch Hunt by Ian Rankin

identified, let alone captured. The only time a bank camera caught them they were masked.’
    ‘You say two or three members?’
    ‘That’s all Christina Gibson saw. They kept her blindfolded most of the time, and at others they were dressed in balaclavas and sunglasses. But she was fairly sure there were two men, one taller than the other, and one woman, as tall as the men but slimmer.’
    Trilling nodded thoughtfully. ‘So what happened?’
    ‘Mr Gibson cooperated throughout with the police. It was an international effort by then, as far as these things go. Two Special Branch men were flown out to assist. Matt Duncan and lain Campbell. The kidnappers—’
    ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘Sorry, sir?’
    ‘The British contingent: did it include anyone else?’
    ‘Not on record, sir.’ Greenleaf frowned. This was the first question to have stumped him. But Trilling was smiling, nodding to himself.
    ‘That means nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Go on.’
    ‘Well, sir, the kidnappers wanted dollars, but we asked Mr Gibson to persuade them to take sterling. He told them dollars would take some time, while he had the sterling to hand. They agreed. So we put together thirty grand’s worth of notes. The intention was to catch them cold, but there was a shoot-out and they got away. The girl was released, but the money had flown with the gang.’
    ‘Clumsy.’
    ‘Agreed. The Italians reckoned they wounded one of the gang, but nothing came of it. And the money disappeared, despite a check by all clearing banks. The notes on Crane’s body are the first to have surfaced.’
    ‘Poor choice of word,’ commented Trilling. ‘Still, good work, John.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘Yes, very good work. So, what do we make of it?’
    ‘Well, it links Crane to a terrorist group, which indicates arms smuggling rather than drugs.’
    ‘All it links him to, John, is dirty money. You can buy dirty money for fivepence in the pound. It’s a cheap way of paying someone a large sum when you’re not bothered what happens to the person afterwards.’ Trilling thought for a moment. ‘You know, I’m not at all sure that we’ve been given a level playing field here.’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘It all smacks of the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Who did you say contacted us in the first place?’
    Christ, what was his name? Barrow ... Beardsley ... Barkworth ... ‘Barclay, sir.’
    ‘Barclay. Never heard of him. But he’s one of Joyce Parry’s. I wonder what Joyce is playing at? I think I’d better have a word with her.’
    He was about to pick up his receiver when there was a knock at the door. Greenleaf rubbed his stomach to stop it from rumbling. It was quarter to one, and so far today all he’d had was five cups of coffee.
    ‘Come in.’
    It was Trilling’s secretary. She was holding two sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘Mr Doyle’s report, sir.’
    ‘Thank you, Celia.’ Trilling held out his hand, took the report and laid it on his desk, on top of Greenleaf’s own report. Greenleaf stared at the closely typed top sheet. He was oblivious to Celia’s smile, or the closing of the door after she left. He kept hearing her words: Mr Doyle’s report ... Mr Doyle’s report. When Greenleaf looked up from the desk, he saw Commander Trilling studying him.
    ‘Efficient, isn’t he?’ Trilling mused.
    ‘Very, sir. But how ... ?’
    ‘Oh, quite simple really. Doyle requested a laptop computer. He’s taken it with him. Clever devices, they work on rechargeable batteries you know. Sizeable memory, too. I can never get on with the screens on them, but some people can.’
    ‘So Doyle’s writing his report as he goes?’
    ‘That’s it. Then he plugs the laptop into a modem, presses a few buttons, and his copy arrives at a computer here. All we have to do is run off a hard copy.’ He patted Doyle’s report, then lifted it up. ‘Now, let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’ But instead of reading, he looked at Greenleaf over the paper.