Witch Hunt by Ian Rankin Page A

‘If there’s a case to investigate, John, I want you and Doyle to work on it together. Understand? Together. Do you think you can manage that?’
    ‘Of course, sir.’
    Trilling continued to look at him. ‘Good,’ he said, before turning his attention to the report.
     
    Dominic Elder was a large man, larger than Barclay had expected. That surname, Elder, had put him on the wrong track. He’d expected a hunched, defeated figure, the sort who had been elders at his mother’s Presbyterian church. But Dominic Elder was large and fit and strong. He’d be about fifty, a year or two older than Joyce Parry. His face had been handsome once, but time had done things to it. He looked out of place in the garden of the pretty cottage, on his knees and planting out seedlings in a well-kept vegetable-bed.
    ‘Mr Elder?’ Barclay had driven slowly down the lane, and had parked right outside the gate before ejecting Il Trovatore from the cassette player. But, even as he pushed open the gate, the man in the garden seemed not to acknowledge his presence.
    ‘Mr Elder?’ Barclay repeated. ‘Dominic Elder?’
    ‘That’s me, Mr Barclay,’ the figure said, rising stiffly to its feet and brushing soil from its hands. ‘Who did you expect to find?’
    ‘There’s no number or name on the gate,’ Barclay explained. ‘I wasn’t sure I had the right house.’
    Elder looked around him slowly. ‘You may not have noticed,’ he said in his quiet, deep voice, ‘but this is the only house there is.’ He said it slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child. His eyes fixed on Barclay’s as he spoke. He was massaging his back with the knuckles of one hand. ‘I suppose you were recruited straight from university, yes?’
    Barclay made a non-committal gesture. He wasn’t sure where this was leading. He’d had a long drive, and an exasperating one. Roadworks, wrong turnings, and trouble with the car’s third gear. It kept slipping back into neutral. On top of which it was twenty-eight degrees, and he needed a drink.
    ‘Yes,’ Elder was saying, ‘straight from university. What did you study?’
    ‘Electronics.’
    “‘Oh, brave new world.”’ Elder chuckled. ‘So they put you into surveillance first, did they?’
    ‘Yes, but—’
    ‘But it was routine and boring. You wanted out.’
    Barclay shuffled his feet. Maybe Elder was astute, but then again maybe he’d learned all this from Joyce Parry. Barclay wasn’t impressed by tricks.
    ‘And eventually you got your transfer.’ Elder checked the dirt beneath his gardener’s fingernails. ‘What school did you go to?’
    ‘I really don’t see what ...’ Barclay sighed. Losing his patience wouldn’t do any good. Besides, this man was an old friend of Mrs Parry’s. It might pay to humour him. ‘It was a comprehensive,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose that’s what you want to know.’
    ‘Scottish?’
    ‘I was born there.’
    ‘But you moved away when you were young. The name’s right, but there’s not much of an accent left. Father in the armed forces?’
    ‘RAF.’
    Elder nodded. He checked his fingernails again, then stretched a hand out towards Barclay. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Barclay.’
    Barclay thought about refusing the handshake, but eventually gave in. Elder’s grip was a lot firmer than he’d expected. He did his best to squeeze back.
    ‘A rough journey, eh?’ Elder commented. ‘I was expecting you three-quarters of an hour ago, allowing for one stop at motorway services.’
    ‘Roadworks,’ Barclay explained. ‘And my gearbox is playing up.’
    ‘Been to Wales before?’ Elder was walking back towards the cottage. Barclay followed him.
    ‘Only to Llandudno.’
    ‘Strange choice.’
    ‘It was a day trip. We were on holiday in Southport.’
    ‘Strange choice. This was when you were younger?’
    ‘Eleven or twelve, yes. Why do you say “strange”?’
    ‘Most families with children would choose Blackpool or Morecambe. I’ve always