Witch Hunt Read Online Free

no matter. She was in conference perhaps. Or out of the office. (That was one thing: when Mrs Parry wasn’t at home, her office door stayed firmly locked.) Barclay might do a little work meantime, so he could present her with not only the original item but with his notes and additions. Yes, why not show willing?
     
    John Greenleaf had the feeling that somewhere in the world, every second of the day, someone was having a laugh at his expense. It stood to reason, didn’t it? He’d seen it happen with jokes. You made up a joke, told it to someone in a pub, and three months later while on holiday in Ecuador some native told the joke back to you. Because all it took was one person to tell two or three people, and for them to tell their friends. Like chain letters, or was it chain mail? All it took was that first person, that someone who might say: ‘I know a man called Greenleaf. Guess who he works for? Special Branch! Greenleaf of the Branch!’ Three months later they were laughing about it in Ecuador.
    Inspector John Greenleaf, ex-Met and now - but for how long? - working for Special Branch. So what? There were plenty of butchers called Lamb. It shouldn’t bother him. He knows Greenleaf is a nice name, women keep telling him so. But he can’t shift the memory of last weekend out of his mind. Doyle’s party. If you could call twenty men, two hundred pints of beer and a stripper, a ‘party’. Greenleaf had debated skipping it altogether, then had decided he’d only get a slagging from Doyle if he didn’t go. So along he went, along to a gym and boxing school in the East End. That was typical of Hardman Doyle who fancied himself with the fists. Raw animal smell to the place, and the beer piled high on a trestle table. No food: a curry house was booked for afterwards. There had been five or six of them in front of the table, and others spread out across the gym. Some were puffing on the parallel bars or half-vaulting the horse. Two took wild swings at punch-bags. And the five or six of them in front of the table ... They all muttered their greetings as he arrived, but he’d heard the words that preceded him:
    ‘... eenleaf of the Branch, geddit?’
    He got it. Nothing was said. Doyle, his smile that of a double glazing salesman, slapped him on the back and handed over a can of beer.
    ‘Glad you could make it, John. Party’s been a bit lacklustre without you.’ Doyle took another can from the table, shook it mightily, veins bulging above both eyes, then tapped the shoulder of some unsuspecting guest.
    ‘Here you go, Dave.’
    ‘Cheers, Doyle.’
    Doyle winked at Greenleaf and waited for Dave to unhook the ringpull ...
    And Greenleaf, Greenleaf of the Branch, he laughed as hard as any of them, and drank as much, and whistled at the stripper, and ate lime chutney with his madras ... And felt nothing. As he feels nothing now.
    New Scotland Yard ... Special Branch ... this is supposed to be Big Time for a copper. But Greenleaf has noticed something curious. He has noticed the truth of the saying, ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief.’ Some of his present colleagues don’t seem so different from the villains they pull in. As narrow-minded as terrorists, as devious as smugglers. Doyle was a good example, though effective at his job. He just didn’t mind cutting corners. Doyle refused to see the world in black and white, as a sharply defined Us and Them, while Greenleaf did. For him there were the good guys and then there was the enemy. The enemy was out there and was not to be suffered. If it was useful as an informant, then fine, use it. But don’t reward it afterwards. Don’t let it slink away. Lock it up.
    ‘John? ’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘My office.’
    Oh hell, now what? His last big job had been putting together a report on aspects of security at the forthcoming London summit. It had taken him a fortnight, working weekends and nights. He’d been proud of the finished result, but no one had commented on it - yet.