Witch Hunt Read Online Free PDF Page A

They hung around her neck by a string, and she let them dangle against her chest. From time to time, they grazed the triple-string of Ciro pearls resting just below her throat. Her throat, thought Barclay, was the oldest part of her, permanently lined and stretched. Her good legs, face and hair might say early-40s, but the neck gave the lie to this. Late-40s, the neck said to Barclay.
    ‘Sit down,’ Joyce Parry’s mouth told him.
    Barclay had always believed that he was attractive to women. To women and to men actually. He had used his good looks and steady unblinking gaze to good effect both socially and professionally. He felt that he’d always got on well with Joyce Parry, being at his charming best in her office and at meetings where she was present. So much so in fact that someone had sent him an anonymous Valentine addressed: ‘To a creeping, slimy, boss-loving toad’. The card was pinned above his desk, its sender still a mystery.
    Barclay didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind envy in the workplace. He didn’t mind that others thought he was getting on well with the boss. He’d always imagined that there was something special between Mrs Parry and him. He might almost have called it a ‘special relationship’.
    And now this.
    ‘I really wish you’d shown me this earlier, Michael.’ She used his first name softly, the sentence fading away, to show that she was disappointed in him. As he sat in front of her, his legs felt overlong and clumsy. He rested his hands on his knees, hiding them.
    ‘I did try, but you were—’
    ‘You should have tried later. Any news from Commander Trilling?’
    ‘Just that he has two men working on it. One of them’s off to France, the other to Folkestone.’
    ‘A bit too early for Special Branch,’ she said. ‘You should have done some digging of your own first. You should have spoken to me first.’ Now the endings of her sentences were like stabs at him. ‘You jumped the gun.’ She nodded slowly towards him, letting this sink in, then wheeled her chair to the corner of her desk where it met with another in an L-shape. Her main desk was all paperwork, but on the side desk stood a computer, the screen angled just enough so that no one sitting where Barclay was could see it. This large desk also hosted printer and modem, while in a far corner of the room sat a fax machine and document shredder. There were three telephones on the main desk. One of them rang just as she was accessing the computer. She pushed her chair back into place and, instead of lifting the receiver, hit one of the buttons.
    ‘Mrs Parry here,’ she said, swivelling back to her computer screen.
    A small female voice came from the telephone’s loudspeaker. ‘I checked the computer files—’
    ‘I told you not to bother, didn’t I?’
    ‘Yes, but I—’
    ‘Mr Elder belongs to the pre-microchip days. He believed in paper files.’
    Sensible man, thought Barclay. Elder ... the name was familiar. The voice was speaking again.
    ‘Yes, well, I’ve got those files too.’
    ‘Good,’ said Joyce Parry. ‘All I need to know is ... no, on second thoughts, bring them in here.’
    Once more she wheeled back, this time to cut the connection. Then forwards again, her fingers fast on the keyboard. Barclay knew that his superior had computer clearance far above his own. He knew too that he could beat the computer system, given time and the will. If he wanted to, he could access anything. If he wanted to.
    ‘Ah, here we are,’ said Joyce Parry. He studied her profile. Classically English, whatever that meant. The way she raised her chin as she read from the screen. A long straightish nose, thin lips, short well-kept hair, showing just a little grey. Grey eyes too. She was one of those women who grow better looking as they get older. She pressed a few more keys, checked that the printer was on, then pressed two more keys. The laser printer began its quick quiet work. She swivelled back to the main desk and