Witch Hunt by Ian Rankin Page B

vanished. It had been easy, and she’d been ravishing, and he’d felt the sweet, warm glow of success.
    He knew she worked as a model. Well, he knew she said she worked as a model. He’d once picked her up outside a prestigious model agency off Oxford Street, but then when his car had arrived she’d already been waiting on the pavement, hadn’t she? How was he to know that she’d ever actually been inside the building? What really did he know about her? Precious little, it suddenly seemed to him. He’d liked that in the past, had preferred it. Keeping things casual, no hint of a more meaningful, a more lasting relationship. But now ... Suddenly he wanted to know more about her. What was her last name? Kazowski? Kaprinski? Something East European. She told him she’d changed it to Capri for modelling purposes. Shari Capri or Sherri Capri. Stupid name. Stupid names.
    And another thing, wasn’t she overfriendly towards Henrik? With her ‘Thank you, Henrik’ whenever she stepped into or out of the car. Her smiles to him. The way she lightly touched his arm if she wanted to ask him something. Checking that she was in the bath, Khan strode quickly to his study, unlocked the door (he was never so foolish, so trusting as to leave it unlocked, but then locks were easy to pick, weren’t they?), and made for his desk. He glanced at it, looking for signs that things had been moved, pages turned over. Nothing. He checked his computer for a certain phone number, then picked up the telephone and dialled London. An 081 number, Outer London. There was a young firm used by the bank sometimes. They were dynamic, and they got results. Nobody wanted to know how they got results, but they got them. There was no one in the office, but as he’d expected a recording gave him another phone number where he could reach one of the partners. He entered this number onto his computer for future reference, then dialled it. The call was answered almost immediately.
    ‘Hello, is that Mr Allison? It’s Khan here. I’m calling from Scotland. There’s a job I’d like done. Private, not on the bank’s account. I want you to check on a Miss Sherri S-h-e-r-r-i or Shari S-h-a-r-i Capri C-a-p-r-i. I’ll give you her home address and where she says she works. I want anything on her you can find. Oh, and Mr Allison, she’s up here with me, so there should be no problems. I mean, you won’t bump into her should you happen to ... well, you know what I mean. Her home address? Yes, of course ...’
    Afterwards, he felt a little relieved. Allison was extremely capable, ex-CID. And his partner Crichton had a pedigree which took in both the Parachute Regiment and the SAS. Yes, a trouble shared was a trouble halved. Khan felt better. So much so that he was able to put his troubles out of his mind for quarter of an hour, time spent in the bathroom with a wet and so very slippery Shari or Sherri Capri ...
     
    On their last evening, they dined in. There was a local chef who, on days off, could occasionally be persuaded to cook for Khan and his guests.
    Usually, Khan reserved this treat for larger dinner parties. But on Sunday morning news came through of a spectacular deal which had been concluded by the South-East Asia personnel during their whistlestop tour of the British Isles. A great deal of money would be travelling from the UK to the bank’s South-East Asia office, and it would travel via the London office where a certain amount, as always, would be held back in the name of handling fees. A sum slightly in excess of one million sterling.
    It was a job well done, and Khan, who had played no part in it, felt a little of its success rub off on him. A quick call to the chef, Gordon Sinclair, had secured his services, and when all was said and done it was practically as cheap as eating out since this way Khan would drink champagne, wine and spirits from his own well-stocked cellar. And at the end of the evening it was always pleasant to share a malt with