Bleeding Hearts

Michael Weston is paid well to do his work and ask no questions. When you're a professional assassin, total secrecy is part of the job. But after a successful mission in London, the police are immediately on his tail. How did they know how to find him? And who is his anonymous employer? Why did he or she want his target, a TV reporter, killed? Was he set up from the start?

The questions lead Weston to his nemesis Hoffer, a private detective who has been hunting him for years. Ever since Weston accidentally killed an innocent American girl, her grieving father has employed Hoffer on a relentless mission to bring Weston to justice. Could Hoffer finally have set a snare that worked?

Weston sets out to find his mysterious employer, traveling from London to Glasgow to Seattle-even if it means encountering Hoffer face-to-face at last.

Bleeding Hearts

IAN RANKIN

Orion

www.orionbooks.co.uk

Born in the Kingdom of Fife in 1960, Ian Rankin graduated from the University of Edinburgh and has since been employed as grape-picker, swineherd, taxman, alcohol researcher, hi-fi journalist and punk musician. His first Rebus novel,
Knots & Crosses,
was published in 1987 and the Rebus books have now been translated into 26 languages. Ian Rankin has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and is a past winner of the prestigious Chandler-Fulbright Award, as well as two CWA short-story ‘Daggers’ and the 1997 CWA Macallan Gold Dagger for Fiction for
Black & Blue,
which was also shortlisted for the Mystery Writers of America ‛Edgar’ award for Best Novel.
Black & Blue, The Hanging Garden, Dead Souls and Mortal Causes
have been televised on ITV, starring John Hannah as Inspector Rebus.
Dead Souls,
the tenth novel in the series, was shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger Award in 1999. An Alumnus of the Year at Edinburgh University, he has also been awarded four honorary doctorates, from the University of Abertay Dundee in 1999, from the University of St Andrews in 2001, in 2003 from the University of Edinburgh and in 2005 from the Open University. In 2002 Ian Rankin was awarded an OBE for services to literature. In 2004 Resurrection Men won the Edgar Award for Best Novel. In 2005 Fleshmarket Close won the Crime Thriller of the Year award at the British Book Awards. Ian is the winner of the Crime Writers’ Association Diamond Dagger 2005. In 2005 he was also awarded the Grand Prix du Littérature Policier (France), the Deutsche Krimi Prize (Germany) and the Icons of Scotland award. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and two sons. Visit his website at
www.ianrankin.net.

An Orion paperback

First published in Great Britain in 1994
by Headline
This paperback edition published in 2001
by Orion Books Ltd,
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,
London WC2H 9EA

An Hachette Livre UK company

Reissued 2006

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Copyright © John Rebus Limited 1994

The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 4091 0775 0

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that
are natural, renewable and recyclable products and
made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging
and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to
the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

www.orionbooks.co.uk

For Elliott and Fawn

Part One

1

She had just over three hours to live, and I was sipping grapefruit juice and tonic in the hotel bar.

‘You know what it’s like these days,’ I said, ‘only the toughest are making it. No room for bleeding hearts.’

My companion was a businessman himself. He too had survived the highs and lows of the 80s, and he nodded as vigorously as the whisky in him would allow.

‘Bleeding hearts,’ he said, ‘are for the operating table, not for business.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, though of course in my line of work bleeding hearts are the business.

Gerry had asked me a little while ago what I did for a living, and I’d told him export-import, then asked what he did. See, I slipped up once; I manufactured a career for myself only to find the guy I was drinking with was in the same line of work. Not good. These days I’m better, much cagier, and I don’t drink on the day of a hit. Not a drop. Not any more. Word was, I was slipping. Bullshit naturally, but sometimes rumours are difficult to throw off. It’s not as though I could put an ad in the newspapers. But I knew a few good clean hits would give the lie to this particular little slander.

Then again, today’s hit was no prize: it had been handed to me, a gift. I knew where she’d be and what she’d be doing. I didn’t just know what she looked like, I knew pretty well what she’d be wearing. I knew a whole lot about her. I wasn’t going to have to work for this one, but prospective future employers wouldn’t know that. All they’d see was the score sheet. Well, I’d take all the easy targets going.

‘So what do you buy and sell, Mark?’ Gerry asked.

I was Mark Wesley. I was English. Gerry was English too, but as international businessmen we spoke to one another in mid-Atlantic: the lingua franca of the deal. We were jealous of our American cousins, but would never admit it.

‘Whatever it takes, Gerry,’ I said.

‘I’m into that.’ Gerry toasted me with whisky. It was 3 pm local time. The whiskies were six quid a hit, not much more than my own soft drink. I’ve drunk in hotel bars all over the western world, and this one looked like all of them. Dimly lit even in daytime, the same bottles behind the polished bar, the same liveried barman pouring from them. I find the sameness comforting. I hate to go to a strange place, somewhere where you can’t find any focus, anything recognisable to grab on to. I hated Egypt: even the Coke signs were written in Arabic, and all the numerals were wrong, plus everyone was wearing the wrong clothes. I hate Third World countries; I won’t do hits there unless the money is particularly interesting. I like to be somewhere with clean hospitals and facilities, dry sheets on the bed, English-speaking smiles.

‘Well, Gerry,’ I said, ‘been nice talking to you.’

‘Same here, Mark.’ He opened his wallet and eased out a business card. ‘Here, just in case.’

I studied it. Gerald Flitch, Marketing Strategist. There was a company name, phone, fax and carphone number, and an address in Liverpool. I put the card in my pocket, then patted my jacket.

‘Sorry, I can’t swap. No cards on me just now.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘But the drinks are on me.’

‘Well, I don’t know — ’

‘My pleasure, Gerry.’ The barman handed me the bill, and I signed my name and room number. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘you never know when I might need a favour.’

Gerry nodded. ‘You need friends in business. A face you can trust.’

‘It’s true, Gerry, it’s all about trust in our game.’

Obviously, as you can see, I was in philosophical mood.

Back up in my room, I put out the Do Not Disturb sign, locked the door, and wedged a chair under the handle. The bed had already been made, the bathroom towels changed, but you couldn’t be too careful. A maid might look in anyway. There was never much of a pause between them knocking at your door and them unlocking it.

I took the suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe and laid it on the bed, then checked the little Sellotape seal I’d left on it. The seal was still intact. I broke it with my thumbnail and unlocked the suitcase. I lifted out some shirts and T-shirts until I came to the dark blue raincoat. This I lifted out and laid on the bed. I then pulled on my kid-leather driving-gloves before going any further. With these on, I unfolded the coat. Inside, wrapped in polythene, was my rifle.

It’s impossible to be too careful, and no matter how careful you are you leave traces. I try to keep up with advances in forensic science, and I know all of us leave traces wherever we are: fibres, hairs, a fingerprint, a smear of grease from a finger or arm. These days, they can match you from the DNA in a single hair. That’s why the rifle was wrapped in polythene: it left fewer traces than cloth.

The gun was beautiful. I’d cleaned it carefully in Max’s workshop, then checked it for identifiers and other distinguishing marks. Max does a good job of taking off serial numbers, but I always like to be sure. I’d spent some time with the rifle, getting to know it, its weight and its few foibles. I’d practised over several days, making sure I got rid of all the spent bullets and cartridge cases, just so the gun couldn’t be traced back to them. Every gun leaves particular and unique marks on a bullet. I didn’t believe that at first either, but apparently it’s true.

The ammo was a problem. I didn’t really want to tamper with it. Each cartridge case carries a head stamp, which identifies it. I’d tried filing off the head stamps from a few cartridges, and they didn’t seem to make any difference to the accuracy of my shooting. But on the day,
nothing
could go wrong. So I asked Max and he said the bullets could be traced back to a consignment which had accompanied the British Army units to Kuwait during the Gulf War. (I didn’t ask how Max had got hold of them; probably the same source as the rifle itself.) See, some snipers like to make their own ammo. That way they know they can trust it. But I’m not skilled that way, and I don’t think it matters anyway. Max sometimes made up ammo for me, but his eyes weren’t so great these days.

The ammo was .338 Lapua Magnum. It was full metal-jacket : military stuff usually is, since it fulfils the Geneva Convention’s requirements for the most ‘humane’ type of bullet.

Well, I’m no animal, I wasn’t about to contravene the Geneva Convention.

Max had actually been able to offer a choice of weapons. That’s why I use him. He asks few questions and has excellent facilities. That he lives in the middle of nowhere is a bonus, since I can practise all day without disturbing anyone. Then there’s his daughter Belinda, who would be bonus enough in herself. I always take her a present if I’ve been away somewhere. Not that I’d ... you know, not with Max about. He’s very protective of her, and she of him. They remind me of Beauty and the Beast. Bel’s got short fair hair, eyes slightly slanted like a cat’s, and a long straight nose. Her face looks like it’s been polished. Max on the other hand has been battling cancer for years. He’s lost about a quarter of his face, I suppose, and keeps his right side, from below the eye to just above the lips, covered with a white plastic prosthesis. Sometimes Bel calls him the Phantom of the Opera. He takes it from her. He wouldn’t take it from anyone else.

I think that’s why he’s always pleased to see me. It’s not just that I have cash on me and something I want, but he doesn’t see many people. Or rather, he doesn’t let many people see him. He spends all day in his workshop, cleaning, filing, and polishing his guns. And he spends a lot of his nights there, too.