Bleeding Hearts (16 page)

I knew Scotty from Max’s description. I knew him, too, because he was in a few photos by himself. He was dressed in civvies, and photographed at ease. These photos were taken by the sea, and on some parkland. Probably they’d been taken by a girlfriend. Scotty flexed his muscles for her, posing at his best. Bel took one look at him.

‘Ugh,’ she said.

He didn’t look that bad. He had a long drooping moustache which Max hadn’t mentioned, so had probably been shorn off. He was square-jawed and wavy-haired, his shape not quite squat, but definitely not tall enough for his girth. I stuck one of the photos in my pocket — it showed Shattuck with some girlfriend — and put the rest back in the drawer.

‘Anything else?’ I asked Bel, who’d been roaming.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

There was a squeal of braking tyres outside. No uncommon sound in London, but I went to the window and peered out anyway. A car had stopped outside the house. It was an old Jaguar with a purple paint job. The driver was still wearing his white work-out vest. He probably had his towel with him too. There was somebody else in the passenger seat, and Chuck was fuming in the back.

‘Time to go,’ I told Bel. She didn’t hang around. I’d seen a back door on the ground floor, and just hoped we’d have time to make it that far. I took out the MP5 as we descended, but held it beneath my coat. Either Chuck and his men were so incensed at the way they’d been treated that their pride had compelled them to follow us or else they were making a rational move. If the latter, then they had to be tooled up. If the former, I’d be in for a beating anyway.

And I’d always tried to avoid contact sports.

We were in luck. They were sitting it out in the car, waiting for us to emerge. The back door was locked by means of a bolt top and bottom, easily undone. I pulled the door open and we found ourselves in a garden so overgrown it hardly justified the term. We waded through it to the side fence and clambered over into the rear car park of the hotel. The MP5 jabbed my gut as I climbed the fence. I double-checked that its safety was still on.

From the car park, we climbed over a low brick wall on to a piece of waste ground. Past this, we found ourselves emerging from behind a public toilet on to a completely different road, busy with traffic and pedestrians. A bus had pulled up at its stop, so we jumped aboard. We didn’t know where it was going, and the driver who was waiting to be paid didn’t seem about to tell us, so I reached into my pocket for some coins.

‘Two to the end of the line,’ I told him.

Then we climbed to the top deck and took the empty back seat. A purple Jag would be easy to spot if it tried following us, but it didn’t.

‘I wonder how long they’ll sit there?’ Bel asked.

I told her I couldn’t care less.

We ended up taking a train back over the Thames, and a taxi from the station to our hotel. The receptionist had a message for me, two telephone numbers and their corresponding addresses. As I’d already seen, Scotty Shattuck didn’t possess a phone. But now I had addresses and numbers for the Ricks’s household and Joe Draper’s Barbican flat.

While Bel took a shower, I started phoning. It was probably late enough in the police inquiry for me to be asking follow-up questions. All I needed was gumption and one hell of a lot of luck. Chuck wouldn’t go to the police, he wasn’t the type. But I knew things were going to get increasingly dangerous the closer we got to the real police inquiry, which was why I didn’t give myself time to think. If I’d thought about it, I might not have made the calls.

As it was, I stumbled at the first fence. My call to the Ricks’s Camden home was intercepted by the operator, who told me all calls were being rerouted. Before I had time to argue, I was back to the ringing tone, and my call was answered by a secretary.

‘Crispin, Darnforth, Jessup,’ she said, as though this explained everything.

‘I’ve just been rerouted by the operator,’ I said. ‘I was trying to get through to — ’

‘One moment, please.’ She cut the connection and put me through to another secretary.

‘Mr Johns’s office, how can I help you, sir?’

‘I was trying to reach Mr Frederick Ricks.’

‘Yes, all calls to Mr Ricks are now being dealt with by this office. You understand that his wife was killed recently.’ She gave the news with relish. ‘And Mr Johns, as the family’s solicitor, has taken on the task of dealing with all enquiries.’

‘I see. Well, this is Detective Inspector West, I’ve just been brought into the inquiry and I wanted a few words with Mr Ricks.’

‘Mr Ricks and his son have gone away for a few days. Someone on the inquiry should be able to give you the details you need.’

She was boxing me into a corner. I could either throw in the towel or box myself out again.

‘Would it be possible to speak to Mr Johns?’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’

‘I meant just now.’

She ignored this. ‘Three-thirty this afternoon, all right?’ Then she gave me the address.

I put down the phone and thought, not for the first time, of leaving London, leaving the whole mess behind. It was madness to keep on with this. But then what was the alternative? If I didn’t find out why I’d been set up and who was behind it, how could I take another job? I went down to Bel’s room and she let me in. She was dressed, but wearing a towel wrapped turban-style around her head.

‘So what are we up to this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘Doing our police act for Eleanor Ricks’s solicitor.’

She took off the towel and let it fall to the floor. Already she’d become a seasoned hotel guest. Next she’d be requesting more shampoo and teabags.

‘I’m enjoying this,’ she said. I looked surprised. ‘Really, I am. It beats staring at sheep and dry-stone dykes all day.’

‘I thought you watched daytime TV.’

‘It beats that, too.’ She sat down on the bed and, taking my hand, guided me to sit beside her. She didn’t let go of my hand.

‘Have you phoned Max lately?’ I asked.

‘That’s a low punch.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s the only punch I’ve got.’

‘Good.’ She leaned towards me and touched her lips to mine. I was slow responding, so she opened her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

I pulled away from her, but slowly and not too far. ‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. It’s all dead ends.’

‘No, Michael,’ she said, ‘not quite all dead ends.’ Our next kiss lasted a lot longer. By the end of it, her hair was all but dry, and this time she pulled away first.

‘Can I just say one thing, Michael?’

‘What?’

‘In that gymnasium ...’

‘Yes?’

‘You were holding the MP5 all wrong.’

‘I was?’ She nodded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve actually fired an MP5?’

She looked surprised at the question. ‘Of course I have. I get to fire most of my dad’s guns eventually. Want me to give you some tips?’

I blinked. ‘I’m not sure.’

She laughed at the look on my face. ‘You thought you were getting Little Red Riding-Hood, is that it?’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t think I was getting the wolf.’

This time when we kissed, we used our hands to unbutton one another’s clothes ...

11

‘You weren’t entirely truthful, were you, Mr Hoffer?’

The speaker was DI Dave Edmond. He was in the same pub he’d been in before with Hoffer. And as before, Hoffer was buying him a drink.

‘A couple of large Scotches, please.’ Hoffer turned to the policeman. ‘How do you mean?’

‘You didn’t tell me you’d had a blow-up with my boss. He’s not very pleased with you, Mr Hoffer.’

‘Did you tell him we’d had a drink?’ Edmond shook his head. ‘What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?’

‘It can hurt me, if he ever finds out.’

‘Why should he, Dave? Besides, you can look after yourself.’ Hoffer sniffed and scratched his nose. The drinks arrived and he proffered a twenty. ‘Keep five for yourself,’ he told the barman, ‘and keep these coming till the change runs out.’ He then handed a whisky to Edmond, who dribbled water into it.

‘Come on,’ said Hoffer, ‘let’s sit down.’

The just-the-one-after-work commuter drinkers had departed, so there were tables free. Hoffer liked Edmond less than he liked Bob Broome, but he smiled anyway. He needed a friend in the police investigation, and if Broome could no longer be bought, others like Edmond could. Broome would return to the fold. They’d fallen out before and then made things up. But meantime Edmond would suffice.

‘I like your style, Dave. You’re not showy. You’re the sort of guy who gets things done, who doesn’t make a song and dance number out of it.’ Hoffer lit a cigarette, then slid the pack towards the policeman.

‘Cops are cops,’ Edmond said.

‘God, that’s true.’

‘I hear you left the force.’

Hoffer opened his arms. ‘I failed the physical. I was fine once I’d caught the bad guys. I could sit on them till they ’fessed up. But I just couldn’t catch them.’Hoffer laughed and shook his head. No, it was the Walkins case. I got obsessed with it. So much so, my chiefs decided to move me to some other investigation. I couldn’t take that, so I resigned and set myself up as a private dick. Only, the only case I was interested in was the Walkins one.’

‘There was something about it in the papers.’

‘Hey, the media
loved
my story. They brought it flowers and chocolates. I’d given up a good career to make a life of hunting this mystery gunman. And the millionaire father of one of his victims was paying me. Are you kidding? It made great copy. Plus of course I was a fat ugly bastard, they loved that too. They like anything but
normal
in their photographs.’

Edmond laughed. Hoffer liked him even less.

‘They still love me,’ he went on. ‘And I don’t mind that. See, some people think I’m pandering to them, I mean to the press, and maybe they’re right. Or maybe I’m on some ego trip. All this may be true, but consider.’ He raised a finger. ‘The Demolition Man knows I’m out there. He knows I’m not going away. And I really get a kick out of that. Maybe he’s not worried, but then again maybe he is.’

‘You don’t think he’d take a pop at you?’

Hoffer shrugged. ‘I never think about it.’ He’d told this story many dozens of times, always leaving out just a few truths. Such as the fact that his employers had requested his resignation when they’d decided he was doing a bit too much obvious nose talc. It was Hoffer’s story that he’d resigned so he could follow up the Walkins story in his own way and his own time, but really he’d been given an ultimatum. Of course, once he’d explained to a reporter that he now had only one mission in life, then he’d had to do something about it, just to show willing. And then old man Walkins had come along and offered to pay him, and the story had expanded until he was trapped. Now he had his office and his employees and his reputation. He couldn’t just walk away from the D-Man, even if he wanted to.

And he often thought that he wanted to.

‘So how much do you make?’ Edmond asked, the way serving policemen always did, sooner or later.

‘Think of a number and double it,’ Hoffer said. Then he laughed. ‘No, I’m a businessman, an employer, I’ve got overheads, salaries to pay, taxes and shit. I don’t come out so far ahead.’

‘Walkins must be rich though.’

‘You kidding? He’s loaded.’

‘Is it right that his daughter was a mistake?’

Hoffer nodded. She was just about the only mistake the D-MAN had ever made. He had eleven, maybe twelve clean hits to his name, plus Ellen Walkins.

‘She was eighteen, standing in the doorway saying goodnight to some people after a dinner party. They were all government people, plus wives, family. She wasn’t the target. They reckon the target was a congressman with very strong views about certain foreign policies. Any number of dictators and crooked governments would have paid to have him shut up. But the step was icy and the fucker slipped. The bullet had been going straight through his heart, but it hit Ellen instead. The investigation got taken off our hands pretty fast. I mean, it was too big for just the police to handle. I couldn’t let them do that.’

‘Why not?’

The barman had appeared with two more whiskies, plus a bottle of water, giving Hoffer time to consider the question. It was one he’d asked himself a few times. Why couldn’t he just let it go?

‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘I just couldn’t.’ He sniffed again and shook himself up. ‘Jesus, you don’t want to hear all this.
You
should be the one doing the show and tell. So what have you got?’

Edmond pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside were several folded xerox sheets. There were photocopies of bank statements and old cheques, together with a run-down of cash machines Mark Wesley had used.

‘It’s not complete yet,’ Edmond explained. ‘This is just the first tranche. I could get into a lot of trouble for this.’

‘You could,’ agreed Hoffer, slipping an envelope across the table. ‘But this might cheer you up.’