Bleeding Hearts (25 page)

The MP5.

The commune sat in a glen with a stream running through it. It reminded me of one of those early American settlers’ communities, just before the bad guys rode into town. The houses, little more than cabins, were of wooden construction. There were a few vehicles dotted about, only half of them looking like they were used, the rest in a process of cannibalisation. Solar heating panels sat angled towards a sun that wasn’t shining. A large patch of ground had been cleared and cultivated, and some lean black pigs were working on clearing another patch. I saw goats and chickens and about thirty people, some of whom, all women, were helping unload the VW bus. The VW’s driver nodded at us as we stopped the car. I got out and looked at him.

‘You want to make an offer on it after all?’ he said, slapping the van.

An older man emerged from the largest cabin. He gestured for us to follow him indoors.

The cabin’s interior was spartan, but no more so than a lot of bachelor flats or hotel rooms. It was furnished with what looked like home-crafted stuff. On one table sat a lamp. I ran my hand over the gnarled wooden base.

‘You’re the carpenter?’ I said, knowing now why we were expected.

The man nodded back. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He didn’t sit on a chair, but lowered himself on to the floor. I did likewise, but Bel selected a chair. There was a large photograph of a beneficent Jeremiah Provost on the wall above the open fireplace. He looked younger than in some of the newspaper photos. There was a tapestry on another wall, and a clock made from a cross-section of tree.

‘You’ve been asking about our community here,’ the man said, eschewing introductions.

‘Is that a crime?’ Bel asked. He turned his gaze to her. His eyes were slightly wider than seemed normal, like he’d witnessed a miracle a long time ago and was still getting used to it. He had a long beard with strands of silver in it. I wondered if length of beard equated to standing within the commune. He had the sort of outdoors tan that lasts all year, and was dressed for work right down to the heavy-duty gloves sticking out of the waistband of his baggy brown cord trousers. His hair was thin and oily, greying all over. He was in his 40s, and looked like he hadn’t always been a carpenter.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but we prefer visitors to introduce themselves first.’

‘That’s easily taken care of,’ Bel said. ‘I’m Belinda Harrison, this is a friend of mine, Michael Weston. Who are you?’

The man smiled. ‘I hear anxiety and a rage in your words, Belinda. They sound like they’re controlling you. Their only possible usefulness is when you control them.’

‘I read that sort of thing all the time in women’s magazines, Mr ... ?’

‘My name’s Richard, usually just Rick.’

‘Rick,’ I said, my voice all balm and diplomacy, ‘you belong to the Disciples of Love, is that right? Because otherwise we’re in the wrong place.’

‘You’re where you want to be, Michael.’

I turned to Bel. ‘Just ask him, Belinda.’

She nodded tersely. ‘I’m looking for my sister, her name’s Jane.
_’

‘Jane Harrison? You think she’s here?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because when she ran away, I went through her room, and she’d cut pieces from newspapers and magazines, all about the Disciples of Love.’

‘One of them,’ I added quietly, ‘mentioned yours as being the only British branch of the sect.’

‘Well, Michael, that’s true, though we’re about to start a new chapter in the south of England. Do you know London at all?’

‘That’s where we’ve come from.’

‘My home town,’ Rick said. ‘We’re hoping to buy some land between Beaconsfield and Amersham.’

I nodded. ‘I know Beaconsfield. Any chance that Jane might be there, helping set up this new... chapter? I take it she’s not here or you’d have said.’

‘No, we’ve got nobody here called Jane. It might help if I knew what she looked like.’

Bel took a photograph from her pocket and handed it over. I watched Rick’s face intently as he studied it. It was the photo I’d taken from the flat in Upper Norwood, the one showing Scotty Shattuck and his girlfriend.

‘That’s her,’ said Bel, ‘about a year ago, maybe a little less.’

Rick kept looking at the photo, then shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never seen this woman.’

‘She may have cut her hair shorter since,’ Bel pleaded. She was turning into a very good actress.

‘Take another look, please,’ I urged. He took another look. ‘She ran off with her boyfriend, that’s him in the photo.’

‘I’m sorry, Belinda.’ Rick handed the photo back.

‘And you’re sure she couldn’t be helping start off your new branch?’

‘They’re called chapters, Michael. No, there’s no possibility. We haven’t bought the land yet, there’s another bid on the table. None of our members are down there at present.’

I saw now that in a corner of the room beyond Rick sat a fax machine and telephone.

‘The estate agent contacts you by phone?’

Rick nodded. ‘Again, I’m sorry. Bel, why does it worry you that Jane has left home? Isn’t she allowed to make her own choices?’

Maybe the acting had proved too much for her. Whatever, Bel burst into tears. Rick looked stunned.

‘Maybe if you fetch her some water,’ I said, putting an arm around her.

‘Of course.’ Rick stood up and left the room. When I looked at Bel, she gave me a smile and a wink.

I stood up too and went walkabout. I don’t know what I was looking for, there being no obvious places of concealment in the room. The fax and handset gave no identifying phone numbers, but the fax did have a memory facility for frequently used numbers. I punched in 1 and the liquid crystal display presented me with the international dialling code for the USA, plus 212 — the state code for Washington — and the first two digits of the phone number proper. So Rick kept in touch with the Disciples’ world HQ by fax. The number 2 brought up another Washington number, while 3 was a local number.

Bel was rubbing her eyes and snuffling when Rick returned with the water. He saw me beside the fax machine.

‘Funny,’ I said, ‘I thought the whole purpose here was to cut yourselves off from the world.’

‘Not at all, Michael. How much do you know about the Disciples of Love?’

I shrugged. ‘Just what Belinda’s told me.’

‘And that information she gleaned from magazines who are more interested in telling stories than telling the truth. We don’t seduce young people into our ranks and then brainwash them. If people want to move on, if they’re not happy here, then they move on. It’s all right with us. We’re just sad to see them go. The way you’ve been skulking around, you’d think we were guerrillas or kidnappers. We’re just trying to live a simple life.’

I nodded thoughtfully. ‘I thought I read something about some MP who had to ...’

Rick was laughing. ‘Oh, yes, that. What was the woman’s name?’ I shrugged again. ‘She was convinced, despite everything her daughter told her, that the daughter was being held prisoner. None of our missions is a prison, Michael. Does this look like a cell?’

I conceded it didn’t. I was also beginning to concede that Rick had never laid eyes on Scotty Shattuck in his life. He’d looked closely at the photograph, and had shown not the slightest sign of recognition. Meaning this whole trip had been a waste of time.

‘Prendergast,’ said Rick, ‘that was the woman’s name. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s done irreparable harm to her daughter. And from what I’ve read, the daughter is now a prisoner in her home. She can’t go out without some minder going with her. So who’s the villain of the piece?’ Lecture over, he turned to Bel. ‘Feeling a little better?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Good. You’ve had a long trip from London, I’m sorry it’s not been helpful to you. Can I show you around? If Jane is interested in us, it may be that she’ll find her way here eventually. I can’t promise to contact you if she does ... that would have to be her decision. But at least maybe I can reassure you that we won’t have her in a ball and chain.’

‘We’d like that.’

He led us outside. He stood very erect when he walked, and his arms moved slowly at his sides. I reckoned he’d been meditating this morning, either that or taking drugs. Outside, the VW driver was resting his hand on the boot of our Escort. I sought his face for some sign that he’d opened it, but I’d locked the boot myself, and he didn’t look as handy with a picklock as Bel.

‘I’m just going to give Belinda and Michael the tour,’ Rick told him. ‘Is anyone earthing up the potatoes?’

Understanding, the driver went off to find a spade.

Our tour didn’t take long. Rick explained that Jeremiah Provost believed in balance between wilderness and civilisation, so a lot of the land had been left uncultivated. He took us into the woods to show us how they harvested trees for fuel and materials, but did not disturb trees which had fallen of their own volition.

‘Why not?’

‘Because they nourish the soil and become a place where other things can grow.’

I could see Bel had had enough of this. She might start forgetting soon that she was supposed to have a sister, whereabouts unknown.

‘We’d better be getting back,’ I said. Rick walked us to the car and shook my hand.

‘Belinda’s lucky to have a friend like you,’ he said.

‘I think she knows that.’

Bel was in the passenger seat before Rick could walk round the car. She waved, but didn’t smile or roll down her window. Rick touched his palm to her window, then lifted it away and retreated a couple of steps.

‘He gave me the heebie-jeebies,’ Bel said as we drove back down the track.

‘He seemed okay to me.’

‘Maybe you’re easily led.’

‘Maybe I am.’

We didn’t see any sign of the welcoming committee on the track, but when we reached the gate someone had left it open for us. I pushed the car hard towards Oban, wondering what the hell to do next.

15

Hoffer didn’t see Kline again, which was good news for Kline. Hoffer was nursing the biggest headache since the US budget deficit. He’d tried going to a doctor, but the system in London was a joke. The one doctor who’d managed to give him an appointment had then suggested a change of diet and some paracetamol.

‘Are you kidding?’ roared Hoffer. ‘We’ve banned those things in the States!’

But he couldn’t find Tylenol or codeine, so settled for aspirin, which irritated his gut and put him in a worse mood than ever. He’d asked the doctor about a brain scan — after all, he was paying for the consultation, so might as well get his money’s worth — and the doctor had actually laughed. It was obvious nobody ever sued the doctors in Britain. You went to a doctor in the States, they practically wheeled you from the waiting room to the surgery and back, just so you didn’t trip over the carpet and start yelling for your lawyer.

‘You’re lucky I don’t have my fucking gun with me,’ Hoffer had told the doctor. Even then, the doctor had thought he was joking.

So he wasn’t in the best of moods for his visit to Draper Productions, but when Draper found out who he was, the guy started jumping up and down. He said he’d read about Hoffer. He said Hoffer was practically the best-known private eye in the world, and had anyone done a profile of him?

‘You mean for TV?’

‘I mean for TV.’

‘Well, I’ve, uh, I’m doing a TV spot, but only as guest on some talk show.’ It had been confirmed that morning, Hoffer standing in for a flu-ridden comedian.

‘I’m thinking bigger than that, Leo, believe me.’

So then they’d had to go talk it through over lunch at some restaurant where the description of each dish in the menu far exceeded in size the actual dish itself. Afterwards, Hoffer had had to visit a burger joint. Joe Draper thought this was really funny. It seemed like today everyone thought Hoffer was their favourite comedian. Draper wanted to come to New York and follow Hoffer around, fly-on-the-wall style.

‘You could never show it, Joe. Most of what I do ain’t family viewing.’

‘We can edit.’

Early on in their relationship, Draper and Hoffer had come to understand one pertinent detail, each about the other. Maybe it was Hoffer’s sniffing and blowing his nose and complaining of summer allergies. Maybe it was something else. Draper had been the first to suggest some nose talc, and Hoffer had brought out his Laguiole.

‘Nice blade,’ Draper said, reaching into his desk drawer for a mirror ...

So it was a while before Hoffer actually got round to asking about Eleanor Ricks.

‘Lainie,’ Draper said in the restaurant, ‘she was a lion tamer, believe me. I mean, in her professional life. God, this is the best pate I’ve ever tasted.’

Hoffer had already finished his
salade langoustine.
He poured himself a glass of the white burgundy and waited.

‘She was great, really she was,’ Draper went on, buttering bread like he was working in the kitchen. ‘Without her, three of my future projects just turned to ashes.’ He squashed pate on to the bread and folded it into his mouth.