Bleeding Hearts (6 page)

The train journey took forever. His body knew that it was five hours earlier than everyone around him thought it was. His feet were swollen, and sitting in the train brought on another bout of ear pressure. Plastic cups, for Christ’s sake.

But the receptionist smiled and was sympathetic. He told her if she really felt sorry for him he had a litre of Scotch in his bag and she knew his room number. She still managed to smile, but she had to force it. Then he got to his room and remembered all the very worst things about England. Namely, the beds and the plumbing. His bed was way too narrow. They had wider beds in the concentration camps. When he phoned reception, he was told all the beds in the single rooms were the same size, and if he wanted a double bed he’d need to pay for a double room. So then he’d to take the elevator back down to reception, get a new room, and take the elevator back up. This room was a little better, not much. He switched the TV on and went into the bathroom to run a bath. The bath looked like a child might have fun in it, but an adult would have problems, and the taps were having prostate trouble if the dribble issuing from them was anything to go by. There wasn’t even a proper glass by the sink, just another plastic tumbler. He unscrewed the top from his Johnny Walker Red Label and poured generously. He was about to add water from the cold tap, but thought better of it, so he drank the Scotch neat and watched the water finally cover the bottom of the bath.

He toasted the mirror. ‘Welcome to England,’ he said.

He’d arranged to meet Bob Broome in the hotel bar.

They knew one another from a conference they’d attended in Toronto when both had been Drugs Squad officers. That was going back some time, but then they’d met again when Hoffer had been in London last trip, just over a year ago. He’d been tracking the Demolition Man then, too.

‘You mean Walkins is still paying you?’ Broome sounded awed.

‘I’m not on a retainer or anything,’ Hoffer said. ‘But when we hear anything new on the D-Man, I know I can follow it up and Walkins will pay.’

Bob Broome shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe you got here so quickly.’

‘No ties, Bob, that’s the secret.’ Hoffer looked around the bar. ‘This place stinks, let’s go for a walk.’ He saw Broome look at him, laughed and patted his jacket. ‘It’s okay, Bob, I’m not armed.’ Broome looked relieved.

It was Sunday evening and the streets were quiet. They walked into Soho and found a pub seedy enough for Hoffer’s tastes, where they ordered bitter and found a corner table.

‘So, Bob, what’ve you got?’

Broome placed his pint glass carefully on a beermat, checking its base was equidistant from all four edges. ‘There was a shooting yesterday evening at six o’clock, outside a hotel near the US Embassy. A minute or two after the shooting, a bomb exploded in a rubbish bin nearby. We had an anonymous call warning us, so we sent men over there. We arrived just too late, but in time to start a search for the assassin. But he’d been a bit too clever. We went for the building directly in front of the hotel, and he’d been holed up in the office block next-door. He must have seen us coming. He called for an ambulance, gave them some story about being seriously ill, and they whisked him away to hospital from right under our noses.’

Hoffer shook his head. ‘But you’ve got a description?’

‘Oh, yes, a good description, always supposing he wasn’t wearing a wig and coloured contact lenses.’

‘He left the weapon behind?’

Broome nodded. ‘An L96A1 Sniper Rifle.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s British, a serious piece of goods. He’d tweaked it, added a flash hider and some camouflage tape. The telescopic sight on it was worth what I take home in a month.’

‘Nobody ever said the D-Man came cheap. Speaking of which ... ?’

‘We don’t even know who his target was. There were four people on the steps: a diplomat and his wife, the Secretary of State for the DSS, and the journalist.’

‘How far was he away from the hotel?’

‘Seventy, eighty yards.’

‘Unlikely he missed his target.’

‘He’s missed before.’

‘Yeah, but that was a fluke. He must’ve been after the reporter.’

‘We’re keeping an open mind. The diplomat seems sure he was the intended victim.’

‘Well,
you
have to keep an open mind, I don’t. In fact, I’m famous for my
closed
mind.’ Hoffer finished his drink. ‘Want another?’ Broome shook his head. ‘I need to see anything you’ve got, Bob.’

‘That’s not so easy, Leo. I’d have to clear it with my — ’

‘By the way, something for your kids.’ Hoffer took an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. ‘How are they anyway?’

‘They’re fine, thanks.’ Broome looked in the envelope. He was looking at £500.

‘Don’t try to refuse it, Bob, I had a hell of a job cashing cheques at the hotel. I think they charged me the same again for the privilege, plus they had an exchange rate you wouldn’t accept from a shark. Put it in your pocket. It’s for your kids.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be thankful,’ Broome said, tucking the envelope in his inside pocket.

‘They’re nice kids. What’re their names again?’

‘Whatever you want them to be,’ said the childless Broome.

‘So can you get me the info?’

‘I can do some photocopying. You’ll have it first thing in the morning.’

Hoffer nodded. ‘Meantime, talk to me, get me interested. Tell me about the deceased.’

‘Her name is Eleanor Ricks, 39, freelance journalist. She covered the Falklands War and some of the early fighting in ex-Yugoslavia.’

‘So she wasn’t just puffing fluff?’

‘No, and lately she’d made the move into television. Yesterday she had a meeting with Molly Prendergast, that’s the DSS Minister.’

‘What was the meeting about? No, wait, same again?’ Hoffer went to the bar and ordered two more pints. He never had to wait long at bars; they were one place where his size lent him a certain authority. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t wearing great clothes, or hadn’t shaved in a while, he had weight and he had standing.

That was one reason he did a lot of his work in bars.

He brought the drinks back. He’d added a double whisky to go with his beer.

‘You want one?’ But Broome shook his head. Hoffer drank an inch from the beer, then poured in the whisky. He took two cigarettes from one of his packs of duty free, lit them and handed one to Broome.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘bad habit.’ It wasn’t everyone who wanted him sucking on their cigarette before they got it. ‘You were telling me about Molly Prendergast.’

‘It was an interview, something to do with Ricks’s latest project, the one for TV. It’s an investigation of religious cults.’

‘And this MP has something to do with them?’

‘Only indirectly. Her daughter was involved in one for a while. Prendergast and her husband had to fight like mad to get her back. In the end, they virtually had to kidnap her.’

‘And that’s what Ricks wanted to talk about?’

‘According to Mrs Prendergast.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘I’ve no reason to suppose she’d lie. Besides, her story is backed up by the programme’s producer.’

‘What’s his name?’ Hoffer had taken a notebook and pen from his pocket.

‘Joe Draper. One strange thing, somebody called the hotel. They asked for Eleanor Ricks and said it was urgent. She was paged, but she didn’t take the call. Not many people knew she was going to be there. Draper’s one of the few.’

‘Which TV company is it?’

‘It’s a small independent production company. I think it’s just called Draper Films or Draper Vision, something like that.’

‘You work too hard, Bob, you know that? I mean, you’re a seven-day man, am I right? Of course I’m right. You’ve got to rest your brain some time.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘But if you don’t rest your brain, you start forgetting things, like whether it’s Draper Films or Draper Vision. I mean, little things, Bob, but little things can be the important things. You’re a cop, you know that.’

Broome didn’t look happy at this little lecture. In fact, he finished his drink and said he had to be going. Hoffer didn’t stop him. But he didn’t hang around the pub either. It reminded him of a few bad Irish bars he knew in and around the other Soho. He headed across Shaftesbury Avenue and into Leicester Square, looking for interesting drugs or interesting whores. But even Leicester Square was quiet. Nobody worked a patch these days. It was all done by mobile phone. The telephone kiosks were full of whores’ business cards. He perused them, like he was in a gallery, but didn’t find anything new or exciting. He doubted there was anything new under the sun, though apparently they were doing mind-boggling things with computers these days.

There were some kids begging from their doorway beds, so he asked them if they knew where he could find some blow, then remembered that over here ‘blow’ could mean boo. They didn’t know anyway. They hardly knew their own damned names. He went on to Charing Cross Road and found a taxi to take him to Hampstead.

This was where the D-Man had carried out his other London hit, at an office on the High Street. As usual, he’d kept his distance. He’d fired from a building across the street, the bullet smashing through a window before entering and leaving the heart of an Indian businessman who’d been implicated in a finance scam involving several governments and private companies.

The D-Man always kept his distance, which interested Hoffer. Often, it would be simpler just to walk up to the victim and use a pistol. But the D-Man used sniper rifles and kept his distance. These facts told Hoffer a lot. They told him that the D-Man was a real pro, not just some hoodlum. He was skilled, a marksman. He gave himself a challenge with every hit. But he was also squeamish the way hoodlums seldom were. He didn’t like to get too close to the gore. He kept well away from the pain. A single shot to the heart: it was a marksman’s skill all right, hitting dead centre every time.

He’d planted a bomb in Hampstead too, though he hadn’t needed one. The police had thought they were dealing with an IRA device, until they linked it to the assassination. Then Hoffer had come along and he’d been able to tell them quite a lot about the Demolition Man. Few people knew as much as Hoffer did about the D-Man.

But Hoffer didn’t know nearly enough.

He took another cab back to the hotel, and got the driver to give him half a dozen blank receipts, tipping him generously as reward. He’d fill the receipts in himself and hand them to his client as proof of expenses.

‘Anything else you want, guv?’ said the driver. ‘An escort? Bit of grass? You name it.’

Nostrils twitching, Hoffer leaned forward in his seat.

‘Get me interested,’ he said.

6

Mark Wesley was dead.

It was a shame, since it meant I’d have to close a couple of bank accounts and get rid of a bunch of expensive counterfeit identity cards and an even more expensive counterfeit passport with some beautifully crafted visas in it.

More drastic still, it was the only other identity I had in the UK, which meant that from now on I’d have to be me. I could always arrange to create another identity, but it took time and money.

I’d spent a long time not being me. It would take a while to get used to the name again: Michael Weston. The first thing I did was rent a car and get out of London. I rented from one of the big companies, and told them it might be a one-way rental. They explained that one-way rentals are more expensive, but since I was guaranteeing it with a credit card they didn’t seem to mind.

It was a nice car, a red Escort XR3i with only 600 miles on the clock. I drove to a shopping complex just off the North Circular Road and bought, amongst other things, a hat. Then I headed north. I didn’t phone ahead. I didn’t want Max expecting me.

I’d spent a lot of time thinking, and I kept coming up with the same answer: someone had tipped off the police, someone who had wanted me caught. There were only two possibilities: Max, or my employer. I never like to know who I’m working for, just as I never like to know anything about the person I’m being paid to kill. I don’t want to be involved, I just want the money. The work I get comes from a variety of middlemen: a couple in the USA, one in Germany, one in Hong Kong, and Max in England. It was Max who’d contacted me with the job I’d just done. He was the only other person apart from my employer who knew the details of the job.

Like I say, I’d given it a lot of thought, and still it came down to Max or my employer. This still left the question of why. Why would Max want me arrested? Was the money suddenly not enough to salve his conscience? He could get out any time he wanted to, but maybe he didn’t realise that. If he wanted out, but thought I wouldn’t like such an idea, maybe he also thought I’d want to kill him. Was he just getting his retaliation in first?

Then there was my employer. Maybe he or she had got cold feet at the very last, and phoned for the cops. This seemed the more likely answer, though there was one other consideration: what if the whole thing had been a trap from the start? I was sure I could come up with other theories, but they all led in the same direction: I was going to have to talk to Max. Then maybe I’d have to find out who my employer was, and ask them a few questions, too.