by Ian Rankin
I brought the case upstairs and opened it. I couldn’t find a chair, but there was a wooden crate which I upended. It seemed strong enough, so I placed it by the window and sat on it. The PM lay on the floor in front of me, along with two bullets. I sat there thinking about cartridges. You wouldn’t think something so small and so fixed in its purpose could be quite so complex. Straight or bottleneck? Belted, rimmed, semi-rimmed, rimless or rebated? Centre-fire or rim-fire? Then there was the primer compound. I knew that Max mixed his own compound using lead styphnate, antimony sulphide and barium nitrate, but in a ratio he kept to himself. I picked up one of the bullets by its base and tip. What, I wondered, is it like to be shot? I knew the answer in forensic terms. I knew the kinds of entrance and exit wounds left by different guns at different ranges and using different ammunition. I had to know this sort of thing, so I could determine each individual hit. Some snipers go for the head shot; some of them call it a ‘JFK’. Not me.
I go for the heart.
What else did I think about in that room, as the traffic moved past like the dull soothing roll of waves on a shore? I didn’t think about anything else. I emptied my mind. I could have been in a trance, had anyone seen me. I let my shoulders slump, my head fall forward, my jaw muscles relax. I kept my fingers spread wide, not clenched. And with my eyes slightly out of focus, I watched the second hand go round on my watch. Finally I came out of it, and found myself wondering what I would order for dinner. Some dark meat in a sauce rich enough to merit a good red wine. It was five minutes to six. I picked up the PM, undid the bolt, pushed home the first bullet, and slid the bolt forward. Then I took a small homemade cushion from my jacket pocket and placed it between my shoulder and the stock of the rifle. I had to be careful of the recoil. This was a dangerous time. If anyone saw me now, they wouldn’t just see a man at a window, they’d see the barrel of a gun, a black telescopic sight, and a sniper taking aim. But the few pedestrians were too busy to look up. They were hurrying home, or to some restaurant appointment. They carried bags of shopping. They kept their eyes to the treacherous London paving slabs. If a cracked slab didn’t get you, then the dog shit might. Besides, they couldn’t look straight ahead; that was to invite a stranger’s stare, an unwanted meeting of eyes.
The sight was beautiful, it was as if I was standing a few feet from the hotel steps. There was a central revolving door, and ordinary push-pull doors to either side. Most people going into or coming out of the hotel seemed to use the ordinary doors. I wondered which one she would use. It was six now, dead on the hour. I blinked slowly, keeping my eyes clear. One minute past six. Then two minutes past. I took deep breaths, releasing them slowly. I’d taken my eye away from the telescope. I could see the hotel entrance well enough without it. Now a car was drawing up outside the hotel. There was a liveried chauffeur in the front. He made no effort to get out and open the back doors. The man and woman got out by themselves. He looked like a diplomat; the car carried a diplomatic plate below its radiator grille. They walked up the three carpeted steps to the revolving door. And now two women were coming out.
Two women.
I put my eye to the telescopic sight. Yes. I pulled the gun in tight against my cushioned shoulder, adjusted my hands a fraction, and put my finger on the trigger. The two women were smiling, talking. The diplomat and his wife had moved past them. Now the women were craning their necks, looking for taxis. Another car drew up and one of the women pointed towards it. She started down a step, and her companion followed. The sun appeared from behind a cloud, highlighting the yellow and blue design on her dress. I squeezed the trigger.
Straight away, I pulled the gun in from the window. I knew the hit had been good. She’d fallen backwards as if pushed hard in the chest. The other woman didn’t realise for a moment what had happened. She was probably thinking, fainting fit or heart attack. But now she’d seen the blood and she was looking around, then crawling down the steps on her hands and knees, taking cover behind the diplomat’s car. The driver was out of the car and looking around. He’d pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and was screaming at the diplomat to get indoors. The driver in the other car seemed to have ducked down in his seat.
And now there were sirens. You were always hearing sirens in central London - ambulances, fire engines. But these were police cars and they were screaming to a stop outside the hotel. I stood up and moved away from the window. It was impossible, they couldn’t be here so quickly. I took another look. Some of the police were armed, and they were making for the block next to this one, the block with all the flats in it. Passers-by were being ordered to take cover, the woman was yelling and crying from the cover of the car, the armed chauffeur was crouching over the lifeless body. He put his hands up when the police took aim at him, and started to explain who he was. It might take them a little while to believe him.
I knew I had seconds to get out. They’d turn their attention to this building next. I put the gun back in its box along with the unused bullet, closed the box, and left it there. Normally I’d take the gun away with me and break it up, then dispose of it. Max never wanted my guns back, and I couldn’t blame him. But I knew I couldn’t risk walking out with that carrying-case.
As I walked downstairs, the idea came to me. There was a hospital just a few blocks away. I picked up the telephone and dialled 999, then asked for an ambulance.
‘I’m a severe haemophiliac, and I’ve just had a terrible accident. I think there’s haemorrhaging to the head.’ I gave them the address, then put the phone down and went in search of a brick. There were some just inside the front door. I picked one up and smashed it into my forehead, making sure the edge of the brick made the initial contact. I touched my forehead with the palm of my hand. There was blood.
And then from outside came the sound of a muffled explosion: my calling card.
I’d planted the device in the morning. It was at the bottom of a dustbin in an alley behind some restaurants. The alley was about five hundred yards from the Craigmead Hotel. It was a small bomb, just big enough to make a noise. The alley was a dead end, so I doubted anyone would be hurt. Its purpose was to deflect attention while I walked away from the scene. I knew it would still deflect attention, but I doubted I’d be able to walk away without being spotted by the police.
Now there was another siren, not a police car but an ambulance. God bless them, the emergency services know that when a haemophiliac phones them up, it has to be priority. I unlocked the main door and looked out. Sure enough, the ambulance had drawn up outside. One of the ambulancemen was opening the back door, the other was climbing out from the driver’s side.
Together they pulled a stretcher from the back of the ambulance, manoeuvred it on to the pavement, and wheeled it towards the front door. Someone, a policeman probably, called out to them and asked what they were doing.
‘Emergency!’ one of them called back.
I held the door open for them. I had a hand to my bloody forehead, and an embarrassed smile on my face.
‘Tripped and fell,’ I said.
‘Not surprised with all this rubbish lying around.’
‘I was working upstairs.’
I let them put me on to the stretcher. I thought it would look better for the audience.
‘Do you have your card?’ one of them asked.
‘It’s in my wallet at home.’
‘You’re supposed always to carry it. What’s your factor level?’
‘One per cent.’
They were putting me in the ambulance now. The armed police were still in the apartment block. People were looking towards the source of the explosion from a few moments before.
‘What the hell’s happened here?’ one ambulanceman asked the other.
‘Christ knows.’ The second ambulanceman tore open a packet and brought out a compress, which he pressed to my forehead. He placed my hand on it. ‘Here, you know the drill. Plenty of pressure.’
The driver closed the ambulance doors from the outs
ide, leaving me with his colleague. Nobody stopped us as we left the scene. I was sitting up, thinking I wasn’t safe yet.
‘Is this your card?’ The ambulanceman had picked something off the floor. He started reading it. ‘Gerald Flitch, Marketing Strategist.’
‘My business card. It must have fallen out of my pocket.’ I held out my hand and he gave me back the card. ‘The company I’m working for, they’re supposed to be moving into the new office next week.’
‘It’s an old card then, the Liverpool address?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘our old offices.’
‘Are you factor eight or nine, Mr Flitch?’
‘Factor eight,’ I told him.
‘We’ve got a good Haematology Department, you’ll be all right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘To tell you the truth, you’d have been as quick walking there.’
Yes, we were already bumping through the hospital gates and up to the Emergency entrance. This was about as far as I could take the charade. I knew that behind the compress the bleeding was already stopping. They took me into Emergency and gave a nurse my details. She went off to call someone from Haematology, and the ambulancemen went back to their vehicle. I sat for a few moments in the empty reception area, then got up and headed for the door. The ambulance was still there, but there was no sign of the ambulancemen. They’d probably gone for a cup of tea and a cigarette. I walked down the slope to the hospital’s main entrance, and deposited the compress in a waste-bin. There were two public telephones on the wall, and I called my hotel.
‘Can I speak to Mr Wesley, please? Room 203.’
‘Sorry,’ said the receptionist after a moment, ‘I’m getting no reply.’
‘Can I leave a message? It’s very important. Tell Mr Wesley there’s been a change of plans, he has to be in Liverpool tonight. This is Mr Snipes from Head Office.’
‘Is there a number where he can contact you, Mr Snipes?’ I gave her a fictitious phone number prefixed with the Liverpool code, then put down the phone. There was a lot of police activity on the streets as I walked back to my hotel.
The thing was, the police would find the PM, and then they’d want to speak to the man who’d been taken away in the ambulance. The nurse in Emergency could tell them I’d given the name Gerald Flitch, and the ambulanceman could add that my business card had carried a Liverpool address. From all of which, they could track down either Flitch’s Liverpool home or his employers and be told he was on a trip to London, staying at the Allington Hotel.
Which would bring them to me.
The Allington’s automatic doors hissed open, and I walked up to the reception desk.
‘Any idea what’s going on? There are police all over the place?’
The receptionist hadn’t looked up yet. ‘I heard a bang earlier on,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it’s about though.’
‘Any messages for me? Wesley, Room 203.’
Now she looked up. ‘Goodness, Mr Wesley, what happened to you?’
I touched my forehead. ‘Tripped and fell. Bloody London pavements.’
‘Dear me. I think we’ve got some plasters.’
‘I’ve some in my room, thanks.’ I paused. ‘No messages then?’
‘Yes, there’s a message, came not ten minutes ago.’ She handed it to me, and I read it.
‘Shit,’ I said in exasperation, letting my shoulders slump for the second time that day. ‘Can you make my bill up, please? Looks like I’ll be checking out.’
I couldn’t risk taking a cab straight from the Allington to another hotel — the cabbie would be able to tell police my destination — so I walked about a bit, lugging my suitcase with me. It was lighter than before, about fourteen pounds lighter, and too big for the purpose. Having used nearly all my cash settling my bill, I drew two hundred out of a cash machine. The first two hotels I tried were both full, but the third had a small single room with a shower but no bath. The hotel sold souvenirs to guests, including a large holdall with the hotel name emblazoned front and back. I bought one and took it upstairs with me. Later that evening, I took my now empty suitcase to King’s Cross. Luggage lockers are hard to find in central London, so I deposited the case in the left luggage room at King’s Cross station. Seeing the size of the case, the man behind the desk braced himself before attempting to lift it, then was caught off-balance by how light it was. I took another cab back to my hotel and settled down to watch the news. But I couldn’t concentrate. They seemed to think I’d hit the wrong person. They thought I was after the diplomat. Well, that would help muddy the water, I didn’t mind that at all. Then they mentioned that police had taken away a large box from a building across from the hotel. They showed the alley where my little device had gone off. The metal bin looked like torn wrapping. Nobody had been injured, though two kitchen assistants in a Chinese restaurant had been treated for shock and cuts from flying glass.
They did not, of course, speculate as to how police had arrived on the scene so quickly. But I was thinking about it. I was tumbling it in my mind, and not coming up with any clever answers.
Tomorrow, there’d be time for thinking tomorrow. I was exhausted. I didn’t feel like meat and wine any more. I felt like sleep.
4
There was little love lost between Freddy Ricks and Geoffrey Johns, despite which, the solicitor was not surprised to receive Freddy’s call. Freddy was half cut, as per usual, and sounded dazed.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Yes,’ Geoffrey Johns said, ‘I’ve heard.’ He was seated in his living room, a glass of Armagnac trembling beside him on the arm of the sofa.
‘Jesus Christ,’ wailed Freddy Ricks, ‘she’s been shot!’
‘Freddy, I’m ... I’m so sorry.’ Geoffrey Johns took a sip of burning liquid. ‘Does Archie know?’
‘Archie?’ It took Freddy an understandable moment to recognise the name of his son. ‘I haven’t seen him. I had to go down to the ... they wanted me to identify her. Then they had to ask me some questions.’
‘Is that why you’re phoning?’
‘What? No, no ... well, yes, in a way. I mean, there are things I have to do, and there are about fifty reporters at the garden gate, and ... well, Geoffrey, I know we’ve had our differences, but you are our solicitor.’
‘I understand, Freddy. I’ll be straight over.’
In Vine Street police station, Chief Inspector Bob Broome was deciding what to say to the press. They were clamouring around the entrance to the gloomy station. Even on sunny days, Vine Street, a high narrow conduit between Regent Street and Piccadilly, got little light, though it managed to get all the available traffic fumes and grime. Broome reckoned the station had affected him. He thought he could remember days when he used to be cheerful. His last smile had been a couple of days ago, his last fullthroated laugh several months back. Nobody bothered trying to tell him jokes any more. The prisoners in the cells were a more obliging target. ‘So what’ve we got, Dave?’
Detective Inspector Dave Edmond sat opposite Broome. He had a reputation as a dour bugger, too. People seeing them together usually gave the pair a wide berth, like you would a plague ship. While Broome was tall and thin with an undertaker’s pallor, Edmond was round and tanned. He’d just returned from a fortnight in Spain, spent guzzling San Miguel on some beach.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we’re still taking statements. The gun’s down at the lab. We’ve got technicians in the office building, but they won’t be able to report before tomorrow.’
There was a knock at the door and a WPC came in with a couple of faxes for Broome. He laid them to one side and watched her leave, then turned back to Edmond. His every action was slow and considered, like he was on tranquillisers, but Edmond for one knew the boss was just being careful.
‘What about the gun?’
‘Sergeant Wills is the pop-pop guru,’ Edmond said, ‘so I’ve sent him to take a look at it. He probably knows more than any of the eggheads in the Ballistics se
ction. From the description I gave him, he said it sounds military.’
‘Let’s not muck about, Dave, it’s the Demolition Man again. You can spot his m.o. a mile away.’
Edmond nodded. ‘Unless it’s a copycat.’
‘What are the chances?’
Edmond shrugged. ‘A hundred to one?’
‘And the rest. What about the phone call, did we take a recording?’
Edmond shook his head. ‘The officer who took the call has typed out what he remembers of the conversation.’ He handed over a single sheet of paper.
The door opened again. It was a DC this time, smiling apologetically as he came in with more sheets of paper for the Chief Inspector. Outside, there were sounds of frenzied activity. When the DC had gone, Broome got up, went to the door, and pulled a chair against it, jamming the back of the chair under the knob. Then he walked slowly back to his desk.
‘Shame we didn’t get it on tape though,’ he said, picking up Edmond’s sheet of paper. ‘Male, English, aged between twenty and seventy-five. Yes, very useful. Call didn’t sound long distance.’ Broome looked up from the report. ‘And all he said was that there was going to be a shooting outside the Craigmead Hotel.’
‘Normally, it would be treated as a crank, but the officer got the impression this one wasn’t playing games. A very educated voice, quite matter-of-fact with just enough emotion. We couldn’t have got men there any quicker.’
‘We could if we hadn’t armed some of them first.’
‘The man who called, who do you think it was?’
‘I suppose it could have been the Demolition Man himself. Maybe he’s gone off his trolley, wants us to catch him or play some sort of cat-and-mouse with him. Or it could be someone who spotted him, but then why not warn those people on the steps?’ Broome paused. His office wasn’t much bigger than an interview room; in some ways, it was even less inviting. He liked it because it made people who came here feel uncomfortable. But Dave Edmond seemed to like it too ... ‘The people on the steps, that’s another thing. We’ve got a journalist, a Secretary of State, and some senior bod from an East European embassy.’
