by Ian Rankin
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 toward 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.
Straightaway, I pulled the gun in from the window. I knew the hit had been good. She’d fallen backward as if pushed hard in the chest. The other woman didn’t realize 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. Passersby 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 dialed 999, then asked for an ambulance.
“I’m a severe hemophiliac, and I’ve just had a terrible accident. I think there’s hemorrhaging to the head.” I gave them the address, then hung up 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 hemophiliac 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 ambulance men 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, maneuvered it onto the pavement, and wheeled it toward 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 onto 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 always supposed to carry it. What’s your factor level?”
“One percent.”
They were putting me in the ambulance now. The armed police were still in the apartment block. People were looking toward the source of the explosion from a few moments before.
“What the hell’s happened here?” one ambulance man asked the other.
“Christ knows.” The second ambulance man 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 outside, 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 ambulance man 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 hematology 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 hematology, and the ambulance men 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 ambulance men. 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 wastebasket. There were two public telephones on the wall, and I called my hotel.
“Can I speak to Mr. Wesley, please? Room two-oh-three.”
“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 the 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 hung up 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 ambulance man 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 two-oh-three.”
Now she looked up. “Goodness, Mr. Wesley, what happened to you?”
&nb
sp; I touched my forehead. “Tripped and fell. Bloody London pavements.”
“Dear me. I think we’ve got some Band-Aids.”
“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 tote bag 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 there, 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 anymore. I felt like sleep.
FOUR
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 drunk, 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 recognize 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 clamoring 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 full-throated laugh several months back. Nobody bothered trying to tell him jokes anymore. 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 female officer 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 tranquilizers, 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 section. 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 MO 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 detective constable 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 guy from an East European embassy.”
“So which one was the target?” Edmond asked.
“Exactly. I mean, did he get who he was going after? If not, the other two better be careful. Remember, he’s shot the wrong bloody person before.”
Edmond nodded. “It’ll be out of our hands soon anyway.”
This was true: Scotland Yard and the anti-terrorist unit would pick over the bones. But this was Bob Broome’s manor, and he wasn’t about to just hand the case over and catch a good night’s sleep.
“Bollocks,” he said. “What about this other phone call, the one to the Craigmead?”
“We’re talking to the receptionist again. All she knows is that a man called
wanting to speak to Eleanor Ricks. Ricks was paged, but she ignored it.”
“She hadn’t left?”
“No, the receptionist says she walked past the desk while her name was being put out over the loudspeakers.”
“Was the secretary of state with her?”
“Yes. But she says she didn’t hear anything.”
“So maybe Eleanor Ricks didn’t hear anything either?”
“Maybe.”
“But if she’d taken the call . . .”
“Molly Prendergast would have walked out of the hotel alone.”
“And we’d have a clearer idea who the intended target was.”
Broome sighed.
“So what’s our next step, Bob?”
Broome checked his watch. “For one thing, I’ve a trans-atlantic call to make. For another, there’s the media to deal with.
Then I’ll want to see those buggers at the hospital.”
“They’re being brought in.”
“Good. Nice of them to help him escape, wasn’t it?”
“Think he might’ve had an accomplice?”
“I think,” said Bob Broome, getting to his feet, “he might’ve just lost one of his nine lives.”
“That phone call, sir.”
“Oh, right.” Broome sat down again. Someone was trying the door, but the chair was holding. He picked up the phone. He knew one man who’d want to know the Demolition Man was back in London. “I want to place a call to the United States,” he said into the receiver.
FIVE
Hoffer hated flying, especially these days when business class was out of the question. He hated being cooped up like a factory chicken. He was strictly a free-range cockerel. The crew didn’t like it if you strayed too far for too long. They were always getting in the way, squeezing these damned tin trolleys down aisles just wide enough for them. Those aisles, they weren’t even wide enough for him. You were supposed to stay in your seat to make the trolley-pushers’ jobs easier. Screw them, he was the customer.
There were other problems too. His nose got all blocked up on long-haul flights, and his ears bothered him. He’d yawn like a whale on a plankton hunt and swallow like he was choking down a lump of concrete, but his head got more and more like a pressure cooker no matter what he did. He waited till the better-looking stewardess came along and asked her with a pained smile if she had any tips. Maybe there were tablets these days for this sort of thing. But she came back to his seat with two plastic cups and said he should clamp them over his ears.
