by Ian Rankin
Max leaped from his chair.
“Jesus, Bel! That’s a Churchill Premier! ” He ran to the doorway and took the shotgun from her. “Do you know how much one of these is worth?”
“About ten grand,” she said.
“Ten grand is right. Less if it’s been fired.” He broke open the barrels to show that Bel hadn’t bothered loading the thing. I put my Magnum down on the draining board.
“Look,” said Max, “let’s all calm down. I’ll tell you what I can about Shattuck, Mark.”
“Michael.”
“Okay, Michael. I’ll tell you what I can. But let’s sit down. All this Gunfight at the O.K. Corral stuff makes me nervous, especially in the kitchen. Do you know how long it took me to do this tiling?”
So Max put the kettle on and we sat down. Bel gave me a lop-sided smile, and I winked back at her.
“Black suits you,” she said, meaning my hair. “Even if that haircut does make you look like a copper.” She touched my foot with her own under the table. We’d played this game before, enjoying the fact of having a secret from Max. I tried to remember that only a few minutes ago, she’d been aiming a shotgun at me, albeit unloaded. Bel had the face of a sixth-form schoolgirl, but I knew there was much more to her than that.
“Sorry,” I said, “I haven’t brought you a souvenir this trip.”
She attempted a pout. “I’m hurt.”
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the hat I’d bought. “Unless you want this.”
She took it from me and looked at it. “Gee, thanks,” she said, her voice heavy with irony. “I’ll keep it under my pillow.”
Max was massaging his jaw. Usually he didn’t say much, understandably. He’d said more in the past twenty minutes than he would over the course of a normal day.
“What was that about me working for you?” Bel asked, folding her arms.
“More properly, working with me.” I was looking at Max as I spoke. “I’m going to have to go back to London, there are questions I need to ask. I’d look less conspicuous with a partner. Plus maybe there are some people I can’t talk to myself. But Bel could talk to them.”
“No,” Max said.
“I pay well, and I’d look after her. I’d play it straight. First sign of danger, I zoom back up here with her.”
“What am I, a ventriloquist’s dummy?” Bel had risen from the table and was standing with hands on hips. “Why not ask me yourself ? You sound like you’re asking to borrow a car or a bike, not a person.”
“Sorry, Bel.”
“You’re not going,” said Max.
“I haven’t said anything yet!” she protested, slapping the table with her hand. “I want to hear about it first.”
So I told her. There was no point leaving anything out. Bel wasn’t stupid, she certainly wasn’t naive. She’d have rooted out a lie. It isn’t easy telling someone what you do for a living, not if you’re not proud of your work. I’d never minded Max knowing, but Bel . . . Bel was a slightly different proposition. Of course, she’d known all along. I mean, I was hardly coming to the farm, buying guns, firing them, customizing them—I was hardly doing any of this as a weekend hobby. Still, her cheeks reddened as I told my story. Then a third round of tea was organized in silence, with the radio switched off now. Bel poured cereal for herself and started to eat. She’d swallowed two spoonfuls before she said anything.
“I want to go.”
Max started to protest.
“A few days, Max,” I broke in, “that’s all. Look, I need help this time. Who else can I turn to?”
“I can think of a dozen people better qualified than Bel, and always keen to make money.”
“Well, thanks very much,” she said. “Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me.”
“I just don’t want you—”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “I know, I know. But Michael needs help. Are we supposed to turn our backs? Pretend we’ve never known him? Who else do we know?”
It hit me then for the first time. They lived out here in the wild through necessity not choice. You couldn’t run a gun shop like Max’s in the middle of a town. But out here they were also lonely, cut off from the world. There were twice-weekly runs into the village or the nearest large town, but those hardly constituted a social life. It wasn’t Max, it was Bel. She was twenty-two. She’d sacrificed a lot to move out here. I saw why Max was scared: he wasn’t scared she’d get hurt, he was scared she’d get to like it. He was scared she’d leave for good.
“A few days, Max,” I repeated. “Then I’ll bring Bel back.”
He didn’t say anything, just blinked his watery eyes and looked down at the table where his hands lay, nicked and scarred from metal-shop accidents. Bel touched his shoulder.
“I’ll go pack a few things.” She gave me another smile and ran from the room. Only now did I wonder why she was so keen to go with me.
We were awkward after she’d gone. I rinsed out the mugs at the sink, and heard Max’s chair scrape on the floor as he stood up.
He came to the draining board and picked up the revolver.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
“Maybe a pistol.”
“I think I’ve got something better than a pistol. Not cheap though.”
“Money’s no object this time, Max.”
“Mark . . . Sorry, I mean Michael. Funny, I’d just got used to calling you Mark.”
“I’ll be another name soon enough.”
“Michael, I know you’ll take care of her. But I wouldn’t like . . . I mean, I don’t want . . .”
“This is strictly business, Max. Separate rooms, I promise.
And besides, Bel can look after herself. She’s had a good teacher.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he said with a smile, putting down the Magnum and reaching for a dishtowel.
SEVEN
“You’re not a reporter, are you?”
It was first thing Monday morning and Hoffer wasn’t in the mood. The ambulance was parked in a special unloading bay directly outside Casualty, and the ambulance man was in the back, tidying and checking.
Hoffer stood outside, one hand resting on the vehicle’s back door. He had a sudden image of himself slamming the ambulance man’s head repeatedly against it.
“I’ve told you, I’m a private investigator.”
“Only I told the police everything I know, and then the bleeding newspapers start hassling me.”
“Look, Mr. Hughes, I’ve shown you my ID.”
“Yeah, anyone can fake an identity card.”
This was true, but Hoffer wasn’t in a mood for discussion. He had a head like a St. Patrick’s Day parade in Boston. Plus his ears still weren’t back to normal. Every time he breathed in through his nose, it was like he was going to suck his eardrums into his throat.
“Talk to me and I’ll go away,” he said. That usually worked.
Hughes turned and studied him.
“You don’t look like a reporter.”
Hoffer nodded at this wisdom.
“You look like a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.”
Hoffer stopped nodding and started a serious scowl.
“All right, sorry about that. So, what do you want me to tell you?”
“I’ve seen the transcript of your police interview, Mr.
Hughes. Basically, I’d just like to ask a few follow-up questions, maybe rephrase a couple of questions you’ve already been asked.”
“Well, hurry up, I’m on duty.”
Hoffer refrained from pointing out that they could have started a good five minutes ago. Instead he asked about the phony patient’s accent.
“Very smooth,” said Hughes. “Polite, quiet, educated.”
“But definitely English?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Not American? Sometimes the two can sound more similar than you’d think.”
“This was English. I couldn’t tell you which county though.
&n
bsp; He wasn’t a Yank, I’m sure of that.”
“Canadian possibly?” Hughes shook his head. “Okay then, you’ve given a fairly good description of him, what he was wearing, his height, hair color, and so on. Do you think his hair might have been dyed?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Sometimes a dye job doesn’t look quite right.”
“Yeah? We must meet a different class of women.”
Hoffer tried to laugh. The door handle felt good in his hand.
He kept looking at Hughes’s head. “And it couldn’t have been a toupee?”
“You mean an Irish?” Hoffer didn’t understand. “Irish jig, wig. No, I’m sure his hair was his own.”
“Mm-hm.” Hoffer had already spoken to the nurse in Emergency, the one who’d taken the man’s details and then gone to call a hematologist. She’d been as much help as codeine in a guillotine basket. He rubbed his forehead. “He told you he was a hemophiliac.”
“He was a hemophiliac.”
“You sure?”
“Either that or he has one in the family. Or maybe he just went through medical school.”
“He knew that much about it?”
“He knew about factor levels, he knew hemophiliacs are supposed to carry a special card with them, he knew they get to call the emergency number and order an ambulance if they hurt themselves. He knew a lot.”
“He couldn’t just have been guessing?”
Hughes shook his head. “I’m telling you, he knew. ”
“Who’s your hematologist here?”
“I don’t know, I just act as chauffeur.”
“That’s being a bit harsh on yourself.”
Hughes’s look told Hoffer flattery wasn’t going to work.
“What about the business card, it fell out of his pocket?”
“Yes. He said it was his, but the police tell me it wasn’t. They had me take a look at Gerald Flitch, I mean the real Gerald Flitch. It wasn’t him.”
“Mm, I want a word with him myself.”
The Casualty doors crashed open as the ambulance driver pulled a wheelchair out and down the ramp. Hughes jumped out of the ambulance. There was a woman in the wheelchair so ancient and still she looked like she’d been stuffed.
“Here we are again, Mrs. Bridewell,” Hughes yelled at her, as they prepared to hoist her into the ambulance. “Soon have you home.”
“Is it worth the trip?” Hoffer muttered to himself. He turned away from the ambulance, but Hughes called to him. The driver was already getting into his seat and starting the engine. Hughes had an arm on the back door, ready to close it.
“I meant it about the cardiac. You really should lose some weight. We could ruin our backs rolling you onto the stretcher.”
“You’re all heart, pal!” Hoffer called, but he called it to a slammed door as the ambulance revved away. He walked back up the hill to Emergency. The same nurse he’d spoken to was still there. She didn’t look like she’d been pining.
“Just one more thing,” Hoffer said, raising a crooked index finger. “Who do I speak to about hemophilia?”
*
*
*
“It means love of blood, literally.”
Dr. Jacobs was a small man with one of those English-actor voices that make American women wet their drawers. It was like Jeremy Irons was behind the scenes somewhere and Jacobs was his dummy. He also had the hairiest arms Hoffer had seen outside a zoo, and he only had ten minutes to spare. He was explaining what the word hemophilia meant.
“That’s very interesting,” said Hoffer. “But see, the man we’re dealing with here, he’s a hired killer, a gunman. He also uses explosives. Does that sound like a suitable occupation for a hemophiliac?”
“No, it doesn’t. Well, that’s to say, not for a severe hemophiliac. You see, there are three broad levels of hemophilia. You can be severe, moderate, or mild. Most registered hemophiliacs in the UK are severe—that is, they show less than two percent factor activity.”
“What’s factor activity?”
“Hemophiliacs, Mr. Hoffer, suffer from a clotting deficiency in the blood. Clotting is a complex event, involving thirteen different factors. If one thing happens, then another happens, and we get a knock-on effect. When all thirteen things have happened, we get blood clotting. But hemophiliacs lack one of the factors, so the knock-on can’t happen and clotting can’t take place. Most hemophiliacs suffer from a factor eight deficiency, some from a factor nine deficiency. There are a few even rarer conditions, but those are the main two. Factor eight deficiency is termed hemophilia A, and factor nine hemophilia B. Are you with me so far?”
“Reading you like Braille.”
Dr. Jacobs leaned back in his black leather chair. He had a small cluttered office, all textbooks and test results and piles of unanswered mail. His white coat was hanging up behind the door, and there were a lot of framed certificates on the walls. His arms were folded so he could run his hands over his monkey arms. Hair sprouted from the collar of his shirt. Naked, he could be used as a fireside rug, Hoffer bet.
“Severe hemophiliacs,” the doctor said, “make up over a third of all hemophilia cases. They can suffer spontaneous internal bleeds, usually into soft tissues, joints, and muscles. As children, they’re advised to stay away from contact sports. We try to make them get a good education, so they can get desk jobs rather than manual ones.”
“They don’t go into the armed forces then?”
Dr. Jacobs smiled. “The armed forces and the police won’t recruit from hemophiliacs.”
Hoffer frowned. If there was one thing he’d been sure of, it was that the D-Man had been either a soldier or a cop. “No exceptions?”
“None.”
“Not even if they’ye got the milder form?”
Jacobs shook his head. “Something wrong?” he said.
Hoffer had been tugging at his ears. “Flying does things to my ears,” he said. “Say, can you help? Maybe take a look?”
“I’m a hematologist, Mr. Hoffer, not ENT.”
“But you can prescribe drugs, right? Some painkillers maybe?”
“Consult a GP, Mr. Hoffer.”
“I can pay.”
“I’m sure you can. Did you catch your cold on the plane?”
“Huh?” Hoffer sniffed so much these days, he was hardly aware of it. He blew his nose and reminded himself to buy more tissues. Damned nose was always itchy too. “It’s this lousy weather,” he said.
The doctor looked surprised and glanced out of his window.
It was another beautiful day outside. He looked back at Hoffer.
“The police have already asked me about this assassin. It seems from what I hear that he does possess some knowledge of hemophilia, but as I told them, I just can’t visualize a severe hemophiliac being an assassin. He told the ambulance man that he was one percent. I think he was lying. I mean . . . well, this is guesswork.”
“No, go on.” Hoffer stuck his shred of handkerchief back in his pocket.
“Well, it seems to me that these weapons he uses, they would have a recoil.”
“Believe it.”
“You see, any recoil might start a severe hemophiliac bleeding. It wouldn’t be long before he’d start to suffer problems with his shoulder. After which he wouldn’t make much of a marksman at all.”
“What about a moderate sufferer?”
“Even with a moderate sufferer, there would be dangers. No, if this man suffers from hemophilia, then he is a mild case.”
“But he’d still know about the disease, right?”
“Oh, yes. But he’d also be able to injure himself without needing medical aid afterward. Simple pressure on the cut would be enough to stop it.”
Hoffer chewed this over. “Would he be registered?”
“Almost certainly.”
“I don’t suppose those records . . . ?”
Jacobs was shaking his head. “If the police wish to apply to see them, then of course
there might be a chance, especially if it’s a case of catching a murderer.”
“Yes, of course. Dr. Jacobs, how many mild sufferers are there?”
“In the UK?” Hoffer nodded. “About fifteen hundred.”
“Out of how many?”
“Roughly six and a half thousand.”
“And how many of those fifteen hundred can we discount?”
“What?”
“You know, how many are kids, how many are elderly, how many are women? It’s got to bring the number down.”
Jacobs was smiling. “I have some pamphlets here you should read, Mr. Hoffer.” He opened a desk drawer, hunting for them.
“What? Did I say something funny?”
“No, it’s just that hemophilia affects only men. It’s passed on from the mother, not the father, but it is only passed on to the sons.”
Hoffer read the pamphlets as he sat in the bar of the Allington Hotel.
He found it all unbelievable. How could a mother do that to her son? Unbelievable. The women in the family could carry the disease, but they almost never suffered from it. And if they passed it on to their daughters, the daughters could fight it. It was all down to chromosomes. A boy got his mother’s X and his father’s Y, while a girl got two X chromosomes, one from each parent.
The bad genetic information was all in the X chromosome. A man with hemophilia passed his bad X to his daughter, but the good X she got from her mother canceled the bad X out. So she became a carrier but not a sufferer. Each female had two X chromosomes, while males had an X and a Y. So boys had a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bad X passed on to them from their carrier mothers. And they couldn’t override it because they didn’t have another good X chromosome, they had a lousy Y which wasn’t any use in the battle.
There was other stuff, all about Queen Victoria and the Russian royal family and Rasputin. Queen Victoria had been a carrier. There didn’t have to be a history of hemophilia in the family either, the thing could just spontaneously occur. And a mild hemophiliac might never know they had the disease till it came time for a surgical operation or tooth extraction. The more Hoffer read, the more he wondered about going for a blood test.
