by Ian Rankin
He had always bruised easily, and one time he’d been spitting blood for days after a visit to his dentist. Maybe he was a hemophiliac. He wouldn’t put anything past his mother.
He wasn’t sure what difference it made, knowing the D-Man was probably a sufferer. It could just be that his family had a history of hemophilia; he could just be an interested onlooker.
Hoffer wasn’t going to be given access to any records, and even if he did get the records, what would he do with them? Talk to every single sufferer? Drag them here and let Gerry Flitch take a look at them?
Ah, speaking of whom . . .
“Mr. Flitch?”
“Yes.”
Hoffer offered his hand. “Leo Hoffer, can I buy you a drink?”
“Thank you, yes.”
Hoffer snapped his fingers, and the barman nodded. The first time Hoffer had done it, the barman had given him a stare so icy you could have mixed it into a martini. But then Hoffer had given him a big tip, and so now the barman was his friend. Hoffer was sitting in a squidgy armchair in a dark corner of the bar. Flitch pulled over a chair and sat down opposite him. He flicked his hair back into place.
“This has all been . . . I don’t know,” he began, unasked. “It’s not every day you find out you’ve had drinks bought for you by an international terrorist.”
“Not a terrorist, Gerry, just a hired gun. Do you mind if I call you Gerry?”
“Not at all . . . Leo.”
“There you go. Now, what’ll it be?” The barman was standing ready.
“Whiskey, please.”
“Ice, sir?”
“And bring some water, too, please.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Hoffer handed his empty glass to the barman. “And I’ll have the same again, Tom.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Hoffer.”
Gerry Flitch looked suitably impressed which had been the plan all along. Hoffer gathered up his hemophilia pamphlets and stuck them down the side of the chair. It was a great chair, plenty big enough and damned comfortable. He wondered if he could buy it from the hotel, maybe ship it back.
“You said you’re a private detective, Leo.”
“That’s right, Gerry.”
“And the police tell me you’re very well known.”
“In the States, maybe.” Good. As suggested, Flitch had called Bob Broome to check Hoffer’s credentials. “So tell me about Saturday, Gerry. No rush, I just want to listen.”
Tom the barman arrived with their drinks, and Hoffer gave him another tip. “Let us have some nuts or something, Tom, huh?”
“Surely, Mr. Hoffer.”
The nuts and chips arrived in small glass bowls. Hoffer helped himself to a fistful. He’d had a mellowing-out joint half an hour ago, and was now hungry.
“Well,” said Flitch, “what is there to tell? I was drinking at the bar, sitting on one of those stools there. This guy came in for a drink, and sat a couple of stools away. He was drinking some soft drink, grapefruit and lemonade, I think.”
“It was tonic, not lemonade. We know that from his bar tab.”
Flitch nodded. “Yes, tonic, that’s right. Anyway, we got talking.”
“Who started?”
“I think I did.”
“And did this guy, did he speak sort of grudgingly?”
“No, not at all, he seemed very pleasant. You wouldn’t think he had murder on his mind.”
“Maybe he didn’t. These guys have a way of blocking it out when they want to. So what did you talk about?”
Flitch shrugged. “Just general stuff. He told me he was in import-export, I told him I was a marketing strategist. I even gave him my card.” He shook his head. “What a mistake that was.
Next thing I know, armed police are at the door of my room.”
“You’re the biggest break we’ve had, Gerry. It was the Demolition Man who made the mistake, accepting your card.”
“Yes, but now he knows who I am, who I work for, where I live. And here I am talking to you.”
“But he won’t know you’ve talked to us until he’s arrested.
Besides, he’s not stupid. He won’t come near you.”
“He won’t have to come near me though, will he? From what I’ve heard, a few hundred yards would be close enough.” Flitch finished his drink. Hoffer knew the man was nervous, but he suspected Flitch was a heavy drinker anyway. The guy was young, in his thirties, but he had a face that was hardening prematurely, losing its good looks and gaining jowls. Only a big man, a man like Hoffer himself, could carry jowls and not look like a drunk.
Flitch was a drunk in the making, and the pattern was just about complete.
“Tell me something, Gerry, you ever do coke?”
Flitch’s eyes widened. “I take it you don’t mean the soft drink?”
“I do not.”
Flitch shrugged. “I might’ve done a little at parties.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Hoffer sat forward. “Know where I could get some?”
Flitch smiled. “In Liverpool I could help you, but not down here.”
Hoffer sat back again and nodded slowly, then craned his neck. “Another round here, Tom.” Flitch didn’t say no. Hoffer rubbed a hand across his nose. “So what else did you talk about?
Family? Background? That’s what businessmen talk about in strange bars, isn’t it?”
“Not us, it never became personal. We talked about how easy things had seemed in the mid-’80s, then how tough they’d become, and how tough they still were. He said something like,
‘There’s no room for bleeding hearts in our line of work.’ ” Flitch shivered at the memory.
“The guy’s got a sense of humor,” Hoffer remarked. Tom arrived with the drinks. “Gerry, I’m not going to ask you what this guy looked like. You’ve already given the cops a good description, and he’ll have changed his appearance by now anyway. I’m going to ask for something more difficult.” Hoffer sat forward. “I want your impressions of him as a man. Just close your eyes, think back on that day, fix it in your mind, and then say anything you want to say. No need to feel embarrassed, the bar’s empty. Go on, close your eyes.” Flitch closed them. “That’s right. Now, to get you warmed up, I’ll ask a few questions about him, okay?”
“Okay.” Flitch’s eyelids fluttered like young butterflies.
“Tell me about his movements, were they stiff or fluid? How did he pick up his glass? Did you see him walk?”
Gerry Flitch thought for a moment and then started to speak.
Afterward, Hoffer washed his face and hands in the men’s room and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt tired. He’d have to phone Walkins tonight with a preliminary report. There’d be plenty to tell him. Walkins was greedy for information about the Demolition Man. It was like he wanted to build up a good enough picture so he could then tear it to shreds. Hoffer couldn’t really figure Walkins out. There were no photographs of his daughter in Walkins’s house, though there were plenty of his wife, who’d died of lung cancer. The man was loaded, a fortune made in politics. When he was a senator, Walkins had tucked the money away, probably most of it legit. You didn’t have to be crooked in politics to make a small fortune. But when he’d left politics, Walkins must have done something to turn his small fortune into a large one, large enough to pay for Hoffer’s obsession and still leave plenty over.
He thought about doing a couple of lines. They’d keep him awake and alert. But he had one more job to do yet, and besides, he was perilously close to the end of his stash. He left the men’s room and sweet-talked the receptionist, who let him take a look at room 203. The police had given it a good going-over. There was still fingerprint powder on the dressing table, wardrobe, and television. But it looked like “Mark Wesley” had spent some time before checking out engaged in a bit of dusting. He’d left a couple of dry bath towels on the floor of his room, and why else would they be there if he hadn’t been using them as dusters?
However, the polic
e reckoned they had half a palm print from the inside of the door, and an index finger from the courtesy kettle. They could not, of course, be sure whose prints they were.
They might belong to a maid or a visitor or a previous occupant.
They’d only know when they arrested Mark Wesley, or whatever he was calling himself now. They’d also dusted the ambulance, but Wesley had been helped in and helped out. He hadn’t touched a thing.
The room didn’t tell Hoffer anything. Gerry Flitch hadn’t told him much either. He was building up his own picture of the D-Man, but didn’t know where that would get him. He was no psychologist, no specialist in profiling. He had a friend at the FBI who might make more sense of it all. He went back to reception and found that the receptionist had his printout and photocopies all ready. He handed her the promised twenty. He’d already been given the information by Bob Broome, but he wanted to check that Broome was playing straight with him. The information was all here. He’d used a credit card to reserve his room, but had paid cash when he checked out. The police had run tests and serial number checks on all the cash taken by the hotel on Saturday.
The potential big break, though, was the credit card. The home address Mark Wesley had given to the hotel was false, but the credit card had turned out to be genuine.
It had taken a while to wring the information out of the credit card company, but now they knew all the lies Wesley had told them: occupation, date of birth, mother’s maiden name . . .
Well, maybe it was all a fabrication, but maybe there were a few half-truths and little slips in there. It would all be checked out.
The credit card company sent its statements to an address in St.
John’s Wood, and that’s where Hoffer was headed, as soon as his chauffeur arrived.
Broome arrived only five minutes late, so Hoffer forgave him.
“Had a productive morning?” Broome asked, as his passenger got in.
“I think so, what about you?”
“Ticking over.”
On the way to St. John’s Wood, Hoffer told Broome some of what he’d found out about hemophilia.
“If we could get a list of registered hemophiliacs, I bet we could narrow it down pretty fast.”
“Maybe. I’ll see what I can do. It could be a dead end.”
“Hey, we won’t know till we’ve got our noses pressed against the wall, will we?”
“I suppose not. But maybe we can take a shortcut. We’re just passing Lord’s, by the way.”
“Lord who?”
“Just Lord’s. It’s the home of cricket.”
“A sports field, huh? Cricket’s the one that’s like baseball, only easier?” Broome gave him a dark look. “Just kidding. But did you ever watch a game of baseball? Greatest game on earth.”
“That must be why so many countries play it.”
They arrived at an apartment block and parked in the residents only parking area. When they got to the right door, Broome made to ring the bell, then noticed Hoffer slip the Smith & Wesson out from his waistband.
“Christ, Leo!”
“Hey, our man may be in there.”
“It’s a mail service, that’s all. An accommodation address.
Remember, they’re expecting us, so put that gun away.”
Reluctantly, Hoffer tucked the pistol back into his waistband and buttoned his jacket. Broome rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened.
“Mr. Greene?”
“Chief Inspector Broome?”
“That’s right, sir.” Broome showed his ID. “May we come in?”
“Of course.”
They were led down a short dimly lit hall and into a living room. It was a ground-floor flat, as small as any Hoffer had been in. One bedroom and a bathroom, but the kitchen was part of the living room. It was well finished though, if you liked your home decorated according to fashion rather than personal preference.
Everything had that just-bought-from-Habitat look.
Desmond Greene was in his forties, wiry and slack-jawed with hands that moved too much and eyes that wouldn’t meet yours. When he talked, he looked like he was lecturing the pale yellow wallpaper. Hoffer marked him straightaway as gay, not that that meant anything. Often Hoffer met men he was sure were gay, only later to be introduced to their pneumatic wives.
Not that that meant anything either.
Broome had made a point of not introducing Hoffer. It wasn’t exactly Metropolitan Police policy to drag New York private eyes around with you on a case. Maybe Broome was hoping Hoffer would keep his mouth shut.
“How long you been running this setup, Mr. Greene?”
Hoffer asked.
Greene’s fingers glided down his face like a skin-cream commercial. “Four and a half years. That’s quite a long time in this business.”
“And how do potential clients find you?”
“Oh, I advertise.”
“Locally?”
A wry smile. “Expensively. I run regular advertisements in magazines.”
“Which magazines?”
“My Lord, you are curious.”
Hoffer tried out his own wry smile. “Only when I’m hunting a cold-blooded killer and someone’s standing in my way.”
Greene looked giddy, and Bob Broome took over. Hoffer didn’t mind; he reckoned he’d scared Greene into telling the truth and plenty of it. He didn’t even mind the way Broome looked at him, like Hoffer had just asked a Boy Scout to slip his hand into his trouser pocket and meet Uncle Squidgy.
“How long have you been handling mail for Mr. Wesley?”
“You understand, Chief Inspector,” Greene said, recovering slightly, “the purpose of a mailing address is confidentiality?”
“Yes, sir, I understand. But as I told you over the phone, this is a multiple-murder inquiry. If you do not cooperate, you’ll be charged with obstruction.”
“After which we’ll take your chintzy flat apart,” added Hoffer.
“Gracious,” said Greene, having a relapse. “Oh, goodness me.”
“Hoffer,” said Broome quietly, “go and put the kettle on.
Maybe Mr. Greene would like some tea.”
What am I, the fucking maid service? Hoffer got up and went to the kitchenette. He was behind Greene now, and Greene knew it. He sat forward in his chair, as though fearing a knife between the shoulder blades. Hoffer smiled, thinking how Greene would react to the feel of a cold gun muzzle at the back of his neck.
“So,” Broome was saying, “are you willing to assist us, sir?”
“Well, of course I am. It’s not my job to hide murderers.”
“Maybe if you told me a little of the service you offer Mr.
Wesley?”
“It’s the same as my other customers. There are forty-odd of them. I receive mail, and they can contact me by telephone to find out what’s arrived, or they can have the mail forwarded to them monthly. I also operate a call-answering and forwarding service, but Mr. Wesley didn’t require that.”
“How much mail does he receive?”
“Almost none at all. Bills and bank statements.”
“And does he have the stuff forwarded?”
“No, he collects it in person.”
“How often?”
“Infrequently. Like I say, it’s just bank statements and bills.”
“What sort of bills?”
“Credit cards, I’d guess. Well, he doesn’t need a credit card statement to pay off the account, does he? A simple check and note with his account number would do it.”
“That’s true. He never has the stuff forwarded to him?”
“Once he did, to a hotel in Paris.”
“Do you remember the name of the hotel?”
Greene shook his head. “I’m sorry, it was well over a year ago.”
“Maybe two years ago?” Hoffer added.
Greene half-turned to him. “Could be.”
Hoffer looked to Broome. “That Dutchman, the heroin pusher. The D-
Man took him out in Paris a couple of years back.”
Broome nodded. The kettle came to a boil and Hoffer picked it up, then thought better of it.
“Does anyone really want tea? Me, I could murder a drink.”
“I’ve some gin,” Greene said. “Or a few cans of lager.”
“It’s your party, Des,” Hoffer said with a grin.
So Broome and Hoffer had a can of lager each, and Greene sat with a gin and tonic. He loosened up a little after that. The lager was fine, even though a couple of months past its sell-by.
“Okay,” said Broome, “so mail gets sent here and Wesley phones up and you tell him what’s arrived?”
Greene nodded, stirring his drink with a finger and then sucking the tip.
“Does he ever get you to open mail and read it to him?”
Greene smacked his lips. “Never.”
“And he’s never received anything other than bills?”
Hoffer interrupted. “No fat brown envelopes full of banknotes? No large flat packages with photos and details of his next hit?”
Greene quivered the length of his body.
“Can you give us a description of him?” Broome asked, ignoring Hoffer. The description Greene gave was that of the man Gerry Flitch had given his card to.
“Well, that’s about all for now, Mr. Greene,” said Broome.
He placed his empty can on the carpet.
“But there’s one other thing,” said Greene.
“What’s that?”
“Aren’t you going to ask if there’s any mail waiting for him?”
“Well, is there?”
Greene broke into a huge wrinkle-faced grin. “Yes!” he squealed. “There is!”
But having got both men excited, he now seemed to want to stall. It was a crime, after all, to open someone else’s mail without their express permission. So Broome had to write a note to the effect that he was taking away the letter, and that he was authorized to do so. Greene read it through.
“Can you write that I’m exonerated from all guilt or possible legal action?”
Broome scribbled some words to that effect, then signed and dated the note. Greene studied it again. Hoffer was close behind him, breathing hard.
“Fine,” said Greene, folding the note but leaving it on the breakfast bar. He went off to fetch the letter. When he was out of the room, Hoffer tore a fresh sheet of paper from the writing pad, folded it, and put it down on the breakfast bar, then lifted Broome’s note and scrunched it into a ball before dropping it into his pocket. He winked at Broome. Greene came back into the room. He was waving a single, slim envelope.
