[Jack Harvey Novels 02] Bleeding Hearts

by Ian Rankin

  “Bel, I needed you here to give me some cover. I don’t need any cover in Scotland.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. They’re not combing the streets for an assassin up there.”

  “But there’s this man Hoffer. If he’s figured things out this far, what’s to stop him going to Scotland?”

  “What if he does? Are you going to shield me from him?”

  I was smiling, but she wasn’t. With teeth gritted she started to thump my arms. “You’re not leaving me behind, Weston!”

  “Bel, see sense, will you?”

  “No, I won’t.” She was still thumping me. “I’m going with you!”

  I got off the bed and rubbed my arms. Bel put a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “I forgot! Michael, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. There’ll be bruises maybe, but that’s all.”

  “Christ, I’m sorry, I forgot all about . . .” She got off the bed and hugged me.

  “Hey, not too hard,” I said. I was laughing, but when I looked at Bel she had tears in her eyes. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m a hemophiliac, not a paper bag. I won’t burst.”

  She smiled at last, then embraced me again.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said. I kissed both her eyes, tast-ing salt from her lashes.

  “We’ll talk to Max,” I said.

  THIRTEEN

  “Come in, Mr. . . . ah . . .”

  “Hoffer.”

  “Absolutely. Take a seat, won’t you?”

  Geoffrey Johns’s office was everything Hoffer loathed and loved about England. It was old-fashioned, a bit dusty, and fairly reeked of centuries of history and family and tradition. There was something upright and solemn and confidential about it. You couldn’t imagine Johns in red suspenders and Gekko-slick hair, doing billion-dollar deals on the telephone. He was more father-confessor than lawyer, and though he wasn’t so old, he put on a good act of being wise, benign, and endearingly fuddled. Like making Hoffer introduce himself, even though he knew damn well who he was. Hoffer wanted to flick the man’s half-moon glasses into the wastebin and slap him on the head, try to wake him up. The twentieth century was drawing to a close, and Geoffrey Johns was still working in the Dickens industry.

  “Now then, Mr. . . . ah . . . Hoffer.” He’d been shuffling some papers on his desk. They were little more than a stage prop, so Hoffer bided his time, sitting down and smiling, arms folded.

  The solicitor looked up at him. “Some tea perhaps? Or coffee, I believe you Americans prefer coffee.”

  “We prefer, Mr. Johns, to cut through all the shit and get down to business.”

  Johns didn’t peer through his spectacles at Hoffer; he dropped his head and peered over them. “There are courtesies to be observed, Mr. Hoffer. Mrs. Ricks’s family is still in mourning.

  I myself am still in a state of some shock.”

  “She was a good client, huh?”

  Johns wasn’t slow to get the meaning. “I regarded her as a friend, one I’d known for many years.”

  Hoffer’s attention had been attracted to the Bakelite telephone. It made him smile. The solicitor misunderstood.

  “Good God, man, what is there to smile about?”

  “Your phone,” Hoffer said. “It’s a phony, isn’t it? I mean a fake.”

  “I believe it’s a replica.”

  “Lot of fakes about these days, Mr. Johns. I’ll have tea, please, milk and two lumps of sugar.”

  Johns stared at him, deciding whether or not to let the brash American have his tea. Politeness won the argument. Johns buzzed his secretary and asked for a pot of tea.

  “I believe,” Hoffer said, “your principal duty lies with your clients. Would you agree, Mr. Johns?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, one of them’s been murdered. And her family have asked you for your help. Now, way I see it, they want her killer found, she would want her killer found, and probably you do too.”

  “Of course I do,” fussed the lawyer. “No probably about it. I think they should bring back hanging for terrorists.”

  “Terrorists? What makes you say that?”

  “What?”

  “That the assassin was a terrorist?”

  “Well, who was his intended victim?”

  “I’ve no reason to believe it wasn’t Mrs. Ricks.”

  “Really? But the MP and the diplomat . . . ?”

  Hoffer shook his head. “The Demolition Man usually gets who he aims for.”

  “Ah, but the papers say he shot the wrong person in New York. They say that’s where your story starts.”

  Hoffer accepted this. He’d been interviewed yesterday and this morning by a couple of papers and a radio station. No television yet, which was surprising. The story had a new angle with the two East European countries closing their mutual border. The Demolition Man was still news, and Hoffer always gave good copy.

  “As I see it, Mr. Hoffer,” Johns went on, “my duty is to aid the official police investigation any way I can. I don’t believe you form part of that investigation, therefore I’m not obliged to grant you an interview at all.”

  “If you know anything,” Hoffer said, “you’ll know that if anyone’s going to catch this man, that person is me.”

  “Really? And how long have you been tracking him? Quite a while, I believe.”

  Hoffer was getting to like the solicitor better all the time.

  “Have you spoken to the police much?” he asked.

  “Practically every day, twice yesterday.” Johns shook his head.

  “I try to help where I can, but some of the questions . . .”

  A tray of tea arrived. Hoffer gave the secretary a good look as she stood beside him and leaned over to put the tray down on the desk. Great legs, nice ass, but a face so thin and sharp you could use it as an awl.

  “Thank you, Monica,” said Johns. After the secretary had gone, he started pouring milk and tea with the grace of a duchess.

  “I’ll let you help yourself to sugar.”

  Hoffer helped himself. “What sort of questions?” he asked casually.

  “Well, the one that got me was: what colors did she like to wear? I couldn’t see the point of that at all, but the officer said he had his reasons for asking.”

  “Didn’t tell you what those reasons were though?”

  “No, he didn’t. A typical policeman, I’m afraid.”

  “Her favorite colors, huh?” Hoffer pondered the question himself, seeking the point behind it, while he stirred his tea. It was one of those elegant little china cups with a handle so over-elaborate and undersized that he ended up with his hand around the cup itself, ignoring the handle.

  Johns seemed to be having no trouble with his own handle.

  They probably taught tricks like that in law school.

  “I should tell you, Mr. Johns, that I’m working pretty closely with the London police. They know I’m on the right side. I mean, we’ve all got the same objective, right?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “So don’t misunderstand me.” Hoffer smiled humbly. “The press don’t always paint the real picture of me. I’m not after glory or anything, I’m not some obsessed crazy guy with a mission from on high. I’m just a cop doing my job.” Sincerity was easy.

  “And I’d appreciate your help.”

  Johns put down his cup. “And you shall have it, so far as I can give it.”

  The telephone interrupted them. It might be a replica, but it had a nice old tinny ring which faded only slowly after Johns picked up the receiver.

  “Monica, I wanted all calls held. All right, put him on. Hello, Ray, what can I do for you? No, I haven’t had the news on this morning. What’s that?” He looked at Hoffer and kept looking.

  “That’s interesting. When was this? Mm, well, I don’t know what to think. No, no comment at this time. Thank you, good-bye.”

  He hung up the phone but left his hand on t
he receiver.

  “That was a reporter,” he informed Hoffer. “He says a local radio station has been contacted by someone claiming to be the assassin.”

  “Some crank,” said Hoffer. “What’s he saying?”

  “He says he wants the two East European countries to know he wasn’t hired to assassinate the diplomat. He says he got who he was aiming at.” Johns looked very pale as he lifted his hand from the receiver. “I think I need something stiffer than tea.”

  There was a liquor cabinet beneath the window. Johns poured a dark liquid into two tiny stemmed glasses. There was about a shot’s worth in the glass he handed to Hoffer, who sniffed it.

  “Sherry,” said Johns, gulping his down.

  Hoffer, who’d only come across the stuff in English trifle, knocked it back, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing.

  It was sour to start with, but quickly got mellow as it warmed his gut.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  “You still think this was a crank call?” asked the solicitor.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe your man has just found himself a conscience.”

  “Some conscience.” Hoffer still didn’t get the question about Ricks’s clothes. “The policeman you spoke to yesterday, the one who asked what Mrs. Ricks normally wore, can I ask who he was?

  Was it Chief Inspector Broome maybe? Or DI Edmond?”

  “No, neither of those, though I’ve spoken to them before.

  This was someone new to the inquiry. He apologized for asking questions I’d probably been asked before.”

  “Was he on his own?”

  “No, he was with another officer.”

  “He didn’t have brown hair, did he?”

  “Black hair, cut short as I recall.”

  Hoffer was beginning to wonder. Mark Wesley had got some fake ID from Harry Capaldi . . .

  “Did they show you any identification?”

  “Oh, yes. The man was called Wes . . . no, hold on.” Hoffer had nearly leaped from his chair, but the solicitor was fussing on his desk again, trying to find a scrap of paper or something.

  “Here it is. Inspector West.”

  “No first name?”

  “No. His assistant was a woman, a Detective Constable Harris.”

  Hoffer shook his head slowly. “I don’t know them,” he said, not convinced he was quite telling the truth.

  Bob Broome wasn’t thrilled to see him. Vine Street was its usual chaos and gloom. Broome wouldn’t let Hoffer past the front desk, so Hoffer waited for Broome to descend.

  “I’m busy,” he said curtly, when he finally arrived.

  “You’ll find time for me, Bob, when you hear what I’ve got.”

  Broome narrowed his eyes. “I’ve got enough cranks around here as it is.”

  “You don’t think that call was a crank, do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you got a recording or just a transcript?”

  Broome narrowed his eyes further. “Is that all you’re here for, to try pumping me about the phone call?”

  Hoffer shook his head defiantly. “Just tell me this: DI West and DC Harris, do you know them?”

  “First names?” Hoffer shook his head. Broome gave it another couple of seconds. “Never heard of them.”

  “West sounds a bit like Wesley, doesn’t it?”

  “Come on, Hoffer, what’s your story?”

  “Can we go upstairs and talk about it? I feel like a victim stuck down here.”

  Broome decided to give the American the benefit of his very grave doubts.

  “Come on then,” he said. On the way up, they passed Barney coming down. He winked at Hoffer.

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Hoffer said, trying to sound guilty or embarrassed as Broome gave him a long dirty look.

  When they got to the office, Broome made a show of checking the time. “You’ve got five minutes,” he told Hoffer. Then he sat down and looked like he was waiting for a show to begin.

  “I don’t pay dues to any acting union, Bob.” Hoffer sat down slowly, taking a while to get comfortable. “I’ll put it to you straight, but stop acting like you’re in a sulk.”

  “Sulk? You’re going around like you’re the chief inspector and I’m just some office boy who gets in your way. I’m not sulking, Hoffer, I’m bloody furious. Now, what have you got for me?”

  A detective constable came into the room and placed a small packet on Broome’s desk. Broome ignored it, waiting for Hoffer to speak. Hoffer pointed to the packet.

  “Is that the tape, Bob?” Broome didn’t say anything. “Come on, let’s listen to it.”

  “First tell me what you know.”

  “Well, know is a bit strong. But there’s this solicitor, Geoffrey Johns. Know what johns are in the States? Well, never mind.”

  “I know Mr. Johns.”

  “Yes, you do. But you don’t know anyone called West or Harris. West’s in his midthirties, tall and lean, with short black hair. He’s with a young woman, pretty tall with short fair hair. I’ll let your guys go get more detailed descriptions from Johns and his secretary.”

  “Good of you. So you think West is Wesley?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s posing as a police officer?”

  “With ID faked up by Capaldi.”

  “Why?”

  Broome had asked one of the questions Hoffer couldn’t answer.

  “And who’s his partner?”

  Now he’d asked the other. Hoffer shrugged. “I don’t know, but he was asking questions about Ricks. The important thing is, he’s still in town and he’s asking around. By rights he should be miles away, but he’s here under our noses.” The image made Hoffer think of something. He sniffed the thought away. “He’s here, Bob, and the only reason I can think of why he’s still around is that he’s on to something.” He paused. “I think he’s going after his employer.”

  “What?”

  “The anonymous phone call, the one that nearly got him caught, he’s after whoever made it. Stands to reason it must have been someone close to the deceased, otherwise how would he know where to find her?” He snapped his fingers. “That’s why he’s asking about her clothes.”

  “Her clothes?”

  Hoffer’s mind was racing. “He must’ve been told what she’d be wearing! Christ, could that be it?”

  “I’m not really getting this, Hoffer.”

  Hoffer slumped back as far as he was able in his chair. “Me neither, not all of it. Just pieces, and the pieces don’t all make sense.”

  Broome fingered the packet, but didn’t seem in a hurry to open it. “Hoffer,” he said, “there was some shooting in north London last night.”

  “Yeah, I read about it.”

  “We’ve got a description of a fat man seen running away.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  Broome pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s also been a mugging, except that no money was taken from the victim.”

  Broome looked up. “You’re supposed to ask me who the victim was.”

  Hoffer blew his nose before asking. “So who was it?”

  “Mr. Arthur, the bank manager.”

  Hoffer threw his used tissue into the bin beside Broome’s desk.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about it, Hoffer?”

  “Give me a break, Bob. I haven’t mugged anyone since I quit the NYPD. You get a description of the assailants?”

  Broome was staring at Hoffer. “He was hit from behind. He’s got a concussion.”

  Hoffer shook his head. “Nice guy, too. Nobody’s safe these days.”

  Broome sighed and rubbed his eyes. “All right,” he said, “let’s listen to the tape.”

  He had a DC bring in a portable cassette player and set it up.

  “This local station must be on their toes,” said Hoffer.

  “They tape all calls to the news desk, partly as a favor to us.�
�

  “Why?”

  “Because the IRA often call a local radio station to take re-sponsibility for a bombing. That way the news gets on the air faster, plus it doesn’t look like they’re cooperating with us.”

  “So the radio station’s a kind of go-between?”

  “Sort of, yes.” Broome loaded the tape and pressed Play.

  There was some soft hissing, which became louder until someone spoke.

  “News desk, Joely speaking.”

  “This is the Demolition Man, do you understand?”

  “Dem . . . ? Oh yes, yes, I understand.”

  “Listen then. Tell everyone I hit my intended target, got that? I wasn’t after the diplomat. He just happened to be there.

  Understood?”

  “Mm, yes.” Joely was obviously writing it all down. “Yes, I’ve got that. Can I just ask—”

  “No questions. If anyone thinks this is a hoax, tell them Egypt, the Cairo Hilton, twelfth of December two years ago.”

  “Hello? Hello?” But the Demolition Man had hung up.

  Broome listened to the silence for a few moments, then stopped and rewound the tape.

  “The original’s gone to the lab boys,” he said. “We’ll see what they say.”

  “Sounded like he was at a pay phone, and not long distance.

  He’s English, isn’t he?”

  “Sounds it. Sounded like he was trying to disguise his voice too.”

  Hoffer smiled. “You weren’t taken in by the Jimmy Durante impression?”

  “Maybe he’s got a cold.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Broome looked at Hoffer. “Egypt?”

  Hoffer nodded. “Yeah, it’s not one everyone knows about.

  Nobody’s been able to say it was the D-Man, so it never makes the papers. It was a precision hit, long-range, but he didn’t leave a bomb. Either that or the bomb didn’t detonate.”

  “Who did he kill?”

  “Some Arab millionaire with big gambling debts which he was unwisely ignoring.” Hoffer shrugged. “The gambler was a Mr. Big, didn’t think anyone could touch him. He had an armored Mercedes and four bodyguards a grenade launcher couldn’t’ve budged. They used to huddle round their boss when he went anywhere, like he was Muhammad Ali going into the ring. Then, pop, a bullet hits the guy smack in the heart, and they’re all looking around, only they don’t know where to look because there’s nothing there to look at. They reckon it was a hit from six, maybe seven hundred yards.”