[Jack Harvey Novels 02] Bleeding Hearts

by Ian Rankin

  “You know a lot about it.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to look things up. I’ve got a file of more than sixty assassinations going back fifteen years. He could be behind any number of them.”

  “Would anyone else know about it?”

  “Only someone as obsessed as me.” Hoffer paused. “It’s him on the tape, I know it’s him.”

  “We’ll see if the experts can come up with anything.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’d be surprised. We’ve got linguistic people who might pin down his accent, even if you and I can’t tell he’s got one. We could get it down to a region or county.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “It’s slow and methodical, Hoffer, that’s how we do things.

  We don’t go shooting our mouths off and our guns off.”

  “Hey, I make the jokes around here.”

  “Just don’t become a joke, all right?”

  “Whoa, Bob, okay, you got me, I yield to your sharper wit.

  Now what say I get a copy of that tape?”

  “What say you don’t?”

  “Still sore at me, huh?”

  “What’s Barney got for you?”

  “Just a few names, gun dealers.” Hoffer shrugged. “You’re not the only one who can be slow and methodical. Gumshoes do a lot of walking, Bob, a lot of knocking on doors.”

  “Just don’t come knocking on mine for a while, Leo.”

  “Whatever you say, Bob.” Broome had gone back to calling him Leo; it was going to be all right between them. Hoffer got slowly to his feet. “What about Inspector West?”

  “I’ll have someone talk to Mr. Johns, get a description circulating.” Hoffer nodded. “Don’t expect a bunch of roses, Hoffer, you just did what you’re supposed to do all the time. If you get anything else, come back and see me.”

  Hoffer fixed a sneer to his face. “You can fucking well go whistle, Bob.” He opened the door, but turned back into the room. “You know how to whistle, don’t you?”

  And then he was gone.

  Hoffer sat next morning, lingering over the hotel breakfast. The hotel he was in had a restaurant which opened onto the street, and was open to the public as well as to guests. Something inside Hoffer didn’t like that. Anyone could walk in off the street and sit down next to you. There was a guy sitting by the window who looked like Boris Karloff had donated to a sperm bank and Bette Davis had picked up the jar. He wore little round Gestapo-style glasses which reflected more light than there was light to reflect.

  He was reading a newspaper and eating scrambled eggs on toast.

  He gave Hoffer the creeps.

  Hoffer wasn’t feeling too well to start with. He didn’t have an earache anymore, but he had a pain in his side which could be some form of cancer. Through the night he’d woken in agony with a searing pain all down one side of his back. He’d staggered into the bathroom, then out again, and was about to phone for an ambulance when he discharged a sudden belt of gas. After that he felt a bit better, so he tried again and got out another huge belch.

  Someone hammered on the wall for a couple of moments, but he ignored them. He just sat there bare-assed on the carpet until he could stop shaking.

  Christ, he’d been scared. The adrenaline had kept him awake for another hour, and he’d no pills left to knock him out.

  He put it down to nervousness. He’d called Walkins, and Walkins hadn’t been too happy with Hoffer’s report.

  “Mr. Hoffer, I wish you wouldn’t sound so excited all the time.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. I mean, you call me with news of great import, and say you’re getting close, and you sound so thrilled at the prospect. But Mr. Hoffer, we’ve been here before, several times before, and each time you get my hopes up, the next thing I know your lead has proved false or the trail has grown cold. I want more than your hope, Mr. Hoffer. I want a result. So no more acting, no more milking me for money. Just find him, and find him fast. The media would love me to tell them you’ve been a fake all along.”

  “Hey, stop right there! I’m busting a gut here, I’m working round the clock. You think you pay me too much? You couldn’t pay me half enough for what I go through for you.”

  “For me?”

  “You bet it’s for you! Who else?”

  “Yourself perhaps, your reputation.”

  “That’s a crock of shit and you know it.”

  “Look, let’s not get into a fight.”

  “I didn’t start it.” Hoffer was standing up in his room, facing the dressing-table mirror. He was hyperventilating, and trying to calm down. Walkins was thousands of miles away. He couldn’t hit him, and he didn’t want to hit a stand-in. He took deep slow breaths instead.

  “I know you didn’t, Mr. Hoffer, it’s just that . . . it’s just we’ve been here before. You’ve sounded so close to him, so excited, so sure. Do you know what it’s like at this end, just waiting for your next call? You can’t possibly know. It’s like fire under my finger-nails, knives stuck between my ribs. It’s . . . I can hardly move, hardly bear to do anything except wait. I’m as housebound as any invalid.”

  Hoffer was about to suggest a portable phone, but didn’t think flippancy was in order.

  “Sir,” he said calmly, “I’m doing what I can. I’m sorry if you feel I build up your hopes without due cause. I just thought you’d want to know how it’s going.”

  “I do want to know. But I’d rather just be told the sonofabitch was dead.”

  “Me, too, sir, believe me.” Hoffer stared at the gun lying on his bedside cabinet. “Me, too.”

  And here he sat next morning, awaiting his order of a Full English Breakfast with orange juice, toast, and coffee. His waitress was a crone. She was probably in the kitchen grinding up wormwood to add to the egg mix. He wondered if maybe she had a sister who worked in the porn theater where he’d wasted more money than time last night. There were three movies on the bill, but he’d lasted only half the first one. The stuff they were showing was as steamy as a cold cup of coffee, and the usherette who’d waddled down the aisle selling ices had looked like she was wearing a fright mask. She’d still managed to exude more sex than the pale dubbed figures on the unfocused screen. The film was called Swedish Nymph Party, but it started with some cars drawing up outside a mountain chalet, and the license plates were definitely German, not Swedish. After that, Hoffer just couldn’t get into the film.

  London was definitely getting shabby.

  A few more hungry clients wandered in off the street. There was no one about to show them to a table, so some wandered back outside while others sat down and then wondered if they’d maybe walked into Tussaud’s by mistake.

  “Mr. Hoffer.”

  “Hey, Barney, sit down.” Hoffer half rose to greet the policeman. They sat opposite one another. “I’d ask you to share my breakfast, only I don’t have any yet, and the speed they’re serving, you could probably come back after work and they’d be pouring the coffee.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I’m glad someone is. Thanks for coming.”

  “I think it suits us both. You’re not exactly this month’s centerfold at Vine Street.”

  “Yeah, Bob really holds a grudge, huh? Just because I took him off the payroll. Speaking of which . . .” Hoffer handed over two twenties. “This ought to cover your expenses.”

  “Cheers.” Barney put the notes in his pocket and produced a folded-up piece of lined writing paper. It looked like he’d saved it from a wastebin.

  “This is a class act, Barney.”

  “You wouldn’t have been able to read my typing, and names are names, aren’t they?”

  “Sure, absolutely.” Hoffer unfolded the paper gingerly and laid it on the table. It was a handwritten list of names. There were two columns, one headed London/Southeast and the other Other Areas.

  But there were only names, no addresses or other information.<
br />
  “Maybe I pay too much,” said Hoffer.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This tells me less than the Yellow Pages, Barney. What am I supposed to do, scour the phone book for these guys or what?”

  “You said you wanted their names.”

  “What did you think I would do with them? Find one I liked and name my first son after it?” The policeman looked uncompre-hending. He couldn’t understand why Hoffer wouldn’t be pleased.

  “This is all hush-hush info. I mean, on the surface these guys are clean. This isn’t the sort of information you could just get anywhere.”

  “I appreciate that, really I do. I hear what you’re saying. But Jesus, Barney, I expected a little more.”

  Barney took the list back and studied it. “Well, I could give you some addresses off the top of my head.”

  “That would help. I’d be real grateful.” Hoffer took the list back and got a pen from his pocket. He looked around in vain for his breakfast. “Two more minutes, I swear, then I’m going into that fucking kitchen and cooking it myself.”

  A new waitress had appeared at the front of the restaurant and was handing menus to customers who’d come in, and taking the orders from others. Then Hoffer’s waitress appeared with a tray full of food, but took it to another table.

  “That fuck came in after me!” Hoffer hissed. “Hey! Excuse me!” But the waitress had dived back into the kitchen.

  “These first three are south London,” Barney was saying, his finger on the list. “He lives in Clapham, that one’s Catford, and the third one is Upper Norwood. Actually, Shattuck’s not a dealer so much as a buyer, but he sometimes tries selling stuff.”

  Hoffer was scribbling the information down. “Now as for these others . . .”

  “Hey, wait, you said addresses.”

  So Barney screwed shut his eyes and concentrated like he was the last man left in the quiz show. He came up with three streets, but only one positive house number.

  “They’re not big streets though.”

  “I am duly thankful,” Hoffer said dubiously. The waitress appeared bearing another tray, this time laying it on Hoffer’s table.

  “I’ve got to tell you, honey,” he said, “the starving in Africa get fed faster than this.”

  She was unmoved. “We’ve got staff problems.”

  “Right, it takes them longer than other people to fry ham.

  Tell them to turn the gas on next time.”

  “Very droll.” She turned away with her empty tray. Hoffer attacked a small fat sausage, dipping it in the gelatinous yellow of his solitary egg.

  “This is one sad-looking breakfast,” he said. It looked almost as lugubrious as Barney, and had all the charm of the guy in the Gestapo glasses, who was now having a third cup of coffee. The toast felt like they’d lifted it from a pathology lab, where it must have lain not far from the deep-frozen pats of butter.

  “These others,” Barney was saying, “the other London names, they’re north of the river or a bit further out. That one’s Clapton, that one’s Kilburn, he’s Dagenham, and the last one’s Watford.”

  “Addresses?”

  Barney shrugged. “Then there are these ones outside London. One’s near Hull, there are two in Yorkshire, a couple in Newcastle, one in Nottingham, and one in Cardiff.” He paused.

  “I’m not exactly sure which one’s which though, not offhand.”

  He brightened and stabbed at a name. “He’s definitely Bristol though.”

  “Bristol, huh? Well, thanks for your help. Thanks a heap.”

  He tried the coffee. By this stage of the meal, it could hold few surprises. Hoffer was suitably laconic. “Shit,” he said. “You know, Barney, a lot of people complain about the food in the States.

  They say it’s beautifully presented, you know, great to look at, but that it doesn’t taste like much. Either that or it’s all fast food, you know, burgers and pizza, and there’s no real cuisine. But I swear, compared to the stuff I’ve eaten in London, a poor-boy sandwich from some mosquito-filled shack in the Everglades is as foie gras and caviar.”

  He stared at Barney. Barney stared back.

  “You don’t much go for it then?”

  Hoffer was still staring. “Did you say Yorkshire?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Two of these guys live in Yorkshire?”

  “Yeah, Yorkshire . . . or Lancashire, thereabouts.”

  “This is important, Barney. Yorkshire? Think hard.”

  “I don’t know . . . I think so, yes.”

  “Which ones?”

  Barney could see this meant a lot to Hoffer. He shook his head like a pet pupil who’s failing his mentor. “I don’t know. Wait a minute, Harrison’s in Yorkshire.”

  Hoffer studied the list. “Max Harrison?” he said.

  “Yes, he’s Yorkshire, but I think he’s retired. He got cancer or something. It rotted all his face.”

  “Terrific. I’d still like an address.” Hoffer was speaking slowly and carefully.

  “I can find out.”

  “Then find out. It’s very important.”

  “Why Yorkshire?”

  “Because the Demolition Man has spent some time there, and some money there.” Hoffer went down the list again, picking between his teeth with one of the tines of his fork. None of the names set any bells ringing. “I need to know about the Yorkshire dealers, Barney, I need to know about them soonest, capisce? ” Barney looked blank. “Understood?”

  Now Barney nodded. “Good man. How soon?”

  “Later today, maybe not till tomorrow.”

  Which meant Barney couldn’t get them till tomorrow, but didn’t want to admit it straight out.

  “I mean,” he went on, “I’ve got my real job, you know. I can’t suddenly go off and do other stuff, not without a good reason.”

  “Isn’t my money reason enough?”

  “Well, I won’t say it isn’t welcome.”

  “A hundred if I get them today, otherwise it’s another forty.”

  Barney thought about haggling. He was London born and bred, and Londoners were famed for their street wisdom, their deal-doing. But one look at the New Yorker told Barney he wasn’t going to win.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “And Barney, typed this time, huh? Bribe a secretary if you have to. Use your old charm.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hoffer.” Barney seemed relieved to be leaving.

  He sought a form of farewell, and waved one arm. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  “Thank you, Barney,” said Hoffer, smiling a fixed smile. “I’ll certainly try.”

  He stuck with the coffee and toast. After all, breakfast was included in the price of his room. The toast put up some resistance to the notion of being gnawed to bits and swallowed, but the coffee seemed to have a fine corrosive quality. So engaged was he in the battle that Hoffer didn’t notice the Karloff–Bette Davis test-tube baby leave his table and start walking back through the dining area toward the hotel proper. But he noticed when the man stopped at his table and smiled down on him.

  “What am I, a circus act?” Hoffer said, spitting flecks of bread onto the man’s burgundy jacket. It was one of those English-style jackets that the English seldom wore, but which were much prized by Americans.

  “I couldn’t help hearing you try to . . . ah, summon the waitress,” the stranger said. “I’m American myself.”

  “Well,” Hoffer said expansively, “sit down, pardner. It’s good to see another patriotic American.”

  The man started to sit.

  “Hey,” snapped Hoffer, “I was being ironic.”

  But the man sat down anyway. Close up, he had a thin persistent smile formed from wide, meatless lips. His face was dotted with freckles, his hair short and bleached. But his eyes were almost black, hooded with dark bags under them. He wasn’t tall, but he was wide at the shoulders. Everything he did he did for a specific purpose. Now he planted his hands on
the table.

  “So, how’re things going, Mr. Hoffer?”

  “I get it, another fan, huh? No autographs today, bud, okay?”

  “You seem nervous, Mr. Hoffer.”

  “As of right now I’m about nervous enough to bust you in the chops.”

  “But you’re also curious. You wonder who I am really. On the surface you affect disdain, but beneath, your mind is always working.”

  “And right now it’s telling my fists to do the talking.”

  “That would be unwise.” There were long regular spaces between the words.

  “Persuade me.”

  The man looked at the cold food still left on Hoffer’s plate.

  “The food here is appalling, isn’t it? I was disappointed when you booked into this hotel. I was thinking more the Connaught or the Savoy. Have you ever eaten at the Grill Room?”

  “What are you, a food critic?”

  “My hobby,” the man said. “How’s your mission going?”

  “Mission?”

  “Locating the Demolition Man.”

  “It’s going swell, he’s upstairs in my room watching the Disney Channel. Who are you?”

  “I work for the Company.”

  Hoffer laughed. “You don’t get any points for subtlety, pal. The Company? What makes any of my business the CIA’s business?”

  “You’re looking for an assassin. He has murdered United States citizens. Plus, when he kills, he often kills politicians.”

  “Yeah, scumbags from sweatshop republics.” Hoffer nodded.

  “Maybe they’re all friends of yours, huh? How come you haven’t introduced yourself before?”

  “Well, let’s say we’re more interested now.”

  “You mean now he’s almost started World War Three? Or now he’s killed a journalist? Let’s see some ID, pal.”

  “I don’t have any on me.”

  “Don’t tell me, you left it in your other burgundy jacket? Get out of my face.”

  The man didn’t look inclined to leave. “I’m very good at reading upside down,” he said.

  Hoffer didn’t understand, then saw that Barney’s sheet of paper was still spread open by the side of his plate. He folded it and put it away.