Bleeding Hearts (10 page)

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 haemophilia.

‘If we could get a list of registered haemophiliacs, 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 short cut. 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 a block of flats 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 40s, 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 straight away 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 set-up, 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 cheque 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 the 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 authorised 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.

‘Looks like a bank statement,’ he said.

It was a bank statement.

The bank was closed when they got to it, but the staff were still on the premises, balancing the day’s books. The manager, Mr Arthur, ushered them into his utilitarian office.

‘I can’t do anything tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to get anyone at head office. You realise that there are channels that must be gone through, authorisations, and even then a really thorough check could take some considerable time.’

‘I appreciate all of that, sir,’ said Bob Broome, ‘but the sooner we can get the ball rolling, the sooner we’ll be near the goal. This man has murdered over half a dozen individuals, two of them in this country.’

‘Yes, I do understand, and tomorrow morning we’ll do everything we can, as quickly as we can, it just can’t be done tonight.’

They were in the Piccadilly branch of one of the clearing banks. It was, naturally, a busy branch, perfect for someone like the Demolition Man, who needed to be anonymous.

‘If we could just talk about his account for a few minutes, sir,’ Broome said. The manager glanced at his wall clock and sighed.

‘Very well then,’ he said.

Broome produced the bank statement. There wasn’t much to it. It referred to the previous month, and showed a balance of £1,500 on the 1st, with cheque and cashpoint withdrawals through the month totalling £900, leaving a closing credit balance of £600. Arthur typed in the account number on his computer.

‘Mm,’ he said, studying the screen, ‘since that statement was drawn up, he’s withdrawn another £500.’

‘In other words,’ said Hoffer, ‘he’s all but emptied the account?’

‘Yes, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. He withdrew money on each day.’

Hoffer turned to Broome. ‘He’s shedding Mark Wesley.’ He turned to the bank manager. ‘Mr Arthur, I think you’ll find that account stays dormant from now on.’

‘Can we find out where he took the cash from?’ Broome asked.

Arthur studied the screen again. ‘Central London,’ he said.

‘What about old cheques?’ Hoffer asked. ‘Do you hold on to them?’

‘Yes, for a while at least.’

‘So we could look at his returned cheques?’

Arthur nodded. ‘After I’ve had authorisation.’

Broome looked at Hoffer. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘He has to pay people, Bob. Maybe he doesn’t always have the cash on him.’

‘You think he pays for his guns and explosives
by cheque?’

Hoffer held his hands up, palms towards Broome. ‘Hey, maybe not, but we need to check. Could be there’s something he’s paid for, or
someone
he’s paid for, that can lead us right to him. He’ll be underground now, busy making himself a new identity. All we have to go on is the old one. I say we dig as far as we can.’ He turned to Arthur, who was looking dazzled by this exchange. ‘We need old cheques, old statements, and we need to know the site of every auto-teller he’s used. There could be a pattern that’ll tell us where he’s based.’

‘Auto-teller?’ said Arthur.

‘Cash machine,’ explained Broome.

8

I sat in my hotel room, counting out my money.

I had $4,500 in cash, money I’d been keeping safe at Max’s farm. I had another $5,000 in cash in a safe deposit box in Knightsbridge, and $25,000 cash in another safe deposit box at the same location. I reckoned I’d be all right for a while. I’d all but emptied the Mark Wesley bank account, and had disposed of his credit cards. I still had my Michael Weston account and credit cards, and no matter how far the police probed into ‘Mark Wesley’, I couldn’t see them getting close to Michael Weston.

The hotel I was in had asked for a credit card as guarantee, but I’d paid upfront instead. I put some of the money back in my holdall, and put some in my pocket, leaving a couple of thousand still on the bed. I had more money in New York, and some in Zurich, but I definitely wouldn’t need to touch that.