Bleeding Hearts (14 page)

Hoffer caught himself whistling ‘God Bless America’ and checked it just in time.

A door opened along the hall. ‘Mr Hoffer?’

Hoffer walked along the hall to meet the Major. His name was Major Drysdale, and he had a cool dry handshake, a bit like a Baptist minister’s. ‘Come in, please.’

‘I was telling your ... ah, I was saying I appreciate you seeing me like this.’

‘Well, your call was intriguing. It’s not every day I get to meet a New York detective. Speaking of which, there are certain formalities ... Could I see your identification?’

Hoffer reached into his pocket and produced his detective’s ID, which had been unfortunately mislaid at the time of his resignation from the force. It came in useful sometimes. People in authority would often prefer to speak to a real police officer than a shamus. Hoffer reckoned this was one of those times. Drysdale took down a few details from the ID before handing back the wallet. That worried Hoffer, but not much. He might go on to an Army file, but he doubted they’d go so far as to phone his supposed employers in the States. He kept reading about military cutbacks, and phone calls cost money.

‘So,’ said Major Drysdale, ‘what can I do for you, Detective Hoffer?’

It was a small plain office, lacking any trace of personality. Drysdale might have just moved in, which would explain it. But Hoffer thought the man looked comfortable here, like he’d sat in the office for years. He wasn’t much more than PR, a public face for the Army. The camp’s real muscle was elsewhere. But Hoffer didn’t need muscle, he just needed a few questions answered. He needed a friendly ear. He was on his best behaviour and in his best suit, but Drysdale still treated him with just a trace of amusement, like he’d never seen such a specimen before.

As to the Major himself, he was tall and skinny with arms you could have snapped with a Chinese restaurant’s crab-crackers. He had short fair hair and blue eyes out of a Nazi youth league, and a moustache which could have been drawn on his face with ballpoint. He wasn’t young any more, but still carried acne around his shirt collar. Could be he was allergic to the starch.

‘Well, Major,’ Hoffer said, ‘like I said on the telephone, it’s a medical question, and a vague one at that, but it’s in connection with a series of murders, assassinations to be more accurate, and as such we would appreciate any help the Army can give.’

‘And you’re working in tandem with Scotland Yard?’

‘Oh, absolutely. I have their full backing.’

‘Could you give me a contact name there?’ Drysdale poised his pen above his notepad.

‘Sure. Uh, Chief Inspector Broome. That’s B-r-o-o-m-e. He’s the man to talk to. He’s based at Vine Street in central London.’

‘Not Scotland Yard?’

‘Well, they’re working together on this.’

‘Orange, isn’t it?’

‘Sir?’

‘Vine Street.’ Hoffer still didn’t get it. ‘On the Monopoly board.’

Hoffer grinned, chuckled even, and shook his head in wonder at the joke.

‘Do you have a phone number for the Chief Inspector?’

‘Oh, yessir, sure.’ Goddamned Army. Hoffer gave Major Drysdale the number. His skin was crawling, and he had to force himself not to scratch all over. He wished he hadn’t taken some speed before setting out.

‘Maybe before we start,’ Drysdale was saying now, not stonewalling exactly, just following procedure, ‘you could tell me a little about the inquiry itself. Oh, tea by the way?’

‘Yes, please.’

Drysdale picked up his phone and ordered tea and ‘some biccies’. Then he sat back and waited for Hoffer to tell him all about the D-Man.

It took a while, but eventually, two cups of strong brown tea later, Hoffer got to the point he’d wanted to start with. Drysdale had asked questions about everything from the assassin’s first error to the sniper rifle he’d used in London. And he’d kept on scribbling notes, though Hoffer wanted to say it was none of his goddamned business, tear the pad from him, and chew it up with his teeth. He was sweating now, and blamed tannin poisoning. His throat was coated with felt.

‘So you see,’ he said, ‘if the man we’re looking for hasn’t exactly been in the Army, well, maybe he’s been or still is connected to it in some way. The most obvious connection I can think of is family.’

‘You mean a brother or sister?’

‘No, sir, I mean his father. I think it would have to be his father, someone who might have instilled in him a ... relationship with weapons.’

‘We don’t normally allow children to train with live ammo, Detective Hoffer.’

‘That’s not exactly what I’m saying, sir. I mean, I’m sure the Army’s probity is above ... uh, whatever. But say this man was good with firearms, well, wouldn’t he want to pass that knowledge and interest on to his son?’

‘Even if the son could never join the Army?’

‘The kid could’ve been a teenager before anyone found out he was a haemophiliac. Mild sufferers, sometimes they don’t find out till they’re grown up. It takes an operation or something before anyone notices they have trouble getting their blood to clot.’

‘This is all very interesting,’ said Drysdale, flicking through his copious notes, ‘but I don’t see where it gets us.’

‘I’ll tell you, sir. It gets us a kid who’s diagnosed haemophiliac by an Army doctor, sometime in the past, maybe between twenty and thirty years ago. You must have records.’

Drysdale laughed. ‘We may have records, but do you know what you’re asking? We’d have to check every Army base here and abroad, every medical centre. Even supposing they held records from so long ago. Even supposing the child was treated by an Army doctor. I mean, he might easily have gone to a civilian doctor. Putting aside all this, he would have taken his records with him.’

‘What?’

‘When you change doctors, your new doctor requests from your old doctor all your medical notes. You don’t keep them yourself, your doctor keeps them. Your present doctor.’

‘Are you sure? Maybe if I spoke to someone from your medical — ’

‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’

Hoffer considered his options. He could whack the guy. He could wheedle. He could offer some cash. He didn’t think any of these would work, so he decided to be disappointed instead.

‘I’m real sorry you can’t find it in yourself to help, Major. You know how many innocent people this man has murdered? You know he’ll keep on doing it till he’s caught? I mean, he’s not going to give it up and move jobs. I can’t see him waiting tables at IHOP or somewhere.’

Drysdale smiled again. ‘Look, I know what you’re saying. I appreciate that you — ’

Hoffer got to his feet. ‘No, sir, with all due respect I don’t think you do know. I won’t waste any more of your time.’ He turned to the door.

‘Wait a minute.’ Hoffer waited. He turned his head. Drysdale was standing too now. ‘Look, maybe I can initiate a few general inquiries.’

Hoffer turned back into the room. ‘That would be great, sir.’

‘I can’t make any promises, you understand.’

‘Absolutely. We’re all just trying to do what we can.’

Drysdale nodded. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I really appreciate that, sir.’ Hoffer took Drysdale’s hand. ‘I’m sure I speak for us all.’

Drysdale smiled a little sheepishly. Then he said he’d get someone to escort the detective back to the gate.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Hoffer.

While he waited back in the reception area for his ‘escort’ to appear, he spotted a drinking fountain and flew towards it, filling his mouth with water, gargling, spitting it back, and finally swallowing a few mouthfuls.

‘How can they drink that stuff?’ he asked himself as he wiped his mouth.

‘It’s only water,’ his escort said from behind him.

‘I meant the goddamned tea,’ said Hoffer.

10

I knocked again.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s get busy. We’re not tourists any more.’

Not that Bel had seen many of the sights of London, unless ‘sights’ was broad enough to encompass Tottenham and a couple of low-class restaurants. I listened at her door until I could hear her getting out of bed.

‘I’ll meet you downstairs,’ she called.

I went back to my room and tried phoning again. This time I got through. I was calling someone at British Telecom. His name was Allan and he didn’t come cheap.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Have they started tapping your line yet?’

‘No, just everybody else’s. I can give you the latest royal dirt if you like.’

He didn’t sound like he was joking. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m after a couple of numbers.’

‘I take it you mean unlisted, or you’d be calling Directory Enquiries.’

‘I’ve checked, they’re unlisted. The first is a woman called Eleanor Ricks.’

‘The one who got shot?’

‘Could be.’

‘You’ve got to be careful, man. Sometimes Scotland Yard or MI5 stick keywords into the system. If you say the word and they catch it, they record your whole conversation.’

Allan was always trying to impress me — or scare me, I didn’t know which — with this sort of comment.

‘Her husband may be the subscriber,’ I carried on. ‘He’s called Frederick Ricks. According to the tabloids, they live in Camden. I’ll need their address, too.’

‘Got it.’ He paused. ‘You said a couple of names?’

‘Joe Draper, he heads a TV production company. He’s got a house in Wiltshire, the phone number there would be useful, plus any address for him in town, apart from his office. His office is in the book.’

I could hear Allan writing the information down. I gave silent blessing to the British media, who had provided me with the information I had.

‘I see inflation’s in the news again,’ he said at last.

‘Not another hike, Allan. You’re pricing yourself out of the game.’

‘As a special offer to regular subscribers, the increase has been held to ten percent for one month only.’

‘Generous to a fault. Same address?’

‘Who can afford to move?’

‘Tens and twenties all right?’

‘Sure.’

‘Oh, one more name ...’

‘Now who’s pushing it?’

‘Call it my free gift. Scotty Shattuck.’ I spelt it for him. ‘Somewhere in London probably, always supposing he’s got a phone.’

‘Right, I’ll do my best. Later today, okay?’

‘I’ll stick your fee in the post. If I’m not here, leave the details with reception. Here’s the number.’

I gave it to him and terminated the call. Downstairs, Bel was already seated in the small dining room, pouring cereal from a one-portion pack.

‘I see you’re not one of these women who takes forever to dress.’ I sat down beside her.

‘Know a lot about that, do you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ She poured milk and started to eat. I knew what she meant. She meant she was good-looking and I hadn’t made a pass at her, so what did that make me? She was wearing trousers and a blue blouse and jacket. They were the plainest items in her luggage. I tried to see her as a police officer. I couldn’t. But then I’d be the one doing the talking; I’d be the one they’d be looking at. And examining myself in the mirror this morning, I’d seen a hard-nosed copper staring back at me. He looked like he wanted to take me outside.

‘Aren’t you eating?’ Bel asked.

‘I never eat much in the morning. I’ll just have some coffee.’

‘You will if anyone turns up to serve you. I haven’t seen a soul since I came in. The stuff’s all on that sideboard, but there’s no coffee.’

I went to the sideboard to take a look. A thermos flask turned out to contain hot water, and there was a jar of instant coffee in one of the cupboards.

‘Yum yum,’ said Bel.

The coffee tasted the way thermos coffee always tastes. It reminded me of sports fields, of games watched with my father, the two of us sheltering beneath a tartan travelling-rug or umbrellas and hoods, depending on the weather. There’d be coffee and sandwiches at half-time. Thermos coffee.

‘So the schedule for today,’ said Bel, scraping up the last of the cereal, ‘is a visit to Testosterone City, yes?’ I nodded. ‘And I provide the decoration while you ask your questions?’ I nodded again. ‘Are you quite sure you need my expensive skills, Michael? I mean, performing monkeys come cheap these days.’ Then she touched the back of my hand. ‘Only teasing. Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here. This dining room’s like something out of a horror film. I keep thinking all the other guests and staff have been murdered in their beds.’ She started to laugh, but stopped abruptly, and her look was somewhere between embarrassment and fear. I knew exactly what had struck her: that there was only one murderer around here.

I didn’t know where to find Scotty Shattuck, but wasn’t prepared to sit around the hotel waiting for Allan to get back to me. So we got a taxi on Marylebone Road and headed for Oxford Street, where, above a shop selling what can be best described as ‛‘tat’, there was a gym and health centre called Chuck’s.