Bleeding Hearts (18 page)

‘Fuck this,’ said Hoffer, letting off a couple more and not caring where they went. He turned the corner into the new road, ignoring the people who were coming to their windows and doors. They seemed to go back inside pretty damned quick, but at least they came to look, which was more than would’ve happened in New York. At the bottom of the street, he saw a busy well-lit road, buses passing along it. He thought he recognised it from the cab ride. He kept turning around, but no one seemed to be following him. He knew they’d probably get a car first and follow him in that. Gun-toting drug dealers were so lazy these days.

‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I could do with some dope, too.’ Maybe they’d sell him some before taking off the top of his head. He’d known dealers kill their victims by ODing them. Well, let them try that trick on him with a mountain of opalescent coke, he’d put them out of business before he died.

He’d tucked the gun into his waistband and closed his jacket. He wasn’t running any more, just walking very briskly. There were sirens ahead. Yes, he’d passed a police station on the way here. He walked into a pub as the sirens approached, looked around the interior as though searching for someone, then stepped out again when the sirens had passed. There was an Indian restaurant coming up. It was curtained from the road, nobody could see in or out.

If he kept moving, someone would stop him, be it police or irate dealers. There were no cabs to be seen, and the buses didn’t move fast enough to be havens. He could walk, or he could hide. And if he was going to hide, why not hide somewhere he could get a meal and a drink? He pushed open the door of the Indian place and found another door which he had to pull. The restaurant was quiet, and he got the table he asked for: in a corner, facing the door. Anyone coming into the restaurant had to close the first door before opening the second. For a second or two, they’d be trapped between the two. He’d be able to pick them off while still spooning up the sauce, like a scene out of The
Godfather
.

‘Quiet tonight,’ he said to the young waiter.

‘It’s always quiet midweek, sir.’

After the meal, he had a couple of drinks in what seemed to be an Irish bar, not a coloured face in the place. There was a sign on the door saying ‘Sorry, No Travellers’. He almost hadn’t gone in, but then the barman explained that it meant tinkers, gypsies, not visitors. They all had a good laugh about that.

He took a taxi back to Capaldi’s flat and made the driver go straight past it. Now that he thought of it, Capaldi would be long gone. He might not come back till all the heat had died. He might never come back at all. He’d either talk to Hoffer, and the D-Man would kill him, or he’d stay quiet and Hoffer might kill him. It wasn’t much of a life, was it?

‘Piccadilly Circus, please,’ Hoffer told the driver.

‘You’re the guv’nor.’

It was unfortunate they’d been interrupted. All Hoffer knew now was that the D-Man had stayed in town after the assassination, when normally he’d have taken off. Why? That was the question. What was there for him here?

The tip-off, it had to be the tip-off to the police. The assassin was mad about it, and maybe he was going to do something about it. He’d be tracking down his paymasters. He’d be seeking out whoever set him up.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Hoffer said to himself. At this rate, even in a city of ten million people, they might end up bumping into one another by accident.

He spent the rest of the drive wondering what his opening line would be.

12

Bel and I sat waiting for our meeting with Joe Draper. His production company had a set of offices on the top floor of a building near Harrods. We’d arrived early so Bel could do some window-shopping. I offered to buy her anything she liked, but she shook her head, even when I said I’d dock it from her pay.

Actually, we hadn’t stayed long in the store. She’d looked a bit disgusted with it all after a while. She’d hooked her arm through mine as we’d walked to Draper Productions.

‘Relax,’ she’d told me.

We’d spent last night in bed together, Bel asking questions about my life, and me deciding how to answer them. I’d deflected her for a while by talking about guns. She knew a lot about guns and ammo, but that didn’t mean she liked them. They scared the hell out of her.

Now we sat in Draper’s offices, pretending to be CID. We were wearing the same clothes as yesterday, down to the black leather gloves. We weren’t leaving fingerprints anywhere. Bel flicked through a trade mag, while I watched Teletext. There were three monitor-sized TVs in reception, all with the sound turned down. One of them was showing a looped montage of recent Draper output. The secretary kept deflecting calls to Draper’s assistant.

‘I did that,’ I said. Bel looked up from her magazine. Teletext was running a news page, all about how two East European countries were about to close their shared border. Tensions had been high between the neighbours since the break-up of the Soviet Union, but a recent perceived assassination attempt on a diplomat based in London had brought things to a head.

‘Maybe you should do something about it,’ she whispered. The whisper wasn’t necessary, the secretary having put on headphones so she could start some audio-typing.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, own up or something, say the diplomat was never your target.’

‘But that would mean telling them who my real target was. I quite like it that they’re not sure.’ I was smiling, but Bel wasn’t.

‘You could start a war, Michael.’

I stopped smiling. ‘You’re right. Maybe I could offer Draper the exclusive.’

She slapped me with the magazine, then went back to reading it. Teletext flipped to its News Directory. There was some story near the bottom about a shoot-out on a north London street. It was coupled with another story, some get-tough-on-drugs speech the Home Secretary had made. I didn’t think it meant anything, but I got up and went over to the secretary. She stopped her tape.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you have a handset for the TV?’ She looked disapproving. ‘I don’t want to change channels, I just want to check a story on Teletext.’

Without saying anything, she opened a drawer and brought out a couple of remotes.

‘One of these has Teletext,’ she said, restarting her tape.

‘Thanks a million,’ I muttered. I aimed one of the remotes and pressed three digits. Up popped the story. There was a bit about the Home Secretary first, then a slim paragraph about gunshots fired in a street in Tottenham. It was the street where Harry the Cap lived. Maybe some people believe in coincidence. I’m not one of them. I knew Hoffer was getting too damned close.

Just then Draper’s door opened and a young man and woman came out. They were dressed like students, but carried briefcases. The boy had a ponytail, while the girl’s blonde hair was cropped short and tipped with red dye. They shook hands with Draper, then headed for the door. Draper checked something with the secretary, then came towards us.

‘Sorry to keep you, Inspector West.’

‘That’s all right, sir, we appreciate your finding time to see us.’

He was ushering us into his office. ‘The gloves are a nice touch,’ he said. I didn’t get it. ‘I used to produce a cop show called
Shiner,
maybe you know it?’

‘I used to watch it,’ said Bel. Draper looked pleased.

‘Only,’ he said, ‘the Inspector in that used to wear gloves like yours.’

‘I see,’ I said. Draper saw that he hadn’t scored any points, and shifted in his swivel-chair.

‘I’m not sure how I can help. I’ve already told your colleagues everything I can think of.’

‘Just a few follow-up questions, sir. A fresh perspective.’

‘Well, okay then.’ He clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘No, thank you, sir. This is DC Harris, by the way.’

Draper had been staring at Bel. ‘We’re thinking of pitching a police documentary series,’ he informed her. ‘Ever wanted to be on television?’

She smiled professionally. ‘I don’t think so, sir. Bright lights make me nervous.’

Draper laughed. ‘Too much like the interrogation room, eh?’ Now he turned to me. ‘Shoot.’

I suppose he meant I could start asking questions.

‘We’d like to know a little more about Ms Ricks, her family, colleagues, any possible enemies she may have had.’

‘Well, none of her colleagues was an enemy. Lainie had a first-rate reputation. All her fellow journalists admired her. I dare say a few TV people were preparing knives, but only in the figurative sense.’

‘How do you mean?’

He opened his hands. ‘She was going to be a star. She was a natural on TV.’ He looked at Bel again. ‘Know why? Because she didn’t trust the medium. And that came over, that honesty, that sense that she wasn’t going to put up with any manure.’

‘But she hadn’t actually made any programmes?’

‘That’s true, I’m talking about the mock-ups we do beforehand, especially with a tyro. Lainie breezed it. It was like she was walking on water. I knew when we got her on the screen, she’d start to make ... not enemies exactly, but there’d be jealousy from other presenters, because she was going to show them how the job should be done.’ He shook his head and calmed a little. ‘She’s a big loss.’

He sounded like he was thinking of her in financial terms.

‘What about her family?’ I asked. ‘Did you know them?’

‘Oh yes, I suppose I knew them as well as anyone can.’

‘Meaning?’

Draper sighed, like he didn’t gossip normally, but since we were the police how could he refuse?

‘Freddy’s not an easy man to like, Inspector. I mean, his star’s so low it’s sweeping up leaves. And that doesn’t sit easy with Freddy. He still wants to act the soap star. Did you ever see him in
Stand By Your Man?
It wasn’t exacting stuff. Also, it was ten years ago, something Freddy doesn’t seem to realise. He sees all this “vintage” comedy being repeated on the box, and his stuff isn’t there. No surprise to anyone else, believe me. Meanwhile he sees his wife breaking into TV and there I am telling her how wonderful she’s going to be. You can see it’s not easy for him.’

‘Yes, I can imagine. Did they have arguments?’

‘All the time.’

‘What about?’

‘Everything under the sun. You want an example?’ I nodded. ‘Okay, Freddy blew their savings on a trip to Hollywood. He was out there looking for work, but all he came back with were a tan and some books of matches from expensive restaurants. Lainie was furious with him.’ He paused. ‘Look, there’s no way Freddy would put out a contract on Lainie, that’s not what I’m saying here. They had arguments, but they were never physical. They didn’t even really have screaming matches. They just smouldered and wouldn’t communicate for weeks on end. All I’m saying is, they did not have the perfect marriage. But then who does?’

Bel had a question. ‘Did you like Ms Ricks as a person, Mr Draper?’

‘Like her? I loved her. I’d’ve liked nothing better than ...’ He stopped and shook his head. ‛I don’t know.’His eyes were growing moist, but then he’d been around actors all his working life. Some tricks must have rubbed off.

‘She had a son,’ I nudged.

‘That’s right, a useless streak of sham called Archie. I say that, watch this, he’ll be a millionaire at twenty-one.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s in a band, programmes music samples, that sort of thing.’

‘Electronics.’

‘Yeah, I can’t see the band doing much. I listened to their stuff as a favour, in case we could use any of it as backing to our programmes. Forget it. But Archie’s a genius, in a limited sort of way. I see him moving into production, and that’s where he’ll make his pile.’

‘Mr Draper, I know you’ve been asked this question before by my colleagues, probably by the media too, but can you think of anyone who would have wanted Eleanor Ricks dead?’

He shook his head. ‘It had to be a mistake. The bastard was obviously after Prendergast or the foreigner. Got to be.’

‘You sent Ms Ricks to interview Molly Prendergast?’

‘No, it was Lainie’s idea. I mean, she was running the whole show. It was her story right down the line, minimum input from me. She’d say she wanted to go in a certain direction, we’d talk about it, and she’d go off and do it. She was the driver, me, I was somewhere in the boot, like luggage. I hardly saw the light of day.’

‘And what direction was she travelling in?’

He sighed. ‘It’ll probably never get made now.’

‘We’ve spoken with Ms Ricks’s solicitor, a Mr Johns. He mentioned something about religious cults?’

Draper nodded. ‘Prendergast’s kid was in a cult for over a year. In the end, Prendergast mounted a commando-style raid to snatch her back. This was a couple of years back, it made the news at the time. The daughter’s not too bad now, it was her we wanted for the programme, but her mother said no, if we wanted to speak to anyone it would have to be her. Lainie set up the meeting partly to get Prendergast’s story, and partly to make her change her mind. We thought once Prendergast met Lainie, she might melt a bit.’

‘So it was a programme about Prendergast’s daughter?’