[Jack Harvey Novels 02] Bleeding Hearts

by Ian Rankin

  Bel took one look at him.

  “Ugh,” she said.

  He didn’t look that bad. He had a long drooping mustache which Max hadn’t mentioned, so it had probably been shorn off.

  He was square-jawed and wavy-haired, his shape not quite squat, but definitely not tall enough for his girth. I stuck one of the photos in my pocket— it showed Shattuck with some girlfriend—and put the rest back in the drawer.

  “Anything else?” I asked Bel, who’d been roaming.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  There was a squeal of braking tires outside. No uncommon sound in London, but I went to the window and peered out anyway. A car had stopped outside the house. It was an old Jaguar with a purple paint job. The driver was still wearing his white workout shirt. He probably had his towel with him too. There was somebody else in the passenger seat, and Chuck was fuming in the back.

  “Time to go,” I told Bel. She didn’t hang around. I’d seen a back door on the ground floor, and just hoped we’d have time to make it that far. I took out the MP5 as we descended, but held it beneath my coat. Either Chuck and his men were so incensed at the way they’d been treated that their pride had compelled them to follow us or else they were making a rational move. If the latter, then they had to be tooled up. If the former, I’d be in for a beating anyway.

  And I’d always tried to avoid contact sports.

  We were in luck. They were sitting it out in the car, waiting for us to emerge. The back door was locked by means of a bolt top and bottom, easily undone. I pulled the door open and we found ourselves in a garden so overgrown it hardly justified the term. We waded through it to the side fence and clambered over into the rear parking lot of the hotel. The MP5 jabbed my gut as I climbed the fence. I double-checked that its safety was still on.

  From the lot, we climbed over a low brick wall onto a piece of waste ground. Past this, we found ourselves emerging from behind a public toilet onto a completely different road, busy with traffic and pedestrians. A bus had pulled up at its stop, so we jumped aboard. We didn’t know where it was going, and the driver who was waiting to be paid didn’t seem about to tell us, so I reached into my pocket for some coins.

  “Two to the end of the line,” I told him.

  Then we climbed to the top deck and took the empty back seat. A purple Jag would be easy to spot if it tried following us, but it didn’t.

  “I wonder how long they’ll sit there?” Bel asked.

  I told her I couldn’t care less.

  We ended up taking a train back over the Thames, and a taxi from the station to our hotel. The receptionist had a message for me, two telephone numbers and their corresponding addresses.

  As I’d already seen, Scotty Shattuck didn’t possess a phone. But now I had addresses and numbers for the Rickses’ household and Joe Draper’s Barbican flat.

  While Bel took a shower, I started phoning. It was probably late enough in the police inquiry for me to be asking follow-up questions. All I needed was gumption and one hell of a lot of luck. Chuck wouldn’t go to the police, he wasn’t the type. But I knew things were going to get increasingly dangerous the closer we got to the real police inquiry, which was why I didn’t give myself time to think. If I’d thought about it, I might not have made the calls.

  As it was, I stumbled at the first fence. My call to the Rickses’

  Camden home was intercepted by the operator, who told me all calls were being rerouted. Before I had time to argue, I was back to the ringing tone, and my call was answered by a secretary.

  “Crispin, Darnforth, Jessup,” she said, as though this explained everything.

  “I’ve just been rerouted by the operator,” I said. “I was trying to get through to—”

  “One moment, please.” She cut the connection and put me through to another secretary.

  “Mr. Johns’s office, how can I help you, sir?”

  “I was trying to reach Mr. Frederick Ricks.”

  “Yes, all calls to Mr. Ricks are now being dealt with by this office. You understand that his wife was killed recently.” She gave the news with relish. “And Mr. Johns, as the family’s solicitor, has taken on the task of dealing with all inquiries.”

  “I see. Well, this is Detective Inspector West. I’ve just been brought into the inquiry, and I wanted a few words with Mr.

  Ricks.”

  “Mr. Ricks and his son have gone away for a few days.

  Someone on the inquiry should be able to give you the details you need.”

  She was boxing me into a corner. I could either throw in the towel or box myself out again.

  “Would it be possible to speak to Mr. Johns?”

  “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

  “I meant just now.”

  She ignored this. “Three-thirty this afternoon, all right?”

  Then she gave me the address.

  I put down the phone and thought, not for the first time, of leaving London, leaving the whole mess behind. It was madness to keep on with this. But then what was the alternative? If I didn’t find out why I’d been set up and who was behind it, how could I take another job? I went down to Bel’s room and she let me in.

  She was dressed, but wearing a towel wrapped turban-style around her head.

  “So what are we up to this afternoon?” she asked.

  “Doing our police act for Eleanor Ricks’s solicitor.”

  She took off the towel and let it fall to the floor. Already she’d become a seasoned hotel guest. Next she’d be requesting more shampoo and teabags.

  “I’m enjoying this,” she said. I looked surprised. “Really, I am. It beats staring at sheep and drystone dykes all day.”

  “I thought you watched daytime TV.”

  “It beats that, too.” She sat down on the bed and, taking my hand, guided me to sit beside her. She didn’t let go of my hand.

  “Have you phoned Max lately?” I asked.

  “That’s a low punch.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the only punch I’ve got.”

  “Good.” She leaned toward me and touched her lips to mine.

  I was slow responding, so she opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  I pulled away from her, but slowly and not too far. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. It’s all dead ends.”

  “No, Michael,” she said, “not quite all dead ends.” Our next kiss lasted a lot longer. By the end of it, her hair was all but dry, and this time she pulled away first.

  “Can I just say one thing, Michael?”

  “What?”

  “In that gymnasium . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You were holding the MP5 all wrong.”

  “I was?” She nodded. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually fired an MP5?”

  She looked surprised at the question. “Of course I have. I get to fire most of my dad’s guns eventually. Want me to give you some tips?”

  I blinked. “I’m not sure.”

  She laughed at the look on my face. “You thought you were getting Little Red Riding Hood, is that it?”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t think I was getting the wolf.”

  This time when we kissed, we used our hands to unbutton one another’s clothes . . .

  ELEVEN

  “You weren’t entirely truthful, were you, Mr. Hoffer?”

  The speaker was DI Dave Edmond. He was in the same pub he’d been in before with Hoffer. And as before, Hoffer was buying him a drink.

  “A couple of large scotches, please.” Hoffer turned to the policeman. “How do you mean?”

  “You didn’t tell me you’d had a blowup with my boss. He’s not very pleased with you, Mr. Hoffer.”

  “Did you tell him we’d had a drink?” Edmond shook his head. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?”

  “It can hurt me, if he ever finds out.”

  “Why should he, Dave? Besides, you can look after yourself.”

  Hoffer sniffed and scratched his nose
. The drinks arrived and he proffered a twenty. “Keep five for yourself,” he told the barman,

  “and keep these coming till the change runs out.” He then handed a whiskey to Edmond, who dribbled water into it.

  “Come on,” said Hoffer, “let’s sit down.”

  The just-the-one-after-work commuter drinkers had departed, so there were tables free. Hoffer liked Edmond less than he liked Bob Broome, but he smiled anyway. He needed a friend in the police investigation, and if Broome could no longer be bought, others like Edmond could. Broome would return to the fold. They’d fallen out before and then made things up. But meantime Edmond would suffice.

  “I like your style, Dave. You’re not showy. You’re the sort of guy who gets things done, who doesn’t make a song and dance number out of it.” Hoffer lit a cigarette, then slid the pack toward the policeman.

  “Cops are cops,” Edmond said.

  “God, that’s true.”

  “I hear you left the force.”

  Hoffer opened his arms. “I failed the physical. I was fine once I’d caught the bad guys. I could sit on them till they ’fessed up. But I just couldn’t catch them.” Hoffer laughed and shook his head. “No, it was the Walkins case. I got obsessed with it. So much so, my chiefs decided to move me to some other investigation. I couldn’t take that, so I resigned and set myself up as a private dick. Only, the only case I was interested in was the Walkins one.”

  “There was something about it in the papers.”

  “Hey, the media loved my story. They brought it flowers and chocolates. I’d given up a good career to make a life of hunting this mystery gunman. And the millionaire father of one of his victims was paying me. Are you kidding? It made great copy. Plus of course I was a fat ugly bastard, they loved that too. They like anything but normal in their photographs.”

  Edmond laughed. Hoffer liked him even less.

  “They still love me,” he went on. “And I don’t mind that.

  See, some people think I’m pandering to them, I mean to the press, and maybe they’re right. Or maybe I’m on some ego trip.

  All this may be true, but consider.” He raised a finger. “The Demolition Man knows I’m out there. He knows I’m not going away. And I really get a kick out of that. Maybe he’s not worried, but then again maybe he is.”

  “You don’t think he’d take a pop at you?”

  Hoffer shrugged. “I never think about it.” He’d told this story many dozens of times, always leaving out just a few truths.

  Such as the fact that his employers had requested his resignation when they’d decided he was doing a bit too much obvious nose talc. It was Hoffer’s story that he’d resigned so he could follow up the Walkins story in his own way and his own time, but really he’d been given an ultimatum. Of course, once he’d explained to a reporter that he now had only one mission in life, then he’d had to do something about it, just to show he was willing. And then old man Walkins had come along and offered to pay him, and the story had expanded until he was trapped. Now he had his office and his employees and his reputation. He couldn’t just walk away from the D-Man, even if he wanted to.

  And he often thought that he wanted to.

  “So how much do you make?” Edmond asked, the way serving policemen always did, sooner or later.

  “Think of a number and double it,” Hoffer said. Then he laughed. “No, I’m a businessman, an employer, I’ve got overhead, salaries to pay, taxes and shit. I don’t come out so far ahead.”

  “Walkins must be rich though.”

  “You kidding? He’s loaded.”

  “Is it right that his daughter was a mistake?”

  Hoffer nodded. She was just about the only mistake the D-Man had ever made. He had eleven, maybe twelve clean hits to his name, plus Ellen Walkins.

  “She was eighteen, standing in the doorway saying good night to some people after a dinner party. They were all government people, plus wives, family. She wasn’t the target. They reckon the target was a congressman with very strong views about certain foreign policies. Any number of dictators and crooked governments would have paid to have him shut up. But the step was icy and the fucker slipped. The bullet had been going straight through his heart, but it hit Ellen instead. The investigation got taken off our hands pretty fast. I mean, it was too big for just the police to handle. I couldn’t let them do that.”

  “Why not?”

  The barman had appeared with two more whiskies, plus a bottle of water, giving Hoffer time to consider the question. It was one he’d asked himself a few times. Why couldn’t he just let it go?

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just couldn’t.” He sniffed again and shook himself. “Jesus, you don’t want to hear all this.

  You should be the one doing the show-and-tell. So what have you got?”

  Edmond pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside were several folded Xerox sheets. There were photocopies of bank statements and old checks, together with a rundown of cash machines Mark Wesley had used.

  “It’s not complete yet,” Edmond explained. “This is just the first tranche. I could get into a lot of trouble for this.”

  “You could,” agreed Hoffer, slipping an envelope across the table. “But this might cheer you up.”

  Edmond counted the money into his pocket, crumpling the envelope into their ashtray, then sat waiting. Hoffer didn’t say anything for a while.

  “Guy does a lot of traveling,” he said at last, reaching for his whiskey.

  “We’ll check the travel companies mentioned, see if they can give us details.”

  “Of course you will. What about these cash withdrawals?

  Any pattern you can see?”

  Edmond shook his head. “Except that some of them are in Yorkshire, according to Vine Street’s geography expert. Not in cities either, in country towns.”

  “Maybe he lives there?”

  Edmond shrugged. “He’s bought a whack of traveler’s checks too, by the look of it. One of those checks to Thomas Cook isn’t for travel.” He pointed to the photocopy. “See? They’ve written on the back what it’s for, purchase of traveler’s checks.” Hoffer nodded. “We’ll see if we can take it any further. If we can get the numbers of the traveler’s checks, might be we can find where he’s used them. There’s just one thing . . .”

  “What’s that, Dave?”

  “Well, all we seem to be doing is tracking backward through an identity he’s already shed. Where will that get us?”

  “Use your head, Dave. We can’t track him forward, so what else can we do? This way, we tie down accomplices, contacts, maybe we find patterns, or even a clue to his next hit. This for example.” Hoffer was tapping a check.

  “Ah, I was coming to that,” said Edmond.

  “So,” said Hoffer, “here’s a check made out to someone called . . . what is that name?”

  “It says H. Capaldi,” said Edmond.

  “Right, so who is he?”

  “He’s a counterfeiter.” Now Edmond had Hoffer’s full attention.

  “A counterfeiter?”

  Edmond nodded. “Harry the Cap’s been around for years, done some time, but when he comes out he goes back to what he’s best at.”

  “What does he forge?”

  “Documents . . . anything you want, really.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Edmond licked his lips. “About four hundred yards up the road.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve brought him to Vine Street. Bob Broome’s got him in an interview room right this minute.”

  Hoffer waited for Edmond to come back.

  It took a while, and he was starving, but he didn’t dare leave the pub and miss the policeman’s return. Instead, he ate potato chips and peanuts and then, as a last resort, a toasted sandwich.

  It was alleged to be cheese and ham. If you’d served it up in a New York bar, your client would have returned at dead of night with a flamethrower.

  Afte
r all the whiskey, he took it easy and went on to beer. The stuff was like sleeping with a severe anorexic: warm and dark and almost completely flat. Barney hadn’t come up with a list of bent gun dealers yet, so he’d nothing to read but Edmond’s photocopies.

  They didn’t throw up much apart from Yorkshire and this guy called Capaldi, who didn’t live in Yorkshire. Hoffer guessed that the bank was for convenience only, and that the D-Man kept the bulk of his money in stashes of ready cash. The travel stuff didn’t interest him, though if they found he’d been cashing traveler’s checks in Nicaragua or somewhere, that would be a different story.

  Edmond shrugged as he came to the table.

  “He’s not saying anything. Bob tried an obstruction number on him, but Harry’s been around too long for that. His story is that he met a guy in a pub and the guy needed cash.”

  “And this Harry, being the trusting sort, gave the stranger five hundred pounds and accepted a check?”

  “Well, he says he got the check and a Rolex as security.”

  “Did the mystery man ever come back for his watch?”

  “Harry says no. He says he sold the watch and cashed the check.”

  “Did Bob ask him why he hung on to the check so long? It took him nearly six months to cash it.”

  “Bob did mention it. Harry said something about mislaying it and then finding it again.”

  “This guy’s wasted as a counterfeiter, he should be on the im-prov circuit. I know comedians in New York couldn’t make up stories that fast.” He paused. “Or that full of shit either.”

  “What can we do?”

  Hoffer’s eyes widened. “You mean that’s it? You can’t lean on him a little? What about the trusty British truncheon? You guys are purveyors of torture equipment to the world, you can get this slob to talk.”

  Edmond shook his head slowly throughout.

  “You’re right we can lean on him, but only so far. Harry knows the score. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t.”