by Ian Rankin
“Fury is the enemy, Bel.”
“Who taught you that?” she sneered. “Some Zen monk?”
“No,” I said quietly, “my father . . . and yours.”
She stood facing me, then I saw her shoulders sag.
“Don’t worry,” I went on, “you’ll get your revenge. But let’s plan it first, okay?” I waited till she’d nodded. “Besides,” I added,
“you’ve forgotten something.”
“What?”
“Bullets.”
She saw that this was true, and managed a weak smile. I nodded to let her know she was doing okay.
“You don’t need guns just now,” I went on. “You need your brain. Your brain . . . and your passport.”
“My passport?”
“Just in case,” I said. “Now go pack yourself some clothes.
Are there any more submachine guns down there?”
“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“I need some practice, that’s all.” I started down the steps until I was surrounded by guns, cocooned in oiled black metal. It was like being in a chapel.
It took us some time to straighten things out. We knew we couldn’t call the police, inform the proper authorities, anything like that. I did propose that Bel stay behind, a proposal she an-grily rejected. So we did what we had to do. The soil in the field nearest the farmhouse was workable. Even so, it took until dark and beyond to dig the grave. It wasn’t a very adequate hole. I knew the reason you dug down six feet was that much short of this and you’d get soil disturbance, the ground above the body rising eventually rather than staying flat. But we’d dug down only three or four feet. We could always rebury him later.
“Sorry, Dad,” Bel said. “I know you were never much of a Christian, but you probably wanted something better than this.”
She looked at me. “He fought that cancer for years. He was ready for death, but not the way it happened.”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s keep busy.”
It wasn’t hard. We had to finish packing and then lock up the house. We couldn’t do much about the living room, so just left it.
Bel couldn’t think of anyone who’d come to the house anyway.
Their mail was held by the post office and picked up whenever they were in town.
“It might be a while before we’re back,” I warned.
“That’s fine.”
I was never far from the MP5. I knew they could come back at any minute. I would be ready for them. I’d considered stocking up from Max’s cache, but knew it didn’t make any sense. So I locked the cellar again and covered its doors with straw. The house was locked now, a timer controlling the lights. I walked through the yard to the field wall, and found Bel there, standing over the closed grave.
“Time to go, Bel,” I said.
“He hated this place,” she said quietly. I put a hand on her shoulder. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “ ’Bye, Dad. I’ll be home again soon.” Even to my ears, she didn’t sound like she meant it.
We got onto the A1 and stopped at the first hotel we found.
I didn’t suppose either of us would get much sleep, but we were exhausted and dirty and our sweat-stained clothes needed changing. We shared a room, as we’d known we would. Bel took the first bath. I soaped her back and shoulders in silence, then toweled her dry. She went through to the bedroom while I changed the bathwater. I was lying back, eyes closed, when she came back.
“Hurry up, Michael, I need you” was all she said.
We made love hungrily at first, and then with more tender-ness than I’d ever thought possible. She cried a bit, but when I tried to ease away from her she held me tight, not wanting to let me go. The only light drifting into the room came from a lamp outside the hotel. I ran my hands over Bel’s back, feeling her ver-tebrae. For a little while there, my hands didn’t feel like the hands of a killer.
We rose early and didn’t bother with breakfast.
On the road south, she asked me what we were doing. I told her. She didn’t know if it made sense or not, but she wasn’t in a state to offer ideas of her own. The traffic into London was like sludge easing into a drain. Bel was wearing a scarf and sunglasses.
I knew her eyes were red, like she was suffering hay fever. Hay fever could be the excuse if anyone asked. When we got to London, we left the Maestro in a long-stay car lot and got our cases out of the trunk.
I left the MP5 there but took my raincoat.
We took a taxi with our luggage to Knightsbridge. “I’ll be about five minutes,” I told the driver when we arrived. Then, to Bel: “Wait here.”
She watched me go into the bank like she’d never see me again.
Inside the bank there were the usual security procedures before I was led into a small room. The room contained a table and two chairs. There were framed prints on the wall showing Victorian London, and a few brochures to read. These offered further bank services. Eventually, the employee who had led me into the room returned with my safe-deposit box. I let him leave again before opening the box.
Inside were a passport, a bundle of cash, and some traveler’s checks, about $25,000 in total. I scooped the lot into my pockets, then took out a pen and piece of paper. Hurriedly I scribbled a note outlining events so far. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone outside the case. I folded the note and addressed it to the one man I knew could make sense of it: Leo Hoffer at Hoffer Investigations, New York City. Then I placed the letter in the box.
As insurance policies go, it was among the worst and most hastily conceived and executed. But it was all I had.
I thanked the assistant, left the bank, and got back into the taxi.
“Where to now?” the driver asked.
“Heathrow Airport,” I told him. Then I sat back, took Bel’s hand, and gave it another squeeze.
SEVENTEEN
The problem was, Hoffer couldn’t find a room in Ripon, or anywhere else for that matter. So he’d decided to keep driving.
Then he’d pulled into a parking area to relieve his bladder, and found three trucks there, their drivers having a break and thinking about sleep. Hoffer got talking to them and one of them broke out a bottle of whiskey. After which he’d returned to his car, put the seat back as far as it would go, and fallen asleep.
He slept badly, and woke up with stiffness, headache, and raging thirst. He was also freezing, and had certainly caught a cold, if not something more serious. He drove to the nearest service station to chow down and have a wash. Then he got back in the car and started driving again.
The map book was a godsend; without it he wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell of finding Oban. He parked by the dockside, got out feeling like shit, asked a local about accommodation, then went into the hotel, where they didn’t have any rooms left but the bar was open and boasted an open fire.
Hoffer sat beside it with a large malt and wondered how he’d find the Disciples of Love. He asked the barman, but the barman said he’d never heard of them.
“Well, they live here, a whole posse of them.”
But the barman stuck to his story. So, revived by the drink, Hoffer went for a walk. He found a shopkeeper who did business with the Disciples, and he drew Hoffer a map on an empty brown paper bag. Hoffer got so far, but then found his way barred by a padlocked gate. He looked around him, then fired off a couple of shots at the padlock, busting it open. He was damned if he was going to walk any farther.
He’d been annoyed by a sudden realization that he’d missed his TV appearance. And it looked like everyone in Oban had missed it too, judging by the lack of interest in him.
“Fucking backwoods,” he complained, driving up the track.
After nearly a mile, he came upon habitation, a series of shantytown shacks more suited to animals than people. There were people about. They stopped what they were doing and stared at him as he drew up. When he got out, they kept on staring. A big bearded man came out of one of the shacks.
“Who are you?” he said.
&
nbsp; “Name’s Hoffer, sir, Leo Hoffer. I was wondering if I might have a word. I’m looking for a couple, man and woman, they might have been here recently.”
“There’s been nobody here.”
Hoffer looked around him. “This place was started by an American, wasn’t it?” The man nodded. “Only, we Americans have a reputation for hospitality to strangers. I’m not seeing much of that here.”
“How did you get past the gate?”
“Huh? The thing was standing wide open. I mean, it had a chain and all, but it was just hanging there.”
The man told an underling to go check. The underling nodded and jumped into an old hippie van.
“There’s nothing here for you,” the man told Hoffer.
“Hey, maybe I want an application form. This looks like my kind of living.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?” Hoffer rubbed his chin. It felt raspy. He needed a shave and a soak. “You know, I could make a habit of this, dropping in on you, asking the same question.”
“You’d get the same answer.”
The man turned his back on Hoffer and walked back into the shack. Hoffer considered following him and introducing the man to the holy rite of pistol-whipping. What the hell, there’d be other times. So he got into his car and left. The VW van was beside the gate. Hoffer tooted his horn and waved as he passed.
The VW driver was standing there holding the chain, watching Hoffer leave.
Back in town, Hoffer asked at a couple of places about two tourists called Weston and Harrison. He didn’t think they’d keep up their police act, not when it wasn’t necessary. The names didn’t mean anything, but one shop assistant recognized the photograph of Bel Harrison.
“She was in here this morning. She bought a Fair Isle sweater.
It was funny, she was so excited. She rushed out of the shop so her husband could try it on.”
Hoffer started. “What sort of sweater was this?”
The assistant showed him one just like it. She mistook the look of pain on Hoffer’s face.
“We’ve got it in different colors if you’d prefer.”
He was groaning as he left the shop. He’d actually talked to the D-Man, and had been too hung over and crashed to know it.
But at least one thing was clear: Bel Harrison wasn’t under duress. Captives didn’t often buy sweaters for their captors.
More crucially, they might still be around, he had to remember that . . . No, who was he fooling? The assassin knew who he was. He’d be out of town by now and putting miles on the clock.
Either that, Hoffer considered, or he’d be hiding somewhere, wondering how best to hit the detective. Hoffer looked around him at all the windows, large and small. He didn’t feel very comfortable.
He went back to the lounge bar and ordered another whiskey.
There was some gossip being passed around, something about a traffic jam. Hoffer snorted into his drink. A traffic jam, around here? Three cars had been left stationary in the road while their drivers had a confab, holding up the traffic behind and providing a sideshow for cars heading north toward Oban.
Something about the story started to niggle Hoffer. He walked up to the storyteller and proffered the photo of Bel.
“I’ve no idea,” the man said. He held a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other, so that Hoffer had to stand with the photo held out for his inspection. “One of the cars, the middle one, it had a woman in it right enough. You couldn’t see into the car ahent, and I don’t remember the one in front.”
“It had two men in it,” piped up another drinker. Hoffer moved on to this man. He was wearing Wellingtons, a check cap, and a green jacket, and his cheeks and nose were red. “We were stuck behind Bert McAuley’s lorry, bloody old thing that it is.”
“The man and woman were in the middle car?” Hoffer prompted.
“Aye, with a posh car ahent, and a car and camper ahent that.
The front car had his flashers on. They’d either had a bit of a knock, or else the front car had broken down.”
“What about the man and woman?”
“What about them?”
“Remember, Hughie,” said a third drinker, “the man went and spoke to the people in the front car and they got out.”
“I didn’t see that,” said Hughie. Hoffer moved on to the third drinker.
“What happened?”
“It was funny. The man and woman got their stuff out of the boot and took it to the other car, then drove off while the driver and passenger were back at the third car.”
Everyone looked at everyone else. It was obvious this story would run and run. Nothing so exciting had happened in weeks.
“Where was this?” said Hoffer.
“Just after the Cleigh turnoff.”
While Hoffer bought everyone a drink, the third drinker drew a map on the other side of the brown paper bag.
It didn’t take him long to find the car.
It had been pushed none too daintily up onto the shoulder.
Though the Escort was practically brand-new, someone had scored a line all down one side. It looked like the kind of scar kids made with a key, coin, or knife.
“Temper, temper, guys,” Hoffer said, giving the car a good look-over. He’d bet it was rented, just like his own. There’d be prints on it belonging to the assassin and Bel Harrison.
Fingerprints would be worth having, so Hoffer went to look for the nearest phone. He found a campsite a few miles farther south. There was an information kiosk, locked up tight for the day, and a telephone booth outside it. He stood in the booth and called Vine Street. He couldn’t get through to Broome, but Edmond finally accepted the call.
“Take your time,” said Hoffer, “this is costing me a fucking fortune and I’m doing you a favor!”
“What favor?”
“I’ve got a car near here with the D-Man’s prints all over it, plus his girlfriend’s.”
Edmond took a bit more interest. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the Scottish Highlands, south of a place called Oban on the A816.”
“Where’s the car?”
“Parked roadside just south of a place called Cleigh.” He spelled the word for Edmond.
“I’ll get on to the local constabulary.”
“They probably know about the car already. It’s been aban-doned after the D-Man got into trouble. There could be a lot of other people’s prints on it, but some of them will definitely be his.”
“Wait a minute, what sort of trouble?”
“Money’s running out, be seeing you.”
Hoffer hung up the phone. There was a standpipe nearby, and a girl was filling a plastic jerrican with water. He went over to her.
“On holiday with your folks?” She nodded. “I’m looking for a friend, honey. He arrived earlier today towing a camper.”
“The campers are over there.” She pointed him in the direction.
“Thanks,” he said. “Can I carry that for you?”
“My parents wouldn’t like it. You’re a stranger.”
Hoffer smiled. “Take care, honey pie.”
He watched her go. She had to work hard to keep the jerrican off the ground. She’d be about eleven or twelve, he guessed.
He knew twelve-year-olds in New York more grown up than he hoped she’d ever need to be. He liked kids on principle, the principle being that a day would come when he’d be old and they’d be in their prime. He might need their help then. He wouldn’t be able to smack them in the head or pull his knife on them. You had to have respect for the future, otherwise it might kick away your stick and punch your dentures down your throat.
It took him a couple of questions to get lucky. Another camper told him the Germans weren’t here just now, they’d gone into town. But their camper was here, and they’d be back. When they’d arrived the man had still been outraged, and had told his story about the traffic jam he’d been stuck in.
“I think I’ll wait fo
r them,” Hoffer said. Then the man said his wife and children were out walking and was Hoffer by any chance American? The family had gone to Florida last year and loved it. Disney and the beaches and everything. This year they were on a tighter budget, with the recession and everything and him losing his job. He asked if Hoffer wanted a beer. Hoffer reckoned he could bear to listen to a few stories about Florida, so long as the price was right.
“Sure,” he said, “why not?”
Then the man said something that warmed Hoffer’s heart.
“You know,” he started, handing over a can, “I can’t help thinking your face looks familiar. Have you ever been on TV?”
The Germans weren’t late. They were a couple in late middle age, showing signs of having earned well and saved well over their lives. They wore pension-fund clothes and drove a pension-fund car. When Hoffer told them what he wanted, they unlocked their camper and took him inside. There wasn’t much room, but Hoffer managed to look comfortable as he wedged his legs under the table and sat down.
They were bemused by his questions at first. The woman said she just wanted to forget all about it, but her husband had drunk a beer or two and got back in the mood pretty quickly. His English wasn’t great, but it was better than Hoffer’s delicatessen German. Hoffer eventually focused in on the back car of the three.
“The driver,” said the German, “large man, not very happy.
He would not speak to me a word just. There is some resentment here still, but I do not excuse.”
“Uh, right,” said Hoffer, “absolutely. Was there a passenger?”
“On the back chair, yes. He talked to the other driver—”
“You mean the driver of the middle car?”
The German nodded. “And then the other driver went away, but the man on the back chair would not talk with me. He was smile, smile all the time.”
“Smiling,” Hoffer said.
“This is how I say. And I am telling him what is the problem here? But he is smile only.”
“Smiling,” his wife corrected.
“Can you describe this man, sir?”
“Um . . . he wore a suit, shirt, but no tie I don’t think. He was not large like the other men. Glasses he wore, round ones, and his hair it was white.”