Bleeding Hearts Part 19

'With ID faked up by Capaldi.'

'Why?'

Broome had asked one of the questions Hoffer couldn't answer.

'And who's his partner?'

Now he'd asked the other. Hoffer shrugged. 'I don't know, but he was asking questions about Ricks. The important thing is, he's still in town and he's asking around. By rights he should be miles away, but he's here under our noses.'

The image made Hoffer think of something. He sniffed the thought away. 'He's here. Bob, and the only reason I can think of why he's still around is that he's on to something.'

He paused. 'I think he's going after his employer.'

'What?'

'The anonymous phone call, the one that nearly got him caught, he's after whoever made it. Stands to reason it must i55 have been someone close to the deceased, otherwise how would he know where to find her?' He clicked his fingers.

'That's why he's asking about her clothes.'

'Her clothes?'

Hoffer's mind was racing. 'He must've been told what she'd be wearing! Christ, could that be it?'

'I'm not really getting this, Hoffer.'

Hoffer slumped back as far as he was able in his chair. The neither, not all of it. Just pieces, and the pieces don't all make sense.'

Broome fingered the packet, but didn't seem in a hurry to open it. 'Hoffer,' he said, 'there was some shooting in north London last night.'

'Yeah, I read about it.'

'We've got a description of a fat man seen running away.'

Uh-huh?'

Broome pinched the bridge of his nose. 'There's also been a mugging, except that no money was taken from the victim.' Broome looked up. 'You're supposed to ask me who the victim was.'

Hoffer blew his nose before asking. 'So who was it?'

'Mr Arthur, the bank manager.'

Hoffer threw his used tissue into the bin beside Broome's desk.

'You wouldn't know anything about it, Hoffer?'

'Give me a break. Bob. I haven't mugged anyone since I quit the NYPD. You get a description of the a.s.sailants?'

Broome was staring at Hoffer. 'He was. .h.i.t from behind.

He's got concussion.'

Hoffer shook his head, 'Nice guy, too. n.o.body's safe these days.'

Broome sighed and rubbed his eyes. 'All right,' he said, 'let's listen to the tape.'

He had a DC bring in a portable ca.s.sette player and set it up.

'This local station must be on their toes,' said Hoffer.

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'They tape all calls to the news desk, partly as a favour to 'Why?'

'Because the IRA often call a local radio station to take responsibility for a bombing. That way the news gets on the air faster, plus it doesn't look like they're cooperating with us.'

'So the radio station's a kind of go-between?'

'Sort of, yes.' Broome loaded the tape and pressed Play, There was some soft hissing, which became louder until someone spoke.

'News desk, Joely speaking.'

'This is the Demolition Man, do you understand?'

'Dem ... ? Oh yes, yes, I understand.'

'Listen then. Tell everyone I hit my intended target, got that? I wasn't after the diplomat. He just happened to be there. Understood?'

'Mm, yes.' Joely was obviously writing it all down. 'Yes, I've got that. Can I just ask--'

'No questions. If anyone thinks this is a hoax, tell them Egypt, the Cairo Hilton, twelfth of December two years ago.'

'h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?' But the Demolition Man had put down the phone. Broome listened to the silence for a few moments, then stopped and rewound the tape.

'The original's gone to the lab boys,' he said. 'We'll see what they say.'

'Sounded like he was in a callbox, and not long distance.

He's English, isn't he?'

'Sounds it. Sounded like he was trying to disguise his voice too.'

Hoffer smiled. 'You weren't taken in by the Jimmy Durante impression?'

'Maybe he's got a cold.'

'Yeah, maybe.'

Broome looked at Hoffer. 'Egypt?'

Hoffer nodded. 'Yeah, it's not one everyone knows about.

i57 n.o.body's been able to say it was the D-Man, so it never makes the papers. It was a precision hit, long-range, but he didn't leave a bomb. Either that or the bomb didn't detonate.'

'Who did he kill?'

'Some Arab millionaire with big gambling debts which he was unwisely ignoring.' Hoffer shrugged. 'The gambler was a Mr Big, didn't think anyone could touch him. He had an armoured Mercedes and four bodyguards a grenade launcher couldn't've budged. They used to huddle round their boss when he went anywhere, like he was Muhammad All going into the ring. Then, pop, a bullet hits the guy smack in the heart, and they're all looking around, only they don't know where to look because there's nothing there to look at. They reckon it was a hit from six, maybe seven hundred yards.'

'You know a lot about it.'

'I've had a lot of time to look things up. I've got a file of more than sixty a.s.sa.s.sinations going back fifteen years. He could be behind any number of them.'

'Would anyone else know about it?'

'Only someone as obsessed as me.' Hoffer paused. 'It's him on the tape, I know it's him.'

'We'll see if the boffins can come up with anything.'

'Such as?'

"You'd be surprised. We've got linguistic people who might pin down his accent, even if you and I can't tell he's got one. We could get it down to a region or county.'

'Wow, I'm impressed.'

'It's slow and methodical, Hoffer, that's how we do things.

We don't go shooting our mouths off and our guns off.'

'Hey, I make the jokes around here.'

'Just don't become a joke, all right?'

'Whoa, Bob, okay, you got me, I yield to your sharper wit.

Now what say I get a copy of that tape?'

'What say you don't?'

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'Still sore at me, huh?'

'What's Barney got for you?'

'Just a few names, gun dealers.' Hoffer shrugged. 'You're not the only one who can be slow and methodical.

Gumshoes do a lot of walking, Bob, a lot of knocking on doors.'

'Just don't come knocking on mine for a while, Leo.'

'Whatever you say. Bob.' Broome had gone back to calling him Leo; it was going to be all right between them.

Hoffer got slowly to his feet. 'What about Inspector West?'

'I'll have someone talk to Mr Johns, get a description circulating.' Hoffer nodded. 'Don't expect a bunch of roses, Hoffer, you just did what you're supposed to do all the time.

If you get anything else, come back and see me.'

Hoffer fixed a sneer to his face. 'You can f.u.c.king well go whistle, Bob.' He opened the door, but turned back into the room. "You know how to whistle, don't you?'

And then he was gone.

Hoffer sat next morning, lingering over the hotel breakfast.

The hotel he was in had a restaurant which opened on to the street, and was open to the public as well as to residents.

Something inside Hoffer didn't like that. Anyone could walk in off the street and sit down next to you. There was a guy sitting by the window who looked like Boris Karloff had donated to a sperm bank and Bette Davis had picked up the jar. He wore little round Gestapo-style gla.s.ses which reflected more light than there was light to reflect. He was reading a newspaper and eating scrambled eggs on toast. He gave Hoffer the creeps.

Hoffer wasn't feeling too well to start with. He didn't have earache any more, but he had a pain in his side which could be some form of cancer. Through the night he'd woken in agony with a searing pain all down one side of his back.

He'd staggered into the bathroom, then out again, and was about to phone for an ambulance when he discharged a i59 sudden belt of gas. After that he felt a bit better, so he tried again and got out another huge belch. Someone hammered on the wall for a couple of moments, but he ignored them.

He just sat there bare-a.s.sed on the carpet until he could stop shaking.

Christ, he'd been scared. The adrenaline had kept him awake for another hour, and he'd no pills left to knock him out.

He put it down to nervousness. He'd called Walkins, and Walkins hadn't been too happy with Hoffer's report.

'Mr Hoffer, I wish you wouldn't sound so excited all the time.'

'Huh?'

'I don't know what you think you're doing. I mean, you call me with news of great import, and say you're getting close, and you sound so thrilled at the prospect. But Mr Hoffer, we've been here before, several times before, and each time you get my hopes up, the next thing I know your lead has proved false or the trail has grown cold. I want more than your hope, Mr Hoffer. I want a result. So no more acting, no more milking me for money. Just find him, and find him fast. The media would love me to tell them you've been a fake all along.'

'Hey, stop right there! I'm busting a gut here, I'm working round the clock. You think you pay me too much? You couldn't pay me hay-enough for what I go through for you.'

Tor me?'

'You bet it's for you! Who else?'

'Yourself perhaps, your reputation.'

'That's a crock of s.h.i.t and you know it.'

'Look, let's not get into a fight.'

'I didn't start it.' Hoffer was standing up in his room, facing the dressing-table mirror. He was hyperventilating, and trying to calm down. Walkins was thousands of miles away. He couldn't hit him, and he didn't want to hit a stand-in. He took deep slow breaths instead.

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