Crocodile Tears Part 8

"I'd like to report a stolen car," he said. "I parked it on Chilton Street last night and now it's gone."

"Can I have the license plate number?" It was a woman's voice. She didn't sound very concerned. She also spoke with a foreign accent, making him wonder if he'd been rerouted to a call center abroad.

Forcing himself not to lose his temper, he gave the license number. "KL06NZG."

"KL06NZG?"

"Yes."

"Is that a green Mercedes SLR Coupe?"

"No!" Bulman shut his eyes. His headache was getting worse. "It's a silver Volkswagen Golf."

"Can you give me the license number again?"

Bulman repeated it, pausing between each digit. Whoever was at the other end of the line obviously didn't have much skill with computers.

"I'm sorry, sir." The woman was adamant. "That number is registered to a Mercedes. Can I take your name?"

"It's Bulman. Harold Edward Bulman."

"And your address?"

He told her.

"Could you hold a moment?" There was another silence, longer this time. Bulman was about to hang up when the woman came back on the line. "Mr. Bulman, how long have you had this car?"

"I bought it two years ago."

"I'm afraid we have no record of that name or that address on our files."

This was the end. Bulman lost his temper. "Are you telling me that I don't know where I live and that I've forgotten the make and the color of my own car? I'm telling you, my car has been stolen. I left it here last night, and now it's gone."

"I'm sorry, sir. The license number you've given us doesn't match up with the information I have here."

"Well, your information is wrong." Bulman slammed the phone down. His head was throbbing.

He needed money. He felt naked without cash and he wanted to eat. He looked at his watch. At least that was still working. Half past nine. The banks would have opened by now. Bulman had plenty of ID on him, and he'd feel better once he had a full wallet. He could deal with the car later.

He turned and walked back the way he had come. Ten minutes later, he found himself in the local branch of his bank, talking to one of the managers who had a desk in the main hall. The manager was a young man, Asian, dressed in a suit, with a neat beard. He was clearly alarmed as this new customer came striding up to him, and Bulman realized that, what with all the tramping back and forth, trying to deal with all the events that seemed to have ganged up on him in the past hour, he must look half crazed. He no longer cared.

"I need to withdraw some money," he said. "And your machine doesn't seem to be working."

The manager frowned. "We haven't had any complaints."

"It doesn't matter. I don't need to use the machine. I want to withdraw some money from you."

"Do you have a card, sir?" Bulman handed over his last remaining credit card and watched as the manager brought up his details on the computer. He gazed at the screen, perplexed. "I'm very sorry, sir . . ."

"Are you saying I don't have an account with you?" Bulman's voice was quavering.

"No, sir. You used to have an account. But you closed it down a year ago. You can see for yourself." He swiveled the computer around and there it was, a row of zeroes at the bottom of his account. Every last penny had been removed exactly twelve months before.

"I never closed my account," Bulman said.

"Would you like me to talk to the head office? . . ."

Yet Bulman was already gone, spinning out of the chair and making his way through the main door, out into the fresh air. What the h.e.l.l was going on? His travel pa.s.s, then the bank cards, his mobile phone, his car, now his accounts . . . it was as if his ident.i.ty was being taken from him one piece at a time. He leaned against the corner of the building, steadying himself, and as he stood there, a commuter hurried past, throwing a copy of his newspaper into a bin right in front of him, almost as if he wanted Bulman to see what was on the front page.

It was a photograph of himself.

Bulman gazed at it in horror, remembering the headline that he had seen as he came out of his apartment. "Journalist Killed." He was looking at the same headline now. He felt the sidewalk lurching underneath him as he stepped forward and plucked the newspaper out. The story was very short.

Harold Bulman, a freelance journalist who specialized in stories relating to the army and intelligence services, was yesterday morning found dead in his north London apartment. Mr. Bulman, 37, had been stabbed. Police today appealed for any witnesses who might have seen or heard anything between ten o'clock and midnight to come forward. Detective Chief Superintendent Stephen Leather, who is heading the investigation, said: "Mr. Bulman may well have made himself enemies in his line of work, and at this stage we are not ruling anything out." Harold Bulman was unmarried and had no close family or friends.

It was him. They were saying he was dead! How could they have made a mistake like that? Was this the reason why his phone wasn't working, why there was no money in his account? Suddenly it all made sense. Somehow he'd been confused with somebody else. And as a result, a whole series of switches had been pulled as, automatically, his life was turned off.

He had to get to a telephone. He had to talk to his editors, to the people who employed him. He had no money. But there was a telephone in his apartment. That was the answer. Bulman didn't want to be on the street anymore, anyway. He had become a non-person, an invisible man. For some reason, he felt exposed. How could he be sure that there wasn't someone out there who really did want to stab him? He had to get back inside.

He was sweating by the time he got back to his apartment, and his hand shook as he tried to force the key into the lock. It didn't seem to want to go in. In the end, after three attempts, he realized that the key didn't fit. And that was impossible too. Wasn't it? He had used it only last night! But someone in the last twelve hours had gone out and changed the lock.

"Let me in!" he shouted. There was n.o.body to listen to him. He was shouting at the gla.s.s door and the brickwork. "Let me in!" He kicked the door, using the sole of his foot. But the gla.s.s was reinforced, shatterproof, and the door was held in place by powerful magnetic plates. He kicked out a third time. He was screaming now. Anyone pa.s.sing would think he was insane.

"Are you all right, sir? Can I help you?"

He hadn't heard the police car draw in behind him, but when he turned around, there were two policemen standing on the sidewalk. Bulman was glad to see them. After all, he'd been trying to call them just a few minutes ago.

"I'm locked out," he said.

"Do you live here, sir?"

"Well, obviously I live here. If I didn't live here, I wouldn't be trying to get in." Bulman realized he was being rude. He tried to force a smile to his face. "I have a home on the top floor," he explained. "This has never happened before . . ."

"Can I try for you?"

Bulman noticed that the policeman had dropped the "sir." He handed the keys over and watched as the policeman tried them in the lock-also without success. The policeman examined the keys, then the lock. He straightened up. "You're not going to open this door with these keys," he said. "The lock is Banham. These keys are Yale."

"But that's not possible . . ."

"What's your name?" the second policeman asked.

"It's Harry Bulman. I'm a journalist."

"And you say you live here?"

"I don't just say I live here. I do live here. But I'm locked out."

"Just one moment, sir."

The first policeman was talking on his radio. Bulman pa.s.sed his briefcase from one hand to the other. It was suddenly feeling very heavy. Considering it was only January, the weather was far too hot. The second policeman was looking at him suspiciously. He was only about nineteen years old, with light brown hair and stick-out ears. He still had a schoolboy face.

"Are you sure this is where you live?" the first policeman asked. He had finished his radio conversation.

"Yes. Apartment thirty-seven. On the top floor."

"There was a Harold Bulman, a journalist, registered to this address, but he was killed two nights ago."

"No. That was in the newspapers. I just read it. But it's a mistake. I'm Harry Bulman."

"Would you have any identification on you?"

"Of course I have." Bulman took out his wallet. But two of his credit cards had been taken by the cash machines, and he had left the third in the bank. His driver's license was in the apartment. His fingers were shaking as he fumbled through his wallet. "I can give you ID once I get into my home," he said.

The two policemen looked at each other. The younger one seemed to notice Bulman's briefcase for the first time. "What are you carrying?" he asked.

The question took Bulman by surprise. "Why do you want to know?" he snapped.

Before he could stop him, the first policeman had picked up the briefcase. "Do you mind if we look i nside?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do."

It was already too late. The policeman opened the briefcase and was looking at the contents, his face full of horror. With a sense that his whole life was draining away from him, Bulman leaned forward. He knew what was inside: a notepad, a couple of magazines, pens and pencils.

He was wrong. The policeman was holding the case open, and Bulman could clearly see a kitchen knife, about fifteen inches long, the blade covered in dried blood.

"Wait . . . ," he began.

The two policemen acted incredibly quickly. Without even knowing quite what had happened, Bulman found himself facedown on the sidewalk with his arms gripped behind his back. He felt the metal edges of the handcuffs bite into his flesh as they clicked shut. The first policeman was back on his radio, talking rapidly. Seconds later, there was a screech of tires and another police car drew up. More uniformed officers surrounded him.

"You have the right to remain silent . . ."

Bulman realized that he was being told his rights, but the words didn't quite register. They were booming in his ears. He felt himself being picked up and propelled toward the car. A hand was placed on his head to stop him from banging against the door frame. And then he was inside, being driven away at speed. They had even turned the sirens on.

An hour later, Bulman found himself alone in a bare brick interrogation room with a window set so high up, it showed only a small square of sky. They had taken his fingerprints and a swab from the inside of his mouth, which he knew would be used to check his DNA. There were two new officers sitting opposite him. They were older and more experienced than the men who had made the arrest, heavyset and serious. They had introduced themselves as Bennett and Ainsworth. Ainsworth seemed to be the senior of the two, bald, with small, hard eyes and a mouth that could have been drawn with a single pencil line. Bennett was slightly younger and looked as if he had recently been in a fistfight. He was holding a file.

Bulman had been given a little time to collect his thoughts. He had worked out what he was going to say. "Listen to me," he began. "This is all a stupid mistake. The way you've treated me is outrageous. I am a well-known journalist, and I'm warning you-"

"It's good to see you, Jeremy," Bennett interrupted.

"That's not my name."

"Jeremy Harwood. Did you really think we wouldn't find you?" Ainsworth laid the file on the table and opened it. Bulman saw a black-and-white police photograph. Once again he recognized himself. But it had this other name underneath it.

He drew a breath. "My name is not Jeremy Harwood. My name is Harold Bulman."

"Harold Bulman is dead."

"No."

"We've already a.n.a.lyzed the blood we found on the knife in your briefcase. It's Bulman's. You killed him."

"No. You're making a mistake. This is all wrong." Bulman fought for control. How could this nightmare be happening?

Ainsworth flicked a page in a file. There were fingerprints-ten of them in a row-and what looked like a chemical formula. "We've checked your DNA and your fingerprints, Jeremy. They all match up. There's no need to pretend anymore."

"You escaped from Broadmoor two months ago," Bennett said.

Broadmoor? Bulman blinked heavily. That was where they sent the most dangerous prisoners in the country, the ones who were considered criminally insane.

"Why did you kill Harold Bulman?" Bennett asked.

"I . . . I . . ." Bulman tried to find the answer, but the words wouldn't come. Something had happened to his thinking process. He was aware that there were tears trickling down his cheeks.

"Don't worry, Jeremy," Ainsworth said. He sounded almost kind. "We're going to take you back. You'll be safe, locked up in your cell. You won't hurt anyone ever again."

"You'll be taken back to Broadmoor this afternoon," Bennett added.

"No . . ." The room was spinning in ever-increasing circles. Bulman gripped the table, trying to slow it down. "You can't-"

"We can. The arrangements have already been made."

The door suddenly opened and a third man came in. From the very start he didn't look anything like a policeman. He was more like a retired colonel, about fifty, with thinning hair and a face that was hurrying toward old age. He was wearing a suit that didn't match his brown suede shoes. "Thank you," he said. "I'll take over now."

He didn't exactly radiate authority, but there was something in his voice, an edge of steel, that cut straight to the point. The two detectives stood up immediately and left. The man took their place at the table, opposite Bulman. His eyes were empty and cold.

"My name is Crawley," he said. Bulman was still crying. There were tears dripping out of his nose. Crawley reached into his pocket and took out a tissue. "Use this," he suggested.

Bulman wiped his nose and ran a sleeve across his eyes.

"I work for the intelligence services," Crawley explained. "A branch of MI6."

And suddenly Bulman understood. It was like being slapped across the face. MI6! Who else could have twisted his life out of shape with such ease? If he hadn't been so terrified, he would have been furious with himself. He should have expected something like this. "Alex Rider . . . ," he rasped.

"I'm not saying I've ever heard of Alex Rider," Crawley responded. His voice was utterly flat. "But I am going to tell you this. I could snap my fingers now and a van would take you to a mental hospital and lock you up, and that is where you would spend the rest of your life. Harry Bulman would be dead and you'd be the lunatic who killed him."

"But . . . but . . ." Bulman couldn't talk. He could barely breathe.

"For that matter, I could eliminate you now myself," Crawley continued. "I actually know thirty-seven different ways to kill you in a manner that will look completely natural. Some of them are quick. Some of them hurt." He paused. "But those are not my instructions. I've been told to give you another chance."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Bulman was crying again.

"You can go home now. You can forget all about this. But if you ever go anywhere near Alex Rider again, if you approach any newspaper editor, if you so much as mention his name, we will hear about it, and next time we won't be so generous. We will wipe you off the face of the earth. Do you understand me?"

Bulman said nothing. Crawley stood up.

"From now on, we'll be watching you, Mr. Bulman," he said. "Every minute of every day. Please believe me. This was just a lesson. Next time it'll be for real."

He left the room.