Иэн Рэнкин - Bleeding Hearts

‘Geoffrey, is there something you want to say?’

‘I... no, I suppose not.’

‘Look, Geoffrey, you’re one of the dearest people I know.’ She halted. It was an old joke between them.

‘My rates are actually very reasonable,’ he supplied, sounding mollified. ‘What about next week? I’ll buy you lunch.’

She ran the sponge between her breasts and then over them. ‘That sounds heavenly.’

‘Do you want to fix a date now?’

‘You know what I’m like, Geoffrey, I’d only end up changing it. Let’s wait.’

‘Fine. Well, as the Americans say, have a nice day.’

‘It’s gone two, Geoffrey, the best of the day’s already over.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ said Geoffrey Johns.

She reached up to replace the receiver in its cradle, and wondered if Geoffrey would try charging her for the call. She wouldn’t put it past him. She lay in the bath a little longer, until there was just enough hot water left in the tap to let her shower off. She ran her fingers through her hair, enjoying the sensation, then towelled briskly and set off naked to the bedroom for her clothes.

She’d had her yellow and blue dress cleaned specially, and was glad the day was sunny. The dress worked best in sunlight.

I took a cab from the hotel.

My destination was only a ten-minute walk away, but I knew I’d be less conspicuous in a taxi. London cab-drivers aren’t, in my experience, the all-knowing and inquisitive individuals they’re often made out to be. They nod at you when you tell them your destination, and that’s about it. Of course, mine had one comment ready as I got into his cab.

‘What you got there then, a bazooka or something?’

‘Photographic equipment,’ I answered, though he showed no interest. I had manoeuvred the long metal box into the back of the cab, where, angled between the top corner of the rear window and the bottom front corner of the door diametrically opposite, it afforded me scant space for myself. It was longer than it needed to be; but it was also the shortest adequate box I could find.

It was silver in colour, with three clasp-locks and a black carrying-handle. I’d bought it in a specialist shop for photographers. It was used for carrying around rolls of precious background paper. The shop assistant had tried to sell me some graduated sheets — they were on special offer — but I’d declined. I didn’t mind the box being too big. It did anything but announce that there was a gun inside.

In the movies, the local assassin tends to carry a small attaché case. His rifle will be inside, broken down into stock, fore-end and barrel. He simply clips the parts together and attaches his telescopic sight. Of course, in real life even if you get hold of such a weapon, it would not be anything like as accurate as a solid one-piece construction. Normally, I’d carry my rifle hanging from a special pouch inside my raincoat, but the PM was just too long and too heavy. So instead of walking, I was taking a taxi to the office.

I’d been watching the weather for a couple of hours, and had even phoned from the hotel for the latest Met Office report. Clear, but without bright sunshine. In other words, perfect conditions, the sun being a sniper’s worst enemy. I was chewing gum and doing some breathing exercises, though I doubted they’d be effective in my present cramped condition. But it was only a few minutes until the driver was pulling into the kerb and dropping me outside the office block.

This was a Saturday, remember, and though I was in central London my destination wasn’t one of the main thoroughfares. So the street was quiet. Cars and taxis waited for the lights to change further down the road, but the shops were doing slow business and all the offices were closed. The shops were at street level, the usual mix of ceramics studios, small art galleries, shoe shops, and travel agents. I paid the driver and eased the carrying-case out on to the pavement. I stood there until he’d driven off. Across the street were more shops with offices above, and the Craigmead Hotel. It was one of those old understated hotels with overstated room rates. I knew this because I’d toyed with staying there before opting for a much safer choice.

The building I was standing outside was a typical central London office complex, with four steps up to an imposing front door, and a facade which in some parts of the city would hide a huge family home broken up into flats. Indeed, the building next-door had been converted to flats on all but its ground and first floors. My chosen site, however, was currently being gutted and reshaped to offer, as the billboard outside put it, LUXURY OFFICE ACCOMMODATION FOR THE 21ST CENTURY.

I’d been along here yesterday and the day before, and again earlier today. During the week, the place was busy with workmen, but this being Saturday the main door was locked tight, and there was no sign of life inside. That’s why I’d chosen it over the flats next door, which offered the easier target but would probably be in use at weekends. I walked up to the main door and worked the lock. It was a simple Yale, not even permanently fixed. The real locks would come later on in the renovation. Meantime, there being little inside worth pinching, the contractors hadn’t bothered with a quality lock.

They hadn’t got round to installing the alarm system yet either: another reason for my choice. Wires led out of the front wall into fresh air. Later, they’d be hooked up to the alarm and a casing put over the whole. But for now security was not the main concern.

I’m not the world’s greatest locksmith, but any housing-estate teenager could have been into the place in seconds. I walked into the entrance hall, taking my carrying-case with me, and closed the door behind me. I stood there for a minute listening to the silence. I could smell drying plaster and wet paint, planed wood and varnish. The downstairs looked like a building site. There were planks and panels of Gyproc and bags of cement and plaster and rolls of insulation. Some of the floorboards had been lifted to allow access to wiring ducts, but I didn’t see any fresh rolls of electrical cable: the stuff was probably too valuable to be left lying around. The electrical contractor would take it away with him every night in his van and bring it back again next day. I knew a few electricians; they’re careful that way.

There were also no power-tools lying around, and very few tools of any description. I guessed they’d be locked away somewhere inside the building. There was a telephone on the floor, one of those old slimline models with the angular receiver resting over the dial. It was chipped and dotted with paint, but more surprisingly was attached to a phone-point on the wall. I lifted the receiver, and heard the familiar tone. I suppose it made sense: this was going to be a long job; there’d have to be some means of communication between the gang and their base. I put back the receiver and stood up.

Since I hadn’t been in the place before, I knew I had to get to know it quickly. I left the case in the reception area and headed upstairs. Some doors had been fitted, but none were locked, except one to a storage area. I presumed that was where the tools were kept.

I found the office I needed on the second floor.

The first floor was too close to ground level. There was always the chance of some pedestrian glancing up, though they so seldom did. The third floor, on the other hand, made the angle a little too difficult. I might have accepted its challenge, but I knew I needed a good hit. No time for games today, it had to be fast and mundane. Well, not too mundane. There was always my calling card.

My chosen office was as chaotic as any other part of the building. They were fitting a false ceiling, from which fell power points, probably for use with desktop computers. The ceiling they were putting up, a grid of white plastic strips, would be hiding the real ceiling, which was ornately corniced with an even more ornate central ceiling-rose, presumably at one time surrounding the room’s main light fitting, a chandelier perhaps. Well, they’re fucking up old buildings everywhere, aren’t they?