Иэн Рэнкин - Bleeding Hearts

And then from outside came the sound of a muffled explosion: my calling card.

I’d planted the device in the morning. It was at the bottom of a dustbin in an alley behind some restaurants. The alley was about five hundred yards from the Craigmead Hotel. It was a small bomb, just big enough to make a noise. The alley was a dead end, so I doubted anyone would be hurt. Its purpose was to deflect attention while I walked away from the scene. I knew it would still deflect attention, but I doubted I’d be able to walk away without being spotted by the police.

Now there was another siren, not a police car but an ambulance. God bless them, the emergency services know that when a haemophiliac phones them up, it has to be priority. I unlocked the main door and looked out. Sure enough, the ambulance had drawn up outside. One of the ambulance men was opening the back door, the other was climbing out from the driver’s side.

Together they pulled a stretcher from the back of the ambulance, manoeuvred it on to the pavement, and wheeled it towards the front door. Someone, a policeman probably, called out to them and asked what they were doing.

‘Emergency!’ one of them called back.

I held the door open for them. I had a hand to my bloody forehead, and an embarrassed smile on my face.

‘Tripped and fell,’ I said.

‘Not surprised with all this rubbish lying around.’

‘I was working upstairs.’

I let them put me on to the stretcher. I thought it would look better for the audience.

‘Do you have your card?’ one of them asked.

‘It’s in my wallet at home.’

‘You’re supposed always to carry it. What’s your factor level?’

‘One per cent.’

They were putting me in the ambulance now. The armed police were still in the apartment block. People were looking towards the source of the explosion from a few moments before.

‘What the hell’s happened here?’ one ambulance man asked the other.

‘Christ knows.’ The second ambulance man tore open a packet and brought out a compress, which he pressed to my forehead. He placed my hand on it. ‘Here, you know the drill. Plenty of pressure.’

The driver closed the ambulance doors from the outside, leaving me with his colleague. Nobody stopped us as we left the scene. I was sitting up, thinking I wasn’t safe yet.

‘Is this your card?’ The ambulance man had picked something off the floor. He started reading it. ‘Gerald Flitch, Marketing Strategist.’

‘My business card. It must have fallen out of my pocket.’ I held out my hand and he gave me back the card. ‘The company I’m working for, they’re supposed to be moving into the new office next week.’

‘It’s an old card then, the Liverpool address?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘our old offices.’

‘Are you factor eight or nine, Mr Flitch?’

‘Factor eight,’ I told him.

‘We’ve got a good Haematology Department, you’ll be all right.’

‘Thank you.’

‘To tell you the truth, you’d have been as quick walking there.’

Yes, we were already bumping through the hospital gates and up to the Emergency entrance. This was about as far as I could take the charade. I knew that behind the compress the bleeding was already stopping. They took me into Emergency and gave a nurse my details. She went off to call someone from Haematology, and the ambulance men went back to their vehicle. I sat for a few moments in the empty reception area, then got up and headed for the door. The ambulance was still there, but there was no sign of the ambulance men. They’d probably gone for a cup of tea and a cigarette. I walked down the slope to the hospital’s main entrance, and deposited the compress in a waste-bin. There were two public telephones on the wall, and I called my hotel.

‘Can I speak to Mr Wesley, please? Room 203.’

‘Sorry,’ said the receptionist after a moment, ‘I’m getting no reply.’

‘Can I leave a message? It’s very important. Tell Mr Wesley there’s been a change of plans, he has to be in Liverpool tonight. This is Mr Snipes from Head Office.’

‘Is there a number where he can contact you, Mr Snipes?’ I gave her a fictitious phone number prefixed with the Liverpool code, then put down the phone. There was a lot of police activity on the streets as I walked back to my hotel.

The thing was, the police would find the PM, and then they’d want to speak to the man who’d been taken away in the ambulance. The nurse in Emergency could tell them I’d given the name Gerald Flitch, and the ambulance man could add that my business card had carried a Liverpool address. From all of which, they could track down either Flitch’s Liverpool home or his employers and be told he was on a trip to London, staying at the Allington Hotel.

Which would bring them to me.

The Allington’s automatic doors hissed open, and I walked up to the reception desk.

‘Any idea what’s going on? There are police all over the place?’

The receptionist hadn’t looked up yet. ‘I heard a bang earlier on,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it’s about though.’

‘Any messages for me? Wesley, Room 203.’

Now she looked up. ‘Goodness, Mr Wesley, what happened to you?’

I touched my forehead. ‘Tripped and fell. Bloody London pavements.’

‘Dear me. I think we’ve got some plasters.’

‘I’ve some in my room, thanks.’ I paused. ‘No messages then?’

‘Yes, there’s a message, came not ten minutes ago.’ She handed it to me, and I read it.

‘Shit,’ I said in exasperation, letting my shoulders slump for the second time that day. ‘Can you make my bill up, please? Looks like I’ll be checking out.’

I couldn’t risk taking a cab straight from the Allington to another hotel — the cabbie would be able to tell police my destination — so I walked about a bit, lugging my suitcase with me. It was lighter than before, about fourteen pounds lighter, and too big for the purpose. Having used nearly all my cash settling my bill, I drew two hundred out of a cash machine. The first two hotels I tried were both full, but the third had a small single room with a shower but no bath. The hotel sold souvenirs to guests, including a large holdall with the hotel name emblazoned front and back. I bought one and took it upstairs with me. Later that evening, I took my now empty suitcase to King’s Cross. Luggage lockers are hard to find in central London, so I deposited the case in the left luggage room at King’s Cross station. Seeing the size of the case, the man behind the desk braced himself before attempting to lift it, then was caught off-balance by how light it was.

I took another cab back to my hotel and settled down to watch the news. But I couldn’t concentrate. They seemed to think I’d hit the wrong person. They thought I was after the diplomat. Well, that would help muddy the water, I didn’t mind that at all. Then they mentioned that police had taken away a large box from a building across from the hotel. They showed the alley where my little device had gone off. The metal bin looked like torn wrapping. Nobody had been injured, though two kitchen assistants in a Chinese restaurant had been treated for shock and cuts from flying glass.

They did not, of course, speculate as to how police had arrived on the scene so quickly. But I was thinking about it. I was tumbling it in my mind, and not coming up with any clever answers.

Tomorrow, there’d be time for thinking tomorrow. I was exhausted. I didn’t feel like meat and wine any more. I felt like sleep.

There was little love lost between Freddy Ricks and Geoffrey Johns, despite which, the solicitor was not surprised to receive Freddy’s call.

Freddy was half cut, as per usual, and sounded dazed.