Иэн Рэнкин - Bleeding Hearts

He knew he could claim for a cab, so schlepped his stuff down to the Underground and took a train into town. It wasn’t much better than New York. Three young toughs were working the carriages, asking for money from the newly-arrived travellers. Hoffer hadn’t taken the Smith & Wesson out of his case yet, which was good news for the beggars. London, he decided, was definitely on its way down the pan. Even the centre of town looked like it had been turned over by a gang. Everything had been torn up or sprayed on. Last time he’d been in London, there had been more punks around, but there’d been more life to the place too, and fewer street people.

The train journey took forever. His body knew that it was five hours earlier than everyone around him thought it was. His feet were swollen, and sitting in the train brought on another bout of ear pressure. Plastic cups, for Christ’s sake.

But the receptionist smiled and was sympathetic. He told her if she really felt sorry for him he had a litre of Scotch in his bag and she knew his room number. She still managed to smile, but she had to force it. Then he got to his room and remembered all the very worst things about England. Namely, the beds and the plumbing. His bed was way too narrow. They had wider beds in the concentration camps. When he phoned reception, he was told all the beds in the single rooms were the same size, and if he wanted a double bed he’d need to pay for a double room. So then he’d to take the elevator back down to reception, get a new room, and take the elevator back up. This room was a little better, not much. He switched the TV on and went into the bathroom to run a bath. The bath looked like a child might have fun in it, but an adult would have problems, and the taps were having prostate trouble if the dribble issuing from them was anything to go by. There wasn’t even a proper glass by the sink, just another plastic tumbler. He unscrewed the top from his Johnny Walker Red Label and poured generously. He was about to add water from the cold tap, but thought better of it, so he drank the Scotch neat and watched the water finally cover the bottom of the bath.

He toasted the mirror. ‘Welcome to England,’ he said.

He’d arranged to meet Bob Broome in the hotel bar.

They knew one another from a conference they’d attended in Toronto when both had been Drugs Squad officers. That was going back some time, but then they’d met again when Hoffer had been in London last trip, just over a year ago. He’d been tracking the Demolition Man then, too.

‘You mean Walkins is still paying you?’ Broome sounded awed.

‘I’m not on a retainer or anything,’ Hoffer said. ‘But when we hear anything new on the D-Man, I know I can follow it up and Walkins will pay.’

Bob Broome shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe you got here so quickly.’

‘No ties, Bob, that’s the secret.’ Hoffer looked around the bar. ‘This place stinks, let’s go for a walk.’ He saw Broome look at him, laughed and patted his jacket. ‘It’s okay, Bob, I’m not armed.’ Broome looked relieved.

It was Sunday evening and the streets were quiet. They walked into Soho and found a pub seedy enough for Hoffer’s tastes, where they ordered bitter and found a corner table.

‘So, Bob, what’ve you got?’

Broome placed his pint glass carefully on a beermat, checking its base was equidistant from all four edges. ‘There was a shooting yesterday evening at six o’clock, outside a hotel near the US Embassy. A minute or two after the shooting, a bomb exploded in a rubbish bin nearby. We had an anonymous call warning us, so we sent men over there. We arrived just too late, but in time to start a search for the assassin. But he’d been a bit too clever. We went for the building directly in front of the hotel, and he’d been holed up in the office block next-door. He must have seen us coming. He called for an ambulance, gave them some story about being seriously ill, and they whisked him away to hospital from right under our noses.’

Hoffer shook his head. ‘But you’ve got a description?’

‘Oh, yes, a good description, always supposing he wasn’t wearing a wig and coloured contact lenses.’

‘He left the weapon behind?’

Broome nodded. ‘An L96A1 Sniper Rifle.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s British, a serious piece of goods. He’d tweaked it, added a flash hider and some camouflage tape. The telescopic sight on it was worth what I take home in a month.’

‘Nobody ever said the D-Man came cheap. Speaking of which...?’

‘We don’t even know who his target was. There were four people on the steps: a diplomat and his wife, the Secretary of State for the DSS, and the journalist.’

‘How far was he away from the hotel?’

‘Seventy, eighty yards.’

‘Unlikely he missed his target.’

‘He’s missed before.’

‘Yeah, but that was a fluke. He must’ve been after the reporter.’

‘We’re keeping an open mind. The diplomat seems sure he was the intended victim.’

‘Well, you have to keep an open mind, I don’t. In fact, I’m famous for my closed mind.’ Hoffer finished his drink. ‘Want another?’ Broome shook his head. ‘I need to see anything you’ve got, Bob.’

‘That’s not so easy, Leo. I’d have to clear it with my—’

‘By the way, something for your kids.’ Hoffer took an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. ‘How are they anyway?’

‘They’re fine, thanks.’ Broome looked in the envelope. He was looking at £500.

‘Don’t try to refuse it, Bob, I had a hell of a job cashing cheques at the hotel. I think they charged me the same again for the privilege, plus they had an exchange rate you wouldn’t accept from a shark. Put it in your pocket. It’s for your kids.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be thankful,’ Broome said, tucking the envelope in his inside pocket.

‘They’re nice kids. What’re their names again?’

‘Whatever you want them to be,’ said the childless Broome.

‘So can you get me the info?’

‘I can do some photocopying. You’ll have it first thing in the morning.’

Hoffer nodded. ‘Meantime, talk to me, get me interested. Tell me about the deceased.’

‘Her name is Eleanor Ricks, 39, freelance journalist. She covered the Falklands War and some of the early fighting in ex-Yugoslavia.’

‘So she wasn’t just puffing fluff?’

‘No, and lately she’d made the move into television. Yesterday she had a meeting with Molly Prendergast, that’s the DSS Minister.’

‘What was the meeting about? No, wait, same again?’ Hoffer went to the bar and ordered two more pints. He never had to wait long at bars; they were one place where his size lent him a certain authority. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t wearing great clothes, or hadn’t shaved in a while, he had weight and he had standing.

That was one reason he did a lot of his work in bars.

He brought the drinks back. He’d added a double whisky to go with his beer.

‘You want one?’ But Broome shook his head. Hoffer drank an inch from the beer, then poured in the whisky. He took two cigarettes from one of his packs of duty free, lit them and handed one to Broome.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘bad habit.’ It wasn’t everyone who wanted him sucking on their cigarette before they got it. ‘You were telling me about Molly Prendergast.’

‘It was an interview, something to do with Ricks’s latest project, the one for TV. It’s an investigation of religious cults.’

‘And this MP has something to do with them?’

‘Only indirectly. Her daughter was involved in one for a while. Prendergast and her husband had to fight like mad to get her back. In the end, they virtually had to kidnap her.’