Bleeding Hearts Part 14

I put down the phone and thought, not for the first time, of leaving London, leaving the whole mess behind. It was madness to keep on with this. But then what was the alternative? If I didn't find out why I'd been set up and who was behind it, how could I take another job? I went down to Bel's room and she let me in. She was dressed, but wearing a towel wrapped turban-style around her head.

'So what are we up to this afternoon?' she asked.

'Doing our police act for Eleanor Ricks's solicitor.'

120.

She took off the towel and let it fall to the floor. Already she'd become a seasoned hotel guest. Next she'd be requesting more shampoo and teabags.

'I'm enjoying this,' she said. I looked surprised. 'Really, I am. It beats staring at sheep and dry-stone d.y.k.es all day.'

'I thought you watched daytime TV.'

'It beats that, too.' She sat down on the bed and, taking my hand, guided me to sit beside her. She didn't let go of my hand.

'Have you phoned Max lately?' I asked.

'That's a low punch.'

I shrugged. 'It's the only punch I've got.'

'Good.' She leaned towards me and touched her lips to mine. I was slow responding, so she opened her eyes.

'What's wrong?'

I pulled away from her, but slowly and not too far. 'We don't seem to be getting anywhere. It's all dead ends.'

'No, Michael,' she said, 'not quite all dead ends.' Our next kiss lasted a lot longer. By the end of it, her hair was all but dry, and this time she pulled away first.

'Can I just say one thing, Michael?'

'What?'

'In that gymnasium ...'

'Yes?'

'You were holding the MP5 all wrong.'

'I was?' She nodded. "Don't tell me you've actually fired an MP5?'.

She looked surprised at the question. 'Of course I have. I get to fire most of my dad's guns eventually. Want me to give you some tips?'

I blinked. 'I'm not sure.'

She laughed at the look on my face. 'You thought you were getting Little Red Riding-Hood, is that it?'

'Well, I certainly didn't think I was getting the wolf.'

This time when we kissed, we used our hands to unb.u.t.ton one another's clothes ...

121.

11.'You weren't entirely truthful, were you, Mr Holier?'

The speaker was DI Dave Edmond. He was in the same pub he'd been in before with Hoffer. And as before, Hoffer was buying him a drink.

'A couple of large Scotches, please.' Hoffer turned to the policeman. 'How do you mean?'

"You didn't tell me you'd had a blow-up with my boss.

He's not very pleased with you, Mr Hoffer.'

'Did you tell him we'd had a drink?' Edmond shook his head. 'What he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?'

'It can hurt me, if he ever finds out.'

'Why should he, Dave? Besides, you can look after yourself.' Hoffer sniffed and scratched his nose. The drinks arrived and he proffered a twenty. 'Keep five for yourself,' he told the barman, 'and keep these coming till the change runs out.' He then handed a whisky to Edmond, who dribbled water into it.

'Come on,' said Hoffer, 'let's sit down.'

The just-the-one-after-work commuter drinkers had departed, so there were tables free. Hoffer liked Edmond less than he liked Bob Broome, but he smiled anyway. He needed a friend in the police investigation, and if Broome could no longer be bought, others like Edmond could. Broome would return to the fold. They'd fallen out before and then made things up. But meantime Edmond would suffice.

'I like your style, Dave. You're not showy. You're the sort of guy who gets things done, who doesn't make a song and dance number out of it.' Hoffer lit a cigarette, then slid the pack towards the policeman.

122.

'Cops are cops,' Edmond said.

'G.o.d, that's true.'

'I hear you left the force.'

Hoffer opened his arms. 'I failed the physical. I was fine once I'd caught the bad guys. I could sit on them till they 'fessed up. But I just couldn't catch them.' Hoffer laughed and shook his head. 'No, it was the Walkins case. I got obsessed with it. So much so, my chiefs decided to move me to some other investigation. I couldn't take that, so I resigned and set myself up as a private d.i.c.k. Only, the only case I was interested in was the Walkins one.'

'There was something about it in the papers.'

'Hey, the media loved my story. They brought it flowers and chocolates. I'd given up a good career to make a life of hunting this mystery gunman. And the millionaire father of one of his victims was paying me. Are you kidding? It made great copy. Plus of course I was a fat ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d, they loved that too. They like anything but normal in their photographs.'

Edmond laughed. Hoffer liked him even less.

'They still love me,' he went on. 'And I don't mind that.

See, some people think I'm pandering to them, I mean to the press, and maybe they're right. Or maybe I'm on some ego trip. All this may be true, but consider.' He raised a finger.

'The Demolition Man knows I'm out there. He knows I'm not going away. And I really get a kick out of that. Maybe he's not worried, but then again maybe he is.'

'You don't think he'd take a pop at you?'

Hoffer shrugged. 'I never think about it.' He'd told this story many dozens of times, always leaving out just a few truths. Such as the fact that his employers had requested his resignation when they'd decided he was doing a bit too much obvious nose talc. It was Hoffer's story that he'd resigned so he could follow up the Walkins story in his own way and his own time, but really he'd been given an ultimatum. Of course, once he'd explained to a reporter that 123.

he now had only one mission in life, then he'd had to do something about it, just to show willing. And then old man Walkins had come along and offered to pay him, and the story had expanded until he was trapped. Now he had his office and his employees and his reputation. He couldn't just walk away from the D-Man, even if he wanted to.

And he often thought that he wanted to.

'So how much do you make?' Edmond asked, the way serving policemen always did, sooner or later.

'Think of a number and double it,' Hoffer said. Then he laughed. 'No, I'm a businessman, an employer, I've got overheads, salaries to pay, taxes and s.h.i.+t. I don't come out so far ahead.'

'Walkins must be rich though.'

'You kidding? He's loaded.'

'Is it right that his daughter was a mistake?'

Hoffer nodded. She was just about the only mistake the D- Man had ever made. He had eleven, maybe twelve clean hits to his name, plus Ellen Walkins.

'She was eighteen, standing in the doorway saying goodnight to some people after a dinner party. They were all government people, plus wives, family. She wasn't the target. They reckon the target was a congressman with very strong views about certain foreign policies. Any number of dictators and crooked governments would have paid to have him shut up. But the step was icy and the f.u.c.ker slipped.

The bullet had been going straight through his heart, but it hit Ellen instead. The investigation got taken off our hands pretty fast. I mean, it was too big for just the police to handle. I couldn't let them do that.'

'Why not?'

The barman had appeared with two more whiskies, plus a bottle of water, giving Hoffer time to consider the question.

It was one he'd asked himself a few times. Why couldn't he just let it go?

'I don't know,' he said honestly. 'I just couldn't.' He 124.

sniffed again and shook himself up. 'Jesus, you don't want to hear all this. You should be the one doing the show and tell.

So what have you got?'

Edmond pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside were several folded xerox sheets. There were photocopies of bank statements and old cheques, together with a rundown of cash machines Mark Wesley had used.

'It's not complete yet,' Edmond explained. 'This is just the first tranche. I could get into a lot of trouble for this.'

'You could,' agreed Hoffer, slipping an envelope across the table. 'But this might cheer you up.'

Edmond counted the money into his pocket, crumpling the envelope into their ashtray, then sat waiting. Hoffer didn't say anything for a while.

'Guy does a lot of travelling,' he said at last, reaching for his whisky.

'We'll check the travel companies mentioned, see if they can give us details.'

'Of course you will. What about these cash withdrawals?

Any pattern you can see?'

Edmond shook his head. 'Except that some of them are in Yorks.h.i.+re, according to Vine Street's geography A-level. Not in cities either, in country towns.'

'Maybe he lives there?'

Edmond shrugged. 'He's bought a whack of traveller's cheques too, by the look of it. One of those cheques to Thomas Cook isn't for travel.' He pointed to the photocopy.

'See? They've written on the back what it's for, purchase of traveller's cheques.' Hoffer nodded. 'We'll see if we can take it any further. If we can get the numbers of the traveller's cheques, might be we can find where he's used them.

There's just one thing ...'

'What's that, Dave?'

'Well, all we seem to be doing is tracking backwards through an ident.i.ty he's already shed. Where will that get us?'

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'Use your head, Dave. We can't track him forwards, so what else can we do? This way, we tie down accomplices, contacts, maybe we find patterns, or even a clue to his next hit. This for example.' Hoflfer was tapping a cheque.

'Ah, I was coming to that,' said Edmond.

'So,' said Hoffer, 'here's a cheque made out to someone called ... what is that name?'

'It says H. Capaldi,' said Edmond.

'Right, so who is he?'

'He's a counterfeiter.' Now Edmond had Hoffer's fuH- attention.

'A counterfeiter?'

Edmond nodded. 'Harry the Cap's been around for years, done some time, but when he comes out he goes back to what he's best at.'

'What does he forge?'

'Doc.u.ments ... anything you want really.'

'Where can I find him?'

Edmond licked his Ups. 'About four hundred yards up the road.'

What?'

'We've brought him to Vine Street. Bob Broome's got him in an Interview Room right this minute.'

Hoffer waited for Edmond to come back.

It took a while, and he was starving, but he daren't leave the pub and miss the policeman's return. Instead, he ate potato chips and peanuts and then, as a last resort, a toasted sandwich. It was alleged to be cheese and ham. If you'd served it up in a New York bar, your client would have returned at dead of night with a flame thrower.

After all the whisky, he took it easy and went on to beer.