‘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.’
‘And that’s what Ricks wanted to talk about?’
‘According to Mrs Prendergast.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘I’ve no reason to suppose she’d lie. Besides, her story is backed up by the programme’s producer.’
‘What’s his name?’ Hoffer had taken a notebook and pen from his pocket.
‘Joe Draper. One strange thing, somebody called the hotel. They asked for Eleanor Ricks and said it was urgent. She was paged, but she didn’t take the call. Not many people knew she was going to be there. Draper’s one of the few.’
‘Which TV company is it?’
‘It’s a small independent production company. I think it’s just called Draper Films or Draper Vision, something like that.’
‘You work too hard, Bob, you know that? I mean, you’re a seven-day man, am I right? Of course I’m right. You’ve got to rest your brain some time.’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘But if you don’t rest your brain, you start forgetting things, like whether it’s Draper Films or Draper Vision. I mean, little things, Bob, but little things can be the important things. You’re a cop, you know that.’
Broome didn’t look happy at this little lecture. In fact, he finished his drink and said he had to be going. Hoffer didn’t stop him. But he didn’t hang around the pub either. It reminded him of a few bad Irish bars he knew in and around the other Soho. He headed across Shaftesbury Avenue and into Leicester Square, looking for interesting drugs or interesting whores. But even Leicester Square was quiet. Nobody worked a patch these days. It was all done by mobile phone. The telephone kiosks were full of whores’ business cards. He perused them, like he was in a gallery, but didn’t find anything new or exciting. He doubted there was anything new under the sun, though apparently they were doing mind-boggling things with computers these days.
There were some kids begging from their doorway beds, so he asked them if they knew where he could find some blow, then remembered that over here blow could mean boo. They didn’t know anyway. They hardly knew their own damned names. He went on to Charing Cross Road and found a taxi to take him to Hampstead.
This was where the D-Man had carried out his other London hit, at an office on the High Street. As usual, he’d kept his distance. He’d fired from a building across the street, the bullet smashing through a window before entering and leaving the heart of an Indian businessman who’d been implicated in a finance scam involving several governments and private companies.
The D-Man always kept his distance, which interested Hoffer. Often, it would be simpler just to walk up to the victim and use a pistol. But the D-Man used sniper rifles and kept his distance. These facts told Hoffer a lot. They told him that the D-Man was a real pro, not just some hoodlum. He was skilled, a marksman. He gave himself a challenge with every hit. But he was also squeamish the way hoodlums seldom were. He didn’t like to get too close to the gore. He kept well away from the pain. A single shot to the heart: it was a marksman’s skill all right, hitting dead centre every time.
He’d planted a bomb in Hampstead too, though he hadn’t needed one. The police had thought they were dealing with an IRA device, until they linked it to the assassination. Then Hoffer had come along and he’d been able to tell them quite a lot about the Demolition Man. Few people knew as much as Hoffer did about the D-Man.
But Hoffer didn’t know nearly enough.
He took another cab back to the hotel, and got the driver to give him half a dozen blank receipts, tipping him generously as reward. He’d fill the receipts in himself and hand them to his client as proof of expenses.
‘Anything else you want, guv?’ said the driver. ‘An escort? Bit of grass? You name it.’
Nostrils twitching, Hoffer leaned forward in his seat.
‘Get me interested,’ he said.
6
Mark Wesley was dead.
It was a shame, since it meant I’d have to close a couple of bank accounts and get rid of a bunch of expensive counterfeit identity cards and an even more expensive counterfeit passport with some beautifully crafted visas in it.
More drastic still, it was the only other identity I had in the UK, which meant that from now on I’d have to be me. I could always arrange to create another identity, but it took time and money.
I’d spent a long time not being me. It would take a while to get used to the name again: Michael Weston. The first thing I did was rent a car and get out of London. I rented from one of the big companies, and told them it might be a one-way rental. They explained that one-way rentals are more expensive, but since I was guaranteeing it with a credit card they didn’t seem to mind.
It was a nice car, a red Escort XR3i with only 600 miles on the clock. I drove to a shopping complex just off the North Circular Road and bought, amongst other things, a hat. Then I headed north. I didn’t phone ahead. I didn’t want Max expecting me.
I’d spent a lot of time thinking, and I kept coming up with the same answer: someone had tipped off the police, someone who had wanted me caught. There were only two possibilities: Max, or my employer. I never like to know who I’m working for, just as I never like to know anything about the person I’m being paid to kill. I don’t want to be involved, I just want the money. The work I get comes from a variety of middlemen: a couple in the USA, one in Germany, one in Hong Kong, and Max in England. It was Max who’d contacted me with the job I’d just done. He was the only other person apart from my employer who knew the details of the job.
Like I say, I’d given it a lot of thought, and still it came down to Max or my employer. This still left the question of why. Why would Max want me arrested? Was the money suddenly not enough to salve his conscience? He could get out any time he wanted to, but maybe he didn’t realise that. If he wanted out, but thought I wouldn’t like such an idea, maybe he also thought I’d want to kill him. Was he just getting his retaliation in first?
Then there was my employer. Maybe he or she had got cold feet at the very last, and phoned for the cops. This seemed the more likely answer, though there was one other consideration: what if the whole thing had been a trap from the start? I was sure I could come up with other theories, but they all led in the same direction: I was going to have to talk to Max. Then maybe I’d have to find out who my employer was, and ask them a few questions, too.
It bothered me. I hate to get involved. I hate to know. But this time there might be no other way. I might have to find out why I’d been paid to assassinate Eleanor Ricks. I’d seen the papers and the news. It was in my favour that the authorities were baffled. They still didn’t know who my target had been. But I knew, right down to her name and the details of her dress. The diplomat had been there by pure chance, though not the politician. Whoever had known Eleanor Ricks would be coming out of the hotel at six knew her very well. So they almost certainly also knew the politician would be with her. Was I scaring off the politician? Was I sending a message?
Maybe you begin to see why I don’t like getting involved. I didn’t rush my journey. I wanted my arrival to surprise Max. If I turned up straight away, he would probably be less surprised. But I broke my journey quite near him in Yorkshire, so I could walk in on him early the following morning. Max was a careful man, but he didn’t go armed to the breakfast table. He was also surrounded by fields and hills. No one would hear a shot, no one would hear a burial.