‘What am I, a ventriloquist’s dummy?’ Bel had risen from the table and was standing with hands on hips. ‘Why not ask me yourself? You sound like you’re asking to borrow a car or a bike, not a person.’
‘Sorry, Bel.’
‘You’re not going,’ said Max.
‘I haven’t said anything yet!’ she protested, slapping the table with her hand. ‘I want to hear about it first.’
So I told her. There was no point leaving anything out. Bel wasn’t stupid, she certainly wasn’t naive. She’d have rooted out a lie. It isn’t easy telling someone what you do for a living, not if you’re not proud of your work. I’d never minded Max knowing, but Bel... Bel was a slightly different proposition. Of course, she’d known all along. I mean, I was hardly coming to the farm, buying guns, firing them, customising them, I was hardly doing any of this as a weekend hobby. Still, her cheeks reddened as I told my story. Then a third round of tea was organised in silence, with the radio switched off now. Bel poured cereal for herself and started to eat. She’d swallowed two spoonfuls before she said anything.
‘I want to go.’
Max started to protest.
‘A few days, Max,’ I broke in, ‘that’s all. Look, I need help this time. Who else can I turn to?’
‘I can think of a dozen people better qualified than Bel, and always keen to make money.’
‘Well, thanks very much,’ she said. ‘Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me.’
‘I just don’t want you—’
She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I know, I know. But Michael needs help. Are we supposed to turn our backs? Pretend we’ve never known him? Who else do we know?’
It hit me then for the first time. They lived out here in the wilds through necessity not choice. You couldn’t run a gun shop like Max’s in the middle of a town. But out here they were also lonely, cut off from the world. There were twice-weekly runs into the village or the nearest large town, but those hardly constituted a social life. It wasn’t Max, it was Bel. She was twenty-two. She’d sacrificed a lot to move out here. I saw why Max was scared: he wasn’t scared she’d get hurt, he was scared she’d get to like it. He was scared she’d leave for good.
‘A few days, Max,’ I repeated. ‘Then I’ll bring Bel back.’
He didn’t say anything, just blinked his watery eyes and looked down at the table where his hands lay, nicked and scarred from metal-shop accidents. Bel touched his shoulder.
‘I’ll go pack a few things.’ She gave me another smile and ran from the room. Only now did I wonder why she was so keen to go with me.
We were awkward after she’d gone. I rinsed out the mugs at the sink, and heard Max’s chair scrape on the floor as he stood up. He came to the draining board and picked up the revolver.
‘Do you need anything?’ he asked.
‘Maybe a pistol.’
‘I think I’ve got something better than a pistol. Not cheap though.’
‘Money’s no object this time, Max.’
‘Mark... Sorry, I mean Michael. Funny, I’d just got used to calling you Mark.’
‘I’ll be another name soon enough.’
‘Michael, I know you’ll take care of her. But I wouldn’t like... I mean, I don’t want...’
‘This is strictly business, Max. Separate rooms, I promise. And besides, Bel can look after herself. She’s had a good teacher.’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ he said with a smile, putting down the Magnum and reaching for a dishtowel.
7
‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’
It was first thing Monday morning and Hoffer wasn’t in the mood. The ambulance was parked in a special unloading bay directly outside Casualty, and the ambulance man was in the back, tidying and checking.
Hoffer stood outside, one hand resting on the vehicle’s back door. He had a sudden image of himself slamming the ambulance man’s head repeatedly against it.
‘I’ve told you, I’m a private investigator.’
‘Only I told the police everything I know, and then the bleeding newspapers start hassling me.’
‘Look, Mr Hughes, I’ve shown you my ID.’
‘Yeah, anyone can fake an identity card.’
This was true, but Hoffer wasn’t in a mood for discussion. He had a head like a St Patrick’s Day parade in Boston. Plus his ears still weren’t back to normal. Every time he breathed in through his nose, it was like he was going to suck his eardrums into his throat.
‘Talk to me and I’ll go away,’ he said. That usually worked. Hughes turned and studied him.
‘You don’t look like a reporter.’
Hoffer nodded at this wisdom.
‘You look like a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.’
Hoffer stopped nodding and started a serious scowl.
‘All right, sorry about that. So, what do you want me to tell you?’
‘I’ve seen the transcript of your police interview, Mr Hughes. Basically, I’d just like to ask a few follow-up questions, maybe rephrase a couple of questions you’ve already been asked.’
‘Well, hurry up, I’m on duty.’
Hoffer refrained from pointing out that they could have started a good five minutes ago. Instead he asked about the phony patient’s accent.
‘Very smooth,’ said Hughes. ‘Polite, quiet, educated.’
‘But definitely English?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Not American? Sometimes the two can sound more similar than you’d think.’
‘This was English. I couldn’t tell you which county though. He wasn’t a Yank, I’m sure of that.’
‘Canadian possibly?’ Hughes shook his head. ‘Okay then, you’ve given a fairly good description of him, what he was wearing, his height, hair colour and so on. Do you think his hair might have been dyed?’
‘How am I supposed to know?’
‘Sometimes a dye job doesn’t look quite right.’
‘Yeah? We must meet a different class of women.’
Hoffer tried to laugh. The door handle felt good in his hand. He kept looking at Hughes’s head. ‘And it couldn’t have been a toupee?’
‘You mean an Irish?’ Hoffer didn’t understand. ‘Irish jig, wig. No, I’m sure his hair was his own.’
‘Mm-hm.’ Hoffer had already spoken to the nurse in Emergency, the one who’d taken the man’s details and then gone to call a haematologist. She’d been as much help as codeine in a guillotine basket. He rubbed his forehead. ‘He told you he was a haemophiliac.’
‘He was a haemophiliac.’
‘You sure?’
‘Either that or he has one in the family. Or maybe he just went through medical school.’
‘He knew that much about it?’
‘He knew about factor levels, he knew haemophiliacs are supposed to carry a special card with them, he knew they get to call the emergency number and order an ambulance if they hurt themselves. He knew a lot.’
‘He couldn’t just have been guessing?’
Hughes shook his head. ‘I’m telling you, he knew.’
‘Who’s your haematologist here?’
‘I don’t know, I just act as chauffeur.’
‘That’s being a bit harsh on yourself.’
Hughes’s look told Hoffer flattery wasn’t going to work. ‘What about the business card, it fell out of his pocket?’
‘Yes. He said it was his, but the police tell me it wasn’t. They had me take a look at Gerald Flitch, I mean the real Gerald Flitch. It wasn’t him.’
‘Mm, I want a word with him myself.’
The Casualty doors crashed open as the ambulance driver pulled a wheelchair out and down the ramp. Hughes jumped out of the ambulance. There was a woman in the wheelchair so ancient and still she looked like she’d been stuffed.