The room didn’t tell Hoffer anything. Gerry Flitch hadn’t told him much either. He was building up his own picture of the D-Man, but didn’t know where that would get him. He was no psychologist, no specialist in profiling. He had a friend at the FBI who might make more sense of it all. He went back to reception and found that the receptionist had his print-out and photocopies all ready. He handed her the promised twenty. He’d already been given the information by Bob Broome, but he wanted to check that Broome was playing straight with him. The information was all here. He’d used a credit card to reserve his room, but had paid cash when he checked out. The police had run tests and serial number checks on all the cash taken by the hotel on Saturday. The potential big break, though, was the credit card. The home address Mark Wesley had given to the hotel was false, but the credit card had turned out to be genuine.
It had taken a while to wring the information out of the credit card company, but now they knew all the lies Wesley had told them: occupation, date of birth, mother’s maiden name... Well, maybe it was all a fabrication, but maybe there were a few half-truths and little slips in there. It would all be checked out. The credit card company sent its statements to an address in St John’s Wood, and that’s where Hoffer was headed, as soon as his chauffeur arrived.
Broome arrived only five minutes late, so Hoffer forgave him.
‘Had a productive morning?’ Broome asked, as his passenger got in.
‘I think so, what about you?’
‘Ticking over.’
On the way to St John’s Wood, Hoffer told Broome some of what he’d found out about haemophilia.
‘If we could get a list of registered haemophiliacs, I bet we could narrow it down pretty fast.’
‘Maybe. I’ll see what I can do. It could be a dead end.’
‘Hey, we won’t know till we’ve got our noses pressed against the wall, will we?’
‘I suppose not. But maybe we can take a short cut. We’re just passing Lord’s, by the way.’
‘Lord who?’
‘Just Lord’s. It’s the home of cricket.’
‘A sports field, huh? Cricket’s the one that’s like baseball, only easier?’ Broome gave him a dark look. ‘Just kidding. But did you ever watch a game of baseball? Greatest game on earth.’
‘That must be why so many countries play it.’
They arrived at a block of flats and parked in the residents’ only parking area. When they got to the right door, Broome made to ring the bell, then noticed Hoffer slip the Smith & Wesson out from his waistband.
‘Christ, Leo!’
‘Hey, our man may be in there.’
‘It’s a mail service, that’s all. An accommodation address. Remember, they’re expecting us, so put that gun away.’
Reluctantly, Hoffer tucked the pistol back into his waistband and buttoned his jacket. Broome rang the doorbell and waited. The door opened.
‘Mr Greene?’
‘Chief Inspector Broome?’
‘That’s right, sir.’ Broome showed his ID. ‘May we come in?’
‘Of course.’
They were led down a short dimly-lit hall and into a living room. It was a ground-floor flat, as small as any Hoffer had been in. One bedroom and a bathroom, but the kitchen was part of the living room. It was well-finished though, if you liked your home decorated according to fashion rather than personal preference. Everything had that just-bought-from-Habitat look.
Desmond Greene was in his forties, wiry and slack-jawed with hands that moved too much and eyes that wouldn’t meet yours. When he talked, he looked like he was lecturing the pale yellow wallpaper. Hoffer marked him straight away as gay, not that that meant anything. Often Hoffer met men he was sure were gay, only later to be introduced to their pneumatic wives. Not that that meant anything either.
Broome had made a point of not introducing Hoffer. It wasn’t exactly Metropolitan Police policy to drag New York private eyes around with you on a case. Maybe Broome was hoping Hoffer would keep his mouth shut.
‘How long you been running this set-up, Mr Greene?’ Hoffer asked.
Greene’s fingers glided down his face like a skin-cream commercial. ‘Four and a half years, that’s quite a long time in this business.’
‘And how do potential clients find you?’
‘Oh, I advertise.’
‘Locally?’
A wry smile. ‘Expensively. I run regular advertisements in magazines.’
‘Which magazines?’
‘My Lord, you are curious.’
Hoffer tried out his own wry smile. ‘Only when I’m hunting a cold-blooded killer and someone’s standing in my way.’
Greene looked giddy, and Bob Broome took over. Hoffer didn’t mind, he reckoned he’d scared Greene into telling the truth and plenty of it. He didn’t even mind the way Broome looked at him, like Hoffer had just asked a boy scout to slip his hand into his trouser pocket and meet Uncle Squidgy.
‘How long have you been handling mail for Mr Wesley?’
‘You understand, Chief Inspector,’ Greene said, recovering slightly, ‘the purpose of a mailing address is confidentiality?’
‘Yes, sir, I understand. But as I told you over the phone, this is a multiple-murder inquiry. If you do not cooperate, you’ll be charged with obstruction.’
‘After which we’ll take your chintzy flat apart,’ added Hoffer.
‘Gracious,’ said Greene, having a relapse. ‘Oh, goodness me.’
‘Hoffer,’ said Broome quietly, ‘go and put the kettle on. Maybe Mr Greene would like some tea.’
What am I, the fucking maid service? Hoffer got up and went to the kitchenette. He was behind Greene now, and Greene knew it. He sat forward in his chair, as though fearing a knife between the shoulder blades. Hoffer smiled, thinking how Greene would react to the feel of a cold gun muzzle at the back of his neck.
‘So,’ Broome was saying, ‘are you willing to assist us, sir?’
‘Well, of course I am. It’s not my job to hide murderers.’
‘Maybe if you told me a little of the service you offer Mr Wesley?’
‘It’s the same as my other customers. There are forty-odd of them. I receive mail, and they can contact me by telephone to find out what’s arrived, or they can have the mail forwarded to them monthly. I also operate a call-answering and forwarding service, but Mr Wesley didn’t require that.’
‘How much mail does he receive?’
‘Almost none at all. Bills and bank statements.’
‘And does he have the stuff forwarded?’
‘No, he collects it in person.’
‘How often?’
‘Infrequently. Like I say, it’s just bank statements and bills.’
‘What sort of bills?’
‘Credit cards, I’d guess. Well, he doesn’t need a credit card statement to pay off the account, does he? A simple cheque and note with his account number would do it.’
‘That’s true. He never has the stuff forwarded to him?’
‘Once he did, to a hotel in Paris.’
‘Do you remember the name of the hotel?’
Greene shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, it was well over a year ago.’