‘Maybe two years ago?’ Hoffer added.
Greene half-turned to him. ‘Could be.’
Hoffer looked to Broome. ‘That Dutchman, the heroin pusher. The D-Man took him out in Paris a couple of years back.’
Broome nodded. The kettle came to the boil and Hoffer picked it up, then thought better of it.
‘Does anyone really want tea? Me, I could murder a drink.’
‘I’ve some gin,’ Greene said. ‘Or a few cans of lager.’
‘It’s your party, Des,’ Hoffer said with a grin.
So Broome and Hoffer had a can of lager each, and Greene sat with a gin and tonic. He loosened up a little after that. The lager was fine, even though a couple of months past its sell by.
‘Okay,’ said Broome, ‘so mail gets sent here and Wesley phones up and you tell him what’s arrived?’
Greene nodded, stirring his drink with a finger and then sucking the tip.
‘Does he ever get you to open mail and read it to him?’
Greene smacked his lips. ‘Never.’
‘And he’s never received anything other than bills?’
Hoffer interrupted. ‘No fat brown envelopes full of banknotes? No large flat packages with photos and details of his next hit?’
Greene quivered the length of his body.
‘Can you give us a description of him?’ Broome asked, ignoring Hoffer. The description Greene gave was that of the man Gerry Flitch had given his card to.
‘Well, that’s about all for now, Mr Greene,’ said Broome. He placed his empty can on the carpet.
‘But there’s one other thing,’ said Greene.
‘What’s that?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask if there’s any mail waiting for him?’
‘Well, is there?’
Greene broke into a huge wrinkle-faced grin. ‘Yes!’ he squealed. ‘There is!’
But having got both men excited, he now seemed to want to stall. It was a crime, after all, to open someone else’s mail without their express permission. So Broome had to write a note to the effect that he was taking away the letter, and that he was authorized to do so. Greene read it through.
‘Can you write that I’m exonerated from all guilt or possible legal action?’
Broome scribbled some words to that effect, then signed and dated the note. Greene studied it again. Hoffer was close behind him, breathing hard.
‘Fine,’ said Greene, folding the note but leaving it on the breakfast bar. He went off to fetch the letter. When he was out of the room, Hoffer tore a fresh sheet of paper from the writing pad, folded it, and put it down on the breakfast bar, then lifted Broome’s note and scrunched it into a ball before dropping it into his pocket. He winked at Broome. Greene came back into the room. He was waving a single, slim envelope.
‘Looks like a bank statement,’ he said.
It was a bank statement.
The bank was closed when they got to it, but the staff were still on the premises, balancing the day’s books. The manager, Mr Arthur, ushered them into his utilitarian office.
‘I can’t do anything tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to get anyone at head office. You realise that there are channels that must be gone through, authorisations, and even then a really thorough check could take some considerable time.’
‘I appreciate all of that, sir,’ said Bob Broome, ‘but the sooner we can get the ball rolling, the sooner we’ll be near the goal. This man has murdered over half a dozen individuals, two of them in this country.’
‘Yes, I do understand, and tomorrow morning we’ll do everything we can, as quickly as we can, it just can’t be done tonight.’
They were in the Piccadilly branch of one of the clearing banks. It was, naturally, a busy branch, perfect for someone like the Demolition Man, who needed to be anonymous.
‘If we could just talk about his account for a few minutes, sir,’ Broome said. The manager glanced at his wall clock and sighed.
‘Very well then,’ he said.
Broome produced the bank statement. There wasn’t much to it. It referred to the previous month, and showed a balance of £1,500 on the 1st, with cheque and cashpoint withdrawals through the month totalling £900, leaving a closing credit balance of £600. Arthur typed in the account number on his computer.
‘Mm,’ he said, studying the screen, ‘since that statement was drawn up, he’s withdrawn another £500.’
‘In other words,’ said Hoffer, ‘he’s all but emptied the account?’
‘Yes, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. He withdrew money on each day.’
Hoffer turned to Broome. ‘He’s shedding Mark Wesley.’ He turned to the bank manager. ‘Mr Arthur, I think you’ll find that account stays dormant from now on.’
‘Can we find out where he took the cash from?’ Broome asked.
Arthur studied the screen again. ‘Central London,’ he said.
‘What about old cheques?’ Hoffer asked. ‘Do you hold on to them?’
‘Yes, for a while at least.’
‘So we could look at his returned cheques?’
Arthur nodded. ‘After I’ve had authorisation.’
Broome looked at Hoffer. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘He has to pay people, Bob. Maybe he doesn’t always have the cash on him.’
‘You think he pays for his guns and explosives by cheque?’
Hoffer held his hands up, palms towards Broome. ‘Hey, maybe not, but we need to check. Could be there’s something he’s paid for, or someone he’s paid for, that can lead us right to him. He’ll be underground now, busy making himself a new identity. All we have to go on is the old one. I say we dig as far as we can.’ He turned to Arthur, who was looking dazzled by this exchange. ‘We need old cheques, old statements, and we need to know the site of every auto-teller he’s used. There could be a pattern that’ll tell us where he’s based.’
‘Auto-teller?’ said Arthur.
‘Cash machine,’ explained Broome.
8
I sat in my hotel room, counting out my money.
I had $4,500 in cash, money I’d been keeping safe at Max’s farm. I had another $5,000 in cash in a safe deposit box in Knightsbridge, and $25,000 cash in another safe deposit box at the same location. I reckoned I’d be all right for a while. I’d all but emptied the Mark Wesley bank account, and had disposed of his credit cards. I still had my Michael Weston account and credit cards, and no matter how far the police probed into ‘Mark Wesley’, I couldn’t see them getting close to Michael Weston.
The hotel I was in had asked for a credit card as guarantee, but I’d paid upfront instead. I put some of the money back in my holdall, and put some in my pocket, leaving a couple of thousand still on the bed. I had more money in New York, and some in Zurich, but I definitely wouldn’t need to touch that.
I rolled up the final two thou and stuck it in the toe of one of my spare shoes, then put the shoes back in the closet. I’d had to take everything out of the holdall. The stiff cardboard base was loose, and I’d slipped the money under it. There was a soft knock at the door. I unlocked it and let in Bel.
‘How’s your room?’ I asked.
‘All right.’ She’d taken a shower. Her hair was damp, her face buffed. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. We were in a new hotel, the Rimmington. It wasn’t central, but I didn’t mind. I knew returning to London so soon was dangerous. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the Craigmead or the Allington. So we were in a much smaller hotel just off Marylebone Road, handy, as the receptionist said, for Madame Tussaud’s, the Planetarium, and Regent’s Park. We were supposed to be on holiday from Nottingham, so we looked interested as she told us this. Actually, Bel had more than looked interested.