‘Terrorists,’ the guard said. ‘We’re on constant alert.’
‘I thought they’d stopped bothering you guys, started bothering the rest of us instead?’
‘You never know.’
Armed with this philosophical nugget, Hoffer was pointed in the direction of the office he wanted.
He was met halfway by a young soldier whose face looked to have been pressed the same time as his shirt and pants.
‘Mr Hoffer? The Major’s expecting you.’
‘It’s good of him to see me at short notice.’ Hoffer almost had to jog to keep up with the man. Somewhere along the route, Hoffer was supposed to catch the guy’s name, but he was too busy catching his own breath. He was led into a building and told to take a seat. He was glad to. He tried focusing his eyes on the recruiting posters and glossy brochures. You’d think you were booking a holiday for yourself rather than a bruising career. The soldiers in the brochures looked tough and honest and Christian. You just knew democracy and the free world would be safe in their hands, even if you were dropping them into a country where they couldn’t speak the language and the distant hills were full of mortar and Mullahs.
Hoffer caught himself whistling ‘God Bless America’ and checked it just in time.
A door opened along the hall. ‘Mr Hoffer?’
Hoffer walked along the hall to meet the Major. His name was Major Drysdale, and he had a cool dry handshake, a bit like a Baptist minister’s. ‘Come in, please.’
‘I was telling your... ah, I was saying I appreciate you seeing me like this.’
‘Well, your call was intriguing. It’s not every day I get to meet a New York detective. Speaking of which, there are certain formalities... Could I see your identification?’
Hoffer reached into his pocket and produced his detective’s ID, which had been unfortunately mislaid at the time of his resignation from the force. It came in useful sometimes. People in authority would often prefer to speak to a real police officer than a shamus. Hoffer reckoned this was one of those times. Drysdale took down a few details from the ID before handing back the wallet. That worried Hoffer, but not much. He might go on to an army file, but he doubted they’d go so far as to phone his supposed employers in the States. He kept reading about military cutbacks, and phone calls cost money.
‘So,’ said Major Drysdale, ‘what can I do for you, Detective Hoffer?’
It was a small plain office, lacking any trace of personality. Drysdale might have just moved in, which would explain it. But Hoffer thought the man looked comfortable here, like he’d sat in the office for years. He wasn’t much more than PR, a public face for the army. The camp’s real muscle was elsewhere. But Hoffer didn’t need muscle, he just needed a few questions answered. He needed a friendly ear. He was on his best behaviour and in his best suit, but Drysdale still treated him with just a trace of amusement, like he’d never seen such a specimen before.
As to the Major himself, he was tall and skinny with arms you could have snapped with a Chinese restaurant’s crab-crackers. He had short fair hair and blue eyes out of a Nazi youth league, and a moustache which could have been drawn on his face with ballpoint. He wasn’t young any more, but still carried acne around his shirt collar. Could be he was allergic to the starch.
‘Well, Major,’ Hoffer said, ‘like I said on the telephone, it’s a medical question, and a vague one at that, but it’s in connection with a series of murders, assassinations to be more accurate, and as such we would appreciate any help the army can give.’
‘And you’re working in tandem with Scotland Yard?’
‘Oh, absolutely. I have their full backing.’
‘Could you give me a contact name there?’ Drysdale poised his pen above his notepad.
‘Sure. Uh, Chief Inspector Broome. That’s B-r-o-o-m-e. He’s the man to talk to. He’s based at Vine Street in central London.’
‘Not Scotland Yard?’
‘Well, they’re working together on this.’
‘Orange, isn’t it?’
‘Sir?’
‘Vine Street.’ Hoffer still didn’t get it. ‘On the Monopoly board.’
Hoffer grinned, chuckled even, and shook his head in wonder at the joke.
‘Do you have a phone number for the Chief Inspector?’
‘Oh, yessir, sure.’ Goddamned army. Hoffer gave Major Drysdale the number. His skin was crawling, and he had to force himself not to scratch all over. He wished he hadn’t taken some speed before setting out.
‘Maybe before we start,’ Drysdale was saying now, not stonewalling exactly, just following procedure, ‘you could tell me a little about the inquiry itself. Oh, tea by the way?’
‘Yes, please.’
Drysdale picked up his phone and ordered tea and ‘some biccies’. Then he sat back and waited for Hoffer to tell him all about the D-Man.
It took a while, but eventually, two cups of strong brown tea later, Hoffer got to the point he’d wanted to start with. Drysdale had asked questions about everything from the assassin’s first error to the sniper rifle he’d used in London. And he’d kept on scribbling notes, though Hoffer wanted to say it was none of his goddamned business, tear the pad from him, and chew it up with his teeth. He was sweating now, and blamed tannin poisoning. His throat was coated with felt.
‘So you see,’ he said, ‘if the man we’re looking for hasn’t exactly been in the army, well, maybe he’s been or still is connected to it in some way. The most obvious connection I can think of is family.’
‘You mean a brother or sister?’
‘No, sir, I mean his father. I think it would have to be his father, someone who might have instilled in him a... relationship with weapons.’
‘We don’t normally allow children to train with live ammo, Detective Hoffer.’
‘That’s not exactly what I’m saying, sir. I mean, I’m sure the army’s probity is above... uh, whatever. But say this man was good with firearms, well, wouldn’t he want to pass that knowledge and interest on to his son?’
‘Even if the son could never join the army?’
‘The kid could’ve been a teenager before anyone found out he was a haemophiliac. Mild sufferers, sometimes they don’t find out till they’re grown up. It takes an operation or something before anyone notices they have trouble getting their blood to clot.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ said Drysdale, flicking through his copious notes, ‘but I don’t see where it gets us.’
‘I’ll tell you, sir. It gets us a kid who’s diagnosed haemophiliac by an army doctor, sometime in the past, maybe between twenty and thirty years ago. You must have records.’
Drysdale laughed. ‘We may have records, but do you know what you’re asking? We’d have to check every army base here and abroad, every medical centre. Even supposing they held records from so long ago. Even supposing the child was treated by an army doctor. I mean, he might easily have gone to a civilian doctor. Putting aside all this, he would have taken his records with him.’
‘What?’
‘When you change doctors, your new doctor requests from your old doctor all your medical notes. You don’t keep them yourself, your doctor keeps them. Your present doctor.’
‘Are you sure? Maybe if I spoke to someone from your medical—’
‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’
Hoffer considered his options. He could whack the guy. He could wheedle. He could offer some cash. He didn’t think any of these would work, so he decided to be disappointed instead.
‘I’m real sorry you can’t find it in yourself to help, Major. You know how many innocent people this man has murdered? You know he’ll keep on doing it till he’s caught? I mean, he’s not going to give it up and move jobs. I can’t see him waiting tables at IHOP or somewhere.’