Drysdale smiled again. ‘Look, I know what you’re saying. I appreciate that you—’
Hoffer got to his feet. ‘No, sir, with all due respect I don’t think you do know. I won’t waste any more of your time.’ He turned to the door.
‘Wait a minute.’ Hoffer waited. He turned his head. Drysdale was standing too now. ‘Look, maybe I can initiate a few general inquiries.’
Hoffer turned back into the room. ‘That would be great, sir.’
‘I can’t make any promises, you understand.’
‘Absolutely. We’re all just trying to do what we can.’
Drysdale nodded. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I really appreciate that, sir.’ Hoffer took Drysdale’s hand. ‘I’m sure I speak for us all.’
Drysdale smiled a little sheepishly. Then he said he’d get someone to escort the detective back to the gate.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Hoffer.
While he waited back in the reception area for his ‘escort’ to appear, he spotted a drinking fountain and flew towards it, filling his mouth with water, gargling, spitting it back, and finally swallowing a few mouthfuls.
‘How can they drink that stuff?’ he asked himself as he wiped his mouth.
‘It’s only water,’ his escort said from behind him.
‘I meant the goddamned tea,’ said Hoffer.
10
I knocked again.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s get busy. We’re not tourists any more.’
Not that Bel had seen many of the sights of London, unless sights was broad enough to encompass Tottenham and a couple of low-class restaurants. I listened at her door until I could hear her getting out of bed.
‘I’ll meet you downstairs,’ she called.
I went back to my room and tried phoning again. This time I got through. I was calling someone at British Telecom. His name was Allan and he didn’t come cheap.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Have they started tapping your line yet?’
‘No, just everybody else’s. I can give you the latest royal dirt if you like.’
He didn’t sound like he was joking. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m after a couple of numbers.’
‘I take it you mean unlisted, or you’d be calling Directory Enquiries.’
‘I’ve checked, they’re unlisted. The first is a woman called Eleanor Ricks.’
‘The one who got shot?’
‘Could be.’
‘You’ve got to be careful, man. Sometimes Scotland Yard or MI5 stick keywords into the system. If you say the word and they catch it, they record your whole conversation.’
Allan was always trying to impress me — or scare me, I didn’t know which — with this sort of comment.
‘Her husband may be the subscriber,’ I carried on. ‘He’s called Frederick Ricks. According to the tabloids, they live in Camden. I’ll need their address, too.’
‘Got it.’ He paused. ‘You said a couple of names?’
‘Joe Draper, he heads a TV production company. He’s got a house in Wiltshire, the phone number there would be useful, plus any address for him in town, apart from his office. His office is in the book.’
I could hear Allan writing the information down. I gave silent blessing to the British media, who had provided me with the information I had.
‘I see inflation’s in the news again,’ he said at last.
‘Not another hike, Allan. You’re pricing yourself out of the game.’
‘As a special offer to regular subscribers, the increase has been held to ten percent for one month only.’
‘Generous to a fault. Same address?’
‘Who can afford to move?’
‘Tens and twenties all right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Oh, one more name...’
‘Now who’s pushing it?’
‘Call it my free gift. Scotty Shattuck.’ I spelt it for him. ‘Somewhere in London probably, always supposing he’s got a phone.’
‘Right, I’ll do my best. Later today, okay?’
‘I’ll stick your fee in the post. If I’m not here, leave the details with reception. Here’s the number.’
I gave it to him and terminated the call. Downstairs, Bel was already seated in the small dining room, pouring cereal from a one-portion pack.
‘I see you’re not one of these women who takes forever to dress.’ I sat down beside her.
‘Know a lot about that, do you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ She poured milk and started to eat. I knew what she meant. She meant she was good-looking and I hadn’t made a pass at her, so what did that make me? She was wearing trousers and a blue blouse and jacket. They were the plainest items in her luggage. I tried to see her as a police officer. I couldn’t. But then I’d be the one doing the talking; I’d be the one they’d be looking at. And examining myself in the mirror this morning, I’d seen a hard-nosed copper staring back at me. He looked like he wanted to take me outside.
‘Aren’t you eating?’ Bel asked.
‘I never eat much in the morning. I’ll just have some coffee.’
‘You will if anyone turns up to serve you. I haven’t seen a soul since I came in. The stuff’s all on that sideboard, but there’s no coffee.’
I went to the sideboard to take a look. A thermos flask turned out to contain hot water, and there was a jar of instant coffee in one of the cupboards.
‘Yum yum,’ said Bel.
The coffee tasted the way thermos coffee always tastes. It reminded me of sports fields, of games watched with my father, the two of us sheltering beneath a tartan travelling-rug or umbrellas and hoods, depending on the weather. There’d be coffee and sandwiches at half-time. Thermos coffee.
‘So the schedule for today,’ said Bel, scraping up the last of the cereal, ‘is a visit to Testosterone City, yes?’ I nodded. ‘And I provide the decoration while you ask your questions?’ I nodded again. ‘Are you quite sure you need my expensive skills, Michael? I mean, performing monkeys come cheap these days.’ Then she touched the back of my hand. ‘Only teasing. Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here. This dining room’s like something out of a horror film. I keep thinking all the other guests and staff have been murdered in their beds.’ She started to laugh, but stopped abruptly, and her look was somewhere between embarrassment and fear. I knew exactly what had struck her: that there was only one murderer around here.
I didn’t know where to find Scotty Shattuck, but wasn’t prepared to sit around the hotel waiting for Allan to get back to me. So we got a taxi on Marylebone Road and headed for Oxford Street, where, above a shop selling what can be best described as tat, there was a gym and health centre called Chuck’s.
Max had been able to offer a good physical description of Shattuck, and it pointed to a man who did more than jog around the park to keep himself in shape.
‘He’s like a cross between a Welsh pit-pony and a brick shithouse,’ Max had said.
There were a lot of gyms in London, a lot of places where sweaty males pushed weights, goaded by other musclebound lifters. Some of them no doubt took a few drugs to aid muscle development and performance. They were the sorts who have gaps between their upper arms and their torsos when they walk, and can’t do anything to close those gaps.
A lot of gyms, but only one or two like Chuck’s. Chuck’s was more than a gym, it was a place to hang out, a haven for those who need to keep fit between assignments. You didn’t get the grossly over-muscled at Chuck’s. You got authentic hard men, men who’d been in the armed forces, or who had come out but still kept fit. Men sometimes recruited for work overseas, work they talked about in Chuck’s, but seldom outside. I’d been introduced to Chuck’s by an ex-Royal Marine who’d been my contact on an earlier job. He wasn’t there when we walked in, but Chuck himself was.