‘Did she try asking them?’
‘They didn’t so much stonewall her as put up the Great Wall of China. She got some financial wizards to do some sniffing. We got a bill from them that nearly killed us budget-wise, but they couldn’t tell us anything about the Disciples.’
‘Do you have anything here about the project? I mean, something I could take away with me?’
‘Sure, I’ve got a few copies of the Bible.’
‘Bible?’
He smiled again. ‘That’s what we work from, it’s a sort of blueprint of the shape the documentary’s going to take. We use it to get backers interested.’ He opened a cupboard. It was full of bulging files and reams of typed paper, scripts and the like. It took him a few seconds to find what he was looking for.
‘Here we go, take one each.’
The Bible was loosely bound with a cardboard cover and a thin plastic sheet protecting it. There were holes in the cover through which appeared the name of the project, Draper’s and Ricks’s names, and a few other details.
The project was just called Disciples of Love, but with a question-mark.
‘I appreciate this, Mr Draper. I’ll see these get back to you.’
He shrugged. ‘Keep them. The whole thing’s history without Eleanor Ricks.’
‘One last thing, did she have any favourite colour of clothing?’
The question threw him, so I smiled reassuringly. ‘We’re still wondering if maybe the assassin mistook her for Mrs Prendergast.’
‘I see what you mean, Lainie wearing the kind of clothes Prendergast would normally wear.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Well, I know one thing, she did like to empathise with her interviewees, and that could sometimes mean dressing like them. As to favourite colours...’ He shook his head. ‘The best I can come up with is bright colours, reds, blues, yellows. Primary colours.’
I nodded. I’d been told to look for yellow and blue. I stared at Draper, trying to see something behind his eyes, some inkling of guilt. But where was his motive? No, there was nothing there.
‘What about Mrs Prendergast?’ Bel inquired suddenly.
‘What about her?’ Draper asked back.
‘She’s a public figure, and she’s tough, plus she’s got an interest in the cult.’ Draper still didn’t get it. ‘She might be persuaded to take over where Ms Ricks left off.’
Draper leapt to his feet. I thought he was going to vault the desk, but he just leaned over it towards Bel.
‘Brilliant!’ he shrieked. ‘That’s fucking brilliant!’ He slapped the desk with both hands and shook his head wildly. He was somewhere in the hinterland between laughter and tears. ‘That is just so brilliant. Why didn’t I think of it?’
Bel’s look towards me confirmed she thought this a tautology. Draper couldn’t get us out of there quick enough, but all the time trying to be polite. He had his hand on Bel’s shoulder and one on my back. He was telling her to think about fronting his documentary series.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You’d be a great loss to the force,’ I told her as we left.
Outside, I headed for the first newspaper kiosk I saw, and bought up several of the dailies. I wanted more on the Tottenham shoot-out. I didn’t think Harry would have said anything, but how could I be sure? Without a trip to Tottenham, the answer was, I couldn’t.
I told Bel she deserved some time to herself, and managed to press £50 on her, which in Knightsbridge would just about pay for a passable lunch. Then I headed north. I knew this was one of the most stupid things I’d ever done, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it. One thing I did know was that if I was going to meet Hoffer, I didn’t want Bel around. No matter that she was my best form of camouflage, I’d promised she wouldn’t be in danger.
Before we separated, she made me make a phone call. Afterwards, I said I’d see her back at our hotel. She kissed my cheek, and I pressed a finger to her chin. She didn’t tell me to be careful, but I knew what she was thinking.
All the way to Tottenham, I found myself doing something I never ever do. I thought of the past. Not the distant past, I don’t mind that, but the more recent past, and my life as an assassin. Well, what else was I going to do with my life? I’d never fancied being deskbound, but the army weren’t going to have me. As a teenager I was clever but easily bored, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t play football or rugby. I did try to take part in games sometimes, but the other kids knew about me, and they wouldn’t come near. They were being kind in their way, I suppose, but I couldn’t see it at the time. All I saw was that I was different. I started to spend more time on the gun range, and I acquired a marketable skill.
My father had started me off, despite my mother’s warnings. He was a top-class target shooter himself. He started me with air pistols and air rifles, then we moved up to real ammo, small calibre at first. Funny to think those afternoons of bonding had led me here.
Here, thinking about my victims.
I had never had much of a conscience. Like I say, everyone bleeds. But then I’d missed a target and killed an innocent girl. That was when word started to go round that I was losing it. I’d cried about that girl. I’d sat by a hotel swimming pool in the Bahamas and played it through in my head, over and over again, the New York cold, that icy step, that single slip...
They called me the Demolition Man, but all I’d ever really demolished were lives. You could buy a new dustbin, new windows, you could repair walls with fresh bricks and mortar. But I’d noticed something in Draper’s office, I’d noticed his pain. He’d lost someone, and the loss, for all my glibness at the time, was not merely financial. He’d lost someone he loved. He might be a hard-nosed businessman, a schemer, a ruthless capitaliser on rumour and grief. I’d seen the clips from some of his programmes; they concentrated on the tearful close-up and the hounding of interviewees. But he was human too. He could feel what his victims felt. He was feeling it now.
See, that’s why I like to get away from the scene. I never go back. I don’t buy the papers or anything, I don’t read about myself and cut out my exploits to stick in some scrap album. I do the job and I get the hell away. I never think about it afterwards. I drown the memories in alcohol and travel.
Well, here I was stone-cold sober, and travelling towards something, not away from it. I wasn’t even armed, and I knew Hoffer would be.
I got the cab to drop me on the High Road, and walked the few hundred yards to Harry’s street. The front door was still waiting to be repaired. I could see where the lock had been wrenched open, but there were no signs of leverage, no marks left by a crowbar. No footprints on the door either, which meant it had been a shoulder charge.
There was noise on the stairs. A black man came down, on his way out. He glared at me.
‘What happened here?’ I asked. He ignored me. ‘I’m a friend of Harry’s.’
He gave me a look brimming with distrust. ‘He ain’t in, man.’
‘What happened to the door?’
‘Some big white fucker rammed it.’ If he’d been a dog he’d have been sniffing me. ‘Cop?’ I shook my head. He looked around him, up and down the street. A train which had been sitting at the station started to move past us, way up the embankment. ‘Some big guy, right? Kicked the door in, kicked in Harry’s door. We came back and thought someone was ripping us off, right? So in we go, and this guy’s got a gun out and he’s standing over Harry. Harry’s looking like he’s going to croak, right? So we chased the fucker off.’
I whistled. He shifted his weight, looking pleased at the part he’d played in the drama.
‘Is Harry all right though?’