There was little love lost between Freddy Ricks and Geoffrey Johns, despite which, the solicitor was not surprised to receive Freddy’s call.
Freddy was half cut, as per usual, and sounded dazed.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Yes,’ Geoffrey Johns said, ‘I’ve heard.’ He was seated in his living room, a glass of Armagnac trembling beside him on the arm of the sofa.
‘Jesus Christ,’ wailed Freddy Ricks, ‘she’s been shot!’
‘Freddy, I’m... I’m so sorry.’ Geoffrey Johns took a sip of burning liquid. ‘Does Archie know?’
‘Archie?’ It took Freddy an understandable moment to recognise the name of his son. ‘I haven’t seen him. I had to go down to the... they wanted me to identify her. Then they had to ask me some questions.’
‘Is that why you’re phoning?’
‘What? No, no... well, yes, in a way. I mean, there are things I have to do, and there are about fifty reporters at the garden gate, and... well, Geoffrey, I know we’ve had our differences, but you are our solicitor.’
‘I understand, Freddy. I’ll be straight over.’
In Vine Street police station, Chief Inspector Bob Broome was deciding what to say to the press. They were clamouring around the entrance to the gloomy station. Even on sunny days, Vine Street, a high narrow conduit between Regent Street and Piccadilly, got little light, though it managed to get all the available traffic fumes and grime. Broome reckoned the station had affected him. He thought he could remember days when he used to be cheerful. His last smile had been a couple of days ago, his last fullthroated laugh several months back. Nobody bothered trying to tell him jokes any more. The prisoners in the cells were a more obliging target.
‘So what’ve we got, Dave?’
Detective Inspector Dave Edmond sat opposite Broome. He had a reputation as a dour bugger, too. People seeing them together usually gave the pair a wide berth, like you would a plague ship. While Broome was tall and thin with an undertaker’s pallor, Edmond was round and tanned. He’d just returned from a fortnight in Spain, spent guzzling San Miguel on some beach.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we’re still taking statements. The gun’s down at the lab. We’ve got technicians in the office building, but they won’t be able to report before tomorrow.’
There was a knock at the door and a WPC came in with a couple of faxes for Broome. He laid them to one side and watched her leave, then turned back to Edmond. His every action was slow and considered, like he was on tranquillisers, but Edmond for one knew the boss was just being careful.
‘What about the gun?’
‘Sergeant Wills is the pop-pop guru,’ Edmond said, ‘so I’ve sent him to take a look at it. He probably knows more than any of the eggheads in the Ballistics section. From the description I gave him, he said it sounds military.’
‘Let’s not muck about, Dave, it’s the Demolition Man again. You can spot his m.o. a mile away.’
Edmond nodded. ‘Unless it’s a copycat.’
‘What are the chances?’
Edmond shrugged. ‘A hundred to one?’
‘And the rest. What about the phone call, did we take a recording?’
Edmond shook his head. ‘The officer who took the call has typed out what he remembers of the conversation.’ He handed over a single sheet of paper.
The door opened again. It was a DC this time, smiling apologetically as he came in with more sheets of paper for the Chief Inspector. Outside, there were sounds of frenzied activity. When the DC had gone, Broome got up, went to the door, and pulled a chair against it, jamming the back of the chair under the knob. Then he walked slowly back to his desk.
‘Shame we didn’t get it on tape though,’ he said, picking up Edmond’s sheet of paper. ‘ “Male, English, aged between twenty and seventy-five.” Yes, very useful. “Call didn’t sound long distance.” ’ Broome looked up from the report. ‘And all he said was that there was going to be a shooting outside the Craigmead Hotel.’
‘Normally, it would be treated as a crank, but the officer got the impression this one wasn’t playing games. A very educated voice, quite matter-of-fact with just enough emotion. We couldn’t have got men there any quicker.’
‘We could if we hadn’t armed some of them first.’
‘The man who called, who do you think it was?’
‘I suppose it could have been the Demolition Man himself. Maybe he’s gone off his trolley, wants us to catch him or play some sort of cat-and-mouse with him. Or it could be someone who spotted him, but then why not warn those people on the steps?’ Broome paused. His office wasn’t much bigger than an interview room; in some ways, it was even less inviting. He liked it because it made people who came here feel uncomfortable. But Dave Edmond seemed to like it too... ‘The people on the steps, that’s another thing. We’ve got a journalist, a Secretary of State, and some senior bod from an East European embassy.’
‘So which one was the target?’ Edmond asked.
‘Exactly. I mean, did he get who he was going after? If not, the other two better be careful. Remember, he’s shot the wrong bloody person before.’
Edmond nodded. ‘It’ll be out of our hands soon anyway.’
This was true: Scotland Yard and the Anti-Terrorist unit would pick over the bones. But this was Bob Broome’s manor, and he wasn’t about to just hand the case over and catch a good night’s sleep.
‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘What about this other phone call, the one to the Craigmead?’
‘We’re talking to the receptionist again. All she knows is that a man called wanting to speak to Eleanor Ricks. Ricks was paged, but she ignored it.’
‘She hadn’t left?’
‘No, the receptionist says she walked past the desk while her name was being put out over the loudspeakers.’
‘Was the Secretary of State with her?’
‘Yes. But she says she didn’t hear anything.’
‘So maybe Eleanor Ricks didn’t hear anything either?’
‘Maybe.’
‘But if she’d taken the call...’
‘Molly Prendergast would have walked out of the hotel alone.’
‘And we’d have a clearer idea who the intended target was.’ Broome sighed.
‘So what’s our next step, Bob?’
Broome checked his watch. ‘For one thing, I’ve a transatlantic call to make. For another, there’s the media to deal with. Then I’ll want to see those buggers at the hospital.’
‘They’re being brought in.’
‘Good. Nice of them to help him escape, wasn’t it?’
‘Think he might’ve had an accomplice?’
‘I think,’ said Bob Broome, getting to his feet, ‘he might’ve just lost one of his nine lives.’
‘That phone call, sir.’
‘Oh, right.’ Broome sat down again. Someone was trying the door, but the chair was holding. He picked up the phone. He knew one man who’d want to know the Demolition Man was back in London. ‘I want to place a call to the United States,’ he said into the receiver.
5
Hoffer hated flying, especially these days when business class was out of the question. He hated being cooped up like a factory chicken. He was strictly a free-range cockerel. The crew didn’t like it if you strayed too far for too long. They were always getting in the way, squeezing these damned tin trolleys down aisles just wide enough for them. Those aisles, they weren’t even wide enough for him. You were supposed to stay in your seat to make the trolley-pushers’ jobs easier. Screw them, he was the customer.
There were other problems too. His nose got all blocked up on long-haul flights, and his ears bothered him. He’d yawn like a whale on a plankton hunt and swallow like he was choking down a lump of concrete, but his head got more and more like a pressure cooker no matter what he did. He waited till the better-looking stewardess came along and asked her with a pained smile if she had any tips. Maybe there were tablets these days for this sort of thing. But she came back to his seat with two plastic drinks cups and said he should clamp them over his ears.