Bleeding Hearts (30 page)

He’d been annoyed by a sudden realisation that he’d missed his TV appearance. And it looked like everyone in Oban had missed it too, judging by the lack of interest in him.

‘Fucking backwoods,’ he complained, driving up the track.

After nearly a mile, he came upon habitation, a series of shanty-town shacks more suited to animals than people. There were people about. They stopped what they were doing and stared at him as he drew up. When he got out, they kept on staring. A big bearded man came out of one of the shacks.

‘Who are you?’ he said.

‘Name’s Hoffer, sir, Leo Hoffer. I was wondering if I might have a word. I’m looking for a couple, man and woman, they might have been here recently.’

‘There’s been nobody here.’

Hoffer looked around him. ‘This place was started by an American, wasn’t it?’ The man nodded. ‘Only, we Americans have a reputation for hospitality to strangers. I’m not seeing much of that here.’

‘How did you get past the gate?’

‘Huh? The thing was standing wide open. I mean, it had a chain and all, but it was just hanging there.’

The man told an underling to go check. The underling nodded and jumped into an old hippy van.

‘There’s nothing here for you,’ the man told Hoffer.

‘Hey, maybe I want an application form. This looks like my kind of living.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t?’ Hoffer rubbed his chin. It felt raspy. He needed a shave and a soak. ‘You know, I could make a habit of this, dropping in on you, asking the same question.’

‘You’d get the same answer.’

The man turned his back on Hoffer and walked back into the shack. Hoffer considered following him and introducing the man to the holy rite of pistol-whipping. What the hell, there’d be other times. So he got into his car and left. The VW van was beside the gate. Hoffer tooted his horn and waved as he passed. The VW driver was standing there holding the chain, watching Hoffer leave.

Back in town, Hoffer asked at a couple of places about two tourists called Weston and Harrison. He didn’t think they’d keep up their police act, not when it wasn’t necessary. The names didn’t mean anything, but one shop assistant recognised the photograph of Bel Harrison.

‘She was in here this morning. She bought a Fair Isle jumper. It was funny, she was so excited. She rushed out of the shop so her husband could try it on.’

Hoffer started. ‘What sort of sweater was this?’

The assistant showed him one just like it. She mistook the look of pain on Hoffer’s face.

‘We’ve got it in different colours if you’d prefer.’

He was groaning as he left the shop. He’d actually talked to the D-Man, and had been too hungover and crashed to know it. But at least one thing was clear: Bel Harrison wasn’t under duress. Captives didn’t often buy sweaters for their captors.

More crucially, they might still be around, he had to remember that... No, who was he fooling? The assassin knew who he was. He’d be out of town by now and putting miles on the clock.

Either that, Hoffer considered, or he’d be hiding somewhere, wondering how best to hit the detective. Hoffer looked around him at all the windows, large and small. He didn’t feel very comfortable.

He went back to the lounge bar and ordered another whisky. There was some gossip being passed around, something about a traffic jam. Hoffer snorted into his drink. A traffic jam, around
here?
Three cars had been left stationary in the road while their drivers had a confab, holding up the traffic behind and providing a sideshow for cars heading north towards Oban.

Something about the story started to niggle Hoffer. He walked up to the storyteller and proffered the photo of Bel.

‘I’ve no idea,’ the man said. He held a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other, so that Hoffer had to stand with the photo held out for his inspection. ‘One of the cars, the middle one, it had a woman in it right enough. You couldn’t see into the car ahent, and I don’t remember the one in front.’

‘It had two men in it,’ piped up another drinker. Hoffer moved on to this man. He was wearing wellingtons, a check cap and green jacket, and his cheeks and nose were red. ‘We were stuck behind Bert McAuley’s lorry, bloody old thing that it is.’

‘The man and woman were in the middle car?’ Hoffer prompted.

‘Aye, with a posh car ahent, and a car and caravan ahent that. The front car had his flashers on. They’d either had a bit of a knock, or else the front car had broken down.’

‘What about the man and woman?’

‘What about them?’

‘Remember, Hughie,’ said a third drinker, ‘the man went and spoke to the people in the front car and they got out.’

‘I didn’t see that,’ said Hughie. Hoffer moved on to the third drinker.

‘What happened?’

‘It was funny. The man and woman got their stuff out of the boot and took it to the other car, then drove off while the driver and passenger were back at the
third
car.’

Everyone looked at everyone else. It was obvious this story would run and run. Nothing so exciting had happened in weeks.

‘Where was this?’ said Hoffer.

‘Just after the Cleigh turn-off.’

While Hoffer bought everyone a drink, the third drinker drew a map on the other side of the brown-paper bag.

It didn’t take him long to find the car.

It had been pushed none too daintily up on to the verge. Though the Escort was practically brand new, someone had scored a line all down one side. It looked like the kind of scar kids made with a key, coin or knife.

‘Temper, temper, guys,’ Hoffer said, giving the car a good lookover. He’d bet it was rented, just like his own. There’d be prints on it belonging to the assassin and Bel Harrison. Fingerprints would be worth having, so Hoffer went to look for the nearest phone. He found a campsite a few miles further south. There was an information kiosk, locked up tight for the day, and a telephone booth outside it. He stood in the booth and called Vine Street. He couldn’t get through to Broome, but Edmond finally accepted the call.

‘Take your time,’ said Hoffer, ‘this is costing me a fucking fortune and I’m doing you a favour!’

‘What favour?’

‘I’ve got a car near here with the D-Man’s prints all over it, plus his girlfriend’s.’

Edmond took a bit more interest. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the Scottish Highlands, south of a place called Oban on the A816.’

‘Where’s the car?’

‘Parked roadside just south of a place called Cleigh.’ He spelt the word for Edmond.

‘I’ll get on to the local constabulary.’

‘They probably know about the car already. It’s been abandoned after the D-Man got into trouble. There could be a lot of other people’s prints on it, but some of them will definitely be his.’

‘Wait a minute, what sort of trouble?’

‘Money’s running out, be seeing you.’

Hoffer put down the phone. There was a standpipe nearby, and a girl was filling a plastic jerry-can with water. He went over to her.

‘On holiday with your folks?’ She nodded. ‘I’m looking for a friend, honey. He arrived earlier today towing a caravan.’

‘The caravans are over there.’ She pointed him in the direction.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can I carry that for you?’

‘My parents wouldn’t like it. You’re a stranger.’

Hoffer smiled. ‘Take care, honey-pie.’

He watched her go. She had to work hard to keep the jerry-can off the ground. She’d be about eleven or twelve, he guessed. He knew twelve-year-olds in New York more grown up than he hoped she’d ever need to be. He liked kids on principle, the principle being that a day would come when he’d be old and they’d be in their prime. He might need their help then. He wouldn’t be able to smack them in the head or pull his knife on them. You had to have respect for the future, otherwise it might kick away your stick and punch your dentures down your throat.

It took him a couple of questions to hit lucky. Another caravaner told him the Germans weren’t here just now, they’d gone into town. But their caravan was here, and they’d be back. When they’d arrived the man had still been outraged, and had told his story about the traffic jam he’d been stuck in.

‘I think I’ll wait for them,’ Hoffer said. Then the caravaner said his wife and children were out walking and was Hoffer by any chance American? The family had gone to Florida last year and loved it, Disney and the beaches and everything. This year they were on a tighter budget, with the recession and everything and him losing his job. He asked if Hoffer wanted a beer. Hoffer reckoned he could bear to listen to a few stories about Florida, so long as the price was right.

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘why not?’

Then the man said something that warmed Hoffer’s heart. ‘You know,’ he started, handing over a can, ‘I can’t help thinking your face looks familiar. Have you ever been on TV?’

The Germans weren’t late. They were a couple in late middle age, showing signs of having earned well and saved well over their lives. They wore pension fund clothes and drove a pension fund car. When Hoffer told them what he wanted, they unlocked their caravan and took him inside. There wasn’t much room, but Hoffer managed to look comfortable as he wedged his legs under the table and sat down.

They were bemused by his questions at first. The woman said she just wanted to forget all about it, but her husband had drunk a beer or two and got back in the mood pretty quickly. His English wasn’t great, but it was better than Hoffer’s delicatessen German. Hoffer eventually focused in on the back car of the three.

‘The driver,’ said the German, ‘large man, not very happy. He would not speak to me a word just. There is some resentment here still, but I do not excuse.’

‘Uh, right,’ said Hoffer, ‘absolutely. Was there a passenger?’

‘On the back chair, yes. He talked to the other driver — ’

‘You mean the driver of the middle car?’

The German nodded. ‘ — and then the other driver went away, but the man on the back chair would not talk with me. He was smile, smile all the time.’

‘Smiling,’ Hoffer said.

‘This is how I say. And I am telling him what is the problem here? But he is smile only.’

‘Smiling,’ his wife corrected.

‘Can you describe this man, sir?’

‘Um ... he wore a suit, shirt, but no tie I don’t think. He was not large like the other men. Glasses he wore, round ones, and his hair it was white.’

‘Blonde,’ his wife said. ‘White is for old people.’

‘What happened?’ Hoffer asked. The couple probably hadn’t noticed how his attitude had changed.

‘It was very confusing. The people from the middle car drove away in the front car. The people from the front car talked to the men in the third car. Then three men pushed the second car out of the way.’

‘The blond man stayed in his car?’

‘Oh, yes, in his car he stayed. Then all together they drove off, no apology to me.’ The man’s cheeks had reddened furiously. He was beginning to drift back into his mother tongue. His wife stroked his arm, calming him.

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Hoffer said.

‘Something to drink?’ asked the woman.

‘Nein, danke,’ said Hoffer. He might have had no training in the language, but it was surprising what you could pick up from a few war films and sandwich bars. He unwedged himself from beneath the table and said his farewells, then got back into his car and lit a cigarette. Kline had confronted the D-Man, and the D-Man had escaped, which either made Kline very stupid or the assassin very clever. No one had been shot, that was the really surprising thing. It warmed Hoffer’s heart. If the D-Man was not a close-range performer, then all Hoffer had to do was get close enough to him. The further away he stayed, the more danger he was in. But then again, the closer he got, the more chance there was that he’d come slap bang up against Kline and his commandos.

And he’d already seen what
they
would do at close range. They’d saw your fucking head off and leave it for a surprise.

‘What kind of shit am I getting into?’ he asked himself, starting his car up and heading towards the south.

Part Three

18

We flew into Boston. I always try to do that, avoid JFK. The place is more like a cattle market than an airport, and they do more checks there than anywhere else. We flew as Michael Weston and Belinda Harrison, since our real passports were the only ones we had. I knew we’d taken a calculated risk. Airlines keep computer records, and anyone can access computer data. That was another reason for flying into Boston: it was a long way from our ultimate destination.

At the airport, I found us a hotel room in town, and we took a taxi. Bel was still disoriented from the flight. It was tough on a beginner, flying backwards through time. We hadn’t touched any alcohol on the flight; alcohol stopped you retuning yourself. We watched the films and ate our meals and took any soft drink we were offered. Bel was like a child at first, insisting on a window seat and peering out at the clouds. She made me tell her some things about the USA. She’d never been there before, and only had a passport at all because Max and she had taken a couple of foreign holidays. He never took her with him on business trips.