Bleeding Hearts

14

We took a train from Euston to Glasgow.

I’d decided against renting a car in London. Rentals could always be checked or traced. By now, I reckoned there was a chance the police — or even Hoffer — would be finding out about DI West and DC Harris. Plus they had the evidence of my phone call to the radio station. They knew I was still around. They’d be checking things like hotels and car hire.

So I paid cash for our train fares, and paid cash to our hotel when we booked out. I even slipped the receptionist £20, and asked if she could keep a secret. I then told her that Ms Harrison and I weren’t supposed to be together, so if anyone should come asking... She nodded acceptance in the conspiracy. I added that even if she mentioned my name to anyone, I’d appreciate it if she left Bel’s name out.

Bel had phoned Max and told him of her plan to go north with me. He hadn’t been too thrilled, especially when she said we’d be passing him without stopping. She handed the phone to me eventually.

‘Max,’ I said, ‛if you tell me not to take her, you know I’ll accept that.’

‘If she knows where you’re headed and she’s got it in her head to go, she’d probably only follow you anyway.’

I smiled at that. ‘You know her so well.’

‘I should do, she gets it all from me. No trouble so far?’

‘No, but we’re not a great deal further forward either.’

‘You think this trip north will do the trick?’

‘I don’t know. There should be less danger though.’

‘Well, bring her back without a scratch.’

‘That’s a promise. Goodbye, Max.’

I put Bel back on and went to my room to pack.

On the train, I reread all the notes on the Disciples of Love.

‘You must know it by heart by now,’ Bel said, between trips to the buffet. We were in first class, which was nearly empty, but she liked to go walking down the train, then return with reports of how packed the second-class carriages were.

‘That’s why we’re in here,’ I said. It’s a slow haul to Glasgow, and I had plenty of time for reading. What I read didn’t give me any sudden inspiration.

The Disciples of Love had been set up by an ex-college professor called Jeremiah Provost. Provost had taught at Berkeley in the ’70s. Maybe he was disgruntled at not having caught the ’60s, when the town and college had been renamed ‘Berserkeley’. By the time he arrived at Berkeley, things were a lot tamer, despite the odd nudist parade. The town still boasted a lot of strung-out hippies and fresher-faced kids trying to rediscover a ‘lost California spirit’, but all these incomers did was clog the main shopping streets trying to beg or sell beads and hair-braiding.

I was getting all this from newspaper and magazine pieces. They treated Provost as a bit of a joke. While still a junior professor, he’d invited ‘chosen’ students to his home at weekends. He’d managed to polarise his classes into those who adored him and those who were bored by his mix of blather and mysticism. One journalist said he looked like ‘Beat Poet Allen Ginsberg before the hair went white’. In photos, Provost had long frizzy dark hair, kept parted at the front, a longish black beard and thick-lensed glasses. It’s hard to get kicked out of college, especially if you’re a professor, but Provost managed it. His employers didn’t cite aberrant behaviour, but rather managed to dig up some dirt from his past, showing he’d lied in his initial application form and at a later interview.

Provost stuck around. He was busted for peddling drugs, but it turned out he’d only given them away, never sold them. He was fast turning into a local underground hero. His shack-style house in a quiet residential street in Berkeley became a haven for travellers, writers, musicians and artists. The outside of the house boasted a huge paste-and-wire King Kong climbing up it until the authorities dismantled it. The house itself was painted to resemble a spaceship, albeit a low-built cuboid one. Inside the house, Jeremiah Provost was slowly but surely leaving the planet Earth.

Out of this home for strays emerged the Disciples of Love. It was a small enterprise at first, paid for, as investigative journalism revealed, by a legacy on which Provost had been living. His family was old Southern money, and as the elders passed away their money and property kept passing to Provost. He sold a couple of plantation houses, one of them to a museum. And he had cash too, as aunts and uncles found he was their sole surviving heir.

An article in a Californian magazine had gone farther than most in tracing Provost back to his childhood home in Georgia. He’d always been pampered as a child, and soundly beaten too, due to a doting mother and a disciplinarian father (whose own father had financed the local Ku Klux Klan). At school he’d been brilliant but erratic, ditto at college. He’d landed a job at a small college in Oklahoma before moving to Nebraska and then California.

He found his vocation at last with the Disciples of Love. He was destined to become leader of a worldwide religious foundation, built on vague ideals which seemed to include sex, drugs and organic vegetables. The American tabloid papers concentrated on the first two of these, talking of ‘bizarre initiation rites’ and ’mandatory sexual relations with Provost’. There were large photos of him seated on some sort of throne, with long-haired beauties draped all around him, swooning at his feet and gazing longingly into his eyes, wondering if he’d choose them next for the mandatory sexual relations. These acolytes were always young women, always long-haired, and they all looked much the same. They wore long loose-fitting dresses and had middle-class American faces, strong-jawed and thick-eyebrowed and pampered. They were like the same batch of dolls off a production line.

None of which was my concern, except insofar as I envied Provost his chosen career. My purpose, I had to keep reminding myself, was to ask whether this man’s organisation could have hired a hit-man. It seemed more likely that they’d use some suicide soldier from their own ranks. But then that would have pointed the finger of the law straight at them. The Disciples of Love were probably cleverer than that.

The Disciples really took off in 1985. Trained emissaries were sent to other states and even abroad, where they set up ‘missions’ and started touting for volunteers. They offered free shelter and food, plus the usual spiritual sustenance. It was quite an undertaking. One magazine article had costed it and was asking where the money came from. Apparently no new elderly relations had gone to their graves, and it couldn’t just be a windfall from investments or suddenly accrued interest.

There had to be something more, and the press didn’t like that it couldn’t find out what. Reporters staked out the Disciples’ HQ, still the old Spaceship Berkeley, until Provost decided it was time to move. He pulled up sticks and took his charabanc north, first into Oregon, and then Washington State, where they found themselves in the Olympic Peninsula, right on the edge of Olympic National Park. By promising not to develop it, Provost managed to buy a lot of land on the shores of a lake. New cabins were built to look like old ones, grassland became vegetable plots, and the Disciples got back to work, this time separated from the world by guards and dogs.

Provost was not apocalyptic. There was no sign in any of his writings or public declarations that he thought the end of the world was coming. For this reason, he didn’t get into trouble with the authorities, who were kept busy enough with cults storing weaponry like squirrels burying nuts for the winter. (These reports were mostly written before the Branch Davidian exploded.) The Revenue people were always interested though. They were curious as to how the cult’s level of funding was being maintained, and wanted to know if the whole thing was just an excuse for tax avoidance. But they did not find any anomalies, which might only mean Provost had employed the services of a good accountant.

Lately, everything had gone quiet on the Disciples news front. A couple of journalists, attempting to breach the HQ compound, had been intercepted and beaten, but in American eyes this was almost no offence at all. (The same eyes, remember, who were only too keen to read new revelations of the sex ‘n’ drug sect and its ‘screwball’ leader.)

All of which left me where precisely? The answer was, on a train heading north, where maybe I’d learn more from the cult’s UK branch. Bel was sitting across from me, and our knees, legs and feet kept touching. She’d slipped off her shoes, and I kept touching her, apologising, then having to explain why I was apologising.

We ate in the dining car. Bel took a while to decide, then chose the cheapest main dish on the menu.

‘You can have anything you like,’ I told her.

‘I know that,’ she said, giving my hand a squeeze. We stuck to non-alcoholic drinks. She took a sip of her tonic water, then smiled again.

‘What are we going to tell Dad?’

‘What about?’

‘About us.’

‘I don’t know, what do you think?’

‘Well, it rather depends, doesn’t it? I mean, if this is just a... sort of a holiday romance, we’re best off saying nothing.’

‘Some holiday,’ I joked. ‘He’d work it out for himself, no matter what we said.’

‘But if it’s something more, then we really should tell him, don’t you think?’

I nodded agreement, saying nothing.

‘Well?’ she persisted. ‘Which is it?’

‘Which do you think?’

‘You’re infuriating.’

‘Look, Bel, we’ve not known each other... I mean, not like this... for very long. It hasn’t been what you’d call a courtship, has it?’

She grinned at the memories: producing the gun in Chuck’s Gym, fleeing his men in Upper Norwood, making false documents in Tottenham, pretending to be police officers...

‘Besides,’ I said, ‘the sort of work I’m in doesn’t exactly make for a home life. I’ve no real friends, I’m not sure I’d even know how to begin the sort of relationship you’re suggesting.’

Now she looked hurt. ‘Well, that’s very honest of you, Michael. Only it sounds a bit feeble, a bit like self-pity.’

My first course arrived. I ate a few mouthfuls before saying anything. Bel was looking out of the window. Either that or she was studying my reflection. It struck me that she knew so little about me. The person she’d seen so far wasn’t exactly typical. It was like she’d been seeing a reflection all along.

‘Once you get to know me,’ I confided, ‘I’m a really boring guy. I don’t do much, I don’t say much.’

‘What are you trying to tell me? You think I’m looking for Action Man, and I’m not.’ She unfolded her napkin. ‘Look, forget I said anything, all right?’

‘All right,’ I said.

I thought about our relationship so far. There’d been some kissing and hugging, and we’d spent two nights together. We hadn’t done anything though, we’d just lain together in the near-dark, comfortable and semi-clad. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to make love with her. I don’t know what it was.

Part of me wished I’d left her behind in London, or insisted on dropping her off in Yorkshire. It was hard to concentrate with her around. I knew it was harder to take risks, too. I’d taken them in London, then regretted them afterwards. In Scotland, I wouldn’t take any, not with her around. I’d be like one of those Harley Davidson riders, forced by circumstance to wear a crash helmet. But when I looked across the table at her, I was glad she was there looking back at me, no matter how sulkily. She kept my mind off Hoffer. He was in danger of becoming an obsession. He’d come close to me once before, last year, after a hit in Atlanta, not far from the World of Coca-Cola. I’d visited the museum before the hit, since my target would visit there during his stay in the city. But in the end I hit him getting out of his limo outside a block of offices. He was being feted in the penthouse suite while he was in Atlanta. The bastard was so tough, he lived a few hours after my bullet hit home. That doesn’t normally happen with a heart shot. It’s the reason I don’t shoot to the head: you can blast away a good portion of skull and brain and the victim can survive. Not so with a heart shot. They took him to some hospital and I waited for news of his demise. If he’d lived, that would have been two fails from three attempts and my career would not have been in good shape.

After the news of his death, I moved out of my hotel. I’d been there for days, just waiting. Across the street was an ugly windowless edifice, some kind of clothing market. ‘A garment district in a box’ was how a fellow drinker in the hotel bar described it. It was so grey and featureless, it made me book a ticket to Las Vegas, where I didn’t spend much money but enjoyed seeing people winning it. The few winners were always easy to spot; the countless losers were more like wallpaper. Hoffer looked like a loser, which was why despite his bulk he was hard to notice. But then he made a mistake. He had himself paged in the hotel casino. I’m sure he did it so people might recognise him. I recognised his name, and watched him go to the desk. Then I went to my room and packed. I could have taken him out, except no one was paying me to. Plus I’d already disposed of my armoury.

I still don’t know how he tracked me. He has a bloodhound’s nose, as well as a large pocket. So long as Walkins is paying him, I’ll have to keep moving. Either that or kill the sonofabitch.

What sort of a life was that to share with someone?

I found out in Vegas that my victim had been a prominent businessman from Chicago, down in Atlanta for the baseball. In Chicago he’d been campaigning to clean up the city, to bring crooked businesses to light and reveal money laundering and bribery of public officials. In Vegas the saloon consensus was that the guy had to be crazy to take that lot on.

‘You see a sign saying “Beware — Rattlesnakes”, you don’t go sticking your head under the rock. Am I right or am I right?’

The drinker was right, of course, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I felt bad for a whole two hours and five cognacs, after which I didn’t feel much of anything at all.

And then Hoffer had come to town, as welcome as a Bible salesman, sending me travelling again.

No, mine was definitely not a life for sharing, not even with someone like Bel.

We stuck around Glasgow long enough to rent a car. Now I was clear of London and the immediate investigation, I didn’t mind. It was another Ford Escort, white this time and without the options. Driving out of the city was not the happiest hour of my life. The centre of the city was based on the American grid system, but there were flyovers and motorways and junctions with no route signs. We found ourselves heading south, and then west, when what we wanted was north. The directions the man at the rental firm had given us proved useless, so I pulled into a petrol station and bought a map book. Although we were on the road to Greenock, we could cut over a bridge at Erskine and, with any luck, join the A82 there.

We cheered when the roadsign informed us we’d found the A82, and the drive after that was beautiful. The road took us winding along the westernmost side of Loch Lomond, Bel breaking into half-remembered songs about high roads and low roads and people wearing kilts. After Loch Lomond we stopped at Crianlarich for food, then cut west on to the A85, the country wild and windswept. It had been raining on and off since we’d crossed the border, but now it became torrential, the wind driving the rain across our vision. We hit the tip of another forbidding loch, and soon reached the coast, stopping in the middle of Oban to stretch our legs and sniff out accommodation.

There were NO VACANCY signs everywhere, till we asked at a pub on the road back out of town. Bel had wanted to stay near the dockside, and I told her that was fine by me, I just hoped she’d be warm enough sleeping out of doors. When she saw our two rooms at the Claymore, though, she brightened. The woman who showed us up said there’d be a ‘rare’ breakfast for us in the morning, which I took to mean it would be very good rather than hard to find or undercooked.

The rooms smelt of fresh paint and refurbished fittings. Bel had a view on to fields next to the pub. There were sheep in the fields and no traffic noises. It was just about perfect. The rain had even stopped.

‘And I could understand every word she said,’ she claimed with pride, referring to our strained conversation with the car hire man in Glasgow, and the local in Crianlarich who had tried engaging Bel in conversation about, so far as either of us could make out, trout-tickling.

We ate in the bar, and asked casually if our hostess knew where Ben Glass was.

‘It’s out past Diarmid’s Pillar. Hillwalkers, are you?’

‘Not exactly.’

She smiled. ‘Beinn Ghlas is a summit between Loch Nell and Loch Nant.’

‘That doesn’t sound what we’re looking for. It’s more of a... commune, a religious community.’

‘You mean the New Agers? Yes, they’re off that way.’

‘You don’t know where, though?’

She shook her head. ‘How was the Scotch broth?’

‘It was delicious,’ Bel said. Later, we asked if we could borrow a map of the area. Most of the roads were little more than tracks. The only Ben Glass I could see was the summit.

‘I don’t suppose they’d be in the phone book?’ Bel suggested.

‘We could try Yellow Pages under cults.’

Instead, we went back into Oban itself. It was too late in the day to start our real business, so we became tourists again. The wind had eased, and there was no more than a marrow-chilling breeze as we traipsed the harbour area and the shops which had closed for the day. Bel huddled into my side, her arm through mine. She had the collar of her jacket up, and the jacket zipped as high as it would go. There were other holidaymakers around us, but they looked used to the climate.

‘Let’s go in here,’ Bel said, picking a pub at random. I could see straight away that it was a watering-hole for locals, and that strangers, while tolerated in the season at least, couldn’t expect a warming welcome. The customers spoke in an undertone, as though trying to keep the place a secret. Bel ignored the atmosphere, or lack of one, and asked for a couple of malts.

‘Which malt?’ the red-cheeked barman asked back.

‘Talisker,’ she said quickly, having just seen a bottle displayed in a shop window.

The barman narrowed one eye. ‘What proof?’

That got her. She thought he must mean proof of age.

‘Seventy, I think,’ I said.

‘And double measures,’ said Bel, trying to recover. As the barman stood at his row of optics, she saw there were three grades of Talisker: seventy, eighty and one-hundred proof. She nodded at me and smiled, giving a shrug. We paid for our drinks and went to a corner table. The bar grew silent, waiting to eavesdrop. They were out of luck. The door swung in and a laughing group of teenagers stormed the place. They couldn’t be much over the legal drinking age, and a few of them might even be under it. But they had confidence on their side. Suddenly the bar was lively. Someone put money in the jukebox, someone else started racking up for a game of pool, and the barman was kept busy pouring pints of lager.

They kept looking over at us, probably because Bel was the only woman in the bar. One of the pool players, awaiting his turn, came over and drew out a chair. He didn’t look at us, but returned to the seat after he’d played. This time he gave us the benefit of his winning grin.

‘I don’t know why I bother,’ he said. ‘He beats the pants off me every time.’

I watched the other pool player potting his third ball in a row. ‘He does seem pretty handy.’

‘He’s lethal. Look at him covering that pocket.’ He got up to play, but was quickly back in his seat. ‘On holiday?’

‘Sort of.’

‘It’s all right, I don’t mind tourists. I’m a carpenter. I work for this other guy who sculpts lamps and stuff from bits of old wood. The only people who buy them are tourists.’

‘Maybe we’ll look in,’ I said. ‘Where’s his shop?’

‘He doesn’t have a shop. He’s got a workshop, but he sells the stuff through shops in the town. Souvenir shops, fancy goods.’

‘We’ll look out for them,’ Bel said. ‘Meantime, could you do me a favour?’

He licked his lips and looked keen. Bel leaned across the table towards him. They looked very cosy, and his friends were beginning to exchange comments and laughter.

‘We were told there’s a sort of religious commune near here.’

He looked from Bel to me. I tried to look meek, harmless, touristy, but he seemed to see something more. He got to his feet slowly and walked to the pool table. He didn’t come back.

We drove into town next morning and bought a map of our own. It was newer than the hotel’s map, but still didn’t help. We sat poring over it in a coffee shop. The other customers were all tourists, their spirits dampened by another cool, wet day. The rain was as fine as a spraymist, blowing almost horizontally across the town. Bel bought a bottle of Talisker to take back to Max.

An old van puttered past the café window where we were sitting. It was an antiquated Volkswagen bus, most of its body green but the passenger door blue. It squeezed into a parking place across the street and the driver cut the engine. He got out, as did his passenger. The driver pulled open the sliding side-door, and three more passengers emerged. They all seemed to be holding scraps of paper, shopping lists maybe. They pointed in different directions and headed off.

‘Stay here,’ I said to Bel.

By the time I left the coffee shop, they had disappeared. I crossed to the Volkswagen and walked around it. It was twenty-four years old, two years older than Bel. There was a lot of rust around the wheel arches and doors, and the bodywork was generally battered, but the engine had sounded reliable enough. I looked inside. The thing was taxed for another three months. It would be interesting to see if it passed its MOT this time round. There were some carrier bags and empty cardboard boxes in the back of the bus. The rows of seats had been removed to make more space. There was a dirty rug on the floor and a spare can of petrol.

The passengers had looked like New Agers: pony tails and roll-up cigarettes and torn jeans. They had that loose gait which hid a post-hippy sensibility. The few New Agers I’d come across were a lot tougher than their 1960s ancestors. They were cynical, and rather than escape the system they knew how to use it to their advantage. Aesthetics apart, I had a lot of time for the ones I’d met.

‘Something wrong?’

I turned. The driver was standing there, lighting a cigarette from a new packet.

‘The way you were looking,’ he went on, ‘I thought maybe we had a bald tyre or something.’

I smiled. ‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Maybe you’re thinking of buying?’

‘That’s pretty close to the mark. I used to own one of these, haven’t seen one in a while.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Out in the States.’ I hadn’t actually owned one, but the New Agers I’d met there had.

The driver nodded. ‘There are a lot of them still out there, on the west coast especially.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘They don’t use salt on the roads.’

‘That’s it. They last longer than this rust-bucket.’ He gave the van a playful slap.

‘The one I had blew up. I’d twin-carbed it.’

He shook his head. ‘That was a mistake. You don’t live around here, do you?’

‘No, why?’

‘You’re talking. Not everybody does.’

‘You’re not a local yourself then?’

‘I haven’t lived here long.’

He inhaled on his cigarette and examined its tip. He was in his twenties, nearer Bel’s age than mine. He had short wavy black hair and a weeks growth of beard, and wore liver-coloured Doc Marten boots with stained jeans and a thick woodsman’s shirt.

‘I’m just visiting,’ I said.

‘Enjoy the trip.’ He nicked his cigarette and put it back in the pack, then got into the van and put some music on. As far as he was concerned, I had already left.

I walked back across to the café and got Bel.

‘I nearly yelped when I saw him coming out of the shop,’ she said. ‘I knew you couldn’t see him. What did he say?’

‘Not much. Come on.’

We got into the Escort and drove back the way the Volkswagen had come in. Once we were out of sight, I pulled over again.

‘You think it’s them?’

‘I get that impression. We’ll find out.’

So we waited in the car, until the bus announced itself with its high-turning engine. It could put on good speed, which was a relief. I hadn’t had much experience in tailing vehicles, but I knew that out here, with so little traffic on the roads outside the town, I’d have trouble keeping my distance from a crawling VW. The thing didn’t have side mirrors, which helped, since the driver probably couldn’t see much from his rearview mirror other than the heads of his passengers. Habitations became sparser as we drove, and a sudden heavy shower slowed us down, though the driver didn’t seem to worry. At last, the tarmac road ended, we went through a five-barred gate and were driving on a gravel track. I stopped the car.

‘What’s up?’ said Bel.

‘If he sees us behind him, he’ll know we’re headed the same place he is. How many houses do you think are up this road?’

‘Probably just the one.’

‘Exactly, so we can’t really lose him, can we? We’ll sit here for a minute, then move at our own pace.’

‘What are we going to say when we get there?’

‘Nothing, not this visit. We’ll just take a look at the place, not get too close.’

I looked in my rearview mirror. Not that I was expecting any other vehicles.

The gate behind us was shut.

I turned in my seat, hardly able to believe the evidence in the mirror.

‘What is it, Michael?’

There were figures outside the car. One of them pulled open the passenger door. Bel shrieked. The figure bent down to look at us. He was big, cold-looking and soaked, with a beard that looked like it could deflect blows.

‘Keep on going up the trail,’ he said, his accent English. ‘It’s another mile or so.’

‘Can we give you a lift?’ I offered. But he slammed the door closed. I counted four of them out there, all of them now standing behind the car. If I reversed hard enough, I could scatter them and maybe smash my way back through the gate. But it looked like a quality gate, and since we were where we wanted to be, we might as well go on.

So I moved forward slowly. The men followed at walking pace.

‘Michael...’

‘Just remember our story, Bel, that’s all we need to do.’

‘But, Michael, they were waiting for us.’

‘Maybe they always keep a guard on the gate.’ I said this without much confidence. The man hadn’t asked us what we wanted or whether we’d taken a wrong turn. It was true, we were expected.

Well, they might be expecting us, but I doubted they’d be expecting what I had in the car-boot.

The MP5.

The commune sat in a glen with a stream running through it. It reminded me of one of those early American settlers’ communities, just before the bad guys rode into town. The houses, little more than cabins, were of wooden construction. There were a few vehicles dotted about, only half of them looking like they were used, the rest in a process of cannibalisation. Solar heating panels sat angled towards a sun that wasn’t shining. A large patch of ground had been cleared and cultivated, and some lean black pigs were working on clearing another patch. I saw goats and chickens and about thirty people, some of whom, all women, were helping unload the VW bus. The VW’s driver nodded at us as we stopped the car. I got out and looked at him.

‘You want to make an offer on it after all?’ he said, slapping the van.

An older man emerged from the largest cabin. He gestured for us to follow him indoors.

The cabin’s interior was spartan, but no more so than a lot of bachelor flats or hotel rooms. It was furnished with what looked like home-crafted stuff. On one table sat a lamp. I ran my hand over the gnarled wooden base.

‘You’re the carpenter?’ I said, knowing now why we were expected.

The man nodded back. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He didn’t sit on a chair, but lowered himself on to the floor. I did likewise, but Bel selected a chair. There was a large photograph of a beneficent Jeremiah Provost on the wall above the open fireplace. He looked younger than in some of the newspaper photos. There was a tapestry on another wall, and a clock made from a cross-section of tree.

‘You’ve been asking about our community here,’ the man said, eschewing introductions.

‘Is that a crime?’ Bel asked. He turned his gaze to her. His eyes were slightly wider than seemed normal, like he’d witnessed a miracle a long time ago and was still getting used to it. He had a long beard with strands of silver in it. I wondered if length of beard equated to standing within the commune. He had the sort of outdoors tan that lasts all year, and was dressed for work right down to the heavy-duty gloves sticking out of the waistband of his baggy brown cord trousers. His hair was thin and oily, greying all over. He was in his forties, and looked like he hadn’t always been a carpenter.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but we prefer visitors to introduce themselves first.’

‘That’s easily taken care of,’ Bel said. ‘I’m Belinda Harrison, this is a friend of mine, Michael Weston. Who are you?’

The man smiled. ‘I hear anxiety and a rage in your words, Belinda. They sound like they’re controlling you. Their only possible usefulness is when you control them.’

‘I read that sort of thing all the time in women’s magazines, Mr...?’

‘My name’s Richard, usually just Rick.’

‘Rick,’ I said, my voice all balm and diplomacy, ‘you belong to the Disciples of Love, is that right? Because otherwise we’re in the wrong place.’

‘You’re where you want to be, Michael.’

I turned to Bel. ‘Just ask him, Belinda.’

She nodded tersely. ‘I’m looking for my sister, her name’s Jane._’

‘Jane Harrison? You think she’s here?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because when she ran away, I went through her room, and she’d cut pieces from newspapers and magazines, all about the Disciples of Love.’

‘One of them,’ I added quietly, ‘mentioned yours as being the only British branch of the sect.’

‘Well, Michael, that’s true, though we’re about to start a new chapter in the south of England. Do you know London at all?’

‘That’s where we’ve come from.’

‘My home town,’ Rick said. ‘We’re hoping to buy some land between Beaconsfield and Amersham.’

I nodded. ‘I know Beaconsfield. Any chance that Jane might be there, helping set up this new... chapter? I take it she’s not here or you’d have said.’

‘No, we’ve got nobody here called Jane. It might help if I knew what she looked like.’

Bel took a photograph from her pocket and handed it over. I watched Rick’s face intently as he studied it. It was the photo I’d taken from the flat in Upper Norwood, the one showing Scotty Shattuck and his girlfriend.

‘That’s her,’ said Bel, ‘about a year ago, maybe a little less.’

Rick kept looking at the photo, then shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never seen this woman.’

‘She may have cut her hair shorter since,’ Bel pleaded. She was turning into a very good actress.

‘Take another look, please,’ I urged. He took another look. ‘She ran off with her boyfriend, that’s him in the photo.’

‘I’m sorry, Belinda.’ Rick handed the photo back.

‘And you’re sure she couldn’t be helping start off your new branch?’

‘They’re called chapters, Michael. No, there’s no possibility. We haven’t bought the land yet, there’s another bid on the table. None of our members are down there at present.’

I saw now that in a corner of the room beyond Rick sat a fax machine and telephone.

‘The estate agent contacts you by phone?’

Rick nodded. ‘Again, I’m sorry. Bel, why does it worry you that Jane has left home? Isn’t she allowed to make her own choices?’

Maybe the acting had proved too much for her. Whatever, Bel burst into tears. Rick looked stunned.

‘Maybe if you fetch her some water,’ I said, putting an arm around her.

‘Of course.’ Rick stood up and left the room. When I looked at Bel, she gave me a smile and a wink.

I stood up too and went walkabout. I don’t know what I was looking for, there being no obvious places of concealment in the room. The fax and handset gave no identifying phone numbers, but the fax did have a memory facility for frequently used numbers. I punched in 1 and the liquid crystal display presented me with the international dialing code for the USA, plus 212 — the state code for Washington — and the first two digits of the phone number proper. So Rick kept in touch with the Disciples’ world HQ by fax. The number 2 brought up another Washington number, while 3 was a local number.

Bel was rubbing her eyes and snuffling when Rick returned with the water. He saw me beside the fax machine.

‘Funny,’ I said, ‘I thought the whole purpose here was to cut yourselves off from the world.’

‘Not at all, Michael. How much do you know about the Disciples of Love?’

I shrugged. ‘Just what Belinda’s told me.’

‘And that information she gleaned from magazines who are more interested in telling stories than telling the truth. We don’t seduce young people into our ranks and then brainwash them. If people want to move on, if they’re not happy here, then they move on. It’s all right with us. We’re just sad to see them go. The way you’ve been skulking around, you’d think we were guerrillas or kidnappers. We’re just trying to live a simple life.’

I nodded thoughtfully. ‘I thought I read something about some MP who had to...’

Rick was laughing. ‘Oh, yes, that. What was the woman’s name?’ I shrugged again. ‘She was convinced, despite everything her daughter told her, that the daughter was being held prisoner. None of our missions is a prison, Michael. Does this look like a cell?’

I conceded it didn’t. I was also beginning to concede that Rick had never laid eyes on Scotty Shattuck in his life. He’d looked closely at the photograph, and had shown not the slightest sign of recognition. Meaning this whole trip had been a waste of time.

‘Prendergast,’ said Rick, ‘that was the woman’s name. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s done irreparable harm to her daughter. And from what I’ve read, the daughter is now a prisoner in her home. She can’t go out without some minder going with her. So who’s the villain of the piece?’ Lecture over, he turned to Bel. ‘Feeling a little better?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Good. You’ve had a long trip from London, I’m sorry it’s not been helpful to you. Can I show you around? If Jane is interested in us, it may be that she’ll find her way here eventually. I can’t promise to contact you if she does... that would have to be her decision. But at least maybe I can reassure you that we won’t have her in a ball and chain.’

‘We’d like that.’

He led us outside. He stood very erect when he walked, and his arms moved slowly at his sides. I reckoned he’d been meditating this morning, either that or taking drugs. Outside, the VW driver was resting his hand on the boot of our Escort. I sought his face for some sign that he’d opened it, but I’d locked the boot myself, and he didn’t look as handy with a picklock as Bel.

‘I’m just going to give Belinda and Michael the tour,’ Rick told him. ‘Is anyone earthing up the potatoes?’

Understanding, the driver went off to find a spade.

Our tour didn’t take long. Rick explained that Jeremiah Provost believed in balance between wilderness and civilisation, so a lot of the land had been left uncultivated. He took us into the woods to show us how they harvested trees for fuel and materials, but did not disturb trees which had fallen of their own volition.

‘Why not?’

‘Because they nourish the soil and become a place where other things can grow.’

I could see Bel had had enough of this. She might start forgetting soon that she was supposed to have a sister, whereabouts unknown.

‘We’d better be getting back,’ I said. Rick walked us to the car and shook my hand.

‘Belinda’s lucky to have a friend like you,’ he said.

‘I think she knows that.’

Bel was in the passenger seat before Rick could walk round the car. She waved, but didn’t smile or roll down her window. Rick touched his palm to her window, then lifted it away and retreated a couple of steps.

‘He gave me the heebie-jeebies,’ Bel said as we drove back down the track.

‘He seemed okay to me.’

‘Maybe you’re easily led.’

‘Maybe I am.’

We didn’t see any sign of the welcoming committee on the track, but when we reached the gate someone had left it open for us. I pushed the car hard towards Oban, wondering what the hell to do next.

15

Hoffer didn’t see Kline again, which was good news for Kline. Hoffer was nursing the biggest headache since the US budget deficit. He’d tried going to a doctor, but the system in London was a joke. The one doctor who’d managed to give him an appointment had then suggested a change of diet and some paracetamol.

‘Are you kidding?’ roared Hoffer. ‘We’ve banned those things in the States!’

But he couldn’t find Tylenol or codeine, so settled for aspirin, which irritated his gut and put him in a worse mood than ever. He’d asked the doctor about a brain scan — after all, he was paying for the consultation, so might as well get his money’s worth — and the doctor had actually laughed. It was obvious nobody ever sued the doctors in Britain. You went to a doctor in the States, they practically wheeled you from the waiting room to the surgery and back, just so you didn’t trip over the carpet and start yelling for your lawyer.

‘You’re lucky I don’t have my fucking gun with me,’ Hoffer had told the doctor. Even then, the doctor had thought he was joking.

So he wasn’t in the best of moods for his visit to Draper Productions, but when Draper found out who he was, the guy started jumping up and down. He said he’d read about Hoffer. He said Hoffer was practically the best-known private eye in the world, and had anyone done a profile of him?

‘You mean for TV?’

‘I mean for TV.’

‘Well, I’ve, uh, I’m doing a TV spot, but only as guest on some talk show.’ It had been confirmed that morning, Hoffer standing in for a flu-ridden comedian.

‘I’m thinking bigger than that, Leo, believe me.’

So then they’d had to go talk it through over lunch at some restaurant where the description of each dish in the menu far exceeded in size the actual dish itself. Afterwards, Hoffer had had to visit a burger joint. Joe Draper thought this was really funny. It seemed like today everyone thought Hoffer was their favourite comedian. Draper wanted to come to New York and follow Hoffer around, fly-on-the-wall style.

‘You could never show it, Joe. Most of what I do ain’t family viewing.’

‘We can edit.’

Early on in their relationship, Draper and Hoffer had come to understand one pertinent detail, each about the other. Maybe it was Hoffer’s sniffing and blowing his nose and complaining of summer allergies. Maybe it was something else. Draper had been the first to suggest some nose talc, and Hoffer had brought out his Laguiole.

‘Nice blade,’ Draper said, reaching into his desk drawer for a mirror...

So it was a while before Hoffer actually got round to asking about Eleanor Ricks.

‘Lainie,’ Draper said in the restaurant, ‘she was a lion tamer, believe me. I mean, in her professional life. God, this is the best pâté I’ve ever tasted.’

Hoffer had already finished his salade langoustine. He poured himself a glass of the white burgundy and waited.

‘She was great, really she was,’ Draper went on, buttering bread like he was working in the kitchen. ‘Without her, three of my future projects just turned to ashes.’ He squashed pâté on to the bread and folded it into his mouth.

‘How much would I get paid for this documentary?’ asked Hoffer.

‘Jesus, we don’t talk money yet, Leo. We need to do costings, then present the package to the money men. They’re the final arbiters.’

‘What was Eleanor working on when she died?’

‘The Disciples of Love.’

‘I think I saw that movie.’

‘It’s not a film, it’s a cult.’ So then it took a while for Draper to talk about that. ‘I’ve got some info in my office, if you want it. I should be selling it, not giving it away. I had two detectives took copies away, on top of the half dozen I’d already handed over. It was worth it though. One of them suggested Molly Prendergast take over from Lainie on the Disciples project.’

‘That’s the woman she was with when she got shot?’

‘The same.’

‘What about these two detectives?’

‘The man was called Inspector Best.’

‘West?’ Hoffer suggested. ‘His colleague was a woman called Harris?’

‘Oh, you know them?’

‘It’s beginning to feel that way,’ said Hoffer. ‘Did they ask you what colour clothes Ms Ricks liked to wear?’ Draper was nodding.

‘Uncanny,’ he said.

‘It’s a gift, my grandmother was a psychic. Joe, I’d appreciate it if you could give me whatever you gave them.’

‘Sure, no problem. Now let’s talk about you...’

After lunch and the post-prandial burger, they went back to Draper’s office for the Disciples of Love? folder and a final toot. Hoffer gave Draper his business card, but told him not to call until the producer had some figures.

‘And remember, Joe, I charge by the hour.’

‘So do all the hookers I know. It doesn’t mean they’re not good people.’

The TV show was a late-afternoon recording to go out the following morning. Hoffer went back to his hotel so he could wash and change. He’d bought some new clothes for the occasion, reckoning he could probably deduct them for tax purposes. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt like a fraud. He looked perfect. The suit was roomy, a dark blue wool affair. Even the trousers were lined, though only down to the knees. These London tailors knew their business. Fuckers knew how to charge, too.

With a white shirt and red paisley tie he reckoned he looked reputable and telegenic. It wasn’t always easy to look both. They had a cab coming to pick him up, so all he had to do was wait. The burger wasn’t agreeing with him, so he took something for it, then lay on his bed watching TV. His phone rang, and he unhooked the receiver.

‘Yep?’

‘Mr Hoffer, there’s a letter in reception for you.’

‘What sort of letter?’

‘It’s just arrived, delivered by hand.’

‘Okay, listen, I’m expecting a cab to the television studio.’ He couldn’t help it, though he’d already told the receptionist this. ‘I’ll be leaving in about five minutes, so I’ll grab the letter when I’m going out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hoffer put down the phone fast. His guts were telling him something as he rushed for the bathroom.

Sitting in his cab, he told himself it was the langoustine, had to be. Unless he was getting an ulcer or something; it was that kind of pain, like a cramp. It clamped his insides and squeezed, then let go again. Some colonic problem maybe. No, it was just the food. No matter how lavish a restaurant’s decor, its kitchen was still just a kitchen, and shellfish were still shellfish.

He tore open the brown envelope which had been waiting for him at reception. He knew from his name on the front that the letter was from Barney. There was a single typed sheet inside. God help him, the man had done the typing himself, but only two lines mattered: the two addresses in Yorkshire. The gun dealer called Darrow lived in Barnsley, while the one called Max Harrison lived near Grewelthorpe.

‘Grewelthorpe?’ Hoffer said out loud, not quite believing the name.

‘What’s that, guv?’

‘It’s a town or something,’ Hoffer told the driver.

‘Grewelthorpe.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s in North Yorkshire.’

‘That explains it then, I’ve never been north of Rickmansworth. Yorkshire’s another country, you see them down here for rugby finals and football matches. Strange people, take my word for it. Do you work on the telly then?’

So far this trip, Hoffer had merited only five short newspaper interviews, one piece in a Sunday ‘Lifestyle’ supplement, a magazine article which he had to share with some new private eye movie that was coming out, and half a dozen radio segments. But now TV had picked up on him, and he made the production assistant promise he could have a recording to take away with him.

‘It won’t operate on an American machine,’ she warned him.

‘So I’ll buy a British video recorder.’

‘Remember, we’re 240 volts.’

‘I’ll get a fucking adaptor!’

‘Only trying to help.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.’

She then explained as she led him along corridor after corridor that he would be on with three other guests: a fashion designer, a gay football player, and a woman novelist. She smiled at him.

‘You represent the show’s harder edge.’

‘If I ever survive this goddamned route march,’ Hoffer complained. Then he had an idea. ‘Do you have a library in the building?’

‘Sort of, we’ve got a research unit.’

Hoffer stopped in his tracks, catching his breath. ‘Could I ask you a big favour?’

‘You mean another big favour.’ The assistant checked her watch and sighed. She’d probably had guests ask her for blow jobs before. Compared to which, Hoffer reasoned, his was not such an unreasonable demand.

‘Go on,’ she said, ‘what is it?’

So Hoffer told her.

The show itself was excruciating, and they all had to sit in chairs which were like something Torquemada would have had prisoners sit on when they went to the john. All of them except the host, naturally. Jimmy Bridger, as the gay soccer player explained to Hoffer in the hospitality lounge, had been an athlete and then a commentator and now was a TV presenter. Hoffer had a few questions for the soccer player, like whether anyone else would go in the post-match bath the same time as him, but he might need an on-screen ally so instead told the guy how lots of macho American football and baseball players were queens, too.

Then they went on to the set. The audience were women who should have had better things to do at four o’clock in the afternoon. Jimmy Bridger was late, so late Hoffer, already uncomfortable, was thinking of switching chairs. Bridger’s chair was a vast spongy expanse of curves and edges. It sat empty while the show’s producer did a warm-up routine in front of the audience. He told a few gags, made them clap on cue, that sort of stuff. TV was the same the world over, a fucking madhouse. Hard to tell sometimes who the warders were.

Jimmy Bridger looked mad, too. He had a huge wavy hairstyle like an extravagant Dairy Queen cone, and wore a jacket so loud it constituted a public nuisance. He arrived to audience cheers and applause, some of it unprompted. Hoffer knew that the hosts on these shows usually liked to meet the guests beforehand, just to lay ground rules, to check what questions might not be welcome, stuff like that. By arriving so late, Bridger was guilty of either overconfidence or else contempt, which added up to much the same thing. Before the taping began, he shook hands with each guest, apologised again for his tardiness, and gave them a little spiel, but you could see that his main concern was his audience. He just loved them. He kissed a few of the grandmothers in the front row. Hoffer hoped they had stretchers standing by for the cardiac seizures.

At last the recording got underway. As Hoffer had hoped he would, Bridger turned to him first.

‘So, Mr Hoffer, what’s one of New York’s toughest private detectives doing here in England?’

Hoffer shifted in his seat, leaning forward towards Bridger. ‘Well, sir, I think you’re confusing me with this gentleman beside me. See, I’m the gay NFL player.’

There was a desperate glance from Bridger to his producer, the producer shaking his head furiously. Then Bridger, recovering well after a slow start off the blocks, started to laugh, taking the audience with him. They were so out of it, they’d’ve laughed at triple-bypass surgery. The interview went downhill from there. They’d probably edit it down to a couple of minutes by tomorrow.

Afterwards, Hoffer didn’t want to bump into Bridger. Well, that was easily arranged. Bridger stuck around the studio, signing autographs and kissing more old ladies. Hoffer moved with speed to the ‘green room’, as they called their hospitality suite. It was a bare room lined with chairs, a bit like a surgery waiting room. Those still waiting to do their shows were like patients awaiting biopsy results, while Bridger’s guests had just been given the all-clear. Hoffer tipped an inch of Scotch down his throat.

‘I thought he was going to pee himself,’ said the gay footballer of Hoffer’s opening gag.

‘That audience would have lapped it up,’ Hoffer said. ‘I mean, literally.’ He downed another Scotch before collaring the production assistant.

‘Forget the video,’ he told her. ‘You can spring it on me when I’m on This Is Your Life. What about the other stuff?’

‘I’ve got Mandy from Research outside.’

‘Great, I’ll go talk to her.’

‘Fine.’ And don’t bother coming back, her tone said. Hoffer blew her a kiss, then gave her his famous tongue-waggle. She looked suitably unimpressed. This was in danger of turning into an all right day.

Mandy was about nineteen with long blonde hair and a fashionably anorexic figure.

‘You could do with a meat transfusion,’ Hoffer said. ‘What’ve you got there?’

He snatched the large manila envelope from her and drew out a series of xeroxed map grids.

‘I’ve run over it with green marker,’ she said.

Hoffer could see that. Grewelthorpe: marked in green. The hamlets nearest it were Kirkby Malzeard and Mickley. These were to the south and east. To the west, there were only Masham Moor and Hambleton Hill, some reservoirs and stretches of roadless grey. Further south another hamlet caught his eye. It was called Blubberhouses. What was it with these comedy names? More relevantly, the nearest sizeable conurbations to Grewelthorpe were Ripon and Thirsk, the Yorkshire towns where Mark Wesley had made cash withdrawals.

‘Any help?’ Mandy said.

‘Oh, yes, Mandy, these are beautiful, almost as beautiful as you, my pale princess.’ He touched a finger to her cheek and stroked her face. She began to look scared. ‘Now, I want you to do one more thing for me.’

She swallowed and looked dubious. ‘What?’

‘Tell Uncle Leo where Yorkshire is.’

It wasn’t really necessary to clean the Smith & Wesson, but Hoffer cleaned it anyway. He knew if he got close enough to the D-Man, it wouldn’t matter if the assassin was state-of the-art armed, Hoffer would stick a bullet in his gut.

With the gun cleaned and oiled, he did some reading. He’d amassed a lot of reading this trip: stuff about haemophilia, and now stuff about the Disciples of Love. He didn’t see anything in the Disciples’ history that would unduly ruffle the red, white and blue feathers of the CIA or NSC. Yet Kline was over here, so someone somewhere was very worried about something. He imagined the assassin reading the same notes he was reading. What would he be thinking? What would be his next step? Would he take up the investigation where his victim had left off? That sounded way too risky, especially if the Disciples were the ones who’d set him up in the first place.

But then again, the D-Man had taken a lot of risks so far, and every risk brought him closer to the surface. Hoffer had a name and a description, and now he had Max Harrison. He knew Bob Broome wasn’t stupid; he’d make the connection too before long. But Hoffer had a start. The only problem was, it meant driving. There were no rail stations close to his destination, so he’d have to hire a car. He’d booked one for tomorrow morning, and had asked for his bill to be made up. He knew that really he should make a start tonight, but he wasn’t driving at night, not when he was heading into the middle of nowhere on the wrong damned side of the road.

He needed a clear head for tomorrow, so confined himself to smoking a joint in his room and watching some TV. Then he took a Librium to help him worm his way into the sleep of the just. After all, no way should he be there on merit.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Leo,’ he muttered. ‘You’re the good guy. You’re the hero, you must be... Jimmy Bridger told you so.’ He finished the glass of whisky beside his bed and switched off the TV.

On his way to the john, he got a sudden greasy feeling in his gut, and knew what it was. It wasn’t cancer this time, or liquefaction of the bowel. It wasn’t something he’d eaten or something he hadn’t, a bad glass of tap-water or too much hooch.

It was the simple realisation that another day or two would see this whole thing finished.

The car rental firm had the usual selection of cramped boxes, each with as much soul as a fast-food carton.

‘So which is the cheapest?’

‘The Fiesta, sir.’

Hoffer tried to haggle over the Fiesta, but the assistant couldn’t oblige. There wasn’t even the chance of a blank receipt, since the whole system was computerized, so Hoffer couldn’t hike his expense sheet. He quickly got the hang of driving on the left: it was easy if you stuck to one-way streets. But getting out of London was more pain than he’d bargained for. Twice he had to get out of his car at traffic lights and ask the driver behind for help, then suffer the drivers behind sounding their horns when the lights changed.

He got lost so often that after punching the steering wheel a few times he just stopped caring. He didn’t study roadsigns, he just took whichever route looked good. When he stopped for lunch, he yielded to temptation and asked somebody where he was.

‘Rickmansworth.’

So he’d reached his cab driver’s northern frontier. Cheered by this, he reneged and bought a map book, finding that he would have to cut across country a bit to get on to the right road. The whole UK road network looked like a kid had taken a line for a walk. There seemed no order, no sense to it. Driving was easy in the States, once you’d negotiated the cities. But here the cities didn’t seem to end, they just melted each into the other, with preserved blobs of green in between.

As he moved north, however, he changed his mind a little. There was some green land between London and Yorkshire; it was boring green land, but it was definitely green. He relaxed into the driving, and even remembered to ask for petrol and not ‘gas’. It was late afternoon before he got past Leeds. He came off the Al and into Ripon, where he stopped for a break and a mental council of war.

If Max Harrison was like any gun dealer Hoffer knew, then he would have an arsenal like something from Desert Storm. And what did Hoffer have? A .457 and a pocket knife. All he had going for him was the element of surprise. That meant he’d have those few initial moments to size the situation up. If Harrison was toting heavy artillery, it was no contest. Likewise, if the man was not alone, Hoffer would be compelled to hold back. He realized too late that he’d drunk a whole pot of tea while mulling this over. The caffeine started its relentless surge through his bloodstream. He took a downer to balance things out, and regretted it immediately: he’d need to be sharp, not dopey.

So he took an upper as well.

But Max Harrison didn’t actually live in what there was of Grewelthorpe. He lived somewhere on the outskirts. It was almost dark by the time Hoffer made his approach to the farm. Foresight had warned him to bring a torch, and he stuck it in his pocket after killing the engine. There was no other sign of habitation, and Hoffer had stopped the car half a mile from the house. He was going to walk that final half mile... Or was he? If Harrison had already heard or seen him, then why make himself an easy target? Better to arrive wrapped in steel than leave wrapped in a coffin. He turned the ignition back on and drove sedately up the track and into the yard.

He killed the engine and looked around. There was no sign of life. He sounded the horn tentatively, but got no response. Maybe the guy was a real farmer, out somewhere with his favourite sheep or cow. He opened his door and eased himself out. He couldn’t hear any animals, not even a dog.

‘Hello, anyone home?’ he called. Only the wind whistled a reply. Hoffer walked to the house and peered in through a couple of windows. He was looking into a large clean kitchen. He tried the door and it opened. He went inside and called out again.

The house didn’t feel empty. There was a television or radio on somewhere. He touched the kettle, but it was cold. He came out of the kitchen into an L-shaped hallway. At the other end of the hall was the front door of the house, obviously not much used. A rug had been pushed against it to stop draughts. Halfway along the hall were stairs up. But the sounds were coming from behind a door in the hall. There were two doors. The first was wide open, leading into an empty dining room. Three chairs sat around a four-cornered table. The second was closed, and must presumably lead to the living room. Hoffer’s fingers tightened around the butt of his gun. Harrison couldn’t have fled: where was there to go? Just the barns or the fields beyond. But he could be hiding. He touched the door handle, then turned it and let the door fall open.

Max Harrison had been beaten to a pulp.

His face was almost featureless, just a mess of blood and clots and tissue, like red fruit after a kid had been playing with it. Barney had told him Harrison was suffering from face cancer. A sort of cutaway plastic mask lay on the floor, and there was a large blackish hole cut deep into one of Harrison’s cheeks. Sure, beat up a dying man, why don’t you? Hoffer felt rage inside him, but then Harrison wasn’t his problem.

He was seated on a dining chair in the centre of the room. His hands had been tied behind him and around the back of the chair, and his feet had been tied to the chair-legs.

‘Hey, you Max Harrison?’ Hoffer said.

The room was messy too. There’d been a fight here, or some serious ransacking, or more probably both. A lot of broken ornaments and glass were lying underfoot. Hoffer went over to the chair to take a pulse. As he touched the body, the head rolled from the shoulders and fell on to the carpet.

‘Son of a bitch!’ Hoffer roared, half-turning his head to spew up tea and cake and scones. He spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I paid good money for that meal.’ He coughed a couple of times and turned back to the headless corpse. He was no pathologist, but he’d seen a few autopsies during his time on the force. The dead man’s throat had been cut through so deeply and thoroughly that practically nothing had been holding it on. Whoever had left Harrison sitting like that had known what would happen when someone finally touched the corpse.

‘Nice touch, dude,’ Hoffer muttered. He thought of his own knife: it wouldn’t do to be caught here by the police. He had some quick thinking to do. He took another look at the corpse, then around the room. He couldn’t glean much here, so headed upstairs. Could it have been the D-Man’s work? Maybe the gun dealer had double-crossed him in some way, and the D-Man had murdered him.

The first bedroom Hoffer walked into belonged to a man. There were no women’s things lying around, no dresses in the wardrobe. But there were a lot of framed photos, mostly of a man Hoffer assumed to be Max Harrison with a girl Hoffer took to be his daughter. There were photos of her as a baby, and all the way up to what looked like her twenties. Not a bad looker either. Fair hair, prominent cheekbones, beautiful eyes.

There were two other bedrooms, one of them obviously a guest room, which didn’t stop Hoffer looking around for any signs of weapons. The other belonged to a woman, a young woman judging from the magazines and make-up and a few of the cassette tapes lying around.

So Harrison’s daughter lived at home...

‘Whoa!’ Hoffer said, sitting down on the bed. ‘Hold on there.’ He was thinking of the description he’d been given of ‘DC Harris’, the D-Man’s accomplice. He went back to Harrison’s bedroom and picked up the most recent-looking photo. Too close to be coincidence.

‘Son of a bitch,’ he said quietly.

This changed things. Because if the D-Man had killed Harrison, then he’d also taken the daughter with him. Had he taken her under duress? If so, then she was hostage rather than accomplice, which would make a difference when it came time to confront the assassin.

Harrison’s bedroom showed no signs of having been searched, and the daughter’s bedroom was tidy too. There were paperback books on a shelf above her bed. Hoffer opened one and found her name written in the corner of the prelim page: Bel Harrison. Bel, short for Belinda. Hoffer spent a little more time in her room, trying to find out more about her. She hadn’t taken away many clothes; her drawers and wardrobe were more than half full. As he usually did given access to a woman’s bedroom, he lingered over the underwear drawer. You could tell a lot about a woman from her underwear. They should turn it into a police discipline, like psychological profiling. He picked up various items, sniffed their detergent smell, then put them back.

There were no posters on the walls, no clues to any hobbies. Her room gave away less than most. He looked under the bed and even under the carpet, but didn’t find any dope. There didn’t seem to be any contraceptives around either.

‘A clean-living country girl,’ he said to himself. ‘Except, sweetheart, that your daddy dealt in illegal firearms, and now you’re running around with the enemy.’

Downstairs again, he checked the cellar. It contained a few bottles of wine and spirits, plus a deep freeze and some DIY tools and materials. He selected a bottle of Scotch and brought it up to the kitchen. He poured from it, then wiped it clean with a cloth, and he held his glass with a piece of kitchen towel. After he’d had the drink, he went around wiping the doorhandles and all the other surfaces he’d touched with his fingers. Then he switched on his torch and headed for the outbuildings. He found the indoor range straight away. From the length of it, it could be used for both rifles and handguns. He still hadn’t found any weapons. There had to be a cache somewhere. If he could find it, he could help himself. He looked for twenty minutes without success, and returned to the kitchen.

He had another drink and sat down at the table. The extravaganza in the living room was not the D-Man’s style. The D-Man liked to keep his distance. He’d never killed at close range. And for a skilled shot suddenly to revert to a knife or a razor or whatever had been used... No, it hadn’t been the D-Man. Which left two questions. Who’d done it? And what was Bel Harrison doing with the D-Man?

There was a telephone in the kitchen, hooked to an answering machine. He played the tape but there were no messages. Several choices presented themselves. He could phone for the police, then wait for them. He could phone them anonymously and then get out. He could get the hell out without telling anyone. Or he could hang around and see if either the killers or the D-Man came back. It stood to reason that the daughter would return some time. Maybe the body would have been found by then. There had to be a mail service, even to this outpost of civilisation. The body was still fairly fresh. Hoffer didn’t like to think about Bel Harrison stumbling upon it a few days or even weeks hence.

Then again, did he really want another police force involved? What if they scared off the D-Man?

Hoffer didn’t know what to do, so he let another drink decide for him.

Then he drove back towards Ripon, seeking a bed for the night.

16

The first thing I saw after breakfast was Leo Hoffer.

That may sound crazy, but it’s true. When I got back to my room to do some final packing, I must have left the TV on. I’d been watching the early-morning news. Now there was a chat show on, and one of the guests was Hoffer. Not that he stole much airtime, a few minutes, but he was omnipresent, coughing offscreen, twitching and interrupting when other guests were speaking. I told Bel to come and see. They’d got round to the question-and-answer segment. The host was moving around the audience, his mike at the ready.

‘That’s Jimmy Bridger,’ said Bel. ‘I watch this sometimes.’

A middle-aged lady was standing up to ask her question. ‘Is Mr Hoffer married?’ The camera cut to Hoffer, who was wearing an expensive suit but wearing it cheaply. The cloth shone but he didn’t.

‘No, ma’am,’ he said. Then, creasing his face: ‛Was that an offer?’ Everyone thought this very funny. Someone else asked him if he found his weight a problem. He agreed that it was.

‘I’ve got to put on a few more pounds before I can Sumo wrestle, and you know those last few pounds are the toughest.’

This had them practically rolling in the aisles.

‘A question for another of our guests,’ said the host, making it plain that he wasn’t going to let Hoffer hog proceedings. It looked to me like they must have had a disagreement along the way.

‘And this is the man who’s chasing you?’ Bel commented.

‘That’s him. My shadow. I sometimes think the only reason he hunts me is so he can appear on shows like this.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘His ego for one thing. But also, he’s in business, and I’m a good advert for him. As far as I can see, I’m the only advert he’s got.’

‘He doesn’t look like he could catch a cold.’

‘That,’ I said quietly, ‘is why he’s so good.’

I sent Bel off to do her packing, and then finished my own. We’d take the car back to Glasgow, I’d buy us train tickets south and let Bel make the connections to take her home. As for me, I’d go back to London. What else could I do? I’d wait it out till Shattuck crept out of the woodwork. I’d waited for victims before.

Bel wasn’t happy.

‘Does this mean the engagement’s off?’

‘It’s the way it was always going to be.’

She couldn’t help but notice a change of tone. ‘What’s up, Michael?’

‘Nothing. Just phone Max and tell him with any luck you’ll be back tonight. Tell him you’ll call from Glasgow with train times.’

So she made the call. It took Max a few moments to answer. Listening, Bel rolled her eyes, meaning it was the answering machine.

‘Hi, Dad, it’s me. Stick by the phone when you get in. I’m headed home, probably tonight. I’ll call again when I know my arrival time. ’Bye.’

We checked out of the hotel, but Bel wanted to go back into town.

‘What for?’

‘A few souvenirs. Come on, Michael, this is the last day of my holiday.’

I shook my head, but we went anyway. While she was shopping, I walked by the harbour. A ferry was leaving for Mull. The island was about six miles away, beyond the smaller isle of Kerrera. The sun was out, and a few boatmen were going about their business, which mostly comprised posing for the tourists’ video cameras. There was a hotel near the harbour we’d tried to get into, with a low wall alongside it. I lifted myself on to the wall and just enjoyed the sunshine. Then Bel was in front of me, thrusting a large paper bag into my hands.

‘Here,’ she said.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s your souvenir.’

Inside the bag was a thick Fair Isle sweater.

‘Try it on,’ she said. ‘I can always take it back if it doesn’t fit.’

‘It looks fine.’

‘But try it on!’

I was wearing a jacket and a shirt, so took the jacket off and laid it on the wall, then pulled the sweater over my head and arms. It was a good fit. She ruffled my hair and pecked my cheek.

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘But you shouldn’t have. It must’ve cost—’

But she was heading off again. ‘I just wanted to make sure it was okay. I’ve got to get something for Dad now.’ She gave me a wave and was gone.

I didn’t dare take the jumper off again. She’d expect me to wear it for a little while at least. Well, it kept out the breeze, but I had the feeling it made me look less like a local and more like a tourist. I took my sunglasses from my jacket pocket and slipped them on.

A car had drawn up nearby. It rose perceptibly on its axles when its driver got out. I nearly tipped backwards off the wall.

It was Hoffer.

He stretched, showing an expanse of shirt and a belt on its last notch. He also showed me something more: that he didn’t have a holster beneath his jacket. He did some neck stretches, saw me, and came walking over.

‘It’s been a long drive,’ he said with a groan.

‘Oh, aye?’ If he’d just come north, maybe he wouldn’t know mock-Scots from the real thing.

He wasn’t looking at me anyway. He was taking in the harbour, and talking more to himself than to anyone else. I thought he’d been taking drugs. ‘This is some beautiful place,’ he said.

‘No’ bad.’

He looked up at the hotel. ‘What about this place, is it no’ bad too?’I shrugged and he smiled. ‛A canny Scot, huh?’ Then he turned away and made to enter the hotel. ‛See you around, bud.’

The moment he’d gone, I slid from the wall, grabbed my jacket, and walked away. I didn’t know which shop Bel would be in, and had half a mind to go to the car instead and get the MP5. But she was coming out of a fancy goods emporium, so I took her arm and steered her with me.

‘Hey, what’s up?’

‘The TV tec is in town.’

‘The fat man?’ Her eyes widened.

‘Don’t look back, just keep walking. We’re going to the car and we are getting out of here.’

‘He can’t be here,’ she hissed. ‘He was in a TV studio only an hour ago.’

‘Have you ever heard of videotape? They record these shows, Bel. You think anyone would have the balls to put Hoffer on live?’

‘What are you going to do?’

I looked at her. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Maybe...’ she began. Then she shook her head.

‘What were you going to say?’

‘I was going to say...’ her cheeks reddened. ‘I was going to say, maybe you should take him out.’

I looked at her again. We were at the car now. ‘I take it you don’t mean I should date him?’

She shook her head. ‘Michael, did you hear him on TV this morning? All those questions they asked: was he armed, would he think twice about killing you?’

I unlocked her door and went round to the driver’s side. ‘I get paid to do jobs. I don’t do it for fun.’

‘There are other ways to make a living,’ she said quietly.

‘What? Work behind a desk? That’s what they like haemophiliacs to do. That way we’re safe. To hell with that.’

‘Don’t you think becoming a hired assassin is a bit extreme, though?’

‘Jesus, Bel, you’re the one who just said I should bump off Hoffer!’

She smiled. ‘I know, but I’ve changed my mind. I think you should stop. I mean, stop altogether. I think you want to.’

I started the engine. ‘Then you don’t know me.’

‘I think I do.’

I let off the handbrake and started us rolling out of Oban. Maybe it was Hoffer, or Hoffer added to the conversation I’d just had. Whatever, I wasn’t being very careful. All I knew was that Hoffer’s car was still parked when we passed it.

I spotted them just outside town. To be fair, they weren’t trying very hard. They didn’t mind me knowing about them. There were two cars, one a smart new Rover and the other an Austin Maestro.

‘Don’t do anything,’ I warned Bel. ‘Just keep looking ahead. We’re being followed.’

She saw them in her wing mirror. ‘One car or two?’

‘Both of them, I think.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t recognise any faces. They’re clean shaven, the one I can see best is smartly dressed, jacket and tie. I don’t think they’re the Disciples.’

‘Police maybe? That could be why the fat man’s in town.’

‘Why not just arrest us?’

‘Do they have any evidence?’

She had a point. ‘They could do us for impersonating police officers. That would keep us in the cells till they found something. The police’ll always find a way to stitch you up if they need to.’

I accelerated, knowing the Escort couldn’t outrun the pursuers. We were heading down the coast, since we’d agreed to take a different route back to Glasgow. When we reached a straight stretch with no other traffic in sight, the Maestro signalled to overtake. The way it pulled past, I knew there was a big engine lurking inside it. There was no need for pretence, so I gave the driver and passenger a good look as they cruised past, trying to place them. Both were young and fair-haired and wearing sunglasses. They pulled in sharply in front of us and hit the brakes, so that we’d have to slow down, or else overtake. The Rover was right behind, making us the meat in the sandwich.

‘What are they doing, Michael?’

‘I think they want us to stop.’ I signalled that I was pulling over, and hit the brakes so fast the Rover’s tyres squealed as the driver stopped from ramming us. I couldn’t see the road ahead, but shifted down into second and pulled out into the oncoming lane. There was nothing coming, so I tore alongside the Maestro, which was already accelerating. There was a bend approaching, and neither car had the beating of the other. Suddenly a lorry emerged from round the bend, and I braked hard, pulling us back into the left lane, still sandwiched.

‘I don’t think policemen play these kinds of game,’ I told Bel. She was looking pale, gripping the passenger door and the dashboard.

‘Then who are they?’

‘I’ll be sure to ask them.’

The front car was braking again. The driver had put on his emergency flashers. He was obviously coming to a halt on the carriageway. A stream of traffic had been trapped behind the lorry, so there was no chance of us pulling past the Maestro. The Rover behind was keeping its distance, but I knew once we stopped that would be it. One would reverse and the other edge forward until there was nowhere for us to go.

I stopped the car.

‘What’s going to happen?’ Bel said.

‘I’m not sure.’

Traffic heading in the other direction was slowing even further to watch. Whoever our pursuers were, they didn’t seem to care about having an audience. A normal person might be relieved, thinking nothing serious was going to happen in front of witnesses. But I saw it another way. If they weren’t worried about having an audience, maybe they weren’t worried about anything.

I slid my hand back between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. On the floor in the back, wrapped in my old blue raincoat, was the MP5. I don’t know what made me switch it from the boot when we were loading the car, but I said a silent thank you to whichever bad angel was watching over me.

‘Oh God,’ Bel said, seeing the gun. I opened my driver’s door and stepped out, leaving raincoat and contents both on the floor beside the pedals. The Maestro had backed up to kiss my front bumper, and the Rover was tucked in nicely behind. Three cars had never been closer on a car transporter or parked on a Paris street. I decided to take the initiative and walked to the car at the back. I reckoned the front car was the workhorse; the person I wanted to speak to would be in the nice car, probably in the back seat. Electric windows whirred downwards at my approach. The windows were tinted, the interior upholstery cream leather. All I could see of the driver was the back of his head, but the man in the back of the car was smiling.

‘Hello there,’ he said. He was wearing ordinary glasses rather than sunglasses, and had short blond hair. His lips were thin, his face dotted with freckles. He looked like his head hadn’t quite grown up yet. He was wearing a suit, and a white shirt whose cuffs were slightly too long for the jacket. The shirt was buttoned to the neck, but he didn’t wear a tie.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Is there a problem?’

He acted like there wasn’t. ‘We’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.’

‘Pollsters aren’t usually so determined,’ I said. I was thinking: he’s American. Was he working for Hoffer? No, I didn’t get that impression at all.

‘If you and your friend will get in the car, I’d appreciate it very much.’

‘You mean, get in your car?’

I didn’t even dent his smile. ‘That’s what I mean.’

I shrugged. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘It can be explained in five minutes.’ He held up a hand, palm spread wide to show fingers and thumb.

‘You could have talked to us in town.’

‘Please, just get in the car.’

At last another vehicle appeared coming from Oban. It was a Volkswagen estate pulling a caravan. The car had a German licence plate.

‘Oh oh,’ I said, ‘here comes an international incident.’

The bastard just kept on smiling. He didn’t seem to mind if he held up the traffic for the rest of the day.

‘I’ll go fetch my friend,’ I said.

As I walked back to the car, a van driver idling past asked what was happening. I just shook my head. I stuck my head into the Ford Escort.

‘Bel,’ I said, ‘I want you to be calin, okay? Here, take the keys. I want you to grab the map book, then get out of the car, unlock the boot, and get our stuff. We’re changing cars.’

Then I picked up the raincoat and walked forward towards the Maestro. The driver and passenger were watching in their mirrors. When I started towards them, they opened their doors. I came to the passenger side, away from the oncoming traffic, and showed the passenger my raincoat. He could see the gun barrel.

‘You’ve seen one of these before,’ I told him. ‘Now tell your partner.’

‘He’s packing heat,’ the passenger said. He was American too.

‘We’re going to see your boss,’ I told him, and motioned with the gun for him to move. They walked in front of me. When we reached the boot of the Escort, I told them to keep walking. The German motorist was out of his car and was talking in broken but heated English with the Rover driver, who didn’t look to be answering.

Bel had lifted out our two bags. I took one and she the other, and we walked to the Maestro again and got in. I started the ignition and we roared away, leaving the mess behind. Bel screamed with relief and kissed me on the cheek.

‘I nearly wet myself back there!’

‘Have you got the Escort keys?’ I asked, grinning. She shook them at me.

‘Then they’ll be stuck there till they either push it off the road or learn the German for “back your caravan up”.’ I tried to relax my shoulders. I was hunched over the steering-wheel like a racing driver. ‘It was a close one though,’ I said. ‘Twice in one day is too close.’

‘You think they were something to do with Hoffer?’

I shook my head. ‘Too smooth. They had a sort of government smell about them. There’s a kind of smugness you get when you know you’ve got everything on your side.’

‘Then they’re to do with Prendergast?’

She’d misunderstood me. ‘No, they had American accents.’

‘The American government?’

I shook my head slowly, trying to clear it. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. But they were definitely Americans.’

‘More men hired by that girl’s father?’

‘I really don’t know. I think it all ties in with the Disciples of Love.’

She looked startled. ‘You’re not going back there?’

‘No, don’t worry.’

‘I thought you’d ruled out Rick and his gang.’

Now I nodded. ‘Maybe it goes higher, Bel.’ I didn’t bother explaining what I meant.

We’d no hire car to return, so I decided to hang on to the Maestro. I could drop Bel off in Yorkshire then dump the car somewhere. We kept moving, stopping only to fill up with petrol, buy sandwiches and drinks from the filling-station shops, and try getting through to Max.

‘Maybe he’s had to go somewhere?’ I suggested.

‘Maybe. He’d have said, wouldn’t he?’

‘Short notice. I know I’ve been in a tight spot once or twice and dragged him away with no notice at all.’

She nodded, but stared at the windscreen. To take her mind off Max, I got her round to talking about the men from that morning, what they could have wanted from us, how they’d known where we were.

‘What would you have done,’ she asked, ‘if one of them had drawn a gun?’

‘Taken the drawing from him and torn it up.’

‘But seriously.’

‘Seriously?’ I considered. ‘I’d probably have gone along peacefully.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s hard to know, but I think so.’

I assumed it was the answer she wanted to hear.

We reached the farm before dark.

I got a bad feeling about the place straight away, and was glad I had the MP5 with me. As soon as I stopped the car, Bel was out and running. She’d felt something too. I called out for her to wait, but she was already opening the kitchen door.

I left the car idling and followed her, holding the sub-machine gun one-handed. With its stock fully retracted, the thing was just like an oversized pistol. I pushed the safety catch past single-shot and on to three-round burst.

Then I went in.

Bel’s scream froze my blood. I wanted to run to her, but knew better than that. There could be many reasons for her screams. I peered into the hall but saw no one. Holding the gun in front of me, I walked forward, brushing the wall all the way. I passed the open door of the dining room and noticed that one of the chairs was missing from around the table. Then I saw the living room, things scattered over the floor, and Bel kneeling in the middle of it all, her hands over her face. Finally I saw Max.

‘Christ Almighty.’

His headless torso sat on the missing dining-chair, like some ventriloquist’s dummy gone badly wrong. Flies had found the body, and were wandering around the gaping hole which had once been a neck. A false glimmer struck me: maybe it wasn’t him. But the build was right, and the clothes seemed right, though everything had been stained dark red. The blood on the skin had dried to a pale crust, so he’d been here a little while. There was a sour smell in the room, which I traced to a pool of vomit on the carpet. A tea-towel from the kitchen was lying next to this pool, covering something the size of a football.

I didn’t need to look.

I squeezed Bel’s shoulder. ‘We can’t do any good here. Let’s go to the kitchen.’

Somehow I managed to pull her to her feet. I was still holding on to the gun. I didn’t want to let go of it, but I pushed the safety back on.

‘No, no, no, no,’ Bel was saying. ‘No, no, no.’ Then she started wailing, her face purple and streaked with tears. I sat her on a chair in the kitchen and went outside.

I’m no tracker. There were tyre marks on the ground, but they could have belonged to Max’s car. I took a look around, finding nothing. In the long barn, I flicked the lights on and stood staring at one of the distant human-shaped targets on the range. I switched the MP5 to full auto and started blasting away. It took about fifteen seconds to empty the magazine. Only the legs of the target remained.

Bel was standing at the kitchen door, yelling my name.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, coming out of the barn. ‘It’s okay.’ She put her arms around me and wept again. I held her, kissed her, whispered things to her. And then found myself crying too. Max had been... I can’t say he’d been like a father; I’ve only ever had the one father, and he was quite enough. But he’d been a friend, maybe the closest I’d ever had. After the tears I didn’t feel anger any more. I felt something worse, a cold creeping knowledge of what had to be done.

Bel blew her nose and said she wanted to walk about a bit, so I went back into the house. They hadn’t left many clues. The vomit and the dishtowel were curious, but that was about it. Why cover the head? I couldn’t understand it. I went upstairs and looked around. The bedrooms hadn’t been touched. They hadn’t been burglars.

Of course they hadn’t. I knew who they’d been. The Americans. And either Max had talked, or they’d worked it out for themselves anyway, or someone from the Oban Disciples of Love had contacted them. I considered the first of these the least probable: Max wouldn’t have talked, not when talking would mean putting Bel in danger. As for working it out for themselves, well, if Hoffer could do it so could they.

Bel still hadn’t come back by the time I went downstairs. I walked out into the yard but couldn’t hear her.

‘Bel?’

There was a noise from the long barn, something being moved around.

‘Bel?’

I had to go to the car for a fresh cartridge-box. When I pushed it home, I had thirty-two rounds ready for action. I moved quietly towards the barn.

When I looked in, someone had cleared an area of straw from the concrete floor, revealing a large double trap-door, which now sat open. The trap-door led to a bunker. There were wooden steps down into it, and a bare lightbulb inside. Bel was coming back up the steps. She had a rifle slung over each shoulder, a couple of pistols stuck into the waistband of her denims, and she was carrying an MP5 just like my own.

‘Going to do some practice?’ I asked her.

‘Yes, on live targets.’ She had a mad look in her puffy eyes. Her nose was running, and she had to keep wiping it with the back of her hand.

‘Fury is the enemy, Bel.’

‘Who taught you that?’ she sneered. ‘Some Zen monk?’

‘No,’ I said quietly, ‘my father... and yours.’

She stood facing me, then I saw her shoulders sag.

‘Don’t worry,’ I went on, ‘you’ll get your revenge. But let’s plan it first, okay?’ I waited till she’d nodded. ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘you’ve forgotten something.’

‘What?’

‘Bullets.’

She saw that this was true, and managed a weak smile. I nodded to let her know she was doing okay.

‘You don’t need guns just now,’ I went on. ‘You need your brain. Your brain... and your passport.’

‘My passport?’

‘Just in case,’ I said. ‘Now go pack yourself some clothes. Are there any more sub-machine guns down there?’

‘I’m not sure. Why do you ask?’

‘I need some practice, that’s all.’ I started down the steps until I was surrounded by guns, cocooned in oiled black metal. It was like being in a chapel.

It took us some time to straighten things out. We knew we couldn’t call the police, inform the proper authorities, anything like that. I did propose that Bel stay behind, a proposal she angrily rejected. So we did what we had to do. The soil in the field nearest the farmhouse was workable. Even so, it took until dark and beyond to dig the grave. It wasn’t a very adequate hole. I knew the reason you dug down six feet was that much short of this and you’d get soil disturbance, the ground above the body rising eventually rather than staying flat. But we’d dug down only three or four feet. We could always rebury him later.

‘Sorry, Dad,’ Bel said. ‘I know you were never much of a Christian, but you probably wanted something better than this.’ She looked at me. ‘He fought that cancer for years. He was ready for death, but not the way it happened.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s keep busy.’

It wasn’t hard. We had to finish packing and then lock up the house. We couldn’t do much about the living room, so just left it. Bel couldn’t think of anyone who’d come to the house anyway. Their mail was held by the post office and picked up whenever they were in town.

‘It might be a while before we’re back,’ I warned.

‘That’s fine.’

I was never far from the MP5. I knew they could come back at any minute. I would be ready for them. I’d considered stocking up from Max’s cache, but knew it didn’t make any sense. So I locked the cellar again and covered its doors with straw. The house was locked now, a timer controlling the lights. I walked through the yard to the field wall, and found Bel there, standing over the closed grave.

‘Time to go, Bel,’ I said.

‘He hated this place,’ she said quietly. I put a hand on her shoulder. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Bye, Dad. I’ll be home again soon.’ Even to my ears, she didn’t sound like she meant it.

We got on to the A1 and stopped at the first hotel we found. I didn’t suppose either of us would get much sleep, but we were exhausted and dirty and our sweat-stained clothes needed changing. We shared a room, as we’d known we would. Bel took the first bath. I soaped her back and shoulders in silence, then toweled her dry. She went through to the bedroom while I changed the bathwater. I was lying back, eyes closed, when she came back.

‘Hurry up, Michael, I need you,’ was all she said.

We made love hungrily at first, and then with more tenderness than I’d ever thought possible. She cried a bit, but when I tried to ease away from her she held me tight, not wanting to let me go. The only light drifting into the room came from a lamp outside the hotel. I ran my hands over Bel’s back, feeling her vertebrae. For a little while there, my hands didn’t feel like the hands of a killer.

We rose early and didn’t bother with breakfast.

On the road south, she asked me what we were doing. I told her. She didn’t know if it made sense or not, but she wasn’t in a state to offer ideas of her own. The traffic into London was like sludge easing into a drain. Bel was wearing a scarf and sunglasses. I knew her eyes were red, like she was suffering hay fever. Hay fever could be the excuse if anyone asked. When we got to London, we left the Maestro in a long-stay car park and got our cases out of the boot.

I left the MP5 in the boot but took my raincoat.

We took a taxi with our luggage to Knightsbridge. ‘I’ll be about five minutes,’ I told the driver when we arrived. Then, to Bel: ‘Wait here.’

She watched me go into the bank like she’d never see me again.

Inside the bank there were the usual security procedures before I was led into a small room. The room contained a table and two chairs. There were framed prints on the wall showing Victorian London, and a few brochures to read. These offered further bank services. Eventually, the employee who had led me into the room returned with my safe deposit box. I let him leave again before opening the box.

Inside were a passport, a bundle of cash, and some traveller’s cheques, about $25,000 in total. I scooped the lot into my pockets, then took out a pen and piece of paper. Hurriedly I scribbled a note outlining events so far. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone outside the case. I folded the note and addressed it to the one man I knew could make sense of it: Leo Hoffer at Hoffer Investigations, New York City. Then I placed the letter in the box.

As insurance policies go, it was among the worst and most hastily conceived and executed. But it was all I had.

I thanked the assistant, left the bank, and got back into the taxi.

‘Where to now?’ the driver asked.

‘Heathrow Airport,’ I told him. Then I sat back, took Bel’s hand, and gave it another squeeze.

17

The problem was, Hoffer couldn’t find a room in Ripon, or anywhere else for that matter. So he’d decided to keep driving. Then he’d pulled into a parking area to relieve his bladder, and found three lorries there, their drivers having a break and thinking about sleep. Hoffer got talking to them and one of them broke out a bottle of whisky. After which he’d returned to his car, put the seat back as far as it would go, and fallen asleep.

He slept badly, and woke up with stiffness, headache and raging thirst. He was also freezing, and had certainly caught a cold, if not something more serious. He drove to the nearest service station to chow down and have a wash. Then he got back in the car and started driving again.

The map book was a godsend, without it he wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell of finding Oban. He parked by the dockside, got out feeling like shit, asked a local about accommodation, then went into the hotel, where they didn’t have any rooms left but the bar was open and boasted an open fire.

Hoffer sat beside it with a large malt and wondered how he’d find the Disciples of Love. He asked the barman, but the barman said he’d never heard of them.

‘Well, they live here, a whole posse of them.’

But the barman stuck to his story. So, revived by the drink, Hoffer went walkabout. He found a shopkeeper who did business with the Disciples and drew him a map on an empty brown-paper bag. Hoffer got so far, but then found his way barred by a padlocked gate. He looked around him, then fired off a couple of shots at the padlock, busting it open. He was damned if he was going to walk any further.

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 look-over. 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.