Bleeding Hearts

  ‘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 dialling 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 pate 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 pate 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 despe
rate 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.