[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
could narrow it down pretty fast.
Maybe. I ll see what I can do. It could be a dead end.
Hey, we won t know till we ve got our noses pressed against
the wall, will we?
I suppose not. But maybe we can take a shortcut. We re just
passing Lord s, by the way.
Lord who?
Just Lord s. It s the home of cricket.
A sports field, huh? Cricket s the one that s like baseball,
only easier? Broome gave him a dark look. Just kidding. But
did you ever watch a game of baseball? Greatest game on earth.
That must be why so many countries play it.
They arrived at an apartment block and parked in the residents-
66
Bleeding Hearts
only parking area. When they got to the right door, Broome
made to ring the bell, then noticed Hoffer slip the Smith &
Wesson out from his waistband.
Christ, Leo!
Hey, our man may be in there.
It s a mail service, that s all. An accommodation address.
Remember, they re expecting us, so put that gun away.
Reluctantly, Hoffer tucked the pistol back into his waistband
and buttoned his jacket. Broome rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened.
Mr. Greene?
Chief Inspector Broome?
That s right, sir. Broome showed his ID. May we
come in?
Of course.
They were led down a short dimly lit hall and into a living
room. It was a ground-floor flat, as small as any Hoffer had been
in. One bedroom and a bathroom, but the kitchen was part of the
living room. It was well finished though, if you liked your home
decorated according to fashion rather than personal preference.
Everything had that just-bought-from-Habitat look.
Desmond Greene was in his forties, wiry and slack-jawed
with hands that moved too much and eyes that wouldn t meet
yours. When he talked, he looked like he was lecturing the pale
yellow wallpaper. Hoffer marked him straightaway as gay, not
that that meant anything. Often Hoffer met men he was sure
were gay, only later to be introduced to their pneumatic wives.
Not that that meant anything either.
Broome had made a point of not introducing Hoffer. It
wasn t exactly Metropolitan Police policy to drag New York pri-
vate eyes around with you on a case. Maybe Broome was hoping
Hoffer would keep his mouth shut.
How long you been running this setup, Mr. Greene?
Hoffer asked.
Greene s fingers glided down his face like a skin-cream com-
mercial. Four and a half years. That s quite a long time in this
business.
67
Ian Rankin
And how do potential clients find you?
Oh, I advertise.
Locally?
A wry smile. Expensively. I run regular advertisements in
magazines.
Which magazines?
My Lord, you are curious.
Hoffer tried out his own wry smile. Only when I m hunting
a cold-blooded killer and someone s standing in my way.
Greene looked giddy, and Bob Broome took over. Hoffer
didn t mind; he reckoned he d scared Greene into telling the
truth and plenty of it. He didn t even mind the way Broome
looked at him, like Hoffer had just asked a Boy Scout to slip his
hand into his trouser pocket and meet Uncle Squidgy.
How long have you been handling mail for Mr. Wesley?
You understand, Chief Inspector, Greene said, recovering
slightly, the purpose of a mailing address is confidentiality?
Yes, sir, I understand. But as I told you over the phone, this
is a multiple-murder inquiry. If you do not cooperate, you ll be
charged with obstruction.
After which we ll take your chintzy flat apart, added Hoffer.
Gracious, said Greene, having a relapse. Oh, goodness me.
Hoffer, said Broome quietly, go and put the kettle on.
Maybe Mr. Greene would like some tea.
What am I, the fucking maid service? Hoffer got up and went
to the kitchenette. He was behind Greene now, and Greene knew
it. He sat forward in his chair, as though fearing a knife between
the shoulder blades. Hoffer smiled, thinking how Greene would
react to the feel of a cold gun muzzle at the back of his neck.
So, Broome was saying, are you willing to assist us, sir?
Well, of course I am. It s not my job to hide murderers. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
could narrow it down pretty fast.
Maybe. I ll see what I can do. It could be a dead end.
Hey, we won t know till we ve got our noses pressed against
the wall, will we?
I suppose not. But maybe we can take a shortcut. We re just
passing Lord s, by the way.
Lord who?
Just Lord s. It s the home of cricket.
A sports field, huh? Cricket s the one that s like baseball,
only easier? Broome gave him a dark look. Just kidding. But
did you ever watch a game of baseball? Greatest game on earth.
That must be why so many countries play it.
They arrived at an apartment block and parked in the residents-
66
Bleeding Hearts
only parking area. When they got to the right door, Broome
made to ring the bell, then noticed Hoffer slip the Smith &
Wesson out from his waistband.
Christ, Leo!
Hey, our man may be in there.
It s a mail service, that s all. An accommodation address.
Remember, they re expecting us, so put that gun away.
Reluctantly, Hoffer tucked the pistol back into his waistband
and buttoned his jacket. Broome rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened.
Mr. Greene?
Chief Inspector Broome?
That s right, sir. Broome showed his ID. May we
come in?
Of course.
They were led down a short dimly lit hall and into a living
room. It was a ground-floor flat, as small as any Hoffer had been
in. One bedroom and a bathroom, but the kitchen was part of the
living room. It was well finished though, if you liked your home
decorated according to fashion rather than personal preference.
Everything had that just-bought-from-Habitat look.
Desmond Greene was in his forties, wiry and slack-jawed
with hands that moved too much and eyes that wouldn t meet
yours. When he talked, he looked like he was lecturing the pale
yellow wallpaper. Hoffer marked him straightaway as gay, not
that that meant anything. Often Hoffer met men he was sure
were gay, only later to be introduced to their pneumatic wives.
Not that that meant anything either.
Broome had made a point of not introducing Hoffer. It
wasn t exactly Metropolitan Police policy to drag New York pri-
vate eyes around with you on a case. Maybe Broome was hoping
Hoffer would keep his mouth shut.
How long you been running this setup, Mr. Greene?
Hoffer asked.
Greene s fingers glided down his face like a skin-cream com-
mercial. Four and a half years. That s quite a long time in this
business.
67
Ian Rankin
And how do potential clients find you?
Oh, I advertise.
Locally?
A wry smile. Expensively. I run regular advertisements in
magazines.
Which magazines?
My Lord, you are curious.
Hoffer tried out his own wry smile. Only when I m hunting
a cold-blooded killer and someone s standing in my way.
Greene looked giddy, and Bob Broome took over. Hoffer
didn t mind; he reckoned he d scared Greene into telling the
truth and plenty of it. He didn t even mind the way Broome
looked at him, like Hoffer had just asked a Boy Scout to slip his
hand into his trouser pocket and meet Uncle Squidgy.
How long have you been handling mail for Mr. Wesley?
You understand, Chief Inspector, Greene said, recovering
slightly, the purpose of a mailing address is confidentiality?
Yes, sir, I understand. But as I told you over the phone, this
is a multiple-murder inquiry. If you do not cooperate, you ll be
charged with obstruction.
After which we ll take your chintzy flat apart, added Hoffer.
Gracious, said Greene, having a relapse. Oh, goodness me.
Hoffer, said Broome quietly, go and put the kettle on.
Maybe Mr. Greene would like some tea.
What am I, the fucking maid service? Hoffer got up and went
to the kitchenette. He was behind Greene now, and Greene knew
it. He sat forward in his chair, as though fearing a knife between
the shoulder blades. Hoffer smiled, thinking how Greene would
react to the feel of a cold gun muzzle at the back of his neck.
So, Broome was saying, are you willing to assist us, sir?
Well, of course I am. It s not my job to hide murderers. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]