Broome narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ve got enough cranks around here as it is.’
‘You don’t think that call was a crank, do you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you got a recording or just a transcript?’
Broome narrowed his eyes further. ‘Is that all you’re here for, to try pumping me about the phone call?’
Hoffer shook his head defiantly. ‘Just tell me this: DI West and DC Harris, do you know them?’
‘First names?’ Hoffer shook his head. Broome gave it another couple of seconds. ‘Never heard of them.’
‘West sounds a bit like Wesley, doesn’t it?’
‘Come on, Hoffer, what’s your story?’
‘Can we go upstairs and talk about it? I feel like a victim stuck down here.’
Broome decided to give the American the benefit of his very grave doubts.
‘Come on then,’ he said. On the way up, they passed Barney coming down. He winked at Hoffer.
‘I’ll have it for you tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ Hoffer said, trying to sound guilty or embarrassed as Broome gave him a long dirty look.
When they got to the office, Broome made a show of checking the time. ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he told Hoffer. Then he sat down and looked like he was waiting for a show to begin.
‘I don’t pay dues to any acting union, Bob.’ Hoffer sat down slowly, taking a while to get comfortable. ‘I’ll put it to you straight, but stop acting like you’re in a sulk.’
‘Sulk? You’re going around like you’re the Chief Inspector and I’m just some office-boy who gets in your way. I’m not sulking, Hoffer, I’m bloody furious. Now, what have you got for me?’
A Detective Constable came into the room and placed a small packet on Broome’s desk. Broome ignored it, waiting for Hoffer to speak. Hoffer pointed to the packet.
‘Is that the tape, Bob?’ Broome didn’t say anything. ‘Come on, let’s listen to it.’
‘First tell me what you know.’
‘Well, know is a bit strong. But there’s this solicitor, Geoffrey Johns. Know what johns are in the States? Well, never mind.’
‘I know Mr Johns.’
‘Yes, you do. But you don’t know anyone called West or Harris. West’s in his mid-thirties, tall and lean, with short black hair. He’s with a young woman, pretty tall with short fair hair. I’ll let your guys go get more detailed descriptions from Johns and his secretary.’
‘Good of you. So you think West is Wesley?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s posing as a police officer?’
‘With ID faked up by Capaldi.’
‘Why?’
Broome had asked one of the questions Hoffer couldn’t answer.
‘And who’s his partner?’
Now he’d asked the other. Hoffer shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but he was asking questions about Ricks. The important thing is, he’s still in town and he’s asking around. By rights he should be miles away, but he’s here under our noses.’ The image made Hoffer think of something. He sniffed the thought away. ‘He’s here, Bob, and the only reason I can think of why he’s still around is that he’s on to something.’ He paused. ‘I think he’s going after his employer.’
‘What?’
‘The anonymous phone call, the one that nearly got him caught, he’s after whoever made it. Stands to reason it must have been someone close to the deceased, otherwise how would he know where to find her?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘That’s why he’s asking about her clothes.’
‘Her clothes?’
Hoffer’s mind was racing. ‘He must’ve been told what she’d be wearing! Christ, could that be it?’
‘I’m not really getting this, Hoffer.’
Hoffer slumped back as far as he was able in his chair. ‘Me neither, not all of it. Just pieces, and the pieces don’t all make sense.’
Broome fingered the packet, but didn’t seem in a hurry to open it. ‘Hoffer,’ he said, ‘there was some shooting in north London last night.’
‘Yeah, I read about it.’
‘We’ve got a description of a fat man seen running away.’
‘Uh-huh?’
Broome pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘There’s also been a mugging, except that no money was taken from the victim.’ Broome looked up. ‘You’re supposed to ask me who the victim was.’
Hoffer blew his nose before asking. ‘So who was it?’
‘Mr Arthur, the bank manager.’
Hoffer threw his used tissue into the bin beside Broome’s desk.
‘You wouldn’t know anything about it, Hoffer?’
‘Give me a break, Bob. I haven’t mugged anyone since I quit the NYPD. You get a description of the assailants?’
Broome was staring at Hoffer. ‘He was hit from behind. He’s got concussion.’
Hoffer shook his head. ‘Nice guy, too. Nobody’s safe these days.’
Broome sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s listen to the tape.’
He had a DC bring in a portable cassette player and set it up.
‘This local station must be on their toes,’ said Hoffer.
‘They tape all calls to the news desk, partly as a favour to us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the IRA often call a local radio station to take responsibility for a bombing. That way the news gets on the air faster, plus it doesn’t look like they’re cooperating with us.’
‘So the radio station’s a kind of go-between?’
‘Sort of, yes.’ Broome loaded the tape and pressed Play. There was some soft hissing, which became louder until someone spoke.
‘News desk, Joely speaking.’
‘This is the Demolition Man, do you understand?’
‘Dem...? Oh yes, yes, I understand.’
‘Listen then. Tell everyone I hit my intended target, got that? I wasn’t after the diplomat. He just happened to be there. Understood?’
‘Mm, yes.’ Joely was obviously writing it all down. ‘Yes, I’ve got that. Can I just ask—’
‘No questions. If anyone thinks this is a hoax, tell them Egypt, the Cairo Hilton, twelfth of December two years ago.’
‘Hello? Hello?’ But the Demolition Man had put down the phone. Broome listened to the silence for a few moments, then stopped and rewound the tape.
‘The original’s gone to the lab boys,’ he said. ‘We’ll see what they say.’
‘Sounded like he was in a callbox, and not long distance. He’s English, isn’t he?’
‘Sounds it. Sounded like he was trying to disguise his voice too.’
Hoffer smiled. ‘You weren’t taken in by the Jimmy Durante impression?’
‘Maybe he’s got a cold.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
Broome looked at Hoffer. ‘Egypt?’
Hoffer nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s not one everyone knows about. Nobody’s been able to say it was the D-Man, so it never makes the papers. It was a precision hit, long-range, but he didn’t leave a bomb. Either that or the bomb didn’t detonate.’
‘Who did he kill?’
‘Some Arab millionaire with big gambling debts which he was unwisely ignoring.’ Hoffer shrugged. ‘The gambler was a Mr Big, didn’t think anyone could touch him. He had an armoured Mercedes and four bodyguards a grenade launcher couldn’t’ve budged. They used to huddle round their boss when he went anywhere, like he was Muhammad Ali going into the ring. Then, pop, a bullet hits the guy smack in the heart, and they’re all looking around, only they don’t know where to look because there’s nothing there to look at. They reckon it was a hit from six, maybe seven hundred yards.’
‘You know a lot about it.’
‘I’ve had a lot of time to look things up. I’ve got a file of more than sixty assassinations going back fifteen years. He could be behind any number of them.’