‘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.