He’d think of something.
Meantime, he fed on the newspapers, on fresh twists about a man admitted to a local hospital with a gunshot wound. Of a mystery woman who dumped him there. Then there was Provost’s luxury Seattle townhouse. How to explain the blood on the bathroom floor or the pair of metal handcuffs hanging around a water pipe?
‘Better than the movies,’ he said to himself, just as Donna arrived with his food.
‘You say something?’
‘Yeah,’ said Hoffer, ‘I said would you go to the movies with me some night?’
‘In your dreams, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘in your dreams.’
Part Four
30
Not only did Spike walk out of that hospital having said nothing about how he came by his injuries, not only did he find that his bills had been taken care of, but he tracked down the authority holding on to the Trans-Am and managed to wheedle it out of them. He sent me a photo by the usual route. It showed Jazz and him leaning against the car. Scrawled over the photo were the words A little piece of heaven.
Me, I claimed I was a tourist attacked by assailants who were after my traveller’s cheques. Nobody really cared, they were too busy keeping an eye on the affair out on the Olympic Peninsula. Everyone had a theory. They were all far-fetched and they were all more feasible than the truth. Well, all except the one published in the Weekly World News.
A package arrived one day at Sam Clancy’s hospital bed. It contained his walkman with a tape already inserted and ready to play. I didn’t know what Sam would do with Jeremiah Provost’s confession. It wasn’t really my concern, not any more.
As soon as we could, Bel and I got out of the USA. Back in London, we spent a night in a hotel, then she headed back to Yorkshire. She had a lot of stuff to clear up. She wondered if I knew anyone who’d buy half a ton of unwanted weaponry.
Oh, I could think of a few people.
It was a drizzly London morning when I turned up at the offices of Crispin, Darnforth, Jessup. I shook rain out of my hair as I walked up the stairs. I knocked on the door before entering, and smiled as I approached the secretary’s desk.
‘Mr Johns, please.’ She frowned and removed her spectacles.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She waited for me to say more, but I just stood there smiling and dripping water on to the pastel pink carpet.
‘I’m afraid he can’t see anyone without an appointment. He’s very busy today.’
‘He’ll see me.’ I could see my smile was beginning to irritate her. She stuck her glasses back on, pushing them up her nose.
‘What name shall I give?’
‘None.’
She picked up her phone and punched a number. ‘Mr Johns, there’s a Mr Nunn here. No, he’s being very mysterious.’ She looked at me. ‘Well, he doesn’t look like he’s selling anything.’ I shook my head in confirmation. ‘Yes, sir.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘If you’d like to make an appointment...’
I snatched the receiver from her and spoke into it.
‘You know who I am. I came here before as a policeman.’
Then I slammed the receiver back into its cradle and waited, while the secretary gave me a look like I’d just tried to jump her. Johns opened the door of his office and stood there.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘do come in, won’t you?’
I walked into his office and looked around. There was nobody else in there. It was just going to be the two of us.
‘Take a seat, please,’ he said. Then he sat down across the desk from me and put his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember you. As you say, you came here as a policeman. That, I take it, means you’re not a policeman now.’
‘I wasn’t one then either.’ It took me a little while to sit down. The bandages and plasters were tight across my body. Beneath them, the healing wounds were itching like hell.
Johns was nodding, as though I’d merely confirmed something. I wanted to damage his shiny face, the wealthy confidence in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of me. He’d seen worse than me before, if only in his dreams.
‘I’m afraid I’m a bit in the dark,’ he said.
‘That makes two of us. Tell me about Mrs Ricks’s death.’
‘What? Again?’
‘No, this time I want the truth. You weren’t surprised she died, were you?’
‘No.’
‘Why was that?’
He pouted, his lips touching the tips of his fingers. Then he sat back in his chair, touching its sides with his arms. ‘You killed her?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ I didn’t mind him knowing, not now. If he was going to be honest with me, he’d expect me to be honest too. In fact, he’d demand it.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’ve something for you.’ He stood up and went to his safe. It was a free-standing model, dark green with a brass maker’s plate, like you see the bank robbers dynamite in old cowboy films. He unlocked it with a key and turned the handle. When he looked round at me, I was pointing a pistol straight at him. It didn’t faze him, though last night it had fazed Scotty Shattuck when I’d relieved him of it.
‘There’s no need for that,’ Johns said quietly. He opened the safe wide so I could see inside it. It was packed full of papers and large manila envelopes. He lifted the top envelope out and handed it to me. It didn’t have a name or anything on it, and felt flimsy in my hand. I gestured for him to return to his chair, then sat myself down. I put the gun on the desktop and tore open the envelope. There were two typed sheets inside, written as a letter. The signature at the bottom read Eleanor Ricks.
I started to read.
If you’re reading this, you’ve done well, and you’re sitting in Geoffrey’s office. Maybe you’ve got a gun trained on him. Maybe you intend him some harm as vengeance for what you’ve been through. Please, believe me when I say he doesn’t know anything. I’m leaving this with him as proof of that. If you’re here, you probably intend him some harm. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to Geoffrey, so please read this before you do anything.
Another reason, I suppose, is that I feel this tremendous need to get it all down, to tell someone... even if it has to be you. Indeed, I can think of no better figure for my confessor.
Actually, I say Geoffrey doesn’t know anything, but by now he probably knows quite a lot. I didn’t tell him anything, but he’s not stupid, and I needed his help, so he knows a little.
For example, I asked him to call the police at a certain time, some minutes before I would be walking out of the hotel with Molly Prendergast. That will be the hardest thing to do, walk out of there knowing you’re waiting for me. I know that when I walk out of that hotel, dressed in the colors you’re expecting, I’ll be trembling. But I’d rather know why I’m afraid, and know something’s going to stop me being scared and angry and in pain. Rather that than the slow, internal death.
All the same, I’ll be shaking. I hope I make it out of the door. I hope I make an easy target for you. Please, I hope I didn’t linger. I found out several months ago that my condition is terminal. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want that. But I felt this flow of frustration within me, anger that there would be so many projects left unfinished... including this one, my present one.
I got the idea from Scotty Shattuck. Or, rather, thinking of Scotty, I came up with the idea. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably spoken with Scotty.