Bleeding Hearts Read Online Free PDF Page B

Geoffrey Johns said, ‘I’ve heard.’ He was seated in his living room, a glass of Armagnac trembling beside him on the arm of the sofa.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ wailed Freddy Ricks, ‘she’s been shot!’
    ‘Freddy, I’m ... I’m so sorry.’ Geoffrey Johns took a sip of burning liquid. ‘Does Archie know?’
    ‘Archie?’ It took Freddy an understandable moment to recognise the name of his son. ‘I haven’t seen him. I had to go down to the ... they wanted me to identify her. Then they had to ask me some questions.’
    ‘Is that why you’re phoning?’
    ‘What? No, no ... well, yes, in a way. I mean, there are things I have to do, and there are about fifty reporters at the garden gate, and ... well, Geoffrey, I know we’ve had our differences, but you are our solicitor.’
    ‘I understand, Freddy. I’ll be straight over.’
     
    In Vine Street police station, Chief Inspector Bob Broome was deciding what to say to the press. They were clamouring around the entrance to the gloomy station. Even on sunny days, Vine Street, a high narrow conduit between Regent Street and Piccadilly, got little light, though it managed to get all the available traffic fumes and grime. Broome reckoned the station had affected him. He thought he could remember days when he used to be cheerful. His last smile had been a couple of days ago, his last fullthroated laugh several months back. Nobody bothered trying to tell him jokes any more. The prisoners in the cells were a more obliging target.
    ‘So what’ve we got, Dave?’
    Detective Inspector Dave Edmond sat opposite Broome. He had a reputation as a dour bugger, too. People seeing them together usually gave the pair a wide berth, like you would a plague ship. While Broome was tall and thin with an undertaker’s pallor, Edmond was round and tanned. He’d just returned from a fortnight in Spain, spent guzzling San Miguel on some beach.
    ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we’re still taking statements. The gun’s down at the lab. We’ve got technicians in the office building, but they won’t be able to report before tomorrow.’
    There was a knock at the door and a WPC came in with a couple of faxes for Broome. He laid them to one side and watched her leave, then turned back to Edmond. His every action was slow and considered, like he was on tranquillisers, but Edmond for one knew the boss was just being careful.
    ‘What about the gun?’
    ‘Sergeant Wills is the pop-pop guru,’ Edmond said, ‘so I’ve sent him to take a look at it. He probably knows more than any of the eggheads in the Ballistics section. From the description I gave him, he said it sounds military.’
    ‘Let’s not muck about, Dave, it’s the Demolition Man again. You can spot his m.o. a mile away.’
    Edmond nodded. ‘Unless it’s a copycat.’
    ‘What are the chances?’
    Edmond shrugged. ‘A hundred to one?’
    ‘And the rest. What about the phone call, did we take a recording?’
    Edmond shook his head. ‘The officer who took the call has typed out what he remembers of the conversation.’ He handed over a single sheet of paper.
    The door opened again. It was a DC this time, smiling apologetically as he came in with more sheets of paper for the Chief Inspector. Outside, there were sounds of frenzied activity. When the DC had gone, Broome got up, went to the door, and pulled a chair against it, jamming the back of the chair under the knob. Then he walked slowly back to his desk.
    ‘Shame we didn’t get it on tape though,’ he said, picking up Edmond’s sheet of paper. ‘Male, English, aged between twenty and seventy-five. Yes, very useful. Call didn’t sound long distance.’ Broome looked up from the report. ‘And all he said was that there was going to be a shooting outside the Craigmead Hotel.’
    ‘Normally, it would be treated as a crank, but the officer got the impression this one wasn’t playing games. A very educated voice, quite matter-of-fact with just enough emotion. We couldn’t