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There was a squeal of braking tires outside. No uncommon
sound in London, but I went to the window and peered out any-
way. A car had stopped outside the house. It was an old Jaguar
with a purple paint job. The driver was still wearing his white
workout shirt. He probably had his towel with him too. There
was somebody else in the passenger seat, and Chuck was fuming
in the back.
Time to go, I told Bel. She didn t hang around. I d seen a
back door on the ground floor, and just hoped we d have time to
make it that far. I took out the MP5 as we descended, but held it
beneath my coat. Either Chuck and his men were so incensed at
the way they d been treated that their pride had compelled them
to follow us or else they were making a rational move. If the lat-
ter, then they had to be tooled up. If the former, I d be in for a
beating anyway.
109
Ian Rankin
And I d always tried to avoid contact sports.
We were in luck. They were sitting it out in the car, waiting
for us to emerge. The back door was locked by means of a bolt
top and bottom, easily undone. I pulled the door open and we
found ourselves in a garden so overgrown it hardly justified the
term. We waded through it to the side fence and clambered over
into the rear parking lot of the hotel. The MP5 jabbed my gut as
I climbed the fence. I double-checked that its safety was still on.
From the lot, we climbed over a low brick wall onto a piece
of waste ground. Past this, we found ourselves emerging from be-
hind a public toilet onto a completely different road, busy with
traffic and pedestrians. A bus had pulled up at its stop, so we
jumped aboard. We didn t know where it was going, and the
driver who was waiting to be paid didn t seem about to tell us, so
I reached into my pocket for some coins.
Two to the end of the line, I told him.
Then we climbed to the top deck and took the empty back
seat. A purple Jag would be easy to spot if it tried following us,
but it didn t.
I wonder how long they ll sit there? Bel asked.
I told her I couldn t care less.
We ended up taking a train back over the Thames, and a taxi
from the station to our hotel. The receptionist had a message for
me, two telephone numbers and their corresponding addresses.
As I d already seen, Scotty Shattuck didn t possess a phone. But
now I had addresses and numbers for the Rickses household and
Joe Draper s Barbican flat.
While Bel took a shower, I started phoning. It was probably
late enough in the police inquiry for me to be asking follow-up
questions. All I needed was gumption and one hell of a lot of
luck. Chuck wouldn t go to the police, he wasn t the type. But I
knew things were going to get increasingly dangerous the closer
we got to the real police inquiry, which was why I didn t give my-
self time to think. If I d thought about it, I might not have made
the calls.
110
Bleeding Hearts
As it was, I stumbled at the first fence. My call to the Rickses
Camden home was intercepted by the operator, who told me all
calls were being rerouted. Before I had time to argue, I was back
to the ringing tone, and my call was answered by a secretary.
Crispin, Darnforth, Jessup, she said, as though this ex-
plained everything.
I ve just been rerouted by the operator, I said. I was trying
to get through to
One moment, please. She cut the connection and put me
through to another secretary.
Mr. Johns s office, how can I help you, sir?
I was trying to reach Mr. Frederick Ricks.
Yes, all calls to Mr. Ricks are now being dealt with by this
office. You understand that his wife was killed recently. She gave
the news with relish. And Mr. Johns, as the family s solicitor, has
taken on the task of dealing with all inquiries.
I see. Well, this is Detective Inspector West. I ve just been
brought into the inquiry, and I wanted a few words with Mr.
Ricks.
Mr. Ricks and his son have gone away for a few days.
Someone on the inquiry should be able to give you the details
you need.
She was boxing me into a corner. I could either throw in the
towel or box myself out again.
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