Authors: Ian Rankin
‘Hello?’
‘Eleanor?’
‘Geoffrey, is that you?’
‘Who else?’
‘You always seem to catch me in the bath.’
‘Lucky me. Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘I think you know.’
Geoffrey Johns was Eleanor’s solicitor, and had been for fifteen years. Occasionally, her journalism had landed her with an injunction, a libel suit or a court appearance. She knew Geoffrey very well indeed. She could imagine him seated in his grandfather’s chair in his grandfather’s office (also at one time his father’s office). The office was stuffy and gloomy, the chair uncomfortable, but Geoffrey wouldn’t make any changes. He even used a bakelite telephone, with a little drawer in the base for a notepad. The phone was a reproduction and had cost him a small fortune.
‘Humour me,’ she said, lying back further in the water. A telephone engineer had told her she couldn’t electrocute herself, even if the receiver fell in the water. Not enough volts or something. All she’d feel was a tingle. He’d leered as he’d said it. Just a tingle.
‘I think you know,’ Geoffrey Johns repeated, drawling the words out beyond their natural limits. Eleanor had a feeling he spoke so slowly because he charged by the hour. When she didn’t say anything he sighed loudly. ‘Are you doing anything today?’
‘Nothing much. I’ve an interview this afternoon.’
‘I thought we might meet.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘No?’ Another silence, another pause. ‘Look, Eleanor — ’
‘Geoffrey, is there something you want to say?’
‘I ... no, I suppose not.’
‘Look, Geoffrey, you’re one of the dearest people I know.’ She halted. It was an old joke between them.
‘My rates are actually very reasonable,’ he supplied, sounding mollified. ‘What about next week? I’ll buy you lunch.’
She ran the sponge between her breasts and then over them. ‘That sounds heavenly.’
‘Do you want to fix a date now?’
‘You know what I’m like, Geoffrey, I’d only end up changing it. Let’s wait.’
‘Fine. Well, as the Americans say, have a nice day.’
‘It’s gone two, Geoffrey, the best of the day’s already over.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ said Geoffrey Johns.
She reached up to replace the receiver in its cradle, and wondered if Geoffrey would try charging her for the call. She wouldn’t put it past him. She lay in the bath a little longer, until there was just enough hot water left in the tap to let her shower off. She ran her fingers through her hair, enjoying the sensation, then towelled briskly and set off naked to the bedroom for her clothes.
She’d had her yellow and blue dress cleaned specially, and was glad the day was sunny. The dress worked best in sunlight.
3
I took a cab from the hotel.
My destination was only a ten-minute walk away, but I knew I’d be less conspicuous in a taxi. London cab-drivers aren’t, in my experience, the all-knowing and inquisitive individuals they’re often made out to be. They nod at you when you tell them your destination, and that’s about it. Of course, mine had one comment ready as I got into his cab.
‘What you got there then, a bazooka or something?’
‘Photographic equipment,’ I answered, though he showed no interest. I had manoeuvred the long metal box into the back of the cab, where, angled between the top corner of the rear window and the bottom front corner of the door diametrically opposite, it afforded me scant space for myself. It was longer than it needed to be; but it was also the shortest adequate box I could find.
It was silver in colour, with three clasp-locks and a black carrying-handle. I’d bought it in a specialist shop for photographers. It was used for carrying around rolls of precious background paper. The shop assistant had tried to sell me some graduated sheets — they were on special offer — but I’d declined. I didn’t mind the box being too big. It did anything but announce that there was a gun inside.
In the movies, the local assassin tends to carry a small attaché case. His rifle will be inside, broken down into stock, fore-end and barrel. He simply clips the parts together and attaches his telescopic sight. Of course, in real life even if you get hold of such a weapon, it would not be anything like as accurate as a solid one-piece construction. Normally, I’d carry my rifle hanging from a special pouch inside my raincoat, but the PM was just too long and too heavy. So instead of walking, I was taking a taxi to the office.
I’d been watching the weather for a couple of hours, and had even phoned from the hotel for the latest Met Office report. Clear, but without bright sunshine. In other words, perfect conditions, the sun being a sniper’s worst enemy. I was chewing gum and doing some breathing exercises, though I doubted they’d be effective in my present cramped condition. But it was only a few minutes until the driver was pulling into the kerb and dropping me outside the office block.
This was a Saturday, remember, and though I was in central London my destination wasn’t one of the main thoroughfares. So the street was quiet. Cars and taxis waited for the lights to change further down the road, but the shops were doing slow business and all the offices were closed. The shops were at street level, the usual mix of ceramics studios, small art galleries, shoe shops, and travel agents. I paid the driver and eased the carrying-case out on to the pavement. I stood there until he’d driven off. Across the street were more shops with offices above, and the Craigmead Hotel. It was one of those old understated hotels with overstated room rates. I knew this because I’d toyed with staying there before opting for a much safer choice.
The building I was standing outside was a typical central London office complex, with four steps up to an imposing front door, and a facade which in some parts of the city would hide a huge family home broken up into flats. Indeed, the building next-door had been converted to flats on all but its ground and first floors. My chosen site, however, was currently being gutted and reshaped to offer, as the billboard outside put it, Luxury Office Accommodation for the 21st Century.
I’d been along here yesterday and the day before, and again earlier today. During the week, the place was busy with workmen, but this being Saturday the main door was locked tight, and there was no sign of life inside. That’s why I’d chosen it over the flats next door, which offered the easier target but would probably be in use at weekends. I walked up to the main door and worked the lock. It was a simple Yale, not even permanently fixed. The real locks would come later on in the renovation. Meantime, there being little inside worth pinching, the contractors hadn’t bothered with a quality lock.
They hadn’t got round to installing the alarm system yet either: another reason for my choice. Wires led out of the front wall into fresh air. Later, they’d be hooked up to the alarm and a casing put over the whole. But for now security was not the main concern.
I’m not the world’s greatest locksmith, but any housing-estate teenager could have been into the place in seconds. I walked into the entrance hall, taking my carrying-case with me, and closed the door behind me. I stood there for a minute listening to the silence. I could smell drying plaster and wet paint, planed wood and varnish. The downstairs looked like a building site. There were planks and panels of Gyproc and bags of cement and plaster and rolls of insulation. Some of the floorboards had been lifted to allow access to wiring ducts, but I didn’t see any fresh rolls of electrical cable: the stuff was probably too valuable to be left lying around. The electrical contractor would take it away with him every night in his van and bring it back again next day. I knew a few electricians; they’re careful that way.
There were also no power-tools lying around, and very few tools of any description. I guessed they’d be locked away somewhere inside the building. There was a telephone on the floor, one of those old slimline models with the angular receiver resting over the dial. It was chipped and dotted with paint, but more surprisingly was attached to a phone-point on the wall. I lifted the receiver, and heard the familiar tone. I suppose it made sense: this was going to be a long job; there’d have to be some means of communication between the gang and their base. I put back the receiver and stood up.
Since I hadn’t been in the place before, I knew I had to get to know it quickly. I left the case in the reception area and headed upstairs. Some doors had been fitted, but none were locked, except one to a storage area. I presumed that was where the tools were kept.
I found the office I needed on the second floor.
The first floor was too close to ground level. There was always the chance of some pedestrian glancing up, though they so seldom did. The third floor, on the other hand, made the angle a little too difficult. I might have accepted its challenge, but I knew I needed a good hit. No time for games today, it had to be fast and mundane. Well, not too mundane. There was always my calling card.
My chosen office was as chaotic as any other part of the building. They were fitting a false ceiling, from which fell power points, probably for use with desktop computers. The ceiling they were putting up, a grid of white plastic strips, would be hiding the real ceiling, which was ornately corniced with an even more ornate central ceiling-rose, presumably at one time surrounding the room’s main light fitting, a chandelier perhaps. Well, they’re fucking up old buildings everywhere, aren’t they?
I checked my exits: there was only the front door. It looked like they were working on a fire exit to the rear of the building, but meantime they’d left all their ladders and scaffolding there, effectively barricading the door. So when I left, I’d have to leave through the front door. But that didn’t worry me. I’ve found that just as attack is the best form of defence, so boldness can be the best form of disguise. It’s the person slinking away who looks suspicious, not the one walking towards you. Besides, attention was going to be elsewhere, wasn’t it?
The window was fine. There was some ineffective double glazing, which could be slid open, and behind which lay the original sash-window. I unscrewed the window lock and tried opening it. The pulleys stuck for a moment, their ropes crusted with white paint, and then they gave with an audible squeak and the window lifted an inch. With more effort, I opened it a second and then a third inch. This wasn’t ideal. It meant the telescopic sight would be pointing through the glass, while the muzzle would be stuck into fresh air. But I’d carried out an assassination before under near-identical conditions. To be honest, I could probably have forced the window open a bit further, but I think I was looking for just a
little
challenge.
I peered out. No one was looking back at me. I couldn’t see anyone in the shops over the road, and no one staring from the hotel windows further along. In fact, some of the shops looked like they were closing for the day. My watch said 5.25. Yes, some of them, most of them, would close at 5.30. The tourists and visitors at the Craigmead Hotel wouldn’t be in their rooms, they’d still be out enjoying the summer weather. By six o‘clock, the street would be dead. I only had to wait.
I brought the case upstairs and opened it. I couldn’t find a chair, but there was a wooden crate which I upended. It seemed strong enough, so I placed it by the window and sat on it. The PM lay on the floor in front of me, along with two bullets. I sat there thinking about cartridges. You wouldn’t think something so small and so fixed in its purpose could be quite so complex. Straight or bottleneck? Belted, rimmed, semi-rimmed, rimless or rebated? Centre-fire or rim-fire? Then there was the primer compound. I knew that Max mixed his own compound using lead styphnate, antimony sulphide and barium nitrate, but in a ratio he kept to himself. I picked up one of the bullets by its base and tip. What, I wondered, is it like to be shot? I knew the answer in forensic terms. I knew the kinds of entrance and exit wounds left by different guns at different ranges and using different ammunition. I had to know this sort of thing, so I could determine each individual hit. Some snipers go for the head shot; some of them call it a ‘JFK’. Not me.
I go for the heart.
What else did I think about in that room, as the traffic moved past like the dull soothing roll of waves on a shore? I didn’t think about anything else. I emptied my mind. I could have been in a trance, had anyone seen me. I let my shoulders slump, my head fall forward, my jaw muscles relax. I kept my fingers spread wide, not clenched. And with my eyes slightly out of focus, I watched the second hand go round on my watch. Finally I came out of it, and found myself wondering what I would order for dinner. Some dark meat in a sauce rich enough to merit a good red wine. It was five minutes to six. I picked up the PM, undid the bolt, pushed home the first bullet, and slid the bolt forward. Then I took a small homemade cushion from my jacket pocket and placed it between my shoulder and the stock of the rifle. I had to be careful of the recoil.
This was a dangerous time. If anyone saw me now, they wouldn’t just see a man at a window, they’d see the barrel of a gun, a black telescopic sight, and a sniper taking aim. But the few pedestrians were too busy to look up. They were hurrying home, or to some restaurant appointment. They carried bags of shopping. They kept their eyes to the treacherous London paving slabs. If a cracked slab didn’t get you, then the dog shit might. Besides, they couldn’t look straight ahead; that was to invite a stranger’s stare, an unwanted meeting of eyes.