Bleeding Hearts.

by Ian Rankin.

She had just over three hours to live, and I was sipping grapefruit juice and tonic in the hotel bar.

'You know what it's like these days,' I said, 'only the toughest are making it. No room for bleeding hearts.'

My companion was a businessman himself. He too had survived the highs and lows of the 80s, and he nodded as vigorously as the whisky in him would allow.

'Bleeding hearts,' he said, 'are for the operating table, not for business.'

'I'll drink to that,' I said, though of course in my line of work bleeding hearts are the business.

Gerry had asked me a little while ago what I did for a living, and I'd told him export-import, then asked what he did. See, I slipped up once; I manufactured a career for myself only to find the guy I was drinking with was in the same line of work. Not good. These days I'm better, much cagier, and I don't drink on the day of a hit. Not a drop. Not any more. Word was, I was slipping. Bulls.h.i.t naturally, but sometimes rumours are difficult to throw off. It's not as though I could put an ad in the newspapers. But I knew a few good clean hits would give the lie to this particular little slander.

Then again, today's. .h.i.t was no prize: it had been handed to me, a gift. I knew where she'd be and what she'd be doing. I didn't just know what she looked like, I knew pretty well what she'd be wearing. I knew a whole lot about her. I wasn't going to have to work for this one, but prospective future employers wouldn't know that. All they'd see was the score sheet. Well, I'd take all the easy targets going.

0).

Part One.'So what do you buy and sell, Mark?' Gerry asked.

I was Mark Wesley. I was English. Gerry was English too, but as international businessmen we spoke to one another in mid-Atlantic: the lingua franca of the deal. We were jealous of our American cousins, but would never admit it.

'Whatever it takes, Gerry,' I said.

'I'm into that.' Gerry toasted me with whisky. It was 3 pm local time. The whiskies were six quid a hit, not much more than my own soft drink. I've drunk in hotel bars all over the western world, and this one looked like all of them. Dimly lit even in daytime, the same bottles behind the polished bar, the same liveried barman pouring from them. I find the sameness comforting. I hate to go to a strange place, somewhere where you can't find any focus, anything recognisable to grab on to. I hated Egypt: even the c.o.ke signs were written in Arabic, and all the numerals were wrong, plus everyone was wearing the wrong clothes. I hate Third World countries; I won't do hits there unless the money is particularly interesting. I like to be somewhere with clean hospitals and facilities, dry sheets on the bed, English-speaking smiles.

'Well, Gerry,' I said, 'been nice talking to you.'

'Same here, Mark.' He opened his wallet and eased out a business card. 'Here, just in case.'

I studied it. Gerald Flitch, Marketing Strategist. There was a company name, phone, fax and earphone number, and an address in Liverpool. I put the card in my pocket, then patted my jacket.

'Sorry, I can't swap. No cards on me just now.'

'That's all right.'

"But the drinks are on me,'

'Well, I don't know--'

'My pleasure, Gerry.' The barman handed me the bill, and I signed my name and room number. 'After all,' I said, 'you never know when I might need a favour.'

Gerry nodded. 'You need friends in business. A face you can trust.'

'It's true, Gerry, it's all about trust in our game.'

Obviously, as you can see. I was in philosophical mood.

Back up in my room, I put out the Do Not Disturb sign, locked the door, and wedged a chair under the handle. The bed had already been made, the bathroom towels changed, but you couldn't be too careful. A maid might look in anyway. There was never much of a pause between them knocking at your door and them unlocking it.

I took the suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe and laid it on the bed, then checked the little Sellotape seal I'd left on it. The seal was still intact. I broke it with my thumbnail and unlocked the suitcase. I lifted out some shirts and T-shirts until I came to the dark blue raincoat. This I lifted out and laid on the bed. I then pulled on my kid- leather driving-gloves before going any further. With these on, I unfolded the coat. Inside, wrapped in polythene, was my rifle.

It's impossible to be too careful, and no matter how careful you are you leave traces. I try to keep up with advances in forensic science, and I know all of'us leave traces wherever we are: fibres, hairs, a fingerprint, a smear of grease from a finger or arm. These days, they can match you from the DNA in a single hair. That's why the rifle was wrapped in polythene: it left fewer traces than cloth.

The gun was beautiful. I'd cleaned it carefully in Max's workshop, then checked it for identifiers and other distinguishing marks. Max does a good job of taking off serial numbers, but I always like to be sure. I'd spent some time with the rifle, getting to know it, its weight and its few foibles. I'd practised over several days, making sure I got rid of all the spent bullets and cartridge cases, just so the gun couldn't be traced back to them. Every gun leaves particular and unique marks on a bullet. I didn't believe that at first either, but apparently it's true.

The ammo was a problem. I didn't really want to tamper with it. Each cartridge case carries a head stamp, which identifies it. I'd tried filing off the head-stamps from a few cartridges, and they didn't seem to make any difference to the accuracy of my shooting. But on the day, nothing could go wrong. So I asked Max and he said the bullets could be traced back to a consignment which had accompanied the British Army units to Kuwait during the Gulf War. (I didn't ask how Max had got hold of them; probably the same source as the rifle itself.) See, some snipers like to make their own ammo. That way they know they can trust it. But I'm not skilled that way, and I don't think it matters anyway.

Max sometimes made up ammo for me, but his eyes weren't so great these days.

The ammo was .338 Lapua Magnum. It was full metal- jacket: military stuff usually is, since it fulfils the Geneva Convention's requirements for the most 'humane' type of bullet.

Well. I'm no animal, I wasn't about to contravene the Geneva Convention.

Max had actually been able to offer a choice of weapons.

That's why I use him. He asks few questions and has excellent facilities. That he lives in the middle of nowhere is a bonus, since I can practise all day without disturbing anyone. Then there's his daughter Belinda, who would be bonus enough in herself. I always take her a present if I've been away somewhere. Not that I'd ... you know, not with Max about. He's very protective of her, and she of him. They remind me of Beauty and the Beast. Bel's got short fair hair, eyes slightly slanted like a cat's, and a long straight nose.

Her face looks like it's been polished. Max on the other hand has been battling cancer for years. He's lost about a quarter of his face, I suppose, and keeps his right side, from below the eye to just above the lips, covered with a white plastic prosthesis. Sometimes Bel calls him the Phantom of the Opera. He takes it from her. He wouldn't take it from anyone else.

I think that's why he's always pleased to see me. It's not just that I have cash on me and something I want, but he doesn't see many people. Or rather, he doesn't let many people see him. He spends all day in his workshop, cleaning, filing, and polishing his guns. And he spends a lot of his nights there, too.

He had a Remington 700, pre-fitted with a Redfield telescopic sight. The US Marines use this military version of the 'Varmint' as sniper rifles. I'd used one before, and had nothing against it. More interesting though was a Sterling Sniper Rifle. Most people I'd met thought only cars were made in Dagenham, but that's where the Sterling was crafted. It was user-friendly, down to the cheek-rest and the grooved receiver. You could fit it with any mounting-plate you wanted, to accommodate any telescope or night-sight. I admit, it was tempting.

There were others, too. Max didn't have them, but he knew where he could get them: an L39A1, the ugly Mauser SP66, a Fusil Modele 1 Type A. I decided I wanted British; call me sentimental. And finally Max handed over the gun we'd both known I'd opt for: a Model PM.

The manufacturers, Accuracy International, call it the PM. I don't know what the letters stand for, maybe PostMortem.

But the British Army know it as Sniper Rifle L96A1. A mouthful, you'll agree, which is why Max and I stick to calling it the PM. There are several versions, and Max was offering the Super Magnum (hence the .338 Lapua Magnum ammo). The gun itself is not what you'd call a beauty, and as I unwrapped it in my hotel room it looked even less lovely, since I'd covered its camouflage with some camouflage of my own.

The PM is olive green in colour, fine if you are hiding in the trees, but not so inconspicuous when surrounded by the grey concrete of a city street. So in Max's workshop I'd wound some grey adhesive tape around it, wearing my gloves all the time so as not to leave prints on the tape. As a result, the PM now looked like the ballistic equivalent of the Invisible Man, all bandaged except for the bits I needed left open to access. It was a neat job of binding; the wrapping around the stainless-steel barrel alone had taken a couple of hours.

The PM is a long rifle, its barrel nearly four inches longer than the Remington. It's also heavy, to say that it's mostly plastic, albeit high-impact plastic: double the weight of the Remington, and over four pounds heavier than the Sterling.

I didn't mind though, it wasn't as if I'd be carrying it through the jungle. I made it even longer by fitting a flash hider of my own construction. (Max smiled with half of his face as he watched me. Like me, he is an admirer of beauty and craft, and the best you could say of my finished product was that it worked.) All the guns Max had offered me were bolt-action, all were 7.62mm, and all had barrels with four grooves and a right-hand twist. They differed in styles and muzzle velocity, in length and weight, but they shared one common characteristic. They were all lethal.

In the end, I decided I didn't require the integral bipod: the angle I'd be shooting from, it would hinder rather than help.

So I took that off, minimally reducing the weight. Although the PM accepts a 10-round box, I knew I'd have two bullets at most, preferably only one. With bolt-action rifles, you sometimes didn't have time for a second shot. While you were working the bolt, your quarry was scuttling to safety.

I picked the gun up at last, and stood in my bedroom staring into the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.

The curtains were closed, so I was able to do this. I'd already fitted the telescopic sight. Ah, Max had made things so difficult. He could give me a Redfield, a Parker-Hale, the Zeiss Diavari ZA ... even the old No. 32 sniping telescope.

But the PM wasn't geared up for these, so instead of fussing and having to make my own special sight-mounting plate, I opted for a Schmidt and Bender 6x42 telescopic sight, all the time telling myself I was maybe, for once, going to too much trouble.

I was ready to pick off a flea from a cat's whisker at 600 yards, when all I had to do was. .h.i.t a human target, out in the open, at something like a tenth of that. What was I doing buying all this lavish craft and expertise when something bashed together in China would achieve the same objective? Max had an answer.

'You like quality, you like style.'

True, Max, true. If my targets were suddenly to depart this world, I wanted them to have the best send-off I could give them. I checked my watch, then double-checked with the clock-radio.

She had just over two hours to live.

2.Everything was waiting for Eleanor Ricks.

She'd woken that morning after a drugged sleep, knowing yet another day was waiting out there, ready to bite her.

Breakfast and her husband Freddy were waiting in the kitchen, as was Mrs Elfman. When Eleanor and Freddy were both working, Mrs Elfman came in and got breakfast ready, then cleaned everything away and tidied the rooms. When they weren't working, she did the cleaning but no cooking.

Freddy insisted that one or other of them had to be capable of preparing cereal or sausage and eggs and a pot of coffee, so long as their minds weren't on work. Funny, usually Eleanor ended up cooking if Mrs Elfman wasn't around, even if she'd to go to work while Freddy was 'resting'. Today, however, was a work day for both of them.

Freddy Ricks was an actor, of consequence (albeit in TV sitcoms) in the early 80s but now squeezing a living from 'character' parts and not many of them. He'd tried some stage acting but didn't like it, and had wasted a good deal of their joint savings by spending fruitless time in Hollywood, trying to call up favours from producers and directors who'd moved on from British TV. Today, he was starring in a commercial for breakfast cereal. It would be head and shoulders only, and he'd be wearing a yellow oilskin sou'wester and a puzzled expression. He had two lines to say, but they'd dub another actor's voice on later. Freddy couldn't understand why his own voice wasn't good enough for them. It had, as he pointed out, been quite good enough for the 12 million viewers who'd tuned in to Stand By Your Man every week of its runs in 19834.

10.He sat at the table munching cornflakes and reading his preferred tabloid. He looked furious, but then these days he always looked furious. The radio sat on the draining board, volume turned down low because Freddy didn't like it. But Mrs Elfman liked it, and she angled her head towards the transistor, trying to catch the words, while at the same time washing last night's dishes.

'Morning, Mrs E.'

'Morning, Mrs Ricks, how did you sleep?'

'Like a log, thanks.'

'All right for some,' Freddy muttered from behind his cereal spoon. Eleanor ignored him, and so did Mrs Elfman.

Eleanor poured herself a mug of black coffee.

'Want some breakfast, Mrs Ricks?'

'No thanks.'

'It's the most important meal of the day.'

'I'm still full from last night.' This was a lie, but what else could she say: if I eat a single morsel I'm liable to be throwing up all morning? Mrs Elfman would think she was joking.

'Is Archie up?'

'Who knows?' growled Freddy.

Archie was their son, seventeen years old and the 'computer player' in a pop group. Eleanor had never heard of anyone 'playing' the computer as a musical instrument, until Archie had shown her. Now his band were making their second record, their first having been a success in local clubs. She went to the bottom of the stairs and called him.

There was no answer.

'He's like b.l.o.o.d.y Dracula,' complained Freddy. 'Never seen in daylight hours.' Mrs Elfman threw him a nasty look, and Eleanor went through to her study.

Eleanor Ricks was a freelance investigative journalist who had somehow managed to make a name for herself without recourse to the usual 'investigations' of pop stars, media celebrities, and royalty. But then one day she'd found that ii magazines wanted to send round journalists to profile her, and she'd started to rethink her career. So now, after years of newspaper and magazine articles, she was finally going into television - just, it seemed, as Freddy was moving out of it. Poor Freddy: she gave him a moment's thought, then started work.

Today she was interviewing Molly Prendergast, the Secretary of State for Social Security. They were meeting at a central hotel. They wouldn't be talking about anything concerning the Department of Social Security, or Molly Prendergast's position there, or even her standing in her own political party. It was much more personal, which was why they were meeting in a hotel rather than at the Department's offices.

It was Eleanor's idea. She reckoned she'd get more out of Molly Prendergast on neutral ground. She didn't want to hear a politician talking; she wanted to hear a mother ...

She went through her notes again, her list of questions, press clippings, video footage. She spoke with her researchers and a.s.sistant by phone. This was an initial interview, not intended for broadcast. Eleanor would take a tape recording, but just for her own use. There wouldn't be any cameras or technicians there, just two women having a chat and a drink. Then, if Prendergast looked useful to the project, there'd be a request for a proper on-screen interview, asking the same or similar questions again. Eleanor knew that the Molly Prendergast she got today would not be the one she'd get at a later date. On screen, the politician would be much more cautious, more guarded. But Eleanor would use her anyway: Prendergast was a name, and this story needed a name to get it some publicity. Or so Joe kept telling her.

The batteries for her tape recorder had been charging up overnight. She checked them, taping her voice then winding it back to listen. The recorder, though small, had a stereo microphone built into it and a tiny but powerful external speaker. She would take three C90 tapes with her, though it 12.was expected to be an hour-long interview. Well, it might overrun, or a tape might snap. What was she thinking of? It wouldn't overrun. Two C90s would do it. But she'd best take a lot of batteries.

She rewound the video compilation and studied it again, then went to her computer and tweaked some of her questions, deleting one and adding two new ones. She printed off this new sheet and read it over one more time.

Then she faxed it to her producer, who phoned back with the okay.

'You're sure?' Eleanor asked.

'I'm sure. Look, don't worry about this, Lainie.' She hated him calling her 'Lainie'. One day, she'd tell him to his face ... No, that wasn't true, was it? It was a small price to pay for Joe Draper's backing. Joe was an excellent producer, if, like so many of his television colleagues, a bit of a prima donna. He'd earned his money doing a cop drama series and a couple of sitcoms (one of them with Freddy playing the errant next-door neighbour), then had set up his own production company, which specialised in doc.u.mentaries and docu-dramas. These were good days for independent producers, so long as you knew your market and had a few contacts in the TV broadcasting companies. Joe had plenty of friends: his weekend c.o.ke parties at his home in Wiltshire were very popular. He'd invited her along a couple of times, but had neglected to invite Freddy.

'You forget, Joe, I'm new to this, I can't be laid back like you.' Okay, so she was fishing for a compliment, and of course, Joe knew it.

'Lainie, you're the best. Just do what you're best at. Talk to her, open her up, then sit back and look interested. That's it. You know, like you were a ...' Here it came, another of Joe's tortured similes. 'A lion tamer. You go in there, crack your whip, and when she starts to do the trick, you can relax and take the applause,'

"You really think it's that simple, Joe?'

i3 'No, it's hard work. But the secret is, don't make it look like hard work. It should be smooth like the baize on a snooker table, so smooth she doesn't know she's been potted till she's falling into the pocket.' He laughed then, and she laughed with him, amazed at herself. 'Look, Lainie, this is going to be good TV, I can feel it. You've got a great idea, and you're going about it the right way: human interest. It's been a winning formula since TV had nappies on. Now go to it!'

She smiled tiredly. 'All right, Joe, I will.' Then she put down the phone.

Satisfied, Eleanor phoned for a bike messenger. She wrote a covering note, put it with a copy of the questions into a large manila envelope, and wrote Prendergast's name and her home address on the front of it. When the bike arrived she hesitated before letting him take the envelope. Then she closed the door and exhaled. She thought she might throw up, but didn't. That was it. Those were the questions she'd be running with. There was little else to do until five o'clock but panic and take a few pills and try on clothes. Maybe she'd go out for a little while to calm herself down, walk to Regent's Park and along the perimeter of the Zoo. The fresh air and the gra.s.s and trees, the children playing and running or staring through the fence at the animals, these things usually calmed her. Even the jets overhead could have an effect. But it was fifty-fifty. Half the time, after they calmed her she had to sit on a park bench and cry. She'd bawl and hide her face in her coat, and couldn't explain to anyone why she was doing it.

She couldn't explain, but she knew all the same. She was doing it because she was scared.

In the end she stayed home. She was soaking in the bath when the phone rang. Mrs Elfman had already gone home, having once more informed Eleanor that she would not touch Archie's room until he'd sorted the worst of it out for himself. Freddy had left for his sou'wester cereal slot, not 14.even saying goodbye or wishing her luck. She knew he wouldn't be home again. He'd stop in one of his many pubs to talk to other embittered men. It would be seven or eight before he came back here. As for Archie, well, she hadn't seen him in days anyway.

She'd let the phone ring for a while - what could be so important? - but then realised it might be Molly Prendergast querying or nixing one of the new questions. Eleanor reached up and unhooked the receiver from the extension- set on the wall above the bath. It had seemed mad at the time, a phone in the bathroom, but it came in useful more often than they'd thought.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'Eleanor?'

'Geoffrey, is that you?'

'Who else?'

'You always seem to catch me in the bath.'

'Lucky me. Can we talk?'

'What about?'