'Sorry, Bel.'

'You're not going,' said Max.

'I haven't said anything yet!' she protested, slapping the table with her hand. 'I want to hear about it first.'

So I told her. There was no point leaving anything out.

Bel wasn't stupid, she certainly wasn't naive. She'd have rooted out a lie. It isn't easy telling someone what you do for a living, not if you're not proud of your work. I'd never minded Max knowing, but Bel... Bel was a slightly different proposition. Of course, she'd known all along. I mean, I was hardly coming to the farm, buying guns, firing them, customising them, I was hardly doing any of this as a weekend hobby. Still, her cheeks reddened as I told my story.

Then a third round of tea was organised in silence, with the radio switched off now. Bel poured cereal for herself and 56.started to eat. She'd swallowed two spoonfuls before she said anything.

'I want to go.'

Max started to protest.

'A few days, Max,' I broke in, 'that's all. Look, I need help this time. Who else can I turn to?'

'I can think of a dozen people better qualified than Bel, and always keen to make money.'

'Well, thanks very much,' she said. 'Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me.'

'I just don't want you'

She took his hand and squeezed it. 'I know, I know. But Michael needs help. Are we supposed to turn our backs?

Pretend we've never known him? Who else do we know?'

It hit me then for the first time. They lived out here in the wilds through necessity not choice. You couldn't run a gun shop like Max's in the middle of a town. But out here they were also lonely, cut off from the world. There were twice- weekly runs into the village or the nearest large town, but those hardly const.i.tuted a social life. It wasn't Max, it was Bel. She was twenty-two. She'd sacrificed a lot to move out here. I saw why Max was scared: he wasn't scared she'd get hurt, he was scared she'd get to like it. He was scared she'd leave for good.

'A few days, Max,' I repeated. 'Then I'll bring Bel back.'

He didn't say anything, just blinked his watery eyes and looked down at the table where his hands lay, nicked and scarred from metal-shop accidents. Bel touched his shoulder.

'I'll go pack a few things.' She gave me another smile and ran from the room. Only now did I wonder why she was so keen to go with me.

We were awkward after she'd gone. I rinsed out the mugs at the sink, and heard Max's chair sc.r.a.pe on the floor as he stood up. He came to the draining board and picked up the revolver.

'Do you need anything?' he asked.

57.aybe a pistol.' hink I've got something better than a pistol. Not cheap H "I:.

h oney's no object this time, Max.'

(, ark ... Sorry, I mean Michael. Funny, I'd just got used filing you Mark.'

11 be another name soon enough.' h

Michael, I know you'll take care of her. But I wouldn't e .. I mean, I don't want ...'

a ''iis is strictly business, Max. Separate rooms, I promise.

besides, Bel can look after herself. She's had a good Her.' i on't patronise me,' he said with a smile, putting down 6 Vlagnum and reaching for a dishtowel.

58.7.'You're not a reporter, are you?'

It was first thing Monday morning and Hotter wasn't in the mood. The ambulance was parked in a special unloading bay directly outside Casualty, and the ambulanceman was in the back, tidying and checking.

Hotter stood outside, one hand resting on the vehicle's back door. He had a sudden image of himself slamming the ambulanceman's head repeatedly against it.

'I've told you, I'm a private investigator.'

'Only I told the police everything I know, and then the bleeding newspapers start ha.s.sling me.'

'Look, Mr Hughes, I've shown you my ID.'

'Yeah, anyone can fake an ident.i.ty card.'

This was true, but Hoffer wasn't in a mood for discussion.

He had a head like a St Patrick's Day parade in Boston. Plus his ears still weren't back to normal. Every time he breathed in through his nose, it was like he was going to suck his eardrums into his throat.

'Talk to me and I'll go away,' he said. That usually worked. Hughes turned and studied him.

'You don't look like a reporter.'

Hoffer nodded at this wisdom.

'You look like a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.'

Hoffer stopped nodding and started a serious scowl.

'All right, sorry about that. So, what do you want me to tell you?'

'I've seen the transcript of your police interview, Mr Hughes. Basically, I'd just like to ask a few followup 59.questions, maybe rephrase a couple of questions you've already been asked.'

'Well, hurry up, I'm on duty.'

Hoffer refrained from pointing out that they could have started a good five minutes ago. Instead he asked about the phony patient's accent.

'Very smooth,' said Hughes. 'Polite, quiet, educated.'

'But definitely English?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Not American? Sometimes the two can sound more similar than you'd think.'

'This was English. I couldn't tell you which county though. He wasn't a Yank, I'm sure of that.'

'Canadian possibly?' Hughes shook his head. 'Okay then, you've given a fairly good description of him, what he was wearing, his height, hair colour and so on. Do you think his hair might have been dyed?'

'How am I supposed to know?'

'Sometimes a dye job doesn't look quite right.'

'Yeah? We must meet a different cla.s.s of women.'

Hoffer tried to laugh. The door handle felt good in his hand. He kept looking at Hughes's head. 'And it couldn't have been a toupee?'

'You mean an Irish?' Hoffer didn't understand. 'Irish jig, wig. No, I'm sure his hair was his own.'

'Mm-hm.' Hoffer had already spoken to the nurse in Emergency, the one who'd taken the man's details and then gone to call a haematologist. She'd been as much help as codeine in a guillotine basket. He rubbed his forehead. 'He told you he was a haemophiliac.'

'He was a haemophiliac.'

'You sure?'

'Either that or he has one in the family. Or maybe he just went through medical school.'

'He knew that much about it?'

'He knew about factor levels, he knew haemophiliacs are 60.supposed to carry a special card with them, he knew they get to call the emergency number and order an ambulance if they hurt themselves. He knew a lot.'

'He couldn't just have been guessing?'

Hughes shook his head. 'I'm telling you, he knew.'

'Who's your haematologist here?'

'I don't know, I just act as chauffeur.'

'That's being a bit harsh on yourself.'

Hughes's look told Heifer flattery wasn't going to work.

'What about the business card, it fell out of his pocket?'

'Yes. He said it was his, but the police tell me it wasn't.

They had me take a look at Gerald Flitch, I mean the real Gerald Flitch. It wasn't him.'

'Mm, I want a word with him myself.'

The Casualty doors crashed open as the ambulance driver pulled a wheelchair out and down the ramp. Hughes jumped out of the ambulance. There was a woman in the wheelchair so ancient and still she looked like she'd been stuffed.

'Here we are again, Mrs Bridewell,' Hughes yelled at her, as they prepared to hoist her into the ambulance. 'Soon have you home.'

"Is it worth the trip?' Hoffer muttered to himself. He turned away from the ambulance, but Hughes called to him.

The driver was already getting into his seat and starting the engine. Hughes had an arm on the back door, ready to close it.

'I meant it about the cardiac. You really should lose some weight. We could do our backs in rolling you on to the stretcher.'

'You're all heart, pal!' Hoffer called, but he called it to a slammed door as the ambulance revved away. He walked back up the hill to Emergency. The same nurse he'd spoken to was still there. She didn't look like she'd been pining.

'Just one more thing,' Hoffer said, raising a crooked index finger. 'Who do I speak to about haemophilia?'

61.'It means love of blood, literally.'

Dr Jacobs was a small man with one of those English- actor voices that make American women wet their drawers.

It was like Jeremy Irons was behind the scenes somewhere and Jacobs was his dummy. He also had the hairiest arms Hoffer had seen outside a zoo, and he only had ten minutes to spare.

He was explaining what the word haemophilia meant.

'That's very interesting,' said Hoffer. 'But see, the man we're dealing with here, he's a hired killer, a gunman. He also uses explosives. Does that sound like a suitable occupation for a haemophiliac?'

'No, it doesn't. Well, that's to say, not for a severe haemophiliac. You see, there are three broad levels of haemophilia. You can be severe, moderate, or mild. Most registered haemophiliacs in the UK are severe - that is, they show less than two percent factor activity.'

'What's factor activity?'

'Haemophiliacs, Mr Hotter, suffer from a clotting deficiency in the blood. Clotting is a complex event, involving thirteen different factors. If one thing happens, then another happens, and we get a knock-on effect. When all thirteen things have happened, we get blood clotting. But haemophiliacs lack one of the factors, so the knock-on can't happen and clotting can't take place. Most haemophiliacs suffer from a factor eight deficiency, some from a factor nine deficiency. There are a few even rarer conditions, but those are the main two. Factor eight deficiency is termed Haemophilia A, and factor nine Haemophilia B. Are you with me so far?'

'Reading you like braille.'

Dr Jacobs leaned back in his black leather chair. He had a small cluttered office, all textbooks and test results and piles of unanswered mail. His white coat was hanging up behind the door, and there were a lot of framed certificates on the walls. His arms were folded so he could run his hands over 62.his monkey arms. Hair sprouted from the collar of his shirt.

Naked, Hoffer bet you could use him as a fireside rug.

'Severe haemophiliacs,' the doctor said, 'make up over a third of all haemophilia cases. They can suffer spontaneous internal bleeds, usually into soft tissues, joints and muscles.

As children, they're advised to stay away from contact sports. We try to make them get a good education, so they can get desk jobs rather than manual ones.'

'They don't go into the armed forces then?'

Dr Jacobs smiled. 'The armed forces and the police won't recruit from haemophiliacs.'

Hoffer frowned. If there was one thing he'd been sure of, it was that the D-Man had been either a soldier or a cop. 'No exceptions?'

'None.'

'Not even if they've got the milder form?'

Jacobs shook his head. 'Something wrong?' he said.

Holler had been tugging at his ears. 'Flying does things to my ears,' he said. 'Say, can you help? Maybe take a look?'

'I'm a haematologist, Mr Hoffer, not ENT.'

'But you can prescribe drugs, right? Some painkillers maybe?'