Free Bleeding Hearts by Ian Rankin

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 class 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 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 Hoffer 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?’
    ‘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,