Читать книгу Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle - James Hawkins - Страница 14

Captain David Tippen’s house had gone. Even the street had gone – bulldozed into the foundations of a mega-store and a leisure complex. The duty sergeant at Guildstone police station remembered the street, “Crumbly old hovels – good riddance, I said. It were a bloomin’ rat-hole.”

There were only eight Tippens in the phone book, none David or D, but Bliss decided it was worth a few minutes of his time. The first two had left machines in charge of their phones. Three, four and five turned a deaf ear, and number six rang forever. “Hallo,” said a thin voice, just as Bliss had decided to quit.

“Is this Mr. Tippen?”

“You’ll ’ave to speak up.”

“I said ...”

“Yeah. I heard ya. What’ye want?”

“I’m looking for relatives of a David Tippen.”

“Yeah, I knows him,” he replied, with a confusing use of the present tense. “He’s me uncle’s boy.”

“No – I’m looking for a man who was a Captain in the Royal Horse Artillery during the war.”

“Aye, that’d be ’im alright.”

“Unbelievable,” breathed Bliss.

“Who are ya anyhow?” queried the old man.

“Police – Detective Inspector Bliss.”

“Police, eh? Why didn’t you say so afore?”

“Can you just tell me where he is,” Bliss tried again.

“Gawd knows – the poor blighter never came back, did he? Missing in action, they said.”

“Oh. I thought you meant he was alive ...” started Bliss, formulating a further question when inquisitiveness got the better of the old man. “What’s this all about? Mebbe you’d best come ’round here. I’m back of the old cattle market.”

“I’ll take you, Guv,” said the sergeant when he asked for directions. “You’ll never find it without a guide – unless you use your nose.”

Sergeant Jones was right about the nose – though it wasn’t the market giving off the stink, it was the ancient clapboard house lurking behind it.

The old man took even longer to answer the door than the phone, but each time Bliss knocked anew, his crotchety voice drifted through the splintered woodwork. “Alright, alright, I’ze a coming.”

And, when the door finally creaked open, it revealed a Dickensian scene of poverty, together with a decayed man who fitted the setting perfectly. “Come in,” he said amidst a waft of hot stench which hit the two officers and had them scrabbling for handkerchiefs.

“’Tis the cats,” explained Tippen, a straggle-haired geriatric, sideswiping a ginger tom with his ivory-handled walking cane. “You’ll get used t’it in a mo. Come along in – I were just ’aving me tea. I’ll make ya a cuppa.”

“Not for us,” said Bliss sharply, remaining rooted to the doorstep as the old man shuffled back into the house, his shabby black clothing blending into the gloom.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he called, the pallor of his face showing up as he turned back to the door. But Bliss was having difficulty motivating himself to follow into the murky labyrinth of narrow corridors, looking, as far as he could tell, as if they had been tunnelled through mountains of newspapers and ceiling high heaps of rotten clothing. It was a hellish version of Alice in Wonderland, he realised, complete with black rabbit in a waistcoat. Sergeant Jones finally nudged him into action, and together they struggled forward against the tide of decay, grateful they had passed on the old man’s invitation to his tea party.

The sergeant was still retching an hour later as he sat at the police canteen bar, slugging down a third whisky, shaking his head, muttering, “I can’t believe it,” for the twentieth time. “I’ve never smelt anything like it. Did you see all that shit?”

“Everywhere,” replied Bliss, scrutinising his feet at maximum range. “I’ll have to throw these shoes away. I’m not having them in my car.”

“I’m not sure it was all cat shit either,” said the sergeant, sniffing his jacket with care.

“I’d rather not think about it.”

“I’m gonna burn this uniform.”

“A good dry-cleaner will probably get it out.”

“Sulphuric acid wouldn’t kill a smell like this.”

“I’d best be off,” said Bliss, rising. “I’ll leave it to you to contact Social Services and make arrangements to get him out and cleaned up.”

“Thanks, Guv. They’re gonna love me.”

“I bet you’re glad you came with me now,” he laughed.

Sergeant Jones scowled in mock anger. “I’m just glad you got the information you needed.”

“Oh yes,” he said, picking up an envelope containing the tattered remains of a photograph which the old man had miraculously found amidst the garbage. “I think I’ve pretty much got the case wrapped up now.”

There were two uniformed men in the photo and Bliss had recognised them immediately: the Major and the Captain – two soldiers in battledress standing just a little too close; smiling just a little too much; and, fifty years on, their eyes still sparkling for each other. The picture had slotted into place in Bliss’s mind the moment he took it from the grubby claws of the old man, and everything suddenly made perfect sense: Rupert’s nancy-boy reputation; his whiny accent; his sudden marriage to Doreen; his retention of the dead man’s dog tags. And, when he turned the photograph over, Captain David Tippen’s neatly caligraphied hand spoke directly to him: “This is me with my very best friend, Rupie.”

“He should never ’ave gone in t’army,” the old man had said with nostalgic concern. “He didn’t ’ave the constitution for it, he were too much of a mummy’s boy ... Killed her it did, when he didn’t come back.”

“Imagine Doreen,” Bliss had postulated to the sergeant on their way back to the police station. “She marries a bloke who gets shipped off to war before he has a chance to get his leg over, then he comes home looking like Dracula and announces his dick’s been blown off. ‘But don’t fret about it, my little turtle-dove,’ he says, ‘’Cos I’m a poofter anyway.’”

“No wonder she bumped him off,” laughed Jones. “My missus would kill me if I told her that.”

Bliss closed his eyes in thought, “The only real problem I’m left with is – who did Jonathon kill in loco majoris?”

“There’s no shortage of candidates,” said Jones. “Have you any idea how many doddery old codgers are reported missing each week?”

“That’s assuming it was a doddery old codger and not just someone who happened along at a convenient moment, and assuming whoever it was was missed. Just imagine if it was someone like old man Tippen.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, you know what I mean. Who would complain if he disappeared? He could’ve lain dead in that place we’ve just left for years without anybody caring.”

“Judging by the stink I think he had.”

Bliss laughed, “Did you hear what he said when I asked him where all the newspapers had come from. ‘I must’ve forgot to cancel them when me eyes went.’”

“I wonder how he paid for them?”

“Gawd knows – he probably nicked ’em.”

Parking at the rear of the Mitre hotel on his return to Westchester, Bliss couldn’t help feeling a trifle foolish as he sneaked in the back way with his suitcase – feeling like a runaway lover slipping back home, red-faced, after vowing never to set foot in the house ever again, half expecting the door to be locked and another man in his bed. The smiling Swedish receptionist held the door for him and added to his discomfort by welcoming him back with professional effusiveness. “Oh. Good evening, Mr. Bliss, it is so nice that you are back – no?”

“No ... I mean, Yes, it’s nice to be back.”

“There’s a letter for you in reception,” she said, adding to his feeling of belonging. And, as he struggled his suitcases through the antique filled lounge and up the wide staircase to his room, he found himself soothed by the warm sensation of homeliness in the now familiar surroundings.

The letter intrigued him. Who knows I’m staying here apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and Daphne? But the prospect that Mandy’s murderer could have located him barely touched his mind. The plain white envelope had a fresh clean smell, and was certainly too small to contain even a trace of explosive, but it certainly gave his heart an unexpected kick as he read the short note.

“Please give me a call – Kind regards: Samantha Holingsworth.” And a phone number.

“Did I leave my pen in your car, Dave?” she asked, recognising his voice immediately.

It sounded like an excuse, but he happily went along with it. “I don’t think so, but I can check.”

“What about ... ” they started in unison.

“You go first,” he said.

“No ... after you.”

“I was going to ask – what about that dinner? Tomorrow perhaps?” He closed his eyes in mock pain, waiting for the crash of rejection – that’s too soon – you’ll scare her off.

“Sorry – I can’t.”

See, I warned you.

“I start late shift tomorrow,” she continued. “I told you, I work lousy hours ...” she paused. “But I’m free this evening.”

“Oh – I can’t. I promised a little old lady.”

“Oh yeah ... how old?” she asked, her voice full of tease.

“Positively ancient.”

“I guess that would mean around thirty, a busty blond with a Mercedes and an expense account,” she laughed. “It’s alright, Dave, I know my limitations.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Do you like roast beef?”

They met in the reception area at the Mitre. The dragon he’d cautioned himself to expect had transformed into a sleek sable-haired feline with smooth round features, dark mysterious eyes and sensible white teeth set squarely behind full lips – nothing dangerously protrusive; no tombstones.

He pulled up, slack-mouthed, at the foot of the stairs, studying her profile as she chatted to the friendly Swede, and he froze – holding the moment – savouring the image.

Feeling the weight of his eyes she turned with a smile. “Hello, Dave.”

Move you prat, he said to himself. “You look very nice,” he said, cursing the inadequacy of polite conversation as he walked toward her.

“Thank you kind sir,” she curtsied gracefully, and he took her hand and kissed it theatrically.

“Come on,” he said, keeping hold, his eyes locked on hers. “Daphne will be waiting,” he continued but couldn’t tear his eyes free – her right pupil had taken a life of its own and was drifting slowly southward. In an instant she pulled the lazy eye back into focus and looked embarrassingly away, but Bliss was already captivated by the charming imperfection and felt a tingle of excitement down his spine as they made a move out of the lobby.

“By the way, how did you know I was staying here?” he asked, on their way to his car.

“I traced your car number,” she blushed. “Mind I was a bit surprised when it came up as a hire car ...”

An implicit question hung in the air, but he chose to ignore it. He’d gone all day with barely a thought of the monkey on his back and had no intention of unnecessarily dredging up Mandy’s killer and spoiling the evening.

“She’s in love with you,” whispered a soft voice in his ear an hour later as he sat on Daphne’s couch after dinner.

“What? Don’t be silly. I’ve only known her a few days.”

“I’m a woman, Dave, believe me – I know these things. I can see it in her eyes.”

Daphne bustled in with a tray of coffees. “What are you two love-birds whispering about?” she chuckled, with an edge to her laugh.

“I was just saying to Dave, what a lovely dinner,” said Samantha, her face as innocent as her tone. “I can’t believe you grew all the vegetables yourself.”

Daphne had pulled out all the stops. The sirloin had been exquisite, and her golden Yorkshire puddings had to be held to the plates with lashings of rich beef gravy. “The trick is not to pick the vegies when the sun’s on them,” she explained, shrugging off the compliment.

“Well, it was really nice,” said Bliss, still luxuriating in the warmth of Samantha’s breath on his cheek.

Placing the tray on a Butler’s table at their feet, Daphne ignored the empty armchairs and squeezed onto the settee in between them.

“Budge over, Dave,” she said, giving his knee a playful nudge and Samantha shot him a cheeky smile behind her back, mouthing, “Told you so.”

Returning to The Mitre, Bliss parked only yards from the back wall, behind the lounge with its deep chintzy sofas, flickering candlelight and mood music. But they stayed in the car; exchanging soft words and tender touches; breathing gently through moistened lips; savouring each other’s scent; basking in each other’s warmth. It would be so easy to charge full-tilt into a sexual melee, he realised: a bottle of Dom Perignon in the lounge, an indecent proposal whispered tenderly with precise timing, and it would be all over bar the shouting. But he fought the urge with ease – hastily consummated relationships with as much staying power as the Titanic were a thing of his past.

Waltzing easily into the natural rhythm of romance they melted into each other arms and their eyes locked – midnight blue on burnt sienna in the shadowy light. They floated, lips poised, and drank in each other’s beauty. Then a spark of light blazed in her eyes and Bliss spun around in time to catch the fading flare of a match, and the bright glow of a newly lit cigarette, behind him.

“There’s someone out there,” he whispered. “Stay here,” he added, easing himself out of her arms and inching toward the door.

“Are you crazy?” she said, hopping out the other side and taking off after him.

Twenty minutes later, breathless and bedraggled, they were back, standing by Samantha’s car, saying goodnight.

“I do wish you’d come up to my room and clean up,” he implored.

“No,” she said fiercely, then immediately backed off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I would just prefer to go home if you don’t mind, only I’m covered in mud.”

“He went right through the river.”

“I know, I was behind him remember.”

“I thought you were magnificent.”

“Just doing my job, Sir,” she said in a policeman’s voice, then sneezed.

“You really should come up and dry off. Look, here’s my key. I’ll stay in the bar if you don’t trust me.”

“Dave, don’t get me wrong, it’s just too much of a cliché – Girl meets boy; girl falls in mud; girl catches cold; girl takes off wet clothes ... well you know the rest.

I’ve seen the movie, and read the soppy novel ... and they don’t always have a happy ending.”

Feeling a pang of disappointment he asked, “Can I call you?”

“You’d better,” she laughed getting in and closing her door. “I can’t afford to keep losing pens.”

The Volvo had got away from the car park moments before Bliss and Samantha returned. The driver, breathless and drenched, stood shivering in a phone booth a mile away.

“They nearly caught me,” he was bleating into the phone. “I had to run through the effin’ river – got soaked.”

“They? Who are they?”

“Him and the woman. The one I told you about. He picked her up again at that same house. I’m sure this guy knows you’re onto him, he’s real slippery. He’s switched cars again ... did I tell you what he did the other night? ... He was at that house again – the woman’s house, dropping her off late, then he took off, and when I started to follow he did a U-turn and left me standing. I waited at the Mitre but he didn’t show up all night.”

“Well don’t worry about him anymore,” said the voice at the other end. “It’s time I turned up the heat. Time we said goodbye to Mr. Bliss.”

Peter Marshall, the owner of The Toy Soldier, was as enthusiastic as a new recruit and reported early, arriving at The Mitre at seven-thirty on Monday morning.

“First stop: the police station,” said Bliss, coming downstairs and marching him out of the door and up the High Street at eight o’clock precisely.

Marshall hung back. “I don’t understand ... Police?”

“All will become clear,” said Bliss, stepping off and refusing to give anything away.

Ten minutes later, in his office, Bliss leaned his elbows onto his desk, closely studied the man in front of him, and fired a surprise salvo. “So tell me, Mr. Marshall, just why would anyone be prepared to offer a thousand pounds simply to discover the whereabouts of a murdered man’s lead soldiers?”

“I want to buy them ... What murdered man? I don’t know anything about that. I just want to buy the Horse Artillery set, there’s nothing sinister in that.”

“That’s it? That’s all? You want to buy it?”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to believe that you were prepared to offer me a thousand pounds and drive all the way down here at some ungodly hour for a few bits of old lead.”

“Yes. I do expect you to believe me. That ‘old lead,’ as you call it, happens to be fine miniature replicas …”

“They’re just kids toys ...” he cut in, then paused. “Hold on a minute – How much?”

“I don’t see how that concerns you.”

“Oh, I see. You won’t tell me in case I get the idea I can make more than a thousand if I buy them myself. But, wait a minute ...” Bliss tilted his head and scratched his chin. “If you’re prepared to offer me a thousand, they must be worth a fair bit more than that.”

“Not without the major,” replied Marshall with a note of triumph. “And you don’t have the major, not in recognisable form.”

True on both counts, thought Bliss, looking at him askance, still wondering if he knew more about the soldiers than the value. “And you do have a major, I suppose?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I do. I have a single major.”

“But that’s all you’ve got,” Bliss guessed. “And I’ve got the rest of the set.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me, Inspector?”

Bliss laughed, “Far from it. I’m trying to protect the assets of a dying old lady, though I’m not sure she deserves to be protected. Anyway, stop beating about the bush – how much?”

Marshall put on his military haughtiness. “The last set to come on the market sold for more than twelve thousand pounds.”

“Phew! – Twelve thousand quid for a toy.”

“Not a toy, Inspector. Assuming your identification is correct, only the fifth set of its kind known to be in existence in the world today – a rare find indeed.”

Bliss was still shaking his head, “Twelve thousand ...”

“That was a few years ago. Today, in a New York auction room, it could easily sell for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The phone rang, it was a woman – unwilling to leave her name, according to the telephonist. “Tell her to call back ... ” he started, then thinking – hoping – it might be Samantha, he politely ushered Marshall out of the office and took the call.

The voice was muffled and indistinct – Samantha with pneumonia he was thinking – then he realised it was not her, it was Doreen Dauntsey, her voice cracking emotionally, “I believe you wanted to see me, Inspector.”

“Yes – that’s correct,” he replied. “This morning please,” he added, leaving little room for dissension.

“I shall be waiting for you,” she said, her voice laden with resignation.

Sergeant Patterson was on the warpath over the goat and had by-passed the chain of command to take his complaint straight to the top. “Superintendent Donaldson wants to see you,” he said to Bliss, spying him and Peter Marshall on their way to the evidence store.

“Tell him I’ll be half an hour, Pat, would you please.”

“He said it was very urgent,” said Patterson, emphasising the “very.”

“Sorry about this,” apologised Bliss, leaving Marshall dancing in anticipation in the public waiting room.

He found Donaldson in his office furiously spinning a gyroscope. “What the hell’s going on, Dave?”

“Sir?”

“What’s this nonsense about you keeping a goat in the cells?”

Bliss smiled and tried to make light of it. “Don’t tell me it’s crapped on the floor.”

“We’re going to have to fumigate the whole place,” he complained, whipping the little silver gyroscope again.

“What?” Bliss screwed his nose in confusion. “Wait a minute, Guv. Is somebody winding you up? Has someone told you it’s a real goat – a live goat?”

“No – I know what it is,” he shouted. “It’s stuffed – and so will you be if you don’t get it out of there PDQ.”

Bliss’s confusion deepened. “I’m sorry but I don’t see the problem, Guv.”

“You don’t, eh! Well, what about Standing Orders?” He grabbed the huge book of rules and stabbed a finger at the open page – the page Patterson had found for him. “It says here,” he read, “‘Whenever a dead animal has been stored or conveyed on police premises, such premises, (or conveyance), shall be thoroughly cleansed by way of fumigation before any further use is made of such premises, (or conveyance).’”

“But it was nothing to do with me, Sir ...”

“I understood it was your goat.”

Bliss conceded the point. “But it’s been dead for ages.”

“All the more reason I would say.”

With both Marshall and Doreen Dauntsey waiting, he decided against arguing the point further. “I’ll put it in the garage as soon as I have a minute.”

“I doubt if there’s room,” gloated Donaldson, not concealing the fact he was being deliberately obstructive.

“It’s a goat not a woolly mammoth,” he said stomping out.

“Well, you’d better get it moved right now,” Donaldson yelled after him. “I don’t want any more complaints, and you might have to pay for the fumigation as well.”

The goat seemed to have put on weight as he half carried, half dragged it, across the car park to the garage, cursing Daphne at every step. I shall have to get a pick-up to take it away, he was thinking as he rammed the old animal into a convenient corner.

“You can’t leave that there,” called a gangly youth in a mechanic’s overall.

“Do you want a bet?” me mumbled walking away.

“Oy. I said ...”

Bliss tuned him out and set his sights on Daphne who was emptying her vacuum cleaner into a garbage bin.

“I want to talk to you about that damn goat …” he barked but she dropped the cleaner in disgust and turned on him.

“It’s going to take me all day to disinfect that cell. And have you seen all that hair? It’s shedding faster than a cheap paintbrush.”

Bliss stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”

“I said there’s hair everywhere, look at your suit – you’re covered.”

He looked, then grabbed her and kissed her wetly on the forehead. “You’re a whiz, Daph old girl.”

“Here, less of the old.”

“Sorry,” he said, rushing off along the corridor.

Detective Sergeant Patterson was shooting the breeze in the C.I.D. office when Bliss burst in.

“Yes, Guv?” he queried, as if Bliss had blundered into the women’s toilets by mistake.

“The duvet in the Dauntsey case, Pat – did we have it checked for hair?”

“Not yet – we ain’t got any suspects, so there’s not much point.”

“Do it anyway, will you please?”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch – at least we’ll know if we’re looking for a white-haired old faggot, or a purple haired pansy with a ring in his nose.”

Patterson looked unconvinced and said so, “Waste of bloody time if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking, Sergeant. Now have we got the results from the lab on that syringe yet?”

“Not yet, Guv,” he said. “It’ll take a week or so at least,” thinking it might take considerably longer if he didn’t get round to sending it.

“Well get onto them – I want it yesterday – understood?”

“Will do, Guv,” he said, and slid lethargically back in his chair. “Anything you say, Guv. You’re the boss.”

“Thank you,” muttered Bliss as he left, adding, “Now to make a modeler’s day.”

The Royal Horse Artillery gun carriage set, complete with original box, had not made Marshall’s day, or his week – it had been the moment he’d waited for most of his life. “He was bawling like a kid,” Bliss explained excitedly to a barely interested Donaldson half an hour later. “He stood with one of the tiny horseman in his hands, eyes closed, quivering in delight – like he was having an orgasm – then these tears started pouring down his cheeks.”

“Humph,” grunted Donaldson as he helped himself to a biscuit from a packet concealed under his desk.

“Anyway, Guv, it seems that Major Dauntsey left quite a legacy – one of the rarest sets of model soldiers in the world.”

“So where does that leave us with the murder, Inspector?” he asked coldly, and Bliss heard the snap of the biscuit under the desk as Donaldson prepared for his departure.

“Nothing changes. In fact I’m just off to see Doreen Dauntsey – she called saying she wanted to talk to me. With any luck, I’ll have the Major’s case sewn up in an hour or so.”

“And Jonathon?”

“Patterson’s working on that at the moment.”

“Right – And have you got rid of the goat?”

“I’m working on that.”

He could have left for the nursing home immediately, but he hesitated at the front door and decided that he should take a copy of the pathologist’s report with him – after all he was going to officially notify a woman of her widowhood. Returning to his office he flicked on his computer to pull up the report, then slumped as the blood drained from his face and his legs gave way.

In a daze, he picked up the phone, dialled Samantha’s number, then found himself wondering why.

“Samantha ... is that you?” he squeaked as she came on the line.

“Dave, are you alright? You sound dreadful.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were O.K.”

“Just a sniffle – all I needed was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Thanks for asking.”

“Oh good – I’m glad.”

“Dave – there is something the matter, I can sense it.”

“Remind me never to lie to you. Can you meet me tonight? ... It’s rather important, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, of course – I finish at ten but we could meet earlier ...”

“No, ten’s fine ...” he said, quickly adding, “But don’t come here. Meet me at the beach again.”

“Alright ...” she replied inquisitivel,. “I will, but something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said, slowly putting the phone down, and he sat mesmerised by the words on the computer screen in front of him.

“Your time is up – BANG! – Ha-ha-ha.”