Читать книгу Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle - James Hawkins - Страница 18

It was not until eleven-fifteen in the evening that Samantha slipped the key into her front door.

“Sorry I’m late, Dave,” she called cheerily, hanging her jacket in the closet, sighing “That’s better” as she kicked off her black uniform shoes. “Shit!”

Bliss, worried, dashed out of the living room into the narrow hallway. “What is it?”

“How long have you been here?”

He looked at his watch, confused. “About nine hours, I guess.”

“Nine hours,” she echoed. “Nine fuckin’ hours and already I’m apologising to you for being an hour late getting home from work.”

“Sorry ...”

She caught the disappointment on his face. “No – it’s alright, Dave. It’s not you. It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe I should go ...” he started, half-heartedly, but she flung her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

“I said it was my fault,” she said and clamped her lips on his until he was struggling for breath.

“I’ll stay,” he gave in without a fight. “Anyway, I made dinner for you.”

“You cook?”

“Of course.”

“You can definitely stay.”

“You haven’t tried it yet.”

“Food’s food – and it can’t be worse than mine.”

She rushed to the kitchen – chicken schnitzel with creamy mushroom sauce on a bed of rice. “You cooked this!”

“It didn’t cook itself.”

“Wow!”

“Well?” he said, dancing in anticipation. “What did you find out?”

It was the ownership of the blue Volvo that interested him. He’d spotted it behind the Mitre Hotel following the coffee house encounter with Jonathon and his mother.

“What is it, Dave?” Samantha had asked, sensing him trying to shrink behind a parked car as she, Bliss and Daphne were trying to figure out how to get at his belongings without running into an ambush of Superintendent Donaldson’s men.

“Blue Volvo at ten o’clock,” Bliss had said from the corner of his mouth, seeing it disappearing out of the far end of the car park.

“That’s the car what’s been hanging around my place a lot recently,” said Daphne.

Bliss, wide-eyed in surprise, asked, “I don’t suppose you got the number?”

“Of course I have,” she replied, squirrelling into her handbag and coming up with a neat little diary. “Times, dates and places,” she said. “Six times – seven with today – in a little over a week.”

Samantha stared at the sprightly old lady in disbelief as she used the little gold pen from her diary to write the number on a scrap of paper.

“Do me a favour ...” said Bliss, not recognising the number, passing it to Samantha, “See what you can find out.”

“No problem, Dave. I’m on duty at two.”

“Well?” he said, still desperate to know if it was the killer himself or a hired assassin in the Volvo. But Samantha tortured him with procrastination as she insisted on trying a bite of everything from the pot.

“Orgasmic,” she cried, over a mouthful of the mushroom sauce, “Mason’s his real name – string of aliases ... Is this asparagus frozen?”

“Fresh – just wait a minute.”

“Can’t ... Wow! ... Petty villain ... How d’ye get chicken this tender?”

“You smack it around. Mason what?”

“Bomber is his street name ... Bomber Mason.”

Alarms went off in his mind. His front door imploded again. “A plastics man?”

“No, just a nickname; bit of a piss artist as a youngster; bombed out of his brains most of the time. Nothing recent on the sheet – done time for burglaries; taking without consent; handling stolen goods ... I can’t get over this chicken ... He’s been in the frame for a couple of small bank jobs – got off.”

“Why?”

“Gawd knows ... this rice is terrific ... You’d have to ask Patterson – he’s nicked him three or four times recently.”

“Will you sit down ... red or white? I didn’t know which you preferred so I got one of each.”

“Wine as well. You certainly know how to impress a girl ... ummh – a Grand Cusinier ... Yes please, the red. What did you do about Donaldson?”

“I called in sick – left a message with the civvy on the enquiry desk.”

“You didn’t say where you were staying?” her voice rose anxiously.

“Of course not,” he said, pouring the wine. “No-one knows I’m here.”

It was a little after midnight. The dinner had been superb – he’d even made the chocolate mousse. Keep busy, he had told himself, take your mind off everything. And the corner supermarket had been surprisingly well stocked.

“Do you still think Doreen shot Tippen?” asked Samantha sitting next to him on the guest bed, toying with his nose as he lay back on the pillow.

“You’re tickling ... She seems the only one with a motive and he meant nothing to her, neither did Rupert come to that. According to Daphne, Doreen was the town bike before Rupert swept her off her back.”

“Dave ... that’s not nice.”

“Well ... that’s according to Daphne. Anyway, she obviously liked the idea of being the Major’s wife, even if it meant marrying a frog.”

“But the frog’s supposed to turn into a prince, not a toad.”

“Now who’s being unkind? But, seriously, she must’ve thought she’d won the lottery – big house; nice clothes; estate in Scotland.”

“And the world’s ugliest toad.”

“Is that why they say you should be careful what you wish for?”

Samantha reached with her lips and kissed him lusciously.

“What was that for?” he asked dreamily.

“I could tell what you were wishing for,” she laughed.

“What I can’t understand is why she waited ten years to bump him off,” said Bliss, his mind still absorbed by the Dauntsey case despite a stirring in his groin. “She’d got what she wanted, even if it came with more strings than the Berlin Philharmonic. Surely it didn’t take that long to work out that nobody would care if he disappeared.”

“But why leave him in the attic?” she asked, quivering at the thought.

Bliss hugged her warmly and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, wondering what was above it, in her attic. “I suppose she thought it was the safest place. If she’d buried him in the garden she risked being seen.”

The ceiling still held his attention – battleship grey. Unusual colour, he decided critically, but it matched the rest of the room: mid-Atlantic green – jade with the warmth washed out – highlighted with azure trim and accentuated by navy blue bed linen. The ensemble had a nautical, masculine feel, he concluded.

“How come I slept on the couch last night?” he asked, looking around. “You didn’t tell me you had guest room.”

Samantha coloured up, muttering, “I didn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

“You didn’t believe me, did you?” he said, catching on and sitting up to emphasise his point.

“Well,” she stroked his arm placatingly. “You’ve got to admit it was a pretty lame chat-up line: Someone left me a death threat on my computer; broke into the police garage; incinerated my stuffed goat. Ergo, I need a bed for the night. Would you have believed it?”

“It was true,” he protested. “I couldn’t go back to the Mitre ...”

“I believe you, Dave. I just wasn’t too sure at one o’clock this morning.”

Soothing him down with another kiss she lay next to him, fully clothed, and teased his hair. “Like I said, Dave, I didn’t want you to get too comfortable.”

“I could pay for the room.”

“You will not,” she shot back. “I’m not having you, or anyone else, having rights. As long as you’re a guest I can boot you out anytime I get fed up with you ... Oh don’t look so hurt. I’m just making sure you behave yourself, that’s all.”

“I’ll behave,” he said.

It was close to twelve-thirty. The barman in the lounge of the Mitre Hotel dimmed the lights suggestively, took off his bow tie and yawned with histrionic exaggeration. Detective Sergeant Patterson had worn out the carpet in front of the bar and was taking a circuit around the largely empty room.

“Where the hell is Bliss?” he asked, pausing to give Dowding a shake in passing.

“Oh! Sorry, Guv. I must’ve dozed off.”

“I said, where the hell ... Oh, never mind. Go back to sleep.”

Bliss was drifting toward sleep himself as Samantha soothed the lines on his brow. “I’ll give you a penny for them, Dave?”

“I’m wondering what to do about Doreen?”

“She’s an old lady. She’s dying.”

“So am I. So are you – everyday we get a little closer.”

“That’s morbid.”

“True though. I just find it difficult to feel sympathy for somebody who thought she could sleep her way to a fortune, however small, and was prepared to live a lie for fifty years to keep hold of it. She didn’t give a shit about Rupert Dauntsey – alive or dead.”

“But he didn’t give a shit about her.”

“Two wrongs ... ” he started, then shrugged. “Maybe they deserved each other, though I still can’t forgive her, especially after what Daphne went through.”

“What did Daphne go through?”

“I promised not to tell.”

She caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “I could bite ... ”

He told ... D-Day; the dead baby; Hugo – the works.

“Wow,” said Samantha, breathless. “And I worry about finding the odd dead body on the beach. But how did she get the O.B.E.?”

“I’ve no idea. It’s almost as if she’s ashamed of it. She always manages to slide off onto something else whenever she gets close to telling.”

“Goodnight, Dave,” she said, slipping off the bed without warning – just a peck on his lips and a squeeze of the hand.

He tried to grab her but she jerked away, saying, lightheartedly, “I told you – behave or you’ll be out. And I’ll tell Donaldson where to find you.”

“Sorry, Miss,” he joked.

She paused, hand on the door. “Just be patient, Dave,” she said, turning, clearly torn, then made a decision. “You know what they say, Dave – easy come, easy go.” And she was gone.

It was nearly 1 am. Westchester had shut down for the night; the barman at the Mitre had pulled down the shutters and gone home; Patterson was close to giving up. “Why the hell didn’t he tell us?” he said, putting the blame on Bliss for the hundredth time. “He should’ve told us somebody was after him.”

Dowding stirred sufficiently to find a more comfortable position.

Bliss couldn’t get comfortable. It wasn’t the bed’s fault. A maelstrom of thoughts kept him tossing as he tried to unravel the twisted eternal triangle between Doreen, Rupert Dauntsey and David Tippen – who did what to whom, and why? Daphne, the goat and Mandy’s murderer also surfaced from time to time but, amongst the mental turmoil, Samantha was the only constant, a solid ray of sunshine at the centre of the storm – like the eye in a hurricane. And he kept coming back to her, just the other side of a hollow stud wall he reminded himself, warming to indelible images of her mysteriously dark Asiatic eyes and olive black hair.

It was eighteen minutes after one. A wash of yellow light seeped from under her bedroom door. “Samantha,” he tapped lightly.

“Yes, Dave?”

“I can’t sleep – do you want a cup of tea?”

“Yes please – I can’t sleep either.”

“Do you take sugar?” he asked, walking in, two cups in hand. “I’ve been thinking about Bomber Mason, the Volvo driver,” he continued. But his mind was screaming: And you, Samantha. I’ve been thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about you.

He eyed the bed, decided against pushing his luck, slumped into a bedside chair and tried to keep his eyes off her. “This Mason bloke and Mandy’s killer probably did time together ...” he began while thinking: Get out now, why torture yourself like this. “He’s probably told Mason to find out my routine so he can strike at the best time.”

He looked at her – it was a mistake. Oh my God – you’re bloody gorgeous, Samantha.

“Dave ...?”

“Yes ... Sorry ...”

“You’re staring.”

“Shit! ... Sorry ... Um ... Maybe I should ... um.”

“Dave.”

“Yes?”

“Mason ... What are you planning to do about him?”

“Oh ... Um ... Mason ... Yes.”

“So what’s your plan, Dave?”

Concentrating hard he focused on the tea in his cup and got his mind in order. “Alright. First thing in the morning I’ll pay him a visit and beat the crap out of him if I have to. Once I know where his buddy, the murderer, is ... You’re bloody gorgeous, Samantha.”

“Dave,” she laughed.

“Sorry – it just sort of slipped out. I’d better go. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“G’night, Dave. Thanks for the tea.”

It was three minutes before two. Patterson gave Dowding a shake. “O.K., Bob. Let’s call it a day. He won’t be back tonight and I’ve got to see a man about a dog first thing.”

“Right, Serg,” said Dowding, relieved.

It was eleven minutes past two. Bliss had lain awake counting every minute with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas Eve. I need a pee, he thought, regretting drinking the tea, and he crept out into the hallway. The spill of light from under Samantha’s door lit his path to the bathroom and the noisy torrent hitting the pan reverberated around the room, turning him pink. Then, faced with the early riser’s dilemma – to flush or not to flush – he flushed.

“Sorry,” he said, tapping lightly, praying she was still awake.

“Come in.” She was reading Woman’s Own. “Can’t sleep,” she explained as he poked his head round the door, not trusting himself to go in. “I was hoping this might bore me to sleep,” she laughed, flinging it aside. “You know the sort of thing – How to knit your own knickers; Haggis – boiled or fried; the joy of yeast infections.”

He looked askance. She was joking? “I forgot to ask earlier. Did you get hold of the forensic lab?”

“Oh yes. Patterson took the stuff in Monday afternoon.”

“I thought he would – I kicked his ass.”

“Not hard enough apparently. He didn’t tell them it was urgent.”

“Damn.”

“It’s O.K. They’ll make a start on the duvet first thing this morning and let us have a preliminary finding at lunchtime. The blood on the syringe ...”

“Blood – What blood?”

“Didn’t they tell you? Oh no, of course not. Apparently they’ve found traces of blood, but it will take a while to identify because it was burnt?”

“Blood,” he breathed, adding, “That’s interesting,” as he started to close her door. “Thanks,” he said, absently, his mind absorbed as he tried unsuccessfully to find a link between Jonathon Dauntsey, the flattened toy Major and a syringe of blood. “Goodnight.”

“G’night, Dave.”

It was three-twenty-seven. The first shafts of midsummer sunlight had roused a cockerel in a nearby field and he was doing his best to pass on the news. Bliss needed no such alarm and was roaming the house trying to reconstruct Samantha’s background through artefacts and mementos. He found little, other than a plastic coffee mug extolling the beauty of the Seychelles which had washed up on the draining board in her kitchen, a tasteless Eiffel Tower saltcellar, a single Delft clog and a crooked Italian campanile: Souvenirs or airport presents, he wondered, finding none that bore personalised inscriptions.

A number of pictures, both painted and photographic, could have come from any high street shop, he thought; nothing garish, nothing requiring an explanation or a psychiatrist; nothing that looked more like an accident than a work of art. One picture, a family portrait in a gold frame, made him pause: a pony-tailed Samantha, aged 10 or so, together with mother and father, and a huge yellow Labrador in a green garden.

Creeping up behind him, she caught him in the act. “Are your parents still alive, Dave?” she asked, making him jump with the picture in his hand.

“I sometimes wonder.”

“What?”

“Oh sorry ... I wasn’t thinking. Yeah – Bungalow in Brighton. Sort of trapped in a time warp. They do exactly the same things every day – have done for at least twenty years. It starts with: ‘Cornflakes dear – or would you like a change?’ ‘No – cornflakes are fine.’ And ends with: ‘Ovaltine alright?’ When I first visited Doreen Dauntsey in the nursing home she told me that all the others in there were already dead and I knew what she meant.”

“I hope I never get like that,” said Samantha with a shudder.

“At your age – it’s a distinct possibility.”

“You’d better watch what you say,” she said, snatching the picture and digging him in his ribs, “or you’ll be back on the couch tonight.”

“Your dog?” he questioned, giving the Labrador a nod.

Her eyes misted and her voice cracked. “He was born the same day as me – my parents thought it was a good idea.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“He died,” she replied, the simplicity of her words barely concealing the anguish.

“And what about your parents?” he asked, pointing to the vital young couple in the gold-framed photo, hoping to strike a happier note.

She took the picture and stood it back on the shelf with exaggerated care. “Split up years ago,” she said, with a bitterness that evinced unpleasant thoughts for both of them.

“Is that why you’ve never married?” he asked, trying to duck the pain of the break-up of his own marriage.

“You make it sound as though I’ve left it too late.”

“No ... ” he started, but let the word drift as she spun on her heals and headed for the bathroom.

Picking up the gilt-framed picture again, he scrutinised the young couple and their child in their Sunday best, noted the mother/daughter likeness, recognised Samantha’s intriguingly tenebrous eyes in her father’s, and pieced together an explanation for the barricade surrounding her. I bet she’s protecting herself, trying to guard against the pain of loss by avoidance of a relationship with anyone: men, women, pets.

She was back, tissue in hand. He challenged her with the picture. “What did you say to me the other night? You’ve got to have a plan, Dave – you’ll never find your way back onto the old path, and if you do, you won’t like what you find at the end.”

“Good memory,” she said, noncommittally.

“So, do you have a plan?” He held up his hand to block her reply. “I know what you’re thinking: Stay single; live alone; don’t get involved. That’s not a plan, that’s a coward’s way out.” He stopped with the realisation he was talking about himself as much as her, but she didn’t answer, she just stood staring into the picture, into the faces of her past.

“I’m right aren’t I?” he said, prodding her.

It was just a guess, a shot in the dark, but he’d hit the mark and she coloured up. “Maybe.”

“Maybe my ass. You’re a lovely woman. If you’re on your own it’s because you’ve made it that way. And don’t give me the crap about working crazy hours. You’d find time if you wanted to.”

“Being single has a lot of benefits ...” she began, but he cut her off.

“It’s also bloody lonely.”

She used the tissue without taking her eyes off the picture. “It took me years to realise that dead relationships can be as insidious as dead people. I clung to the good memories for ages, going back to the places they used to take me as a child – warm, friendly, happy places. But there was nothing there. Places I loved like the Tower of London and the New Forest had gone cold – horrible, ugly. It took me a long time to realise it wasn’t the places, it was my Dad that made them special.”

“That’s what good Dad’s do,” he said, warm memories softening his voice. “But what about bad memories – didn’t you have any of those?”

“Oh yeah. Lots. It’s the bad memories that warn you not to get involved again.”

“That’s why I feel a certain compassion for Jonathon, whatever he’s done,” he said, feeling her pain and taking the spotlight off her. “I don’t think he even knew who is father is – or was. Did you see how quick Doreen was to hustle him out of the coffee house when she thought I was going to tell him the man in the turret room wasn’t his father?”

“So you think he believed Tippen was his father, and that he had deserted them by going to Scotland.”

“Yes,” he nodded, then paused with a puzzled frown, realising his mistake. “Wait a minute. Jonathon couldn’t have smashed up the toy soldier in retaliation for being deserted.”

“Why not?”

He fell silent for a second, his mind churning. “He must’ve taken the toy soldier before Tippen was killed. He couldn’t have got it later, it would have been sealed in the attic with the rest of the set.”

They had wandered back to Samantha’s bedroom and Samantha had wandered into bed. Bliss hung about indecisively near the doorway, still trying to piece together the toy soldier and Jonathon.

“You might as well get in,” she said, flicking back a corner of the duvet. He hesitated for half a second, slipped in beside her and was asleep before he hit the pillow.

It was 8 am. Somebody had fixed the alarm clock to sound the moment he fell asleep, at least it seemed that way, and he rolled over to find a warm empty space and a delicious memory.

The sizzling kettle hid the noise of his approach as he crept softly behind her in the kitchen and gently nuzzled his lips to the nape of her neck. “Gorgeous,” he breathed. “You’re up early. Where are you going?”

“With you, of course.”

He shook his head. “Not a good idea. Donaldson wouldn’t have bought my ‘sick’ story for one minute. He’ll still have people out looking for me.”

“So?”

“You don’t want to be seen with me – not a good career move.”

“Rubbish. Tea or coffee? What’s your plan?”

The road back to Westchester was a race-track of morning commuters and Bliss found himself watching the other drivers – seeing aliens living in a parallel world; a world in which they would never be shot or bombed; a world where mutilated murder victims would only ever appear in artistically arranged clips on the ten-o’clock news or at the movies: sanitised death; tastefully presented death; socially acceptable death.

“Look at him with his bow-tie,” said Bliss, poking fun at a Bentley driver as he swept majestically past, thinking: I bet his whole world would crash if you took away his cell-phone and cheque-book – he hasn’t got a clue.

Neither Bomber Mason, nor a Mrs. Mason, answered the door at the address registered to the Volvo. The semi-detached house showed no sign of life and even less sign of care.

“Stay there,” he said, leaving her on the overgrown front path as he kicked his way through a patch of nettles to peer into the front window, making a peephole through the grime with a saliva-moistened tissue.

“Nothing,” he said as he came away shaking his head. “If he’s a break-and-enter merchant he must have knocked over an Oxfam shop to get furniture that bad.”

“I guess crime doesn’t pay as much as it used to,” replied Samantha, checking out the empty garage.

“The only people who make it pay today have computers and fancy corporate titles,” he said, leaning heavily against the unyielding front door.

The wooden front gate fell off its hinges under Bliss heavy hand as they left. “Shit!”

“Did you do that on purpose?” laughed Samantha as they scooted back to his car.

“I didn’t think it would break that easily.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Honestly, Sam.”

She stopped with such purpose he heard the squeal of shoes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry ... I ... I didn’t ...”

“My name is Samantha,” she continued, with a resolve that spoke of past traumas and left a question in the air which she defied him to ask.

He didn’t ask. “Sorry, Samantha.”

She lightened immediately and bounced back to his side as they made for his car.

“Breakfast then,” he said, assigning the contraction of her name to a past lover – one of the insidious dead relationships she’d spoken of – and headed for the restaurant where he’d met the Westchester Gazette reporter.

“My Dad always called me Sam,” she admitted sheepishly without prompting, after a few minutes of awkward silence in the car. “It’s sort of special.”

He smiled warmly, “I know how he feels. I call my daughter Sam and it means such a lot to me.”

If he couldn’t see the darkness in her face, he certainly felt the sudden chill in the air and knew the cause. “Bugger,” he said under his breath. “I’ve said the wrong thing again.”

Now what? he worried, as the ragged edge of the town gave way to rolling hills and hawthorn hedges of the countryside, and the oppressive silence became deafening. He looked at the radio, dismissed it as too obvious, and opened his window to the rush of wind. I’ll have to say something in a minute, he thought, as he slowed at the sign, “The Bacon Butty – all day breakfasts,” but Samantha beat him to it.

“There’s Mason’s Volvo,” she said, with so little surprise she might have been pointing out a pigeon or a pony.

It was just pulling out of the car park. “Gotcha,” shouted Bliss, locking his back wheels in a 180° spin, shooting off after it.

Samantha spun her head around. “Isn’t that Sergeant Patterson?” she asked, amazed, seeing a figure coming out the café.

“Where? Are you sure?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only met him once or twice

Bliss stared deeply into his mirror but the man’s image had already shrunk to an unrecognisable size. “Could’ve been anyone,” he muttered.

They caught up to the small blue hatchback in seconds and Bliss mentally confirmed the number. “That’s him,” he breathed, as if he had never expected it to be, then, pulling alongside at a junction, he got a close look at the driver. “It’s not him – not Mandy’s killer,” he said, full of disappointment.

“Of course it’s not,” said Samantha, with a touch of aggravation. “It’s Bomber Mason.”

“I know,” he said. “But haven’t you ever got an idea into your head and can’t shift it even when the truth is staring you in the face?”

“Is this déjà-vu or have we had this conversation before?”

“Oh yes. I forgot – Your childish faith in the existence of Santa Claus.”

The Volvo was speeding up, the driver looking nervously in his mirror.

“He’s spotted us,” said Bliss

“Not surprising – any closer and you’ll be up his exhaust pipe.”

An hour later Superintendent Donaldson sat at his desk keeping half a dozen executive toys in motion simultaneously. Samantha, sitting alongside Bliss, was ready to scream “for Christ’s sake, stop that” when a timid tap presaged the entrance of Detective Sergeant Patterson.

“Come in,” shouted Donaldson with ill-concealed tetchiness.

“You wanted to see me, Guv,” he began, then paled to marble as the blood drained from his face. “Mr. Bliss,” he breathed in disbelief.

“Sit-down-Patterson,” ordered Donaldson, stringing the words together into a single command.

“Sir ...?”

“I said sit.”

He sat.

“You know Sergeant Holingsworth from Blenheim-on-sea I understand.”

Patterson’s brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at Samantha. “No. I don’t think we’ve met ...”

“Take a good look,” said Donaldson with uncharacteristic fierceness, not waiting for the other man to finish.

“What is this?” Patterson demanded, rising and looking at Bliss for some sort of explanation. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I said – sit down, Sergeant. I won’t tell you again.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Walk out that door and I’ll arrest you myself.”

“Arrest ... What for? I ain’t done nuvving.”

Donaldson was unyielding. “Sergeant Patterson – one more time – the very last time. Do you recognise Sergeant Holingsworth?”

Patterson wavered. It was obvious he’d missed something important but couldn’t grasp it. “No, Sir.”

“You don’t recognise her from the description?”

“What description?”

“The one that Bomber Mason gave you.”

“Patterson looked as though he’d crapped in his pants,” Samantha laughed later as she shared lunch with Bliss and Donaldson at The Mitre Hotel.

“So did Mason when he had his accident,” laughed Bliss as he downed a third celebratory scotch.

Bomber Mason’s car accident, at the time it occurred, surprised only Bomber Mason. Bliss and Samantha knew exactly what was coming and were braced for it, though it had not been easy to arrange.

“Have you ever had a car crash?” Bliss had said, revealing his intention as they tailgated the Volvo from the Bacon Butty toward Westchester.

“One or two.”

“Get ready – you’re going to have another.”

“Wait a minute, Dave,” she said, pulling her cell-phone out. “Why don’t I call up a uniform car to stop him.”

“On what grounds? That Daphne said he’d parked in her street a few times; that a similar vehicle might have followed me to London?”

She took a deep breath and put the phone down. “You’re right, but it’ll play havoc with your insurance.”

“I’ll risk it. Anyway, it’s a hire car.”

“They’ll love you.”

“You should have seen Mason’s face,” said Samantha to Donaldson between bites of pâté, “He didn’t know what had hit him. Dave was brilliant. ‘My dear, Sir, I am so sorry,’ he said, helping him out of the wrecked Volvo. Mason didn’t know whether he’d been stung, screwed or stuffed. Wham!” she laughed, “We’d rammed him straight up the ass and smacked him into a lamp post.”

The “accident” had been considerably more difficult to engineer than Bliss had envisaged. “He’s going too bloody fast,” he complained to Samantha as Mason tried to outpace them. “I want to shake him up a bit, not put him in hospital.”

“Westchester’s coming up,” she said, sighting the 40 mile an hour sign. “He’ll have to slow down.”

“Slow down, you bastard,” breathed Bliss: Mind the pedestrians; watch the cyclist; slow down – slow down; mind that bus. That’s all I need – send him spinning out of control into a bus stop full of schoolkids – that really would finish my career.

“Look out!”

“Fuck – those lights changed quick.”

“Phew ... that was close. You nearly got that Jag.”

“Sorry – Get ready, I’ll try to nail him at the next light ... Hold tight. Hold tight ... Shit!”

“What is it?”

A jaywalking pedestrian. “Watch the lights, you pillock,” screamed Bliss, adding, “And up yours!” in response to the finger.

The smiling Swedish receptionist, doubling as a lunchtime waitress, poured Bliss a glass of house Cabernet and waited for his approval. “Fine,” he nodded, then continued to Donaldson. “Samantha was the one who cracked Mason really. All I did was pull him out of the wreck ...”

“And rub him down,” interrupted Samantha.

“Just making sure you’re not injured, Sir,” he had said to the dazed man as he checked him for weapons before throwing him across the bonnet with his arm up his back. “So, Bomber – why are you following me?”

“You’re crazy,” he spat. “I dunno what yer talking about.”

“Who are you working for?”

“Let go. No-one. I ain’t working for no-one.”

“We’d better call the police then.”

“You are the police ... ” he started, then choked himself off – too late.

“Well. Well. Well,” said Bliss, screwing the arm painfully higher. “So how would you know that, Bomber? How would you know we’re police, unless you’ve been following me?”

“I wanna lawyer.”

“I bet you do.”

“Dave,” called Samantha from the rear of the damaged Volvo. “You might want to see this.”

“What is it – what have you planted on me this time?” said Mason, already preparing his defence.

“Have you got a dog, Bomber?” asked Samantha scraping a handful of short white hairs out of the open tailgate, as Bliss frogmarched him to the badly buckled rear of the car.

“I want my lawyer. I’ve been framed,” he squealed.

“Framed – that’s a serious accusation, Bomber,” said Samantha. “Framed for carrying your dog around in the back of your car. Tut, tut, tut. That would get the police a bad name if we started framing villains for carrying the pooch around in the back of the family motor. Now, on the other hand, if we were to discover that these hairs were, for arguments sake, from a stolen stuffed goat on its way to be cremated ... ”

“I didn’t steal it.”

Bliss laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Helping the police with their enquiries takes on a whole new meaning when dealing with scum like you. So, if you didn’t steal it – how did it get in the back of your car?”

“I hope the steaks are better than the Pâté,” moaned Superintendent Donaldson sotto voce as the plates were cleared away.

“I wouldn’t bank on it,” replied Bliss, recalling Daphne’s admonition about Mavis Longbottom’s culinary skills.

“Anyway,” continued Donaldson, shaking his head in dismay, “I still don’t know what came over Patterson to set you up like that.”

“I do,” said Samantha, jumping in. “He was jealous. He was in line for the D.I.’s job until Dave came along. The only thing he could do was scare him off, and he got Mason to do his dirty work ... But you weren’t scared were you, Dave?”

“No,” he said, hoping it sounded convincing, adding, “Patterson put the message on the computer, but Mason followed me, and Mason set fire to the ...”

“Inspector Bliss,” a familiar voice interrupted and he turned to see White, the Gazette reporter advancing on him.

“Mr. White ...” he started, rising with outstretched hand, still fascinated by the little man’s weirdly mismatched head and body.

“Oh. I see you’ve met at last,” said the receptionist in passing.

“Sorry ...” said Bliss. “I don’t understand.”

She stopped. “This was the gentleman who was enquiring about you last week. I told you. Remember?”

The funny looking man delving through the register – trying to discover if he was from London. Of course, Bliss said to himself, as everything fell into place, it had been White trying to get background information for his article on the new man in town. “Well, well, Mr. White,” he smiled, realising that the last of his fears had evaporated into thin air. “We meet again. Please join us. I might have a scoop for you.”