Читать книгу Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle - James Hawkins - Страница 32

Ashrill buzz pierced its way into Yolanda’s sleep and stung her sluggish limbs into action. Fighting her way through the duvet she came close to identifying the source of the noise when it stopped, and she sank back toward sleep, hoping it had been part of a dream, knowing it was not. A second buzz brought a slender arm, snake-like, groping for the phone, and she seized the handset and dragged it under the duvet. “Hello.”

Two minutes later she slipped out of bed, replaced the handset on its cradle, flicked on the bedside lamp, and stretched naked in front of an expensively framed full-length mirror—a masterpiece in glass. What a mess, she thought, horrified at her sleep-tousled hair and yesterday’s face. Shower first, she decided, but changed her mind. I’d better wake Dave. Captain Jahnssen had sounded unusually agitated on the phone, “Get Detective Bliss here right away—Edwards wants him.”

The bathroom’s fluorescent light was less forgiving than the bedside lamp and one glance in the harsh mirror convinced her to make hurried repairs before waking him.

“Dave,” she whispered, but thirty-six hours of high tension needed more than one night’s recuperation, and she stood quietly, studying the sleeping face in the half-light, listening to the peaceful song of his gentle breathing. She bent closer. “Dave,” she cooed, watching for movement in the laughter lines etched into the side of his face; listening for a change in his breathing. His fair skin showed the shadow of a beard in the dim light, and the crooked nose, seemingly at odds with an otherwise symmetrical face, tempted her to reach out and smooth it straight.

“Dave,” she tried, a touch louder and smiled, amused by the thought of this man sleeping in her guest room. “Dave,” she called, then leaned in and brushed her mouth lightly against his. The tip of his tongue darted out to run along his lips.

“Dave,” she sang, laughingly, in his ear.

His eyes opened slowly. “Ah—hah.”

She moved away a fraction so he could see her. “Dave, you have to get up. Superintendent Edwards wants to see you.”

“Shit,” he shouted, then, looking up into her face in the soft dawn light found an angel. “I must get up,” he said, hoping to break the spell and was half out of the bed before realizing he was nearly naked and, looking down, found a morning swell beneath the bedclothes. One inch further and she may have seen everything.

“Here, have mine,” she said, turning from him to slip the dressing gown off her shoulders, and he watched, mesmerized by the two humps of her buttocks wriggling beneath her filmy nightgown as she made her way out. Peeping provocatively from around the door, her body now hidden from view, she joked, “It’ll look better on you than me.” Then she was gone.

Fifteen minutes later, wide awake, showered, dressed in his own clothes—found neatly folded on an antique dressing table—he entered the cathedral-sized living room, its movie-screen sized window staring out over the ocean. Drawn inquisitively to the window, he swiped his hand across the glass to clear the condensation then stopped, feeling foolish, realizing the moisture was on the outside where the impenetrable fog was blotting out both sea and sky. His movements caught her attention. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she shouted from her bedroom. “The coffee’s hot. Get it yourself.”

“Can I bring you some?” he enquired, angling for an excuse to see her again in her nightgown.

“I’m not dressed,” she replied saucily, but he misunderstood the invitation and bumbled an apology.

By the time he had drank his coffee she was ready and slid alongside him at the kitchen counter. “Breakfast?”

“Not bloody herring.”

“I promise,” she laughed, opening the fridge. “Eggs, bacon, and cheese. Is that alright?”

“Cheese?” he queried. “With eggs and bacon.”

“This is Holland, Dave.”

“O.K.,” he said. “Sounds good to me. Now I wonder what the hell Edwards wants?”

An hour later the white BMW eased into the parking lot at the rear of the police station and Captain Jahnssen looked down from his office window. “Here they are Michael,” he sighed, seeing an end to the persistent whining that was driving him crazy. Superintendent Edwards checked his watch, mumbling, “Bout bloody time,” through his swollen lips, and strolled to the window in time to see Bliss emerging from the driver’s side. “Why’s he driving?” he asked accusingly. “He shouldn’t be driving one of your cars.”

Janhssen cringed, then struck back in exasperation. “It’s not ours, Michael. It’s Detective Pieters’ own car. She can let him drive if she wants to.”

“Up here Bliss,” commanded Edwards hanging over the balcony outside the captain’s office then, turning, he marched back into the office knowing his order would be obeyed.

Twenty seconds later Yolanda walked into Edwards’ broadside. “Not you Miss, just Bliss,” he hissed, as they entered the captain’s office.

She would have argued, though the captain’s look suggested she should not, and on her way out smiled sweetly at Bliss. “I’ll wait outside, Dave.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Edwards said sharply, his puffy lips adding additional venom. “Detective Bliss has one more task, then he’ll be going back to England on this morning’s ferry.”

“I’ll wait,” she replied, shooting Bliss a confidence-boosting smile, then slammed the door, cutting off any response.

Edwards took a few moments to compose himself, not knowing which was worse, a thumping from King or insolence from a woman, and he concentrated on plucking some imaginary fluff from his sleeve as he allowed the temperature in the room to simmer.

“King wants to talk to you, Bliss. Why?” No “Good morning, Officer. Did you sleep well.” Nothing pleasant.

“No idea, Sir.”

“I don’t know either … but I expect you to report everything he says directly to me and to no one else.”

“Right, Sir.”

“No one. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir. If that’s what you want.”

Edwards closed in, locking eyes. “That is what I want,” he said, emphasising each word individually. “Anyway,” he asked again, “why would he want to see you?”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything when I spoke to him before … What happened to your face, Sir?”

“Nothing,” Edwards’ hand flew to cover the damage, waffled something about an accident, then changed his mind. “Mind your own damn business.”

Bliss’ look to Captain Jahnssen asked, “What did I do?” and Edwards jumped all over him. “I saw that look Bliss. You look at me when I’m talking to you. If I tell you to mind your own damn business that’s exactly what you do. Do I make myself clear?”

Bliss chose not to answer.

Edwards’ voice rose to a fevered pitch. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” Impudence written all over his face.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir.’

The shouting brought Yolanda barrelling back into the room. “Anybody want coffee?” she called cheerily. Captain Jahnssen could have kissed her. “Good idea Yolanda. Let’s all go to the dining room for coffee.” Grabbing Bliss around the waist he started to propel him out of the door but Edwards was far from finished. “Wait. I…”

“Come on,” said the captain, ignoring the protest, “we all need some coffee.”

Yolanda caught Bliss’ hand and dragged him down the stairs, blatantly taunting Edwards who trailed behind, speechless.

Ex-police Constable Nosmo King, private detective, sometime acquaintance of Superintendent Michael Edwards, and now murder suspect, sat in the interview room waiting for Bliss. Two constables stood guard by the door and the giant sergeant filled the chair opposite him at the desk. They’re taking no chances, he concluded, guessing correctly that no one had bought the story of Edwards’ fall. Now labelled a violent offender he was not surprised when they’d roughly handcuffed him before dragging him the thirty feet or so from his cell to the interview room.

Bliss entered alone, oblivious to the reason for the heavy security, and waved the guards out. The sergeant hesitated, “I think we should stay.”

“I’m sure Mr. King will behave. Perhaps somebody would like to stand outside the door? I’ll call if I need assistance.”

“Well Nosmo, you asked to see me,” he said as soon as the door closed.

“What’s the weather like Dave?” he enquired, testing the temperature while deciding his tack.

The coldness of Bliss’ stare was enough—Don’t waste my time. “Start talking or I’m off.”

“Do you know Edwards well?” asked King.

“No—not really,” he replied slumping non-committally into a chair, and quite unprepared to discuss a fellow officer with a member of the public—especially a suspected murderer—even if he was an ex-cop.

“He doesn’t me like me very much.”

“So what?” Bliss shrugged, unconcerned, assuming Edwards had given him a hard time the previous evening, then he sat upright with the sudden realization that there was a hint of familiarity in King’s tone. “Do you know him?” It was a shot in the dark.

King drew a cigarette butt from his shirt pocket and made a performance of chewing it for several seconds before nodding slowly, “Yeah, I know him … Sergeant Michael Edwards, shit-stirrer extraordinaire, as he was ten years ago.”

Intrigued, Bliss’ eyes opened wide as King continued. “Dave … can I trust you?”

“Depends on what you’re going to tell me. I can’t promise that anything you say won’t be given in evidence.”

“I want you to believe me. I didn’t push that bloke off the ship.”

“Then why did you lie to me …” he started, but changed tack, curiosity getting the better of him, realizing there was something praying on King’s mind. “Wait a minute Nosmo. What do you know about Superintendent Edwards?”

“Have you got a light.”

Bliss shook off the request impatiently. “What do you know?”

King, still deliberating, tried to scratch his ear but the handcuffs made it difficult. “If I tell you about Edwards will you promise not to tell him? It’s nothing to do with LeClarc. Nothing at all.”

“O.K.—shoot,” said Bliss, his interest now piqued, “As long as it doesn’t affect this case, I’ll promise.”

“Edwards was the bastard who got me fired from the force,” King started bitterly. “He’d forgotten all about it. It didn’t mean anything to him but he destroyed my life. That’s why I hit him.”

Bliss jumped in his seat, amazement all over his face. “You hit him?”

“Yeah,” King laughed, “I smacked him in the gob last night. Then he remembered me. I bet he looks a mess this morning.”

“He does,” agreed Bliss, concealing a smirk.

“Does he still say it was an accident?”

Bliss nodded quickly.

“Thought he would,” continued King. “He’s too proud to admit someone bopped him and he wouldn’t want to try to explain why.”

“Why did you hit him?”

“Like I said, he ruined my life.”

“But how?”

King thought for a moment, still not sure he should divulge his relationship with Edwards, but then began, telling his story as if he had rehearsed it a hundred times.

“We were on the same force: Thames Valley. He was a sergeant with a bad reputation—battering prisoners, planting evidence, fitting people up—but he led a charmed life. Word was he had a little black book and he kept a record of every bloody thing anybody ever did wrong.”

Bliss interjected, “I’ve heard he still does.”

King looked up, “I bet he does. Anyway,” he continued with his prepared narration, “If he heard of an inspector screwing a policewoman or having a beer on duty, or a superintendent sloping off for a quick round of golf with his mates, he’d write it all down: Exact time, date, place, etc.” He mimicked the actions of a person writing, as far as the handcuffs would permit, then added, “Anytime he was in the shit he’d pull out his book, flick through the pages, and remind some poor sod what he’d done. It worked like a charm. Everyone was scared to bloody death. He reckoned he had something on every senior officer in the force. That’s how he got promotion, nobody wanted to upset him in case he pulled out his book.”

Bliss stopped him, “But you weren’t a senior officer, what did he have on you?”

“Nothing,” replied King quickly, annoyed at being interrupted, annoyed that Bliss would think he had a shady past. “He didn’t have nothing on me.”

Bliss screwed his eyes in confusion. King explained, “It was a domestic case. Some bloke with handy fists clobbered his wife and Edwards just happened to be in the area. I got there first. The woman had a bloody nose and a cracked tooth—bit messy, hardly fatal. The husband was upstairs bawling his eyes out, couldn’t believe what he’d done. Anyway, I was patching the wife up when Edwards arrived. ’Leave her,’ he said, ’Go and arrest the bloke.’

“He ain’t going anywhere, Serg,’ I said.

“You arguing with me?’ he said, real nasty. Anyway, before I could do anything, the woman’s brother arrived, took one look and said, ’Where is he?’ Edwards pointed upstairs and the brother went up like an express train. I tried to go after him but Edwards stopped me. Ten minutes later the brother comes down and chucks three of the husbands fingers and a handful of teeth on the floor. ’He won’t do it again,’ he said, and stalked out cool as a cucumber.”

King paused for a long time and closed his eyes, reliving the horrific moment when he realised the blood soaked fingers and teeth had been physically wrenched from a living human being. They had rushed up the stairs to find the husband writhing in agony, several pairs of his wife’s knickers stuffed into his mouth as a gag; the remains of his crushed fingers hanging limply, some dangling by threads. The bedroom door was awash with blood, lumps of skin, and flesh still stuck to the jamb where the fingers had been mashed to a pulp, or chopped off, as his brother-in-law had thrown his weight against the door, the fingers trapped between it and the frame.

“Didn’t you hear anything?” asked Bliss quietly, seeing the sadness in the other man’s eyes.

“Yeah, I heard a few shouts and some bangs. I thought he was just smacking him around a bit. Edwards thought it was bloody funny …” He paused, unsmiling, “Until the brother came down with the fingers, then he went as white as a ghost.”

“What happened?” enquired Bliss, expecting to hear how long the brother-in-law spent in prison.

“Me and Edwards were charged with conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm,” King continued, dealing with the side of the story which affected him the most. “I didn’t know what to do. Everybody said keep quiet. Don’t say anything—deny, deny, deny. Say you never saw the bloke go up the stairs. But that was wrong. It was Edwards’ fault, so I went to my chief inspector and told him.”

“What did he say?” enquired Bliss, helping the story along.

“He says, ’Go with your conscience. Tell the truth.’ So I did. I stood in the dock, put my hand on the Bible, and told them exactly what happened. Then Edwards got in the witness box and came out with the biggest load of bull … reckoned he arrived as the brother was coming down the stairs, when it was all over. Then the chief inspector pulled out the station log book and backed him up—calling me a bloody liar.” He paused to cool down, then added the obvious, “Someone had fixed the log book.”

Bliss raised his eyebrows—it could be done.

“I got six months in jail and Edwards got promotion,” King concluded with a hint of irony.

“Why did the chief inspector lie?” enquired Bliss, guessing the answer but preferring to hear it from King.

“He must have been in Edwards’ little black book,” said King, his tone saying, “As if you didn’t know.”

Detective Inspector Bliss was at a loss, his loyalty trapped between a disagreeable fellow officer, and a man who was only a convict because his conscience had been stabbed by a betrayer’s stiletto.

“I would tell you about LeClarc, but I’m scared I’m going to get shit on again,” King said eventually, staring at the desk between them.

“I wouldn’t do that to you Nosmo.”

“I know you wouldn’t. At least I don’t think you would, but Edwards would.” Studying his hands for several moments he found an answer. “There’s no evidence I threw LeClarc overboard, and if 1 stick to my story about being paid to drive the car off the ship, they’ll have to let me go.” He searched Bliss’ face. “Am I right?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“C’mon Dave, you can do better than that.”

“O.K., you’re probably right.”

“But then you won’t find LeClarc or the others.”

Bliss nearly leapt over the table. “You know where he is?”

“Slow down Dave …”

Bliss couldn’t control his excitement. “Are the others still alive?”

King nodded slowly, letting his eyes speak for him.

“Where are they?”

“Not so fast. I’m saying nothing until you promise Edwards won’t know where the information came from.”

It wasn’t a difficult decision. “O.K., I won’t tell Edwards.”

King buried his face as if making one final attempt to keep his secret to himself, then opened his hands and let it all out. “I was the informer Dave,” he started, “I called Scotland Yard and told them about the plan to kidnap LeClarc.”

“You knew?” breathed Bliss with incredulity.

“Yeah. I discovered the plan was to kidnap him, but I wasn’t supposed to know, and I wasn’t involved … not in the kidnap anyway, I swear to you.” He sought re-assurance in Bliss’ face, but found only cynicism. “Motsom hired me to follow LeClarc and find out where he was going,” he continued. “I thought it was above board—straightforward surveillance. One of the girls from his office let slip about his trip to Holland and when I told Motsom he was chuffed— even gave me a bonus. I thought that was the end of the job, then he asked if I fancied a trip to Holland. I said, ’Sure. Why not. What do you want?’ ’Just follow him, make sure he gets on the ship safely,’ he said, and offered me five hundred quid plus expenses, so I took it. I’ve struggled ever since I got booted out of the force so I needed the money.”

Bliss was confused. “So why the anonymous tip? Don’t tell me you’ve still got a conscience.”

Still got a conscience? queried King to himself, stung by the implication he may have lost it. “Yes, I still have a conscience,” he wanted to scream, but didn’t, fearing Bliss would cast a sardonic eye. Why else would I have tipped off Scotland Yard? I owed them nothing— they owed me everything. They stood by and cheered as Edwards robbed me of my reputation; family; friends and liberty. But yes, I’ve still got a conscience.

“Why anonymous, Dave?” he answered after a few seconds. “Because if I’d strolled into the Yard with this story I would have got the kid gloves and bum’s rush combined. ’Thank you, Sir,’ some snotty sergeant with two weeks service would have said, and filed my report in the nearest waste bin, mumbling, “Bloody informants.”

Bliss nodded sympathetically, knowing there was respect in anonymity, that both sides treat informants as scum. Anyway, the proverbial, “anonymous tip,” could be more useful than a cold-blooded informant. The motives of the anonymous were incontestable—not so with informants who always wanted something.

“Conscience,” mused King, “I suppose it was. When I went to Motsom’s place a few weeks ago to pick up my bonus I heard two of his goons bragging about how they’d chopped up a woman and fed her to some dogs.”

“The Mitchell case?”

“Yeah,” replied King, impressed with Bliss’ memory. “I’d read about it in the paper and remembered she was involved with computers, so I did some digging and found out about the others. It was obvious LeClarc was next—that’s when I tipped you off.”

Bliss interrupted, agitated. “Where are they?”

“I’m coming to that, but I want you to know what happened to LeClarc.”

“Hurry up then, I haven’t got all day.”

“After I’d lost him, Motsom told me he’d been hired by an Arab to get him. I saw some papers in his cabin with Istanbul on them and said, ’Is that where he was going?’ He said, ’Yeah,’ and we’d better get him there or there would be trouble. He was in a state. Whoever hired him has got some clout. Mind you, Motsom is no pansy. He had two shooters that I could see, one of them looked like a machine pistol. He wanted me to see them—giving me a message. That’s the other reason why I don’t want anyone to know about this chat. Motsom’ll kill me if he finds out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this on the ship?”

“I didn’t know you were following LeClarc. When I saw the four of you propping up the bar I thought you were on a piss-taking junket at the tax-payers expense. I thought somebody would be watching him but I assumed they’d be more professional—no offence Dave.”

Bliss meditated on King’s admission for a few seconds. Finally conceding, “You’re right. But it wasn’t me at the bar.”

King began, “I saw …”

Bliss headed him off. “I was only there to get the others to help me find LeClarc. Anyway I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“You see why Edwards mustn’t find out,” continued King his mind racing and his voice rising in a panic. “It was my fault he drowned. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure he’d fallen overboard. I thought I saw him in the water, I just wasn’t sure. I panicked, told Motsom, and he said stop the ship, so I chucked the life raft over, but the bloody crewman saw me and didn’t believe me. It was all my fault…”

“O.K., O.K. Calm down. It wasn’t all your fault, we should have been watching him better. Anyway it’s too late now. But where have they taken the others?”

King pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the table. Neatly scribbled in one corner was an address in Istanbul.

Saturday’s dawn had broken in Watford, England. The bustle of weekday rail commuters along Junction Road was replaced by families with noisy children off to the seaside, amusement park, or a day’s shopping expedition, but Trudy still lay in the silent gloom of her underground tomb. Away from the foggy coast the brilliant July sunshine started to turn the milk left standing on doorsteps. And, across town, Roger’s father, still wearing yesterday’s shirt, felt the warmth on his arm as he fumbled around the partially opened front door, sweeping up the milk bottle with the daily newspaper in one go.

“Who is it?” bellowed Mrs. LeClarc from the sanctuary of her bedroom, anxiously anticipating a visit from a policeman to say Roger had been found alive and well, and that the two straight-faced constables who had called the evening before had made a horrible mistake.

“Only me dear, just getting the milk,” he called up the stairs. “Do you want some tea?”

“Anything about our Roger in the paper?” she enquired.

He flopped the Daily Express open on the hall table and scanned the headlines. “Can’t see anything.”

Ten minutes later, after delivering tea and sympathy to his distraught, though still demanding, wife, Mr. LeClarc’s eyes hit upon a single paragraph on page three of the paper. He read it twice before going on to page four. Halfway through page five he lost concentration and found himself thinking about the earlier article. Flipping back, he looked again at the poorly reproduced photocopy with its caption. “Do you recognize Roger?”

He drifted up the stairs, the newspaper held in front of him like an offering, re-reading the paragraph aloud.

“Roger sought in missing girl case. Police have released this photograph of a man they are seeking in relation to last week’s disappearance of 16 yr. old Trudy McKenzie. “He is not a suspect,” stressed Detective Sergeant Malcolm Kite, (43 yrs.), but may be able to assist with enquiries. Roger, (surname unknown) is described as 5’10” medium build, 27 yrs. Known as a computer whiz he is believed to live in the Watford area. If you know this man etcetera, etcetera.”

“Maybe they’ve run away together,” said Mrs. LeClarc, grasping at straws. “Give it to me,” she ordered, snatching the paper from his hands. “Let me look.”

She scanned the piece. “Our Roger ain’t twenty seven,” she whined immediately.

“Maybe the paper’s got it wrong. They’re always getting things wrong.”

“He’s not five-foot ten neither.”

“I think we should call. You never know,” replied his father, feeling the need to do something constructive.

“But look at the photo,” she commanded, thrusting the paper back at him.

The grainy monochrome picture bore no resemblance to Roger, but he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself. “Could be,” he said, angling the paper against the window for better light.

“No it ain’t,” she shot back, offended anyone would suggest she couldn’t recognize her own son.

“I think it could be,” he continued vaguely, rubbing his forehead and leaving a dark smear of printer’s ink, unwilling to let go of the thread of hope.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she hissed, and buried her head in the pillow.

“I still think we should call.”

Her muffled words barely reached him. “Do what you like.”

Detective Constable Jackson, the Roger Moore look-alike with stained trousers, strolled into the C.I.D. office at Watford police station with two paper cups of brown liquid strongly suspected of being coffee, despite having pressed the “Tea” button on the machine. “Is that the Junction Road case?” he asked, as his partner replaced the phone.

“Yeah, that was LeClarc’s father. They saw the picture in the paper.”

“It’s a bit of a coincidence—two missing people called Roger both from Watford,” he. said, placing one cup in front of his partner, still eyeing his own suspiciously.

“The descriptions don’t match at all. I’ve already spoken to a D.C. in Leyton. Nothing fits, only the name. Anyway that team from Scotland Yard had LeClarc under surveillance. They would have seen if he was with a woman.”

“I still reckon it’s odd that a bloke called Roger from Watford goes missing in the middle of the North Sea and a girl from Leyton goes missing with a bloke called Roger from Watford.

“They don’t know she went off with this bloke. It’s only what her friend thinks. Anyway nothing else fits. The friend said he lived in a big house. She said he drove a Jaguar. He’s 27, he’s 5’10’ … Shall I go on?”

“She also say’s he’s a computer whiz.”

His partner took a quick swig from the cup, screwed his face and spat the whole lot into a wire wastebasket. “Ugh. Sugar!”

“Sorry, I forgot. Anyway I still think it might be worth having another look at that place on Junction Road.

The phone rang. “Criminal Investigation Department,” Jackson said augustly, hitting the “hands-free” key, speaking to the ceiling.

“Switchboard,” yawned a female operator. “Bloke from ACT Telecommunications, whatever that is, wants to speak to someone about a missing person.”

“Get uniform branch to deal with it, Luv; we’re busy,” he snapped.

“I’m getting pissed about here. I already tried— they said it were your case. I wish somebody’d make up there bloody mind.”

“PMS,” he mouthed across the desk to his partner. “O.K. put him on,” he said, tiredly, no idea what missing person she was talking about, and switched to the handset. “D.C. Jackson, can I help you.”

A polished Oxbridge accent jumped down the phone at him. “What the devil’s going on Officer?”

Two can play at that game, he thought, replying snottily, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Sir.”

“Have you got the Daily Express?”

What is this—twenty questions with attitude?

“That’s my photograph on page three but my name is definitely not Roger and I am certainly not involved with the disappearance of any schoolgirl,” continued the voice, not giving Jackson an opportunity to respond.

Grabbing the paper from his partner, Jackson came close to knocking over his drink. “Watch out!” shouted the other man, as Jackson stared at the picture.

“What do you mean, it’s your photo?” he said into the phone as he scrutinized the face.

“Officer,” the voice continued, “I do know my own face and so do a lot of other people. This is very embarrassing. My wife is very upset; so am I. I’ve called the Express. They say someone at your police station gave them the photograph and claimed it was this Roger fellow.”

“Let me get this straight, Sir,” he said, stalling as he jotted a few notes. “The picture in today’s paper of the man we are looking for in the Trudy McKenzie case is you.”

“That’s right, and I’m not Roger. I haven’t kidnapped any girl and I’m not very happy. In fact I shall be talking to my lawyers about suing someone for defamation of character.”

“Lawyers,” mused Jackson with his hand over the mouthpiece, feeling the weight of the plural, deciding it was time to take cover. “It wasn’t us who gave Express the photo, it came from Leyton. I suggest you give them a call.”

“Oh,” he floundered for a second, “I thought it was you.”

“Sorry, that case is nothing to do with us.”

“But the paper says this Roger lives in Watford.”

“That’s correct, Sir, but the girl’s missing from Leyton—it’s their case.”

A few moments silence left Jackson wondering if the caller had slammed the phone down. “Sir ?” he enquired.

“Yes,” replied the voice, thoughtful, less angry.

“Have you any idea how someone got your photograph?”

“Oh yes. Someone stole it a few weeks ago from the showcase at our head office. We knew it was missing—assumed it was a staff member’s prank.”

“Sorry I can’t help you, Sir,” Jackson said as he put the phone down. Then he looked at his partner. “There’s something funny here. Let’s take another look at that place of LeClarc’s. I’m beginning to wonder if the two Rogers are connected.”

He laid out his theory driving to Junction Road. “If the photo ain’t Roger’s, then the description’s prob’ly wrong as well. What if LeClarc has run off with this girl.” He thought for a second, going over the evidence in his mind, then reconstructed the case out loud. “This McKenzie girl deliberately gave her friend a photo of the wrong guy; gave a false description, and didn’t tell her mum where she was going.” He paused long enough to negotiate an absurdly parked truck, then triumphantly solved the case, “I bet Roger and this McKenzie girl have eloped. I bet her mum wouldn’t have him in the house, so she came up with a dodgy excuse and sloped off to Holland with him. Now they’re sunning themselves on the Costa Bravo or a beach in Florida and laughing their pants off at us silly sods.”

“Maybe,” replied his partner, unconvinced.

George Mitchell was just leaving home for High Street, scouting for something interesting for his dinner, when the two detectives returned.

“Mr. Mitchell,” Jackson called, as the sprightly eighty-three year old marched along Junction Road like he was still in command.

He halted and peered down into the car. “Good morning officer,” he responded crisply, proving the strength of his eyesight matched his legs; then he bent and enquired seriously, “Did you manage to get the stain out?”

Jackson blushed as his partner jumped out and greeted the old soldier with a wide grin. “Morning Mr. Mitchell, lovely day.”

“G’morning. Any news of your young man?” he nodded toward Roger’s house.

“We were hoping you might know something.”

“Only what I told you yesterday. He’s not come back s’far as I know. I ain’t seen ’is car for best part of a week.”

Jackson, spotting a parking space, headed off as his partner and Mitchell wandered across the road into the warmth of the sun.

“Did he ever bring a girl here?” asked the detective, getting to the point as he scrutinized Roger’s doorstep.

George Mitchell shook his head. “I never saw no one, but he kept funny hours like I told you. He’d come and go at all times.”

“How did you know when he was here?”

“Sometimes he’d put the front room light on. Other times I’d see him go in.”

“Mr. Mitchell never saw a woman here,” called the detective as Jackson returned, then he ran up the two steps to the old yellow door and banged hard. “Just in case,” he explained to George who was eyeing him as if he were deranged.

“I told you …There’s no one there,” said George, visibly offended.

Trudy woke with a start. Her ears, sensitized by two days of total silence, had picked up the faint sound of the thump. For a moment she lay disorientated on the damp stone floor in the darkness wondering what had woken her. Then she slowly pulled herself up, carefully testing each joint and limb for pain, and stuck her ear to the keyhole—nothing. A few seconds later she fastened her mouth over the hole—like a baby sucking its mother’s life-giving breast, and drank in the refreshingly oxygenated air.

Leaving George on the front doorstep, the two detectives fought their way to the rear of the house over the unofficial waste dump. Clambering through the garbage and debris they forged a path through the stringy vegetation, Jackson scything wildly at a patch of nettles with a length of rusty guttering, disturbing a frenzy of flies.

“Ugh. Want something for lunch,” he called to his partner, finding the fly-blown carcase of a rat and poking it with his lance.

“Disgusting sod,” replied the other as he climbed over the rubble of the dividing wall into the wilderness of Roger’s backyard.

George Mitchell greeted him as he rounded the back of the house. “Bloody eyesore that mess is—council should get it cleared up.”

“How the hell did you get here?” he enquired, astounded at the appearance of the old soldier.

“I came through old Daft Jack’s next door,” he replied, using his thumb to point at the gap in the decayed wall between Roger’s house and his next door neighbour and, following the thumb, the detective found himself looking at the scarecrow figure of an old man, with wispy grey beard and antiqued leather skin. Jack grinned, and all three of his teeth shone green in the morning sunlight.

“He’s not really daft,” said George as if Jack were not there. “It’s just that he’s deaf, so the kids make fun of him.”

Jack remained on his side of the dilapidated wall, fascinated by the unusual activity.

“Can he hear anything?” whispered Jackson.

“Oh yeah. When he’s got ’is deaf-aid on. He ’as it off most of the time to save on batteries, so you have to tell him.” He turned to the old man, put his right hand to his own ear and, with a twisting motion, yelled, “Earring aid.”

Jack fiddled with the device until it let out a shriek that made him jump, spent two minutes adjusting it, and ten seconds saying he’d never heard or seen Roger. The excitement over, he promptly clicked it off and disappeared back inside his house.

The two detectives turned their attention to Roger’s back door—still firmly locked.

“We really should get a search warrant,” said Jackson for George’s benefit, though he had already made up his mind not to bother.

“If it’s empty we won’t have a problem,” replied his partner.

George overheard. “There’s nothing in there, I can tell you that for now.”

“How do you know?”

“One of your sergeants came by after you left yesterday and I let him in,” said George, failing to mention that he too had been in the house.

“How?”

“With a key.” Then he added sarcastically, “How do you think I let him in?”

Jackson’s partner ignored the sarcasm. “Oh great, now you tell us—c’mon let us in then.”

George carefully examined the highly polished toecaps of his boots for several seconds. “I let ’im take the key,” he mumbled, feeling guilty for some reason, as if he had been personally responsible for its safe-keeping.

A few minutes later they stood in the front hallway, just inches from the cupboard under the stairs, directly above Trudy’s dungeon. The “accidentally smashed” kitchen window was letting in a welcome breath of fresh air.

“Sewer,” said Jackson with a sniff, as his partner shuffled through the heap of mail squashed into a pile behind the front door.

“This one’s undone,” he lied, as his finger prised open the flap of an envelope that appeared to contain more than junk mail. Slipping out the contents, he recognized the letterhead from a furniture store. “According to this, LeClarc had a new bed delivered here back in May,” he announced. “Phew, look at the price.”

Jackson peered over his shoulder. “Well where is it then?”

George unintentionally gave away his previous incursion. “There’s no bed in here.” But the detectives overlooked his remark, intent on searching for more documentary evidence.

A letter from British Telecom fell open with some assistance. “There should be a phone here somewhere,” said Jackson, skimming the printed page. “Here’s the number. This was May as well—the fourth apparently.”

His partner flipped open his cellphone and tapped in the number. The distant phone rang twice in his ear but no one in the house heard it, then a string of high pitched bleeps alerted him to the fact that he was trying to communicate with a machine.

“It’s a fax or a computer modem,” he said, with a confused look.

The computer screen, just ten feet below, leapt silently into life “STANDBY—MODEM CONNECTING.”

The sudden movement caught Trudy’s eye and, with only a moment’s hesitation, sent her scrabbling across the room, oblivious to the pain in her hands and knees.

Detective Constable Jackson had shut the lid on his phone and cut the connection before Trudy even reached the machine. “CONNECTION—ABORTED,” flashed three times before the screen went blank. Tears streamed down her face. “MUM, MUM, MUM,” she typed frantically, then sat sobbing and coughing, staring at the screen, begging it to try again. “MUM HELP.”

“There should be a phone jack somewhere,” said Jackson’s partner as he probed around the hallway and on into the front room where he discovered the recently installed socket. “It’s here, and there’s no phone plugged in,” he called, as if that somehow explained the modem’s response.

D.C. Jackson, rifling through the mail, needed more light and tentatively toyed with the ancient brass light switch before finally giving it a flick—whipping his hand quickly away as if it might bite. “The powers on,” he pronounced unnecessarily, when they were bathed in the sepia glow of an ancient bare bulb, then he dropped to the floor and swept up a number of long black hairs.

George Mitchell took once glance and brushed them off, saying, “Mrs. Papadropolis,” as if she’d lived there the day before.

“What colour was Roger’s hair?”

“Almost white, sort of straggly and thin.”

“Couldn’t be his then,” he said, dropping them carelessly back on the floor.

Some newly made scratch marks on the hallway walls caught his attention and he traced them. “Probably where they brought in the bed,” he mused. “ There’s not a lot of room.”

Five minutes later they’d searched the entire house, confirmed the bed was not there, and stood in the cramped hallway wondering what to do next. D.C. Jackson expressed his thoughts aloud, seeking ratification from the others. “There’s no phone but the number works; the power’s on; there’s no bed but there should be; there’s no furniture or belongings, yet LeClarc was living here—the Met. Team saw him, so did George.”

“Sort of living here,” corrected his partner.

“Yes. Sort of,” Jackson reiterated. “It’s as if he was living here but he wasn’t. Like he’s in another world, another dimension.”

“You’ve been reading too many weird books,” said George, steadfast in his belief that there was a rational explanation for everything.

“Hello,” shouted Jackson, as loud as he possibly could, startling both his partner and George. “Is there anybody there.”

“Don’t piss about,” hissed the other detective, mindful of the presence of a member of the public.

“I’m not,” he replied, jumping up and down, his size 11 shoes thundering on the bare wooden boards. “C’mon out wherever you are,” he continued, his loud voice filling the entire house. “C’mon—we know you’re here.”

“I shouldn’t do that if I were you,” said George worriedly, recalling the sergeant’s demolition of the old chair.

The raised voices and banging easily penetrated Trudy’s dungeon and, finding a hidden reserve of energy, she rushed the door and tried thumping. Her blistered and bloated hands were like water-filled balloons thwacking a target at a village fête. She screamed, nothing happened. Pulling herself up to the keyhole, pressing her lips hard against the metal plate, she willed her vocal chords into action. A series of squeaky sounds leaked out.

D.C. Jackson, nearest to the cupboard, heard. “Listen,” he said. “What was that?”

“Mouse,” said George, dismissively. “There’s plenty of ’em around here.”

“Or a rat,” suggested his partner, remembering the dead animal outside.

No one thought it was Trudy and the detectives left the house by the front door a few minutes later, deciding that a photograph of the real Roger LeClarc, from his parents, would be useful; George volunteered to clean up the broken glass.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Mitchell, we’ll get someone to mend the window,” said Jackson on his way out. “Not that there’s anything of value in there.”

The voices had stopped for Trudy and she rushed hysterically back to the computer on the other side of the room, some inner strength taking control, her dead nerve endings no longer registering pain. Still panting frantically. her fingers flew across the keyboard.

“MUM I CAN HEAR YOU. I’M DOWN HERE.

MUM PLEASE HURRY.”

Dragging herself back to the door she put her ear to the keyhole and heard nothing. “Please Mum,” she sobbed. “Please Mum.” Then exhaustion took over and she gradually collapsed back to the floor.