“A sedative of some sort. My guess is he used it to tranquillise whoever he bumped off, which would explain how he got his victim up to the room in the Black Horse.”
“Have we any idea who he killed, Guv?” It was the policewoman again, thinking — that’ll teach them for glaring at me.
“Well, we know for sure he didn’t kill the Major …”
“We don’t know that at all,” complained Patterson still clinging to his conviction despite evidence to the contrary. “He confessed — I got his confession on tape.”
“I strongly suggest you listen to that tape again. You’ve been taken for a ride, Sergeant — Jonathon Dauntsey didn’t confess to killing the Major.”
“But …” protested Patterson. “He said he killed his father.”
“In which case I suggest you check his date of birth. I know the pace of life has picked up in recent years but, unless Jonathon’s mother was ten months pregnant, I think you’ll find he is not a Dauntsey.”
“Thank you for your attention ladies and gentlemen,” he added quickly and was out of the door before Patterson had a chance to respond.
“Thank you, Daphne, you’re a genius,” he said to the corridor wall, took fifty pounds out of his pocket and poked his head back round the door. “All have a drink on me tonight,” he said handing it to the nearest. “Take tomorrow off and we’ll crack this case next week.” Then he raised his eyebrows at Patterson, fully expecting an argument, and was a trifle disappointed when the man begrudgingly nodded his thanks.
Two hours later he stood on the threshold of his house with more than a tingle of nervousness in his groin. You could run, he told himself — it’s an option. No-one would know. You could high-tail it back to the Mitre — you’ve already paid. Then he thought of Daphne, knickerless, charging the German machine gunners on a bike, and he slipped the key into the lock.
Samantha had helped with the decor and choice of fabrics when he initially moved in. “You’re useless, Dad,” she had said.
“I’m a man. It’s not my fault.”
But the decor had changed, the bomber had seen to that, and the hallway was unfamiliar, hostile even as he stepped inside. He stopped, feeling as vulnerable as a naked man in a cell, realising that his home had been violated; that it had been intruded upon, first by the essence of the bomber himself, then by a slew of policemen, scientists, rubber-neckers, reporters, architects, estimators, builders, and a battalion of civil servants. Even the commissioner had been to inspect — it wasn’t every day that one of his officers was bombed out of his home.
“It’s like it were in the Blitz,” one of the neighbours had said with a glint in his eye. “Even the King came to have a gawp then.”
The heavy steel door clanged shut behind him. There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? he breathed in relief. And the decorator’s have done a good job, no sign of the bomb damage …
“Br-rr-ing.”
He jumped out of skin and the phone shrieked again.
“Br-rr-ing.”
The killer was back — It was less than a minute and he was doing it again.
“Br-rr-ing.”
He must be watching the place — get out, get out before a grenade whistles through a window.
“Br-rr-ing.”
GET OUT NOW!
You are kidding? That’s what he wants. He’s outside right now, leering, a mobile phone in one hand and a Kalashnikov in the other.
I thought you were going to stop this.
Tell my pulse that.
“Br-rr-ing.”
Answer the phone.
What — put it to my ear and listen for the “Bang” as my head gets blown off.
“Br-rr-ing.”
Stand back and hit the speakerphone button then. Alright — good idea. “Yes — who is this?”
“Identify yourself.”
“What?”
“I said — identify yourself.”
Don’t tell him — Duck! Duck! “Who are you?”
“This is Tew Park police station — identify yourself.”
“Oh shit,” he muttered. “I’ve set off the alarm.”
He’d forgotten — Big Brother was watching.
“This is D.I. Bliss …” he started, then pulled himself up. “Sorry — This is Michael.”
“What’s the codeword?”
There was nothing friendly in the demand — and it was a demand. The codeword? His mind was racing — what’s the codeword? “Hang on, I haven’t used it for six months.”
“Police officers are en-route — state your codeword.”
“Sarah.” It came back in a flash. “It’s Sarah.” Ex-wife Sarah — how could I have forgotten? Well, it has been more than five years now.
“Thank you, Michael — you should have informed us you were visiting the property.”
“Yes — sorry. Spur of the moment. I didn’t think.”
That’s what had happened with the codeword, he recalled to himself. You gave Sarah’s name on the spur of the moment — still living in the past — still rushing back to press your nose against the toy shop window.
“A patrol unit will be with you in just a few moments, Sir,” continued the voice on the speakerphone.
“That won’t be necessary officer,” he was saying, but he was staring at the door — the steel anti-blast door with double deadbolt locks — still wondering if a deranged sniper with a high powered rifle was out there just waiting for a chink to appear.
“The unit is with you now, Sir. If you’d be good enough to open the door and just confirm your identity.”
“Wait, wait — How do I know …?”
“How do you know what, Sir?”
“How do I know …” his voice faded.
This is stupid, Dave. You’re making an ass of yourself. You’re right.
“If you would just open the door, Sir.”
His hand was on the handle but it wouldn’t turn.
Bang! Bang! Bang! “Open up, Sir — Police.”
“Sorry,” he said a few minutes later as he sat, crammed in the kitchen with two gregarious Bigfoots in blue uniforms. “I really haven’t got a lot to offer you.”
“No problem, Guv.”
“I could do some instant coffee …” he started, then realised he’d have to turn on the water and scare up some mugs. In any case they were shaking their heads — buckets of beer looked to be more in their line. “I really hadn’t planned on coming back today,” he continued, “but I was in the area and I thought I’d see what the old place looked like.”
“You’re not staying then?”
“No,” he said easily. Thinking — I was going to until I stood by that door not knowing who was outside — waiting for the bullets. Sorry, Daphne old girl — guess I haven’t got the bottle. “No, I’m not staying — I think I’ll go to my daughter’s.”
“Thank Christ for that.”
“Why?”
“’Cos we would have had to park outside all night if you’d been stopping.”
“I’ll only be ten minutes or so,” he said, letting the officers out and closing the heavy door. Then he stood, fixated by the door, seriously debating whether he was inside or outside — not inside or outside the house; inside or outside the door — a mental perspective of a physical presence. With the realisation that he wanted to be the other side of the door he concluded he was actually outside, and left the house as soon as he’d rounded up one or two belongings.
“Don’t wake me up too early,” Samantha, his daughter, had warned, throwing a clean sheet over the guest bed. “Tomorrow’s Sunday — just forget you’re in the police for once.”
“Roger, Sam,” he had said, thinking — you sound more like your mother every day. “Don’t worry, I’m so exhausted I’ll probably sleep all day.”
A swathe of sunlight cut through a gape in the curtains and roused him a little after nine. As he woke, “Samantha” was on his lips and he fought with his soporific memory to retrace the dregs of his last dream.
Sketchy images appeared — cozy memories: a warm dark car; moonlight on a tropical beach; a dark-haired native with an alluring body. Samantha, the sergeant, he fathomed, then realised that despite all the aggravations of the previous day she had been slinking in the back of his mind throughout.