“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 Pate,” 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.”
Chapter Seventeen
A phone call had summoned Superintendent Donaldson back to the police station after the steak bordelaise, just seconds before the steamed chocolate sponge pudding with custard. “Probably for the best,” he had said, cradling his paunch, though his tone had been less than convincing. “The Assistant Chief wants to discuss Patterson’s future,” he had added, cupping his hand to Bliss’s ear. “Pat’s finished. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get six months inside.”
Samantha had gone in search of a phone, (“I’ll check with the forensic lab — they said lunchtime.”). And Bliss, alone, relaxed with a large Cognac and a curious sense of great achievement, as if Mandy’s murderer had been caught and the Dauntsey riddle had been solved. Thank God for Daphne, he mused, mentally raising a glass, realising that had she not recorded the Volvo’s number he would still be cringing in terror at every unexpected noise. And, he wondered, how many times he had cringed unnecessarily in the past six months; how many innocuous letters and phone calls had been treated as suspicious; how many entirely innocent people had answered a knock at their door to find a fully armed assault squad because, ten minutes earlier, they had quietly put the phone down when they should have said, “Sorry — wrong number.” But the drained bank account? That was no mistake — somebody had swiped a little over four thousand quid. Or was it paranoia? Could it have been a bent bank employee? There was definitely no mistake about the bomb. What had the anti-terrorist commander said? “Bombs on front doorsteps are scarcer than lottery jackpots. And a thug like him won’t give up until he’s succeeded, or we take him out.”
Just the thought of the bomb had him edgy, his eyes darting around the crowded room. Stop it — for fuck’s sake stop it, he said to himself. He’s not here, he never was here — not in Westchester. It was Patterson pulling Mason’s strings — “You owe me big time — unless you’d rather do a stretch …?” It was Mason in the Volvo and the reporter asking the questions. Get over it, he told himself, but knowing Mason was out of the picture didn’t stop him from scanning the faces in the room: bulbous-nosed businessmen with serious drinks and high cholesterol diets, stressed salesmen struggling to keep up the appearance of success: Who would buy from a failure? “Just look at those expenses! You ate at the Mitre!” “You think I enjoy that?” And, off to one side, a party of women in smart business suits mimicking the men. Super saleswomen, guessed Bliss, Avon or Amway. Hyping each other with over-blown sales achievements and stupendous commission claims — just like the men. And by the front door, on his way in, Jonathon Dauntsey and the Swedish receptionist cum waitress, waving in Bliss’s direction. He buried his head — That’s all I need, Dauntsey rampaging about the police strong-arming a confession out of his old mother.
Jonathon, pale, drawn and exhausted, floundered his way through the busy restaurant, colliding with the backs of chairs and narrowly avoiding a heavily laden waiter. But the sight of Bliss seemed to steady him. “Ah. Inspector. I was hoping to bump into you,” he said, fetching up at the table with practised nonchalance; as if he hadn’t been frantically scouring the town for him for several hours; as if he hadn’t been up all night plotting a course.