"You know Daphne," starts Bliss, and Donaldson turns to Mainsbridge in explanation. "She was the charlady down at the Nick for years, but she cracked more cases than most of the brainless wonders in C.I.D. put together. ‘I reckon old so-and-so did that,' she'd whisper in my ear whenever she brought my tea and biscuits, and I don't think she was wrong once."
"She's keeping her chin up," says Bliss, "but I'd better get back to her."
"Why don't you just get a permanent transfer here, Dave? We could do with a real live hero on the force."
"Hero?" queries Mainsbridge vaguely.
"Yes," says Donaldson, inviting Mainsbridge to search his memory banks. "This is the Detective Chief Inspector David Bliss."
"The Nazi gold case?" breathes Mainsbridge.
"The very same," says Donaldson, basking in his association with Bliss. "The man who uncovered a buried fortune off the coast of Corsica, and all he got was an extra pip on his shoulder."
"I'm surprised you didn't quit," says Mainsbridge. "You could make a mint if you wrote a book about it."
"Oh, I've definitely given it some thought," replies Bliss, though he doesn't add that the book he's planning is about an even greater mystery than the discovery of the missing Nazi treasure. Tell them you've discovered the identity of the man in the iron mask and watch them laugh their heads off, he tells himself, but lets it go. "Anyway," he continues. "If there's anything I can do to help."
Donaldson ticks off a completed task list on his fingers: "Forensics, witness appeal, coroner informed, murder squad are checking similar M.O.'s… Not a lot more we can do till the morning. Mike's got everything under control here. I was just going for a bite to eat. There's a new steakhouse in the High Street; care to join me?"
"Any suspects?" asks Bliss, remaining focused.
Mainsbridge steps in, saying, "We've got a witness." And he pulls out his notebook to confirm the name. "A Janis Ng. She's pretty sure that she saw some young punk stalking the old lady outside the cathedral just before it happened. She didn't see his face, but he had a swastika painted on the back of his jacket."
"That should help…"
"And the signalman saw him, though couldn't really give us much — talk about shaken up. The poor bastard knew exactly what was going to happen and couldn't do a thing to stop it — like watching a Hugh Grant movie. Then there's the surveillance tape, of course, though it's a bit murky."
"Right then, Dave. Let's eat," says Donaldson, but Bliss shakes him off.
"I really ought to get back to Daphne…"
"Breakfast, then," continues Donaldson, undeterred. "Eight-thirty at the Mitre. We should have the whole thing sewn up by then. How long are you staying?"
"Couple of days, I expect. Just to keep Daphne company. I had tomorrow off anyway. My daughter was married today so I thought I'd take a long weekend. Though God knows what I thought I'd be doing. They obviously didn't need me."
"Always the same for us blokes," moans Mains-bridge. "Christmas, birthdays, weddings. I dunno why we even try. We might as well just hand over the chequebook and piss off to the pub until it's over."
"Sir," questions a sergeant. "The railway people are asking when they can reopen the line."
"Tell them we're still waiting for the engineers to examine the train's brakes, though it's a waste of bloody time. The poor bastard couldn't have stopped a bike that quick."
"How is the driver taking it?"
"Shock — completely confused. We've bundled him off to the hospital."
Ronnie Stapleton is also confused as he squats on the concrete floor of a phone booth, examining the contents of Minnie's purse while he tries to work out his future. "F'kin fourpence," he mutters in disbelief. "I ain't doin' life for that."
Stapleton's descent from mugger to murderer has left his mind racing faster than a rat in a maze. Escape… but to where? And how? Thumbing a lift is a risky option, yet it's all he can afford. He would normally have jumped a train, but the sight of Minnie's body slamming into the front of the engine still runs and reruns in his mind like a cartoon character being whisked away at a hundred miles an hour. He closes his eyes, hoping it's just a crazy computer game and that when he comes out of it he'll be a winner, but the picture's even gloomier when he refocuses, and the tears start again. He'd like to be crying for the woman, but knows that he's not.
Krysta answers the phone at the first ring and accepts the charges.
"You shouldn't ‘a called," she whispers. "Dad might have answered."
"You didn't tell ‘em, did ya?"
"No. ‘Course not. But everyone's talkin' about it."
"You gotta get me some dough, Krys. I gotta get away."
"I dunno…"
"Please…"
"I'll try. Call me back in half an hour, ‘kay?"
Bliss is also wishing that it was simply a game as he views the station's surveillance video alongside D.I. Mainsbridge and sees Stapleton's shadowy figure racing across the platform towards Minnie's figure at the platform's edge.
"Try freezing it," Mainsbridge instructs the VCR operator, hoping to catch the moment of impact, but the technician has made several attempts already and is sceptical of his chances.
"It will be better when it's transferred onto a DVD, though I'm not promising," he says as he reruns the tape again and again, while grumbling about the inadequateness of the antiquated recording system.
"Sorry, guv," he says in exasperation as Minnie's body simply vanishes time and time again, leaving Stapleton holding her bag.
"I'd better get back to Ms. Lovelace," Bliss says eventually. "I'll have another look in the morning." And as he heads towards his car, he can't help hoping that if they play it enough times, Minnie will eventually not be whisked away like a magician's assistant.
Ronnie Stapleton is another player yearning for the immediate invention of time travel as he's forced out of the phone box by the evening's chill and he seeks some warmth from the window lights of a small street of dingy shops. A car slowly rounds the bend behind him. "Cops," he breathes, and he instantly turns to use the window as a mirror as he pretends to peer at the wigs in a hairdressing salon.
They must have changed the one-way system, Bliss is thinking, not recognizing the street, and then he is alerted by the loiterer's suspicious movement.
"Turn around… let's see your face," mumbles Bliss, as he cruises slowly past, but Stapleton's face is frozen to the window display. Then Bliss's lights catch the offensive logo on the back of the boy's jean jacket.
"Got you," breathes Bliss in amazement, stepping on the brake pedal.
The car's brake lights bounce off the window and Stapleton hits the pavement at a run. Seconds later he is jinking down a side alley like a startled gopher.
Bliss is out of his car in a flash, but he wastes time as he ducks back inside to grab his cell phone. He should call for assistance, but he knows he'll lose his quarry if he does. And he still hasn't seen the youngster's face.
Stapleton is already racing down the littered alley, leaping boxes, abandoned bikes and rusty garbage bins, as Bliss takes up the chase. With his eyes firmly on the youth, Bliss lurches from obstacle to obstacle and curses the long tails of his morning coat as they snatch at passing junk and threaten to snag him.
A discarded supermarket buggy trips Bliss and sends him sprawling as Stapleton shoots from the lane into the High Street where the Odeon cinema is turning out.
"Police — stop!" yells Bliss, spurring his quarry on, and a group of youngsters neatly part to let the fleeing man through, then they jeer Bliss as he passes with shouts