Bryan gave him a few moments, then enquired again about the electronic organ that Bliss had played to a rapturous crowd at the pensioner’s concert.
“In the bedroom, Guv,” said Bliss, his eyes immediately lighting up. “I’ve got a new one actually. Cost a bloody fortune.” In an instant he was out of the chair and guiding the DCI to another room, another world — a world of music.
The single bed looked under siege, squashed against a wall surrounded by Yamahas and Technics that, combined, could outperform a thousand-piece orchestra. Bliss waved the DCI to the bed while he flicked a couple of switches and started playing.
“Recognize it?” he asked after a few bars.
Bryan nodded, “‘Time to Say Goodbye.’ That’s beautiful Dave. You’re wasted in the police force.”
“Yeah, I know, Guv. Too bloody sensitive, that’s my problem.”
He finished the song and they wandered back to the main room.
“Look, I’m not going to get on my bloody knees,” said Bryan, “But if you think this act of being round the twist is going to let you retire and draw a cushy disability pension, you’re wrong. You’re as sane as I am. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean a lot in the police force, but you’re one of the best blokes we’ve got and I don’t want to lose you. Got it?”
Bliss nodded.
“OK. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Either see the doc tomorrow and tell him you’re as fit as a bloody fiddle, or damn well resign and stop pissing everybody about.”
Bliss’s eyes found the stain on the carpet again as his senior officer unlatched the front door and stepped out. But Bryan paused on the threshold, jammed the door open with his foot and turned back into the room. He looked as though he was having second thoughts as he called, “Dave.”
“Yes, Guv.”
“Interesting case, eh!” he suggested cheerily. “Who murdered the murderer?” Then his eyes swept the room. “Oh, and get this place cleaned up before the council declares you a health hazard.” The door slammed, and the old cat cringed again.
chapter two
An untidy queue in the police station lobby blocked Bliss’s access to the enquiry counter the following morning. An old lag, well known for spending more time in other people’s houses than his own, was last in line, waiting to report to the police as a bail condition. He spun lazily to view the newcomer; a hint of recognition animated his keen eyes for a second, then faded under the force of Bliss’s black stare. Bliss knew the lag’s face well, and he had no intention of striking up a conversation.
Bypassing the disparate line-up of criminals, victims, and bloody nuisances, he reached over and tapped lightly on the enquiry desk window.
“Stop that,” yelled the elderly woman clerk, accustomed to dealing fiercely with irate and impatient people. She hadn’t looked up from where she was painstakingly recording the details of an errant motorist’s driver’s licence, but Bliss recognized the blue-rinsed thin white hair and precariously balanced spectacles. He considered thumping harder, but decided to wait until she had finished. He’d tangled with her before — a crusty crone, the sort of woman who could cause a stink in Harrod’s perfume department.
A mumble of annoyance swept through the habitués at the prospect of someone barging in, and a balloon-chested spinster with a fistful of charity raffle tickets buddied up to a bailed rapist to make it clear that Bliss would have to wait his turn. Half a dozen pairs of eyes stung the back of his neck and he smiled to himself, avoiding eye contact by casually studying the notice board. Little had changed in ten months, he thought, scanning the few ‘Wanted’ posters, several legal aid lawyers’ business cards, and a 1960s Ministry of Agriculture poster warning of the ravages of the Colorado beetle. Little had changed outside either, he had noted on his way to the station from the doctor’s surgery. But what was there to change? The west London landscape, where grime-encrusted red bricks — Victorian terraces of a bygone suburbia — met the limestone Georgian mansions of the City, had not changed for over a hundred years, and would not change without another war or a new motorway. He found it somewhat disconcerting that the people, sights, and sounds, had not changed either. During his ten-month absence, the world had apparently got along perfectly well without him.
The clerk slipped the driver’s licence back through the contraption under the window and took a breath to shout, “Next,” through the metal sieve. Bliss banged hard on the Plexiglas with the side of his fist. A gawky young man, next in line, bumped him roughly out of the way. “Oy. Wait your turn.”
Frightening the youth off with a vicious stare, Bliss defiantly banged again. The frosty-voiced counter clerk took off her glasses, preparing for a fight, and glowered at him from behind the safety of the armoured glass. “Stop that. What do you want?” Flipping open his wallet he fished out his ID and slapped it against the glass.
“Detective Inspector Bliss. I work here!”
Understanding flooded her face. She smiled, and sympathy sweetened her tone to a sickly whine. “Oh, yes, Inspector. Of course. I’m terribly sorry — I didn’t recognize you.”
She knows, he thought with swift realization. Damn. I hope they’re not going to treat me like a bloody invalid.
The latch on the side door clicked open with an electronic buzz. “Please come through, Inspector. Are you feeling better now?”
“Thank you,” he replied, his worst fears confirmed.
Stepping into the corridor, he cringed under the onslaught of ghosts from a thousand old cases. Complainants, villains, and witnesses — distraught, violent, supercilious, and contrite — seemed to spring to life in front of him and he dragged his feet, fearful of confronting the ghosts. He was fearful, too, that doors would jerk open to reveal the faces of his colleagues reproachfully asking if he were better, mindful that they had been slaving while he had luxuriated in his sorrows.
Three chatty secretaries swanned past without recognition or acknowledgement, leaving him a trifle disappointed. Scornful indifference might actually be worse than condemnation, he thought, stopping outside the chief inspector’s office to straighten his tie and flick a few cat hairs off his jacket.
DCI Bryan had cleared away for action. A couple of potted plants, a brass desk lamp, and a black plastic pen rack were grouped geometrically at one end of his desk, and a couple of telephones had been pushed off to the other end, while a thin file marked “Gordonstone. M.” sat squarely and solely in the middle as if it were the only case for which he was responsible.
“Pot,” suggested Bliss, noisily sniffing one of the plants, knowing it wasn’t, but still surprised that an unmarried, relatively young, university-type high flyer like Bryan should spend so much time rooting about in his garden.
“Rosmarinus officinalis, actually,” Bryan said, pulling it from under Bliss’s nose. “And, no, you can’t smoke it.”
“How did you know I would come back?” Bliss asked, pointing to the file as Bryan motioned him to sit.
“Easy. The doc called. Surprise, surprise. Apparently you’re as fit as a dog with two pricks.”
Bliss’s confused expression showed that he wasn’t satisfied. “But you didn’t know I’d come back today.”
Bryan slid the file toward him. “I would have bet my next pay packet you’d be dying to have a go at this case.”
Bliss fingered the folder and cocked his head, waiting for the truth.
Bryan smiled like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “OK, OK. I watched you on the security camera trying to use your old code on the back door. We changed