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