“Oh!” Bliss exclaimed with surprise.
Wrongly assuming the exclamation was in admiration of his expertise, the dealer beamed, but Bliss was tossing Arnie’s words around in his mind, recalling that Rupert Dauntsey had been a major in the Royal Horse Artillery. Suddenly the model had life.
“Sorry,” he said, picking up the front half of the model with interest, now paying close attention. “I missed that. Could you tell me again?”
The dealer’s face had, “Listen this time you moron,” written all over it as he repeated the information.
Bliss wasn’t easily convinced and peppered the dealer with questions, demanding to know how he could be so certain about the identity of such a mutilated figure. It was the paint, apparently, the khaki service dress and, “Of course,” as if Bliss should know, as if everyone knew, “the steel helmet.”
“The steel helmet?” enquired Bliss.
“Britains were the only company who moulded the Royal Horse Artillery wearing steel helmets in 1940 and up to May 1941.”
“Oh, I see,” said Bliss, dropping the pieces back into the bag. “Well thanks a lot,” he added, making a move toward the door.
“Has your friend got any more?” called the dealer.
Bliss paused, “More – like this?”
“Yes – but not mangled.”
Bliss shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“I might be interested, that’s all.”
Realising that he’d not seen any price tags Bliss swept his hand across a couple of regiments. “Are these worth something, I mean – are they valuable?”
“Depends what you mean by valuable, but ... possibly – depending on the condition.”
“And ones like this,” he said holding out the bag of horseman’s remains.
“Maybe ... although I’d be particularly interested if there were a set.”
“A set?”
“Yeah – That’s the officer you’ve got there. A major probably. The original set had a gun carriage with a team of horses and four outriders in addition to the major. Here, take my card – give me a call. I’m sure we could come to a satisfactory arrangement if your friend was interested in selling.”
Bliss drifted back to the counter, his interest piqued. “How would I know what to look for?”
“I could give you some clues,” the dealer said, picking up a red coated guardsman. “For instance, this is a Britains,” he said without bothering to check.
“How do you know.”
He laughed. “They made a mistake with this model and painted the plume on the wrong side of the bearskin ... look,” he pointed. “But don’t worry, there are easier ways to tell.”
“Such as?”
Flipping the figure over in his hand he pointed out the inscription “Britains Ltd.” engraved on the base and laughed again – “Easy, see.”
Bliss, still not certain what he was looking for picked up a few of the models then asked. “Have you got any of the Horse Guards – it would give me a better idea?”
The dealer hesitated. “No, I don’t think I do, but bring in any models you can. I’ll soon identify them.”
Twenty minutes later Bliss pulled up in a quiet street of neat terraced houses and gazed nostalgically at the houses opposite. He had carefully gone through the routine of checking out the neighbourhood – no suspicious Volvo’s, blue or otherwise – but he had spotted two large attentive men in a car half a street away, their wing mirrors trained on his house.
His house had changed and he found himself staring at it with the eyes of a stranger. The front door was different – despite the wood-grain finish and polished brass knocker it was quite obviously reinforced steel and blast-resistant. A pattern of scorch marks etched into the stone step, and fanning out across the pavement, still marked the spot where the bomb had exploded. But it wasn’t the physical changes that alienated him, the house no longer had a welcoming feel. It was, he felt, more like unexpectedly finding yourself outside your childhood home – wanting to rush in and find mother at the sink and father asleep in front of the television; the sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie; the cozy warmth of laundry drying around the fire and the promise of a new Beano, Dandy or Boy’s Own.
But there was no mother or father here. This was no childhood den. This was still his house – he had a key, and there was nothing stopping him from entering; only the words of the protection squad commander. “I wouldn’t go back to the house if I were you, Dave – not until we’ve caught him. If he’s desperate enough he’ll try again, and next time it might be a machine gun from a passing car, à la Al Capone.”
He drove away with a certain sadness, managed to force a mendacious smile for the two caretakers as he passed, then was forced to stop and search for a tissue. He’d bought the house for a fresh start, having finally shaken off the divorce doldrums, and now his world had been trashed again, this time by a villainous ghost from the past.
Arriving early at the pub for his rendezvous with Superintendent Wakelin, Bliss checked out the car park and surrounding streets for blue Volvos and jotted down the numbers of a couple, though neither looked promising.
The waitress was beautiful, stunningly so, yet appeared to have no idea as she bustled around serving everyone with the same innocent smile. Bliss was mesmerised by her beauty and wanted to glide his fingers down her slender arms and stroke her soft cheeks just to have the memory for his dotage. “I remember the day I touched the most perfect woman,” he would boast to his peers on the bowling green. “She had stepped straight out of an Old Master – not a Rubens. She was a Rembrandt or Botticelli, or a Bartolini statue. Naked? Naturally. Though nothing coarse, nothing pornographic.”
She wasn’t naked, but her loose fitting dress flowed sensuously over her curves, like the robes of an Egyptian princess, and the open smile on her fresh virginal face left her more exposed than most women totally nude.
“Yeah, mate – What d’ye want?” Her rough cockney accent broke the spell and she slipped under the wheels of her chariot.
“Hello, Michael,” called Superintendent Wakelin pointedly, as he appeared out of nowhere and slid into the cubicle beside him. Bliss tore his eyes off the young woman, now just a waitress, and greeted the senior officer.
“Drink, Guv?”
“So, how are you getting on in Hampshire?” enquired Wakelin once the waitress had wiggled away.
“They’ve given me an interesting sort of murder ... local man killed his father.”
“Domestic, eh! – should be easy enough for you.”
“Oh yeah,” he replied, choosing to ignore the minor problem of the missing body, “but they could manage perfectly well without me. In fact I don’t think they quite know what to do with me. Superintendent Donaldson seems alright, although he’s on his way out. I think he just wants a quiet life. I could see it on his face as he gave me the case. Here you are, son – play with this. Even the Met couldn’t fuck this one up.”
“So what are you saying?”
“To be honest, I want to come back. I’ve done my time.”
He had – six months in a safe house, a padded prison with two acres of neatly tended gardens and a movie star’s video library.
“Dave ... Oh fuck – I’ve done it again. Sorry ... Michael, this guy is determined, and he’s done his homework. He knows where you work, live and probably where you play; he knows your car; he got your phone