“Dead,” he was going to say but she was ahead of his thoughts. “Well it happens. I’ve come across a couple of people who’ve swallowed a bottle of tablets and sat in the car waiting for them to start taking effect before braving the water. They doze off and ... Anyway,” she said, getting out of the car. “Thank goodness you weren’t dead.”
“Don’t you believe it,” he muttered and was grateful that she didn’t hear as she shut the door. “Goodnight, Samantha,” he called, winding his window down.
“Good morning,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the bright patch above the eastern horizon. And as he looked at her, framed in early dawn light, he found a most pleasing shape.
It wasn’t until she was opening the door of her police car that he managed to get his mind in gear. “Samantha,” he called, with only a second to spare.
She looked back with a smile. “Yes?”
“Would you have dinner with me one night?”
“Maybe – try giving me a call. But I’ll warn you now – I work dreadful hours.”
Watching her drive away he questioned his motives. Just dinner, he said to himself. Don’t get involved with someone in the job – too many problems. She was certainly good looking. Wake up, Dave – most women look good at this time of night. Maybe a quick dip in the sea will cool you off and freshen you up – your trunks and towel are in one of the suitcases in the back.
A chilly blast of ozone laden air shocked him to life as he opened the car door. That’ll do, he thought, quickly slamming it shut and starting the engine, then he had to get out and scurry to a convenient bush for a morning pee.
Detective Sergeant Patterson was already in the office at Westchester police station when Bliss phoned at six-fifteen. “He’s here somewhere,” said the night telephonist. “I saw him come in.” He was there – ferreting through the papers on Bliss’s desk and digging through his drawers.
“I’ve put out a call for him, he’s not in his office,” continued the telephonist, but there’s a message here for you. A reporter from the Westchester Gazette was trying to get hold of you last evening – wants you to call him about the Dauntsey case.”
“Tell him to go through the press office.”
“I did, Sir, but he was quite insistent that he wanted to speak to you personally.”
“Did he have my name?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Shit.”
“Sorry, Sir – did you say something?”
“No, I sneezed. Did he leave a number?”
Giving him the number she finished by saying, “I’ve got D.S. Patterson now, Sir, I’ll transfer you.”
“Where are you, Guv?” queried Patterson coming on the line.
That’s a point – where am I? wondered Bliss, pulling himself upright on the steering wheel, reaching forward to clear a patch of windscreen. Seagulls, sand dunes, a couple of beach joggers and a host of happy childhood memories. But this was neither Southend or Brighton. “Ah ...”
“Only I called the Mitre last night and that foreign girl said you’d left.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“No.” Idiot. “I meant, why did you want me?”
“Sorry, Guv. Well we’ve got the blood tests on the duvet – nothing special – O positive.”
“Is that it?”
“You sound disappointed, Guv.”
“With the way Jonathon’s been pissing us about I half expected cochineal or paint. I suppose a small part of me even began wondering if we were chasing a dead animal.”
“No – it’s definitely human.”
“Well I don’t know whether to say ‘Thank Christ’ or ‘Shit’ but at least we now know it wasn’t the Major’s blood.”
“You can’t get blood out of a bone,” sniggered Patterson.
“Very droll, Pat,” he groaned, then added, “I want you to get everyone together for two o’clock this afternoon. It’s time to hash this case out ...”
Patterson butted in. “It’s Saturday, Guv. I won’t be very popular.”
“You’re not paid to be popular. I’ve got some theories I want to run past you and the others.”
“Whatever you say, Guv,” Patterson said. On your head be it, he meant, already formulating excuses in his mind – Don’t blame me for poxing up your weekend – blame Bliss. I just follow orders. “... Oh, Guv?”
“Yes.”’
“Have you got a new car?”
“Yes – why?”
“Oh nothing, Guv. It’s just that I need the details for the station car parking book, otherwise the bomb squad will blow it up.”
“Right – I forgot.”
“No problem. By the way, have you informed the widow about the Major yet, Guv?”
“That’s my purgatory for this morning, Pat. I’ll see you later.”
But Doreen Dauntsey could wait for the knock on her door, after all she’d waited forty years. He checked his watch, six-forty-five, Saturday morning. Let’s see how keen this reporter is.
The phone was answered at the second ring. “Peter White ... G’morning.”
“D.I. Bliss, Westchester police,” he was curt. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
“Oh yes, Sir. Thanks for calling ...” he began, a bounce of excitement in his voice. “I wonder – could we meet? Off the record.”
Bliss hesitated, “I’m not sure ...”
“It’s all above board, Sir, I promise you.”
“Perhaps we could meet for breakfast in an hour or so. I’m staying at the Mitre.”
It was the journalist’s turn to hesitate. “Um ... Would you mind if we met somewhere a bit more private – the Bacon Butty on the Marsdon Road does a good breakfast, and they open early?”
Bliss knew the place, having passed it en-route to The Carpenter’s Kitchen with Daphne the previous evening, and he found himself agreeing, despite the nagging feeling that fraternising with the press was probably contrary to regulations. “Seven-thirty, then.” he said, leaving no opportunity for dissent, retaining some control.
Bliss arrived early and sat for a few minutes, deliberating whether or not to go in, wishing he had a mini-cassette player with him, knowing that “off the record” had its limitations, and that reporters could be as gymnastic as policemen when it came to direct quotes.
The front door opened on a narrow passageway, the wallpaper flock erased at hip height, and Bliss followed a patternless groove in the lino into a smoky room with nicotine- yellowed walls covered in cheap prints; glitzy framed pictures oozing sickly sentimentality – fuzzy edged images of fat babies with snotty noses, a bloated cat with a budgie on its head and more sad-eyed puppies than a Disney cartoon.
“Mr. Bliss?” enquired the shrivelled occupant of a giant’s sports jacket and Bliss found himself staring at the sole diner, trying to make sense of the spectacle. Nothing fitted. The man had a size six head on a size four body; his oversize