“How do I know ...” his voice faded.
This is stupid, Dave. You’re making an ass of yourself. You’re right.
“If you would just open the door, Sir.”
His hand was on the handle but it wouldn’t turn.
Bang! Bang! Bang! “Open up, Sir – Police.”
“Sorry,” he said a few minutes later as he sat, crammed in the kitchen with two gregarious Bigfoots in blue uniforms. “I really haven’t got a lot to offer you.”
“No problem, Guv.”
“I could do some instant coffee ...” he started, then realised he’d have to turn on the water and scare up some mugs. In any case they were shaking their heads – buckets of beer looked to be more in their line. “I really hadn’t planned on coming back today,” he continued, “but I was in the area and I thought I’d see what the old place looked like.”
“You’re not staying then?”
“No,” he said easily. Thinking – I was going to until I stood by that door not knowing who was outside – waiting for the bullets. Sorry, Daphne old girl – guess I haven’t got the bottle. “No, I’m not staying – I think I’ll go to my daughter’s.”
“Thank Christ for that.”
“Why?”
“’Cos we would have had to park outside all night if you’d been stopping.”
“I’ll only be ten minutes or so,” he said, letting the officers out and closing the heavy door. Then he stood, fixated by the door, seriously debating whether he was inside or outside – not inside or outside the house; inside or outside the door – a mental perspective of a physical presence. With the realisation that he wanted to be the other side of the door he concluded he was actually outside, and left the house as soon as he’d rounded up one or two belongings.
“Don’t wake me up too early,” Samantha, his daughter, had warned, throwing a clean sheet over the guest bed. “Tomorrow’s Sunday – just forget you’re in the police for once.”
“Roger, Sam,” he had said, thinking – you sound more like your mother every day. “Don’t worry, I’m so exhausted I’ll probably sleep all day.”
A swathe of sunlight cut through a gape in the curtains and roused him a little after nine. As he woke, “Samantha” was on his lips and he fought with his soporific memory to retrace the dregs of his last dream.
Sketchy images appeared – cozy memories: a warm dark car; moonlight on a tropical beach; a dark-haired native with an alluring body. Samantha, the sergeant, he fathomed, then realised that despite all the aggravations of the previous day she had been slinking in the back of his mind throughout.
Balancing himself on the brink of wakefulness, he played with the images until she was gambolling naked in the surf. Then the shiploads of dead men started drifting in again and spoiled the picture. Waking himself to escape the nightmare, he was annoyed to discover that Samantha had also dissolved. Be sensible, he told himself. Don’t get carried away. It was 4 am and you were tired and lonely. In the clear light of day she’ll be an absolute dragon. Anyway, she didn’t seem overly keen.
But she said she’d have dinner.
“Maybe,” was what she said. “Maybe.”
“Call me,” she said.
But did she give me a number? – No. Did she tell me where she was stationed?
That’s easy enough to find out – you’re just trying to duck out of it. What are you frightened of?
I told you – she’s probably a dragon, works nights so as not to scare the horses during the day.
You’re frightened of rejection – again.
Ha – ha, very funny.
“Have you upset somebody, Guv?” asked the control room officer at Westchester police station when Bliss called a little after ten.
Does he mean – apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and half the C.I.D.? he wondered, then answered cagily. “Not that I know of. I was just calling to see if ... Why?”
The voice was guarded – circumspect. “Well ... were you expecting a delivery of any sort?”
Oh God – another bomb. Try to sound normal. “No, I wasn’t expecting anything at all.”
“We thought so, Guv. Well, somebody’s playing a nasty joke on you.”
“What is it? What’s happened?” It has to be explosive, or something really disgusting like a box of cow-shit. Damn – they will have instigated full anti-terrorist procedures: evacuation; bomb disposal teams, robotic disarming devices . . . this has got to stop – one way or another.
“Guv – Are you still there?”
“Yes – Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”
“I said it were a moth eaten old goat.”
“A what?”
“Some butcher delivered it this morning – reckoned it had come from an auction. I’ve had it put in the isolation cell. He wanted to put it in your office. ‘Not bloody likely,’ I said, ‘You never know what it might have inside.’”
“Daphne!” he swore under his breath but he couldn’t help laughing in relief. “Do you mean it could be a sort of a Trojan goat?”
“A what, Guv?”
“Never mind – it’s O.K., just a mistake I expect. I’ll deal with it. Anything else?”
“Three phone calls for you, Guv.”
“Who?”
“Three women,” he said, the suggestion of impropriety in his tone. “None of ’em would leave a message, said they’d call back, though one of ’em sounded very much like our Daphne – the cleaner.”
Directory enquiries located her number in seconds. “Daphne – this is D.I. Bliss. . . did you phone me this morning?”
“Oh yes, Chief Inspector,” she started, wielding formality as a shield. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.” She paused for the words to sink in, then added excitedly, “You bought the goat.”
“I did what?”
“Now, you needn’t be cross. I didn’t know what to do and I knew you wouldn’t mind. I bid twenty pounds myself but nobody else seemed interested, then George caught my eye and he looked so downhearted. ‘I thought that friend of yorn were keen,’ he said, his face as miserable as a wet weekend. ‘He was, George,’ I said. ‘He most certainly was.’ ‘Well where is he then?’ he said, forlorn. What could I do, Dave? I didn’t want you getting a bad reputation for welching on your promises, so I bid fifty quid for you.”
“How much?”
“Oh don’t be so ungrateful. I did it for you. Anyway, you were lucky. I thought about bidding against you and pushing the price up to a hundred, but the auctioneer was quick off the mark. “Going, going, gone,” he said, and knocked it down before I could get my hand up, so I saved you fifty quid. George was so thrilled he said he would deliver it personally – he thinks you’re wonderful.”
“A wonderful idiot.”
She pretended not to hear. “Anyway, Dave, that wasn’t why I was calling really – I’ve got some more good news. D’you remember asking me about that Captain at Doreen’s wedding?”
“The Major’s aide-de-camp.”
“Yes. His best man – the one with the clothes brush. Well, I thought afterwards,