“I start late shift tomorrow,” she continued. “I told you, I work lousy hours ...” she paused. “But I’m free this evening.”
“Oh – I can’t. I promised a little old lady.”
“Oh yeah ... how old?” she asked, her voice full of tease.
“Positively ancient.”
“I guess that would mean around thirty, a busty blond with a Mercedes and an expense account,” she laughed. “It’s alright, Dave, I know my limitations.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Do you like roast beef?”
They met in the reception area at the Mitre. The dragon he’d cautioned himself to expect had transformed into a sleek sable-haired feline with smooth round features, dark mysterious eyes and sensible white teeth set squarely behind full lips – nothing dangerously protrusive; no tombstones.
He pulled up, slack-mouthed, at the foot of the stairs, studying her profile as she chatted to the friendly Swede, and he froze – holding the moment – savouring the image.
Feeling the weight of his eyes she turned with a smile. “Hello, Dave.”
Move you prat, he said to himself. “You look very nice,” he said, cursing the inadequacy of polite conversation as he walked toward her.
“Thank you kind sir,” she curtsied gracefully, and he took her hand and kissed it theatrically.
“Come on,” he said, keeping hold, his eyes locked on hers. “Daphne will be waiting,” he continued but couldn’t tear his eyes free – her right pupil had taken a life of its own and was drifting slowly southward. In an instant she pulled the lazy eye back into focus and looked embarrassingly away, but Bliss was already captivated by the charming imperfection and felt a tingle of excitement down his spine as they made a move out of the lobby.
“By the way, how did you know I was staying here?” he asked, on their way to his car.
“I traced your car number,” she blushed. “Mind I was a bit surprised when it came up as a hire car ...”
An implicit question hung in the air, but he chose to ignore it. He’d gone all day with barely a thought of the monkey on his back and had no intention of unnecessarily dredging up Mandy’s killer and spoiling the evening.
“She’s in love with you,” whispered a soft voice in his ear an hour later as he sat on Daphne’s couch after dinner.
“What? Don’t be silly. I’ve only known her a few days.”
“I’m a woman, Dave, believe me – I know these things. I can see it in her eyes.”
Daphne bustled in with a tray of coffees. “What are you two love-birds whispering about?” she chuckled, with an edge to her laugh.
“I was just saying to Dave, what a lovely dinner,” said Samantha, her face as innocent as her tone. “I can’t believe you grew all the vegetables yourself.”
Daphne had pulled out all the stops. The sirloin had been exquisite, and her golden Yorkshire puddings had to be held to the plates with lashings of rich beef gravy. “The trick is not to pick the vegies when the sun’s on them,” she explained, shrugging off the compliment.
“Well, it was really nice,” said Bliss, still luxuriating in the warmth of Samantha’s breath on his cheek.
Placing the tray on a Butler’s table at their feet, Daphne ignored the empty armchairs and squeezed onto the settee in between them.
“Budge over, Dave,” she said, giving his knee a playful nudge and Samantha shot him a cheeky smile behind her back, mouthing, “Told you so.”
Returning to The Mitre, Bliss parked only yards from the back wall, behind the lounge with its deep chintzy sofas, flickering candlelight and mood music. But they stayed in the car; exchanging soft words and tender touches; breathing gently through moistened lips; savouring each other’s scent; basking in each other’s warmth. It would be so easy to charge full-tilt into a sexual melee, he realised: a bottle of Dom Perignon in the lounge, an indecent proposal whispered tenderly with precise timing, and it would be all over bar the shouting. But he fought the urge with ease – hastily consummated relationships with as much staying power as the Titanic were a thing of his past.
Waltzing easily into the natural rhythm of romance they melted into each other arms and their eyes locked – midnight blue on burnt sienna in the shadowy light. They floated, lips poised, and drank in each other’s beauty. Then a spark of light blazed in her eyes and Bliss spun around in time to catch the fading flare of a match, and the bright glow of a newly lit cigarette, behind him.
“There’s someone out there,” he whispered. “Stay here,” he added, easing himself out of her arms and inching toward the door.
“Are you crazy?” she said, hopping out the other side and taking off after him.
Twenty minutes later, breathless and bedraggled, they were back, standing by Samantha’s car, saying goodnight.
“I do wish you’d come up to my room and clean up,” he implored.
“No,” she said fiercely, then immediately backed off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I would just prefer to go home if you don’t mind, only I’m covered in mud.”
“He went right through the river.”
“I know, I was behind him remember.”
“I thought you were magnificent.”
“Just doing my job, Sir,” she said in a policeman’s voice, then sneezed.
“You really should come up and dry off. Look, here’s my key. I’ll stay in the bar if you don’t trust me.”
“Dave, don’t get me wrong, it’s just too much of a cliché – Girl meets boy; girl falls in mud; girl catches cold; girl takes off wet clothes ... well you know the rest.
I’ve seen the movie, and read the soppy novel ... and they don’t always have a happy ending.”
Feeling a pang of disappointment he asked, “Can I call you?”
“You’d better,” she laughed getting in and closing her door. “I can’t afford to keep losing pens.”
The Volvo had got away from the car park moments before Bliss and Samantha returned. The driver, breathless and drenched, stood shivering in a phone booth a mile away.
“They nearly caught me,” he was bleating into the phone. “I had to run through the effin’ river – got soaked.”
“They? Who are they?”
“Him and the woman. The one I told you about. He picked her up again at that same house. I’m sure this guy knows you’re onto him, he’s real slippery. He’s switched cars again ... did I tell you what he did the other night? ... He was at that house again – the woman’s house, dropping her off late, then he took off, and when I started to follow he did a U-turn and left me standing. I waited at the Mitre but he didn’t show up all night.”
“Well don’t worry about him anymore,” said the voice at the other end. “It’s time I turned up the heat. Time we said goodbye to Mr. Bliss.”
Peter Marshall, the owner of The Toy Soldier, was as enthusiastic as a new recruit and reported early, arriving at The Mitre at seven-thirty on Monday morning.
“First stop: the police station,” said Bliss, coming downstairs and marching him out of the door and up the High Street at eight o’clock precisely.
Marshall hung back. “I don’t understand ... Police?”
“All will become clear,” said Bliss, stepping off and refusing to give anything away.