“Not yet, Guv,” he said. “It’ll take a week or so at least,” thinking it might take considerably longer if he didn’t get round to sending it.
“Well get onto them – I want it yesterday – understood?”
“Will do, Guv,” he said, and slid lethargically back in his chair. “Anything you say, Guv. You’re the boss.”
“Thank you,” muttered Bliss as he left, adding, “Now to make a modeler’s day.”
The Royal Horse Artillery gun carriage set, complete with original box, had not made Marshall’s day, or his week – it had been the moment he’d waited for most of his life. “He was bawling like a kid,” Bliss explained excitedly to a barely interested Donaldson half an hour later. “He stood with one of the tiny horseman in his hands, eyes closed, quivering in delight – like he was having an orgasm – then these tears started pouring down his cheeks.”
“Humph,” grunted Donaldson as he helped himself to a biscuit from a packet concealed under his desk.
“Anyway, Guv, it seems that Major Dauntsey left quite a legacy – one of the rarest sets of model soldiers in the world.”
“So where does that leave us with the murder, Inspector?” he asked coldly, and Bliss heard the snap of the biscuit under the desk as Donaldson prepared for his departure.
“Nothing changes. In fact I’m just off to see Doreen Dauntsey – she called saying she wanted to talk to me. With any luck, I’ll have the Major’s case sewn up in an hour or so.”
“And Jonathon?”
“Patterson’s working on that at the moment.”
“Right – And have you got rid of the goat?”
“I’m working on that.”
He could have left for the nursing home immediately, but he hesitated at the front door and decided that he should take a copy of the pathologist’s report with him – after all he was going to officially notify a woman of her widowhood. Returning to his office he flicked on his computer to pull up the report, then slumped as the blood drained from his face and his legs gave way.
In a daze, he picked up the phone, dialled Samantha’s number, then found himself wondering why.
“Samantha ... is that you?” he squeaked as she came on the line.
“Dave, are you alright? You sound dreadful.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were O.K.”
“Just a sniffle – all I needed was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh good – I’m glad.”
“Dave – there is something the matter, I can sense it.”
“Remind me never to lie to you. Can you meet me tonight? ... It’s rather important, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, of course – I finish at ten but we could meet earlier ...”
“No, ten’s fine ...” he said, quickly adding, “But don’t come here. Meet me at the beach again.”
“Alright ...” she replied inquisitivel,. “I will, but something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, slowly putting the phone down, and he sat mesmerised by the words on the computer screen in front of him.
“Your time is up – BANG! – Ha-ha-ha.”
Chapter Thirteen
Samantha Holingsworth waited with uneasy anticipation at the beach-side car park as arranged, and was surprised to spy Bliss’s lonely shadow skulking along the beach in front of her.
“Over here, Dave,” she shouted, assuming he’d missed her in the gloom, and he froze, like startled prey, silhouetted against the grey ocean and star-peppered sky.
“Here, Dave,” she tried again, leaning out of the car window, and he straightened up and oriented himself toward her.
They sat in her car for a while, their conversation stilted by his anxieties sitting between them like an ugly little creature with halitosis.
“So, how are you?”
“Fine ... and you?” The creature’s presence kept them to niceties ... the weather ... his hotel ... her car…
“Very smart,” he said, meaning, “Wow!”
“Where’s your car?” Samantha asked, craning around.
“Further up the beach,” he said, without explanation.
And so it had continued: … movies seen ... books read ... Daphne’s dinner ... the weather again.
“It was really warm today.”
“It’s still warm now.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Dave,” she exploded, unable to stand the suspense any longer. “Are you going to tell me why you needed to see me so urgently or not?”
He was having second thoughts – had been having second thoughts all afternoon – second thoughts from the moment he and Superintendent Donaldson had rushed back to his office to find the threatening message had evaporated from the computer screen.
“It was here,” breathed Bliss, “I swear it was here.”
You are going mad, he had told himself, searching the screen frantically, seeking some trace of the message – anything – even a single lingering pixel.
Donaldson laid a kindly hand on his arm. “Dave – you’ve been under a lot of stress ...”
“Don’t give me that psycho babble, Guv,” he spat, wrenching his arm away. “I know what I saw ... It was here. It said ...” he paused and buried his head in his hands. “It said ... ‘Ha, ha, Bang – you’re dead,’ or something like that, I swear it did.”
“Well where is it now?”
Looking up, blankly, he caught the superintendent unawares and saw his face pinched in scepticism. And behind the perplexed frown creasing his brow his mind was an open book. “First he buys a flea-ridden goat – Now this – What next?”
“Forget it, Guv.”
“What do you mean – forget it. Forget what?”
“I know what you’re thinking – please forget I mentioned it.”
“I can’t do that, Dave ...” his voice trailed off.
“Why not? ... Oh. I get it,” he said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Silly me. Of course you can’t forget it – You’ve been told to keep an eye on me, haven’t you?”
“Dave ...”
“No – it’s alright, Guv, you needn’t give me the bullshit. I should’ve guessed. Transferring me here had nothing to do with the threats, did it? Somebody upstairs thought it would be a good idea to tuck me away in some godforsaken hole where I couldn’t do a lot of damage; where it would be easy to keep an eye on me – Didn’t they?”
Donaldson, caught off guard, mumbled something in the way of a platitude but Bliss’s mind was elsewhere, recalling the sceptical stares of his London colleagues, together with their insidious whispers: “Maybe his nerve’s gone; maybe his mind’s gone; maybe he wrote those letters and made those phone calls himself.” ... “Why would he do that?” ... “Guilt of course, for causing Mandy’s death,” or, as the more cynical had suggested, “He’s angling for a whacking compensation package and early retirement.”
As Bliss shook off old memories and brought himself