“I can’t sleep – do you want a cup of tea?”
“Yes please – I can’t sleep either.”
“Do you take sugar?” he asked, walking in, two cups in hand. “I’ve been thinking about Bomber Mason, the Volvo driver,” he continued. But his mind was screaming: And you, Samantha. I’ve been thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about you.
He eyed the bed, decided against pushing his luck, slumped into a bedside chair and tried to keep his eyes off her. “This Mason bloke and Mandy’s killer probably did time together ...” he began while thinking: Get out now, why torture yourself like this. “He’s probably told Mason to find out my routine so he can strike at the best time.”
He looked at her – it was a mistake. Oh my God – you’re bloody gorgeous, Samantha.
“Dave ...?”
“Yes ... Sorry ...”
“You’re staring.”
“Shit! ... Sorry ... Um ... Maybe I should ... um.”
“Dave.”
“Yes?”
“Mason ... What are you planning to do about him?”
“Oh ... Um ... Mason ... Yes.”
“So what’s your plan, Dave?”
Concentrating hard he focused on the tea in his cup and got his mind in order. “Alright. First thing in the morning I’ll pay him a visit and beat the crap out of him if I have to. Once I know where his buddy, the murderer, is ... You’re bloody gorgeous, Samantha.”
“Dave,” she laughed.
“Sorry – it just sort of slipped out. I’d better go. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. Goodnight.”
“G’night, Dave. Thanks for the tea.”
It was three minutes before two. Patterson gave Dowding a shake. “O.K., Bob. Let’s call it a day. He won’t be back tonight and I’ve got to see a man about a dog first thing.”
“Right, Serg,” said Dowding, relieved.
It was eleven minutes past two. Bliss had lain awake counting every minute with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas Eve. I need a pee, he thought, regretting drinking the tea, and he crept out into the hallway. The spill of light from under Samantha’s door lit his path to the bathroom and the noisy torrent hitting the pan reverberated around the room, turning him pink. Then, faced with the early riser’s dilemma – to flush or not to flush – he flushed.
“Sorry,” he said, tapping lightly, praying she was still awake.
“Come in.” She was reading Woman’s Own. “Can’t sleep,” she explained as he poked his head round the door, not trusting himself to go in. “I was hoping this might bore me to sleep,” she laughed, flinging it aside. “You know the sort of thing – How to knit your own knickers; Haggis – boiled or fried; the joy of yeast infections.”
He looked askance. She was joking? “I forgot to ask earlier. Did you get hold of the forensic lab?”
“Oh yes. Patterson took the stuff in Monday afternoon.”
“I thought he would – I kicked his ass.”
“Not hard enough apparently. He didn’t tell them it was urgent.”
“Damn.”
“It’s O.K. They’ll make a start on the duvet first thing this morning and let us have a preliminary finding at lunchtime. The blood on the syringe ...”
“Blood – What blood?”
“Didn’t they tell you? Oh no, of course not. Apparently they’ve found traces of blood, but it will take a while to identify because it was burnt?”
“Blood,” he breathed, adding, “That’s interesting,” as he started to close her door. “Thanks,” he said, absently, his mind absorbed as he tried unsuccessfully to find a link between Jonathon Dauntsey, the flattened toy Major and a syringe of blood. “Goodnight.”
“G’night, Dave.”
It was three-twenty-seven. The first shafts of midsummer sunlight had roused a cockerel in a nearby field and he was doing his best to pass on the news. Bliss needed no such alarm and was roaming the house trying to reconstruct Samantha’s background through artefacts and mementos. He found little, other than a plastic coffee mug extolling the beauty of the Seychelles which had washed up on the draining board in her kitchen, a tasteless Eiffel Tower saltcellar, a single Delft clog and a crooked Italian campanile: Souvenirs or airport presents, he wondered, finding none that bore personalised inscriptions.
A number of pictures, both painted and photographic, could have come from any high street shop, he thought; nothing garish, nothing requiring an explanation or a psychiatrist; nothing that looked more like an accident than a work of art. One picture, a family portrait in a gold frame, made him pause: a pony-tailed Samantha, aged 10 or so, together with mother and father, and a huge yellow Labrador in a green garden.
Creeping up behind him, she caught him in the act. “Are your parents still alive, Dave?” she asked, making him jump with the picture in his hand.
“I sometimes wonder.”
“What?”
“Oh sorry ... I wasn’t thinking. Yeah – Bungalow in Brighton. Sort of trapped in a time warp. They do exactly the same things every day – have done for at least twenty years. It starts with: ‘Cornflakes dear – or would you like a change?’ ‘No – cornflakes are fine.’ And ends with: ‘Ovaltine alright?’ When I first visited Doreen Dauntsey in the nursing home she told me that all the others in there were already dead and I knew what she meant.”
“I hope I never get like that,” said Samantha with a shudder.
“At your age – it’s a distinct possibility.”
“You’d better watch what you say,” she said, snatching the picture and digging him in his ribs, “or you’ll be back on the couch tonight.”
“Your dog?” he questioned, giving the Labrador a nod.
Her eyes misted and her voice cracked. “He was born the same day as me – my parents thought it was a good idea.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“He died,” she replied, the simplicity of her words barely concealing the anguish.
“And what about your parents?” he asked, pointing to the vital young couple in the gold-framed photo, hoping to strike a happier note.
She took the picture and stood it back on the shelf with exaggerated care. “Split up years ago,” she said, with a bitterness that evinced unpleasant thoughts for both of them.
“Is that why you’ve never married?” he asked, trying to duck the pain of the break-up of his own marriage.
“You make it sound as though I’ve left it too late.”
“No ... ” he started, but let the word drift as she spun on her heals and headed for the bathroom.
Picking up the gilt-framed picture again, he scrutinised the young couple and their child in their Sunday best, noted the mother/daughter likeness, recognised Samantha’s intriguingly tenebrous eyes in her father’s, and pieced together an explanation for the barricade surrounding her. I bet she’s protecting herself, trying to guard against the pain of loss by avoidance of a relationship with anyone: men, women, pets.
She was back, tissue in hand. He challenged her with the picture. “What did you say to me the other night? You’ve got to have a plan, Dave – you’ll never find your way back onto the old path, and if you do, you won’t like what you find at the end.”