“Give me the damn phone,” she screamed, snatching it from under the young woman’s hand. “Get the manager. Give me a pass key. Oh Christ – you stupid, stupid girl. Have you the faintest idea … Hello – YES – THIS IS AN EMERGENCY – Police and hurry ... You stupid girl ... This is Sergeant Holingsworth, I’m at the Mitre Hotel ... Oh, you stupid girl ... ”
“Wait at the reception, Serg,” the duty officer at Westchester station had said, but how could she wait? Wait for what? What would it be this time – another sawn-off shotgun, a Kalashnikov or a booby-trapped bomb?
“What’s his room number?”
The girl was white. “Seventeen Madam.”
“Give me the key,” she screeched, already running for the stairs, then she stopped and turned with a terrifying afterthought. “You’d better get an ambulance.”
“Yes, Madam – Sorry, Madam.”
“... Stupid girl ...”
A confusing maze of corridors confronted her at the top of the stairs and the rooms seemed to have been numbered by a dyslexic painter using a magnifying glass. She passed his twice, her heart pounding as she raced around the narrow twisting corridors, too blinkered by fright to spot the blind alley with his room at the end.
Eventually, on the point of returning to the receptionist for directions, she spotted the room and crept cautiously up the narrow alley knowing she had nowhere to duck if the door flew open and the killer came out, guns blazing.
The keyhole was peeping-tom proof and, sweeping her hair to one side, she clamped an ear to the door. Damn hotel doors, she thought, hearing only a mumble of voices. “Shoot you ... Revenge,” somebody seemed to be saying.
Oh my God! Now what?
Knock?
Are you crazy?
With her blood rising, she slumped to the floor and checked her watch. Where the hell is the tactical support unit – they’ve had ... one minute! I don’t believe it. Only one lousy minute. I’m going in.
Wait for the armed unit. He’ll kill you.
He won’t. That’s what upset him in the first place. That he’d shot a woman.
Taking a deep breath she slid the old-fashioned brass key into the lock with the stealth of a burglar. Now stop, wait and listen. She jammed her ear back against the door – damn these insulated doors. It was only a murmur. What was it? What was he saying? “Kill you?”
Holding her breath, she turned the key with the trepidation of a bomb disposal officer. It turned forever then jumped with a solid “clunk” that shook her rigid. Run, she told herself, but it was too late, her hand had frozen to the polished marble handle and another hand was turning it under her fingers. Let go! Let go! she screamed inside, but an iron grip wrenched open the door and dragged her sprawling across the carpet into the room, flat on her face. Her hands flew protectively to her head and she was readying a scream when Bliss beat her to it.
“Samantha,” he cried. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Dave?” she queried feebly as she turned to look up from the floor. “Are you alright?”
“Of course I’m alright,” he said, standing over her next to a stranger. “This is Superintendent Wakelin from Scotland Yard ... Superintendent meet Sergeant Holingsworth,” he laughed, dragging her to her feet.
“Oh. I see ... Super … Superintendent ... ah ... nice to meet you,” she stammered, brushing herself down, then the room exploded around them in a blast of light and sound.
They were still laughing about it twenty minutes later when Daphne showed up to join them for dinner in a new hat that could have doubled as an umbrella. “Bought for the occasion,” she said. What occasion? Bliss wondered with a smirk: a ritual blinding?
“Painful pink with chicken pox,” was how Samantha described it later, when they were alone. “You know what they say, Dave,” she sniggered, “red hat – no drawers.”
“That’s our Daphne for you,” he replied.
“What’s happening? What’s going on?” Daphne demanded as the two of them giggled over Martinis and a bowl of olives at the bar. “Oh – olives. My favourite. May I?”
There had been a bit of a misunderstanding, he explained, sliding the bowl in front of her and ordering her a Pernod, thinking there was little point in telling her about Mandy’s killer.
The “misunderstanding” involved six heavyweight wrestlers wearing police uniforms and crash helmets, and a thunderflash which had scorched a hole in the carpet, shattered a mirror, and left Bliss, Samantha and Superintendent Wakelin wondering if an atom bomb had dropped on the room next door.
“It was all my fault,” Samantha explained apologetically. “I was so certain the killer was in your room I told them to blast their way in.”
“They did that alright,” Wakelin laughed, his ears still stinging. But, when the smoke had cleared, they’d rejoiced in the bar like freed hostages as Wakelin explained the reason for his visit to Samantha. “Mandy Richard’s killer has done his last blagging.”
“Blagging?” she mouthed to Bliss.
“Armed robbery,” he explained. “Met police slang.”
“He scored an own goal,” continued Wakelin, still talking in code.
Bliss checked her face for signs of bewilderment, but she understood. “When?” she asked.
“A few months ago we think. He was doing a mole job under a security warehouse with a couple of heavies. Using jelly. Looks as though they hit an old sewer – red brick – probably thought it was the building’s foundations. Then Boom! And they were up to their armpits in you-know-what. Anyhow, they were found last week – the bits the rats had left – and a few of the fingers still had prints on them.”
“Nice,” said Samantha, grimacing at the thought.
Daphne watered her Pernod still looking to Bliss for an explanation. He straightened his face. “My old superintendent came to see me and told us a funny story.”
She popped an olive. “What?”
“It’s safe for you to come back to London now,” he had said and Bliss had immediately looked to Samantha. She smiled. What does that mean? he wondered. What sort of smile is that? Say something Samantha – anything ... “Stay.” “Go.” ... Say something.
“Can I let you know?”
“Of course ...” Wakelin started, then viewed him questioningly. “I should have thought you’d be only too keen to get back home. We’ve taken good care of your place – new paintwork; new door ...”
“I’d just like a bit of time to consider it,” he said, not wanting to think about the door, the steel prison door, and gave Samantha another glance. Look at me – damn you. Say something. Plead with me not to go. Beg me to stay here. Tell me there’s hope; there’s a chance. Being on your own’s not all it’s cracked up to be – ask Daphne.
Wakelin was still in the dark and blundered in the wrong direction. “I can understand you being wary about coming back. It’ll take awhile to sink in ... Why not take a couple of weeks leave – as much time as you like. Call me tomorrow ... the day after ... whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ve just got a few loose ends to tie up here.”
Loose ends – Samantha Holingsworth you mean. Go on – tell her how you feel about her. Look into those mysterious eyes and say, “I think I love you.” But I hardly know her. I thought I said no more Titanic relationships; no more trails of emotional debris.
“I’ll call in a day or so, Guv. Like I