“What?”
“Immortality.”
“I don’t understand.”
Bliss cupped his wine glass in his hands and peered meditatively over the rim. “Can you imagine how much red tape you would have to cut to change military records more than fifty years old? It could take forever to get the Army eggheads to admit they sent the wrong man home. The chances are that, on paper at least, Major Rupert Dauntsey will outlive us all.”
“Jonathon stole the pig,” piped up Samantha, still determined to pin something on him, though her tone suggested it was an academic exercise.
“But where’s the evidence?”
“You ate it,” she laughed. “But you’ve got his confession. He confessed to killing his father.”
Bliss threw up his hands in mock horror. “No more confessions, please. I can’t take any more confessions. I will never believe another confession as long as I’m on the job.”
“He was actually telling truth ...” started Samantha, but he cut her off shaking his head.
“You mean he would have been telling the truth if Captain Tippen had been Major Dauntsey, and if Major Dauntsey had been his father.”
“Complicated, isn’t it?” muttered Daphne concentrating on the escargot.
“Anyway. Whoever he confessed to killing, he obviously didn’t believe it at the time. It must have come as quite a shock when he looked into the turret room this afternoon and it all came back to him.”
“What did the psychiatrist say?” asked Daphne.
“Selective amnesia, amongst other things. In fact I reckon he could retire on this case. I can imagine him touring the country with Jonathon standing in the wings. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, kindly allow me to introduce the world’s most screwed up man.’”
“Talk about a dysfunctional family,” mused Samantha. “No wonder Jonathon’s weird.”
What had Doreen said about the power of the dead over the living? thought Bliss, recalling that Tippen had kept her trapped for over fifty years. And what about Jonathon? He must have known in the back of his mind that he’d killed the man who had abused him – the man he thought was his father. “The whole thing is a saga of death,” he said, looking slowly from Samantha to Daphne and speaking of life in general. “Dead people, dead relationships and dead animals ...” He paused, almost daring anyone to mention the stuffed goat, preparing to scream, then added. “It was so horrific that Jonathon’s mind just shut it out.”
“I don’t blame him, I think I’d shut out something like that,” said Samantha.
The main course arrived. Poached wild salmon on a concasse of oyster mushrooms with a creamy dill sauce.
“Absolutely superb,” they agreed.
“It must be Mavis Longbottom’s night off,” muttered Daphne maliciously.
Bliss leaned into her and whispered consolingly. “Don’t worry, Daphne. The food here isn’t a patch on yours.”
She looked up, beaming. “Actually, Dave, I was meaning to speak to you about that. Now I’ve decided to give up my job I’ll have more time on my hands and I was thinking of taking in a paying guest. I was wondering if you’d be interested – all home cooked food of course.”
“That’s very tempting ...” he began, but Samantha reached across the table, took his hand tenderly and looked deep into his eyes. “That’s very nice of you to offer, Daphne, but he’s coming to live with me. Aren’t you, Dave?”
The End
chapter one
The giant ship was evaporating. Twinkling lights from the Calypso Bar, in the aft, were still clearly visible, but the remainder of the vessel was slowly being sucked into the black hole of night. Roger LeClarc strained to see through the mist, telling himself he was dreaming.
“Shit!” He was not.
“Bastards,” he screamed after the ship. “You bastards.”
With a soft but firm hand the wake of the propeller’s wash lifted him above the surrounding sea, offering a tantalizingly clear view of the departing ship. He considered waving, even did briefly, but self-consciously dropped his arm as the swell gently let him down. Was he trying to summon help or simply waving a final goodbye?
“God, the water’s cold.”
An uncontrollable spate of shivering attacked him—presaging the turmoil headed his way. Gasping frantically, forcing mouthfuls of chilly moist air into his constricted lungs, he retched as the salt-laden ozone stung the back of his throat. “Come back,” he yelled. “Come back.” But the waves swallowed his voice.
Like the closing shot from an old tearjerker movie, the increasing distance gradually washed the colour from the ship’s lights and they faded to grey in the gloom, leaving Roger pondering his chances of being rescued. “Nil,” he figured, but then his analytical mind cut in and offered hope. It’s the North Sea not the Pacific. Twenty miles to land at most. Plenty of coastal shipping. I’m still alive so I must have some chance. Start swimming …
Which way?
Home …
But where is home?
Treading water, he slowly spun, seeking land, lights, life. Finding none, he returned for a last glimpse of the giant passenger ferry, now barely a smudge of radiance in a sea of black, and paddled, half-heartedly, after it.
Céline Dion crooning “My heart will go on” provided an inappropriate reminder of the Titanic to the few unperturbed passengers still clustered in the Calypso Bar, despite the late hour. Few were sufficiently sober, or sufficiently interested, to listen. But Len, the barman, a veteran of a thousand similar crossings, couldn’t resist mumbling along with the tune, and three die-hards on capstan chairs at the end of the bar mockingly joined in, then exploded in laughter when he caught on and gave them a nasty look.
“Bloody cops,” he breathed, sizing them up with a bad taste in his mouth. Three tall, self-confident men travelling together. Too smart for truck drivers: One grey suit; two blue blazers; hair by Anton or Antoinette; decent cologne—not Price-Right. Not holidaymakers either—too relaxed. Salesmen perhaps? But he shook his head. “Cops—definitely.” It was the way they kept constant surveillance, controlled everyone with an inquisitive stare, and sustained a bubble of hostile space around them that kept most at bay during the evening, observing the invisible warning sign: “Dangerous animals—keep back.”
“Cops,” he breathed again. Not that he cared. His petty pilfering wouldn’t attract the attention of a loss prevention officer in a condom factory, let alone a sizeable undercover squad. If he could get rid of them, and the other stragglers whom he knew from bitter experience would keep him up all night, he’d sleep away most of the voyage to Holland.
“Another round, gentlemen?” he inquired as the laughter subsided. Could he push them into admitting they’d had enough?
“Good idea,” shouted one, to his chagrin, and they squabbled over whose turn it was to pay.
Thwarted, Len substituted a 1940s Vera Lynn for Cé line Dion; The White Cliffs of Dover for Titanic. They’ll hate this. They loved it. “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,” they caroused, then exploded in laughter at the dismay on his face.
As Len sullenly pulled the drinks, Vera romanticized about a country which the three London policemen had little knowledge. Shepherds tending sheep and valleys in bloom were not part of their daily landscape. A barren desert of concrete, glass,