Missing: Presumed Dead (41 page)

“There's Mason's Volvo,” she said, with so little surprise she might have been pointing out a pigeon or a pony.

It was just pulling out of the car park. “Gotcha,” shouted Bliss, locking his back wheels in a 180° spin, shooting off after it.

Samantha spun her head around. “Isn't that Sergeant Patterson?” she asked, amazed, seeing a figure coming out the café.

“Where? Are you sure?”

“I don't know. I've only met him once or twice

Bliss stared deeply into his mirror but the man's image had already shrunk to an unrecognisable size. “Could've been anyone,” he muttered.

They caught up to the small blue hatchback in seconds and Bliss mentally confirmed the number. “That's him,” he breathed, as if he had never expected it to be, then, pulling alongside at a junction, he got a close look at the driver. “It's not him – not Mandy's killer,” he said, full of disappointment.

“Of course it's not,” said Samantha, with a touch of aggravation. “It's Bomber Mason.”

“I know,” he said. “But haven't you ever got an idea into your head and can't shift it even when the truth is staring you in the face?”

“Is this déjà-vu or have we had this conversation before?”

“Oh yes. I forgot – Your childish faith in the existence of Santa Claus.”

The Volvo was speeding up, the driver looking nervously in his mirror.

“He's spotted us,” said Bliss

“Not surprising – any closer and you'll be up his exhaust pipe.”

An hour later Superintendent Donaldson sat at his desk keeping half a dozen executive toys in motion simultaneously. Samantha, sitting alongside Bliss, was ready to scream “for Christ's sake, stop that” when a timid tap presaged the entrance of Detective Sergeant Patterson.

“Come in,” shouted Donaldson with ill-concealed tetchiness.

“You wanted to see me, Guv,” he began, then paled to marble as the blood drained from his face. “Mr. Bliss,” he breathed in disbelief.

“Sit-down-Patterson,” ordered Donaldson, stringing the words together into a single command.

“Sir ...?”

“I said sit.”

He sat.

“You know Sergeant Holingsworth from Blenheim-on-sea I understand.”

Patterson's brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at Samantha. “No. I don't think we've met ...”

“Take a good look,” said Donaldson with uncharacteristic fierceness, not waiting for the other man to finish.

“What is this?” Patterson demanded, rising and looking at Bliss for some sort of explanation. “What the hell's going on?”

“I said – sit down, Sergeant. I won't tell you again.”

“I'm leaving.”

“Walk out that door and I'll arrest you myself.”

“Arrest ... What for? I ain't done nuvving.”

Donaldson was unyielding. “Sergeant Patterson – one more time – the very last time. Do you recognise Sergeant Holingsworth?”

Patterson wavered. It was obvious he'd missed something important but couldn't grasp it. “No, Sir.”

“You don't recognise her from the description?”

“What description?”

“The one that Bomber Mason gave you.”

“Patterson looked as though he'd crapped in his pants,” Samantha laughed later as she shared lunch with Bliss and Donaldson at The Mitre Hotel.

“So did Mason when he had his accident,” laughed Bliss as he downed a third celebratory scotch.

Bomber Mason's car accident, at the time it occurred, surprised only Bomber Mason. Bliss and Samantha knew exactly what was coming and were braced for it, though it had not been easy to arrange.

“Have you ever had a car crash?” Bliss had said, revealing his intention as they tailgated the Volvo from the Bacon Butty toward Westchester.

“One or two.”

“Get ready – you're going to have another.”

“Wait a minute, Dave,” she said, pulling her cell-phone out. “Why don't I call up a uniform car to stop him.”

“On what grounds? That Daphne said he'd parked in her street a few times; that a similar vehicle might have followed me to London?”

She took a deep breath and put the phone down. “You're right, but it'll play havoc with your insurance.”

“I'll risk it. Anyway, it's a hire car.”

“They'll love you.”

“You should have seen Mason's face,” said Samantha to Donaldson between bites of pâté, “He didn't know what had hit him. Dave was brilliant. ‘My dear, Sir, I am so sorry,' he said, helping him out of the wrecked Volvo. Mason didn't know whether he'd been stung, screwed or stuffed. Wham!” she laughed, “We'd rammed him straight up the ass and smacked him into a lamp post.”

The “accident” had been considerably more difficult to engineer than Bliss had envisaged. “He's going too bloody fast,” he complained to Samantha as Mason tried to outpace them. “I want to shake him up a bit, not put him in hospital.”

“Westchester's coming up,” she said, sighting the 40 mile an hour sign. “He'll have to slow down.”

“Slow down, you bastard,” breathed Bliss: Mind the pedestrians; watch the cyclist; slow down – slow down; mind that bus. That's all I need – send him spinning out of control into a bus stop full of schoolkids – that really would finish my career.

“Look out!”

“Fuck – those lights changed quick.”

“Phew ... that was close. You nearly got that Jag.”

“Sorry – Get ready, I'll try to nail him at the next light ... Hold tight. Hold tight ... Shit!”

“What is it?”

A jaywalking pedestrian. “Watch the lights, you pillock,” screamed Bliss, adding, “And up yours!” in response to the finger.

The smiling Swedish receptionist, doubling as a lunchtime waitress, poured Bliss a glass of house Cabernet and waited for his approval. “Fine,” he nodded, then continued to Donaldson. “Samantha was the one who cracked Mason really. All I did was pull him out of the wreck ...”

“And rub him down,” interrupted Samantha.

“Just making sure you're not injured, Sir,” he had said to the dazed man as he checked him for weapons before throwing him across the bonnet with his arm up his back. “So, Bomber – why are you following me?”

“You're crazy,” he spat. “I dunno what yer talking about.”

“Who are you working for?”

“Let go. No-one. I ain't working for no-one.”

“We'd better call the police then.”

“You are the police ... ” he started, then choked himself off – too late.

“Well. Well. Well,” said Bliss, screwing the arm painfully higher. “So how would you know that, Bomber? How would you know we're police, unless you've been following me?”

“I wanna lawyer.”

“I bet you do.”

“Dave,” called Samantha from the rear of the damaged Volvo. “You might want to see this.”

“What is it – what have you planted on me this time?” said Mason, already preparing his defence.

“Have you got a dog, Bomber?” asked Samantha scraping a handful of short white hairs out of the open tailgate, as Bliss frogmarched him to the badly buckled rear of the car.

“I want my lawyer. I've been framed,” he squealed.

“Framed – that's a serious accusation, Bomber,” said Samantha. “Framed for carrying your dog around in the back of your car. Tut, tut, tut. That would get the police a bad name if we started framing villains for carrying the pooch around in the back of the family motor. Now, on the other hand, if we were to discover that these hairs were, for arguments sake, from a stolen stuffed goat on its way to be cremated ... ”

“I didn't steal it.”

Bliss laughed, he couldn't help it. “Helping the police with their enquiries takes on a whole new meaning when dealing with scum like you. So, if you didn't steal it – how did it get in the back of your car?”

“I hope the steaks are better than the Pâté,” moaned Superintendent Donaldson
sotto voce
as the plates were cleared away.

“I wouldn't bank on it,” replied Bliss, recalling Daphne's admonition about Mavis Longbottom's culinary skills.

“Anyway,” continued Donaldson, shaking his head in dismay, “I still don't know what came over Patterson to set you up like that.”

“I do,” said Samantha, jumping in. “He was jealous. He was in line for the D.I.'s job until Dave came along. The only thing he could do was scare him off, and he got Mason to do his dirty work ... But you weren't scared were you, Dave?”

“No,” he said, hoping it sounded convincing, adding, “Patterson put the message on the computer, but Mason followed me, and Mason set fire to the ...”

“Inspector Bliss,” a familiar voice interrupted and he turned to see White, the
Gazette
reporter advancing on him.

“Mr. White ...” he started, rising with outstretched hand, still fascinated by the little man's weirdly mismatched head and body.

“Oh. I see you've met at last,” said the receptionist in passing.

“Sorry ...” said Bliss. “I don't understand.”

She stopped. “This was the gentleman who was enquiring about you last week. I told you. Remember?”

The funny looking man delving through the register – trying to discover if he was from London. Of course, Bliss said to himself, as everything fell into place, it had been White trying to get background information for his article on the new man in town. “Well, well, Mr. White,” he smiled, realising that the last of his fears had evaporated into thin air. “We meet again. Please join us. I might have a scoop for you.”

Chapter Seventeen
_____________________________

A
phone call had summoned Superintendent Donaldson back to the police station after the steak bordelaise, just seconds before the steamed chocolate sponge pudding with custard. “Probably for the best,” he had said, cradling his paunch, though his tone had been less than convincing. “The Assistant Chief wants to discuss Patterson's future,” he had added, cupping his hand to Bliss's ear. “Pat's finished. He'll be lucky if he doesn't get six months inside.”

Samantha had gone in search of a phone, (“I'll check with the forensic lab – they said lunchtime.”). And Bliss, alone, relaxed with a large Cognac and a curious sense of great achievement, as if Mandy's murderer had been caught and the Dauntsey riddle had been solved. Thank God for Daphne, he mused, mentally raising a glass, realising that had she not recorded the Volvo's number he would still be cringing in terror at every unexpected noise. And, he wondered, how many times he had cringed unnecessarily in the past six months; how many innocuous letters and phone calls had been treated as suspicious; how many entirely innocent people had answered a knock at their door to find a fully armed assault squad because, ten minutes earlier, they had quietly put the phone down when they should have said, “Sorry – wrong number.” But the drained bank account? That was no mistake – somebody had swiped a little over four thousand quid. Or was it paranoia? Could it have been a bent bank employee? There was definitely no mistake about the bomb. What had the anti-terrorist commander said? “Bombs on front doorsteps are scarcer than lottery jackpots. And a thug like him won't give up until he's succeeded, or we take him out.”

Just the thought of the bomb had him edgy, his eyes darting around the crowded room. Stop it – for fuck's sake stop it, he said to himself. He's not here, he never was here – not in Westchester. It was Patterson pulling Mason's strings – “You owe me big time – unless you'd rather do a stretch ...?” It was Mason in the Volvo and the reporter asking the questions. Get over it, he told himself, but knowing Mason was out of the picture didn't stop him from scanning the faces in the room: bulbous-nosed businessmen with serious drinks and high cholesterol diets, stressed salesmen struggling to keep up the appearance of success: Who would buy from a failure? “Just look at those expenses! You ate at the Mitre!” “You think I enjoy that?” And, off to one side, a party of women in smart business suits mimicking the men. Super saleswomen, guessed Bliss, Avon or Amway
.
Hyping each other with over-blown sales achievements and stupendous commission claims – just like the men. And by the front door, on his way in, Jonathon Dauntsey and the Swedish receptionist cum waitress, waving in Bliss's direction. He buried his head – That's all I need, Dauntsey rampaging about the police strong-arming a confession out of his old mother.

Jonathon, pale, drawn and exhausted, floundered his way through the busy restaurant, colliding with the backs of chairs and narrowly avoiding a heavily laden waiter. But the sight of Bliss seemed to steady him. “Ah. Inspector. I was hoping to bump into you,” he said, fetching up at the table with practised nonchalance; as if he hadn't been frantically scouring the town for him for several hours; as if he hadn't been up all night plotting a course.

“Yes, Mr. Dauntsey,” said Bliss, struggling not to compound the situation by incivility. “What do you want?”

Jonathon pulled himself upright, held his wrists together obligingly in front of him and proclaimed loudly, “I want to confess to a murder.”

A collective gasp brought conversations to a skidding halt and the whole room closed in around them.

Bliss dropped his head back into his hands. “I was having such a good day ...” then he looked up. “We've already been through this, Jonathon. You got bail – remember?”

“But that was for killing my father. This is for another one.”

Bliss sharpened up with a horrible thought. “Oh God. Please don't tell me you've put your mother out of her misery.”

“No, of course not, Inspector.”

“Well who have you killed this time then?”

“The man in the attic, of course. I murdered him.”