Missing: Presumed Dead (40 page)

“Yes, Dave?”

“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.”

“Good memory,” she said, noncommittally.

“So, do
you
have a plan?” He held up his hand to block her reply. “I know what you're thinking: Stay single; live alone; don't get involved. That's not a plan, that's a coward's way out.” He stopped with the realisation he was talking about himself as much as her, but she didn't answer, she just stood staring into the picture, into the faces of her past.

“I'm right aren't I?” he said, prodding her.

It was just a guess, a shot in the dark, but he'd hit the mark and she coloured up. “Maybe.”

“Maybe my ass. You're a lovely woman. If you're on your own it's because you've made it that way. And don't give me the crap about working crazy hours. You'd find time if you wanted to.”

“Being single has a lot of benefits ...” she began, but he cut her off.

“It's also bloody lonely.”

She used the tissue without taking her eyes off the picture. “It took me years to realise that dead relationships can be as insidious as dead people. I clung to the good memories for ages, going back to the places they used to take me as a child – warm, friendly, happy places. But there was nothing there. Places I loved like the Tower of London and the New Forest had gone cold – horrible, ugly. It took me a long time to realise it wasn't the places, it was my Dad that made them special.”

“That's what good Dad's do,” he said, warm memories softening his voice. “But what about bad memories – didn't you have any of those?”

“Oh yeah. Lots. It's the bad memories that warn you not to get involved again.”

“That's why I feel a certain compassion for Jonathon, whatever he's done,” he said, feeling her pain and taking the spotlight off her. “I don't think he even knew who is father is – or was. Did you see how quick Doreen was to hustle him out of the coffee house when she thought I was going to tell him the man in the turret room wasn't his father?”

“So you think he believed Tippen was his father, and that he had deserted them by going to Scotland.”

“Yes,” he nodded, then paused with a puzzled frown, realising his mistake. “Wait a minute. Jonathon couldn't have smashed up the toy soldier in retaliation for being deserted.”

“Why not?”

He fell silent for a second, his mind churning. “He must've taken the toy soldier before Tippen was killed. He couldn't have got it later, it would have been sealed in the attic with the rest of the set.”

They had wandered back to Samantha's bedroom and Samantha had wandered into bed. Bliss hung about indecisively near the doorway, still trying to piece together the toy soldier and Jonathon.

“You might as well get in,” she said, flicking back a corner of the duvet. He hesitated for half a second, slipped in beside her and was asleep before he hit the pillow.

It was 8 am. Somebody had fixed the alarm clock to sound the moment he fell asleep, at least it seemed that way, and he rolled over to find a warm empty space and a delicious memory.

The sizzling kettle hid the noise of his approach as he crept softly behind her in the kitchen and gently nuzzled his lips to the nape of her neck. “Gorgeous,” he breathed. “You're up early. Where are you going?”

“With you, of course.”

He shook his head. “Not a good idea. Donaldson wouldn't have bought my ‘sick' story for one minute. He'll still have people out looking for me.”

“So?”

“You don't want to be seen with me – not a good career move.”

“Rubbish. Tea or coffee? What's your plan?”

The road back to Westchester was a race-track of morning commuters and Bliss found himself watching the other drivers – seeing aliens living in a parallel world; a world in which they would never be shot or bombed; a world where mutilated murder victims would only ever appear in artistically arranged clips on the ten-o'clock news or at the movies: sanitised death; tastefully presented death; socially acceptable death.

“Look at him with his bow-tie,” said Bliss, poking fun at a Bentley driver as he swept majestically past, thinking: I bet his whole world would crash if you took away his cell-phone and cheque-book – he hasn't got a clue.

Neither Bomber Mason, nor a Mrs. Mason, answered the door at the address registered to the Volvo. The semi-detached house showed no sign of life and even less sign of care.

“Stay there,” he said, leaving her on the overgrown front path as he kicked his way through a patch of nettles to peer into the front window, making a peephole through the grime with a saliva-moistened tissue.

“Nothing,” he said as he came away shaking his head. “If he's a break-and-enter merchant he must have knocked over an Oxfam shop to get furniture that bad.”

“I guess crime doesn't pay as much as it used to,” replied Samantha, checking out the empty garage.

“The only people who make it pay today have computers and fancy corporate titles,” he said, leaning heavily against the unyielding front door.

The wooden front gate fell off its hinges under Bliss heavy hand as they left. “Shit!”

“Did you do that on purpose?” laughed Samantha as they scooted back to his car.

“I didn't think it would break that easily.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Honestly, Sam.”

She stopped with such purpose he heard the squeal of shoes. “Don't call me that.”

“Sorry ... I ... I didn't ...”

“My name is Samantha,” she continued, with a resolve that spoke of past traumas and left a question in the air which she defied him to ask.

He didn't ask. “Sorry,
Samantha
.”

She lightened immediately and bounced back to his side as they made for his car.

“Breakfast then,” he said, assigning the contraction of her name to a past lover – one of the insidious dead relationships she'd spoken of – and headed for the restaurant where he'd met the
Westchester Gazette
reporter.

“My Dad always called me Sam,” she admitted sheepishly without prompting, after a few minutes of awkward silence in the car. “It's sort of special.”

He smiled warmly, “I know how he feels. I call my daughter Sam and it means such a lot to me.”

If he couldn't see the darkness in her face, he certainly felt the sudden chill in the air and knew the cause. “Bugger,” he said under his breath. “I've said the wrong thing again.”

Now what? he worried, as the ragged edge of the town gave way to rolling hills and hawthorn hedges of the countryside, and the oppressive silence became deafening. He looked at the radio, dismissed it as too obvious, and opened his window to the rush of wind. I'll have to say something in a minute, he thought, as he slowed at the sign, “The Bacon Butty – all day breakfasts,” but Samantha beat him to it
.