Missing: Presumed Dead (45 page)

“It was the ultimate betrayal,” explained the psychiatrist later, after Jonathon had been gently guided out of the office, shuffling like a man back on a ledge, his personality a psychoanalyst's research manual. Then Doreen Dauntsey turned up in her wheelchair, still protesting her guilt.

“You'd better discuss that with Jonathon.” said Bliss, as he and Samantha scurried out of the room.

“But I want to confess,” Doreen shouted after them. “I did it. I killed him.”

“Will she never give up?” asked Samantha as they got to his car, still laughing.

“We shouldn't mock,” smiled Bliss. “You can say what you like about Doreen's morals, but you can't knock her for trying to protect her family.”

“So. What happens now?”

“Well. The case is closed as far as I'm concerned and by the time the lawyers have sorted out who gets the property they'll be the only ones to benefit.”

“Isn't that usually the case?”

“All I have to do is take my two favourite women out for dinner tonight.”

“Two?”

Was that a trace of jealousy in her voice. “Yes, two. And there's no need to look so peevish. My other guest is Daphne, without whom, as they say, none of this would have been possible.”

Chapter Nineteen
_____________________________

B
liss shunned the elevator and rushed the grand staircase to his room at the Mitre two steps at a time. Pausing for a breath at the top, he looked down on Samantha as she sifted through a magazine pile. “Gorgeous,” he mused. “Absolutely bloody gorgeous.”

“I'll wait in the lounge,” she had said as he'd excused himself, saying, “I won't be a moment ... must change ... same clothes for two days.”

“No problem, Dave,” she had smiled, recalling he'd spent one night on her couch and the next in her bed, asleep, with only a change of shirt and underwear. “But it's almost a pity you had to invite Daphne this evening. Without her we could have had a candlelight dinner in your room.”

“I had to ask her,” he explained. “I owe her. I might never have cleared up the case without her. She was the one who noticed the crop circles; saw Jonathon chasing the pig; she even bought some of it – not that she knew; she put me onto Tippen with the wedding photo and even queried Jonathon's date of birth.”

“Alright, Dave ... I get the point.”

“And don't forget, it was Daphne who nailed Patterson‘s accomplice in the Volvo. And, in any case, I'm dying to find out how she got the Order of the British Empire.”

“I said alright,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Maybe we can have a candlelight glass of champagne later instead.”

Samantha dropped the April edition of
Cosmopolitan
into a litter bin and picked through the tourist brochures as she checked her watch for the umpteenth time. “Won't be long,” he had said over his shoulder as he took the first of the stairs. Typical of a man, she thought, probably on the phone chatting to a mate. “I've got this bird waiting for me in the bar ... won't get a lot of sleep tonight if you know what I mean ... nudge, nudge, wink, wink.”

Detective Sergeant “Pat” Patterson wouldn't be getting a lot of sleep either. Mrs. Patterson would see to that. Jointly charged with Mason for conspiring to steal a stuffed goat, for destroying it by arson, and for uttering death threats by computer, he faced many a sleepless night. But Detective Constable Bob Dowding would be available to keep him company – Mrs. Dowding would see to that.

Bliss's key turned easily in the lock, too easily, but he had dropped his guard. With his mind adrift in a wash of carnal thoughts, it was easy to assume the maid had left it unlocked by mistake. I hope Samantha was serious, he said to himself, as he bounced across the room shedding clothes and shoes, heading for the bathroom, carelessly missing clues in his excitement: man sized footprints in the carpet pile; a waft of aftershave; a trace of cigarette smoke from a smoker's clothing.

With only his boxer shorts remaining he eyed the huge feather bed and smiled at a fleeting image of Samantha's cute body curled into it. Shower or bath? Shower of course. She's waiting at the bar – she might change her mind. Somebody else might snap her up. The floor squeaked – It's fifteenth century, what do you expect?

Then the bathroom door opened by itself.

Samantha slipped the last of the brochures back into the rack, “Stonehenge – four thousand years of astronomy,” and found herself irrationally wondering if there were a backstairs or fire-escape. Finally, with growing concern rather than annoyance, she sauntered to the reception desk.

“Yes, please. I help you,” said the Swedish girl as Samantha made a show of checking her watch.

“Mr. Bliss has been a long time,” she remarked, as if in passing. “He hasn't gone out has he?”

“He is talking with his friend I expect,” she said, casually turning to check the key board.

“What friend?”

The receptionist looked around. “He was here earlier. Wanted to know which room Mr. Bliss was in. Said he hadn't seen him for a while.”

“Oh no.” Samantha's heart sank. “Tell me you didn't tell him.”

“Ah ... I don't understand.”

“Did you tell him which room?”

“Yes. He said he wanted to surprise ...”

“Phone!” she screamed, nearly taking the girl's head off.

“What?”

“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 said, I've just got a few things to do ... can't leave them in the lurch.”

“Understood, Dave. No pressure. You do what you've got to do.”

What have I got to do? You could keep running. From what? And what about Samantha? Can you stop her running – running from relationships and commitment?

She's not unlike Daphne – waving her knickers in the air for England then spending the rest of her life running from the consequences. And Doreen – her race almost over. If ever a woman had a reason to run it had been Doreen, and yet in some strange way she had not run, or had she – from the truth.

“I'll let you know, Guv.”

Daphne was still awaiting an explanation of Superintendent Wakelin's visit and Bliss straightened his face as he turned. “An old acquaintance of mine has dropped himself in the shit,” he said, causing Samantha another fit of the giggles, leaving Daphne none the wiser. “Shall we go into the dining room?” he added, rising from the bar. “And I want you two ladies to order whatever you'd like – my treat. And,” he gave Daphne's arm a complicitous squeeze, “we'll have champagne.”