The Dave Bliss Quintet. James Hawkins

       chapter one

      “Am I interrupting? What are you writing?” The blade of a dagger sliced between her ribs, nicking her bikini strap. A pair of perfectly moulded breasts perked upwards in momentary relief, her back arched in agony, then she slumped to the sand with her attacker’s name on her lips.

      “Sorry,” he says, glancing up at the slender woman silhouetted against the Mediterranean sun, her plentiful breasts still safely clasped in her bikini’s hold.

      “I asked you what you were writing,” she repeats, sliding closer to him along on the seawall while casually dusting sand from her naked feet.

      “A novel,” he answers, pumping himself up, getting a lift from the words. Nothing wimpish — not a short story or a newspaper article. Nothing egotistical, either — like poetry or memoirs. “A novel,” he repeats, immediately realizing the allure the simple phrase could have.

      “Can I read it?” she asks.

      That’s allure, he thinks, saying, “No. Sorry, it’s not finished yet.” And, folding his journal with emphasis, he gazes out over the blue bay, seemingly seeking inspiration.

      “Pardonnez-moi,” she mumbles, edging away, then pauses quizzically. “Are you known? I mean … famous, perhaps. Should I recognize you?” Her narrowed, questioning eyes corner him.

      “Dave,” he says, tentatively extending a hand, peering into her eyes with the slowly developing realization that she may be the one he is seeking.

      “Dave?” she queries, then hesitates. And …? her eyes demand. Do I have to ask? Do you expect me to drag it out of you? Maybe your mother stitched it to your underpants — should I look? “Dave?” she queries again.

      “Dave …” He wavers, still undecided. “Dave Burbeck.” Shit! he thinks, why did I say that? Maybe because that poster over there says: “Festival de Jazz de la Côte d’Azur — avec Dave Brubeck.”

      With a curious eye on the poster she inches closer to him. “Not …?”

      “Oh, good Lord … no. Not Brubeck,” he replies a touch hastily. “It’s Burbeck, Dave Burbeck.”

      Now she eyes him skeptically and queries, “Burbeck?” as she checks out the poster again. “Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

      Bugger — I’ve only just started and she’s blown my cover already.

      “I said,” she continues, like a poodle with a bone, “it’s a bit of a coincidence — Brubeck; Burbeck.”

      “Sorry,” Detective Inspector David Bliss of London’s Metropolitan Police replies, hoping to move on. “I was miles away … thinking of the next line for my book.”

      “It must be very exciting being a writer,” she says, putting on her high beams in admiration and letting go of the bone. “What’s it about?”

      “Life.”

      “Romance?” she queries with a mischievous smirk.

      “Death.”

      “Oh,” she shudders, “I’m not keen on death.”

      “I’m not sure many people are.”

      “I’m Marcia, by the way,” she says, finally reciprocating and offering a hand, deliberately holding back her surname, waiting for him to be straight with her.

      “Dave Burbeck,” he starts, still holding her hand, still wondering how to break the ice. “Oh. You know that already.”

      “Yes,” she says, critically eyeing the poster on the billboard. “That is what you told me.” Then, catching Bliss by surprise, she jumps onto the sand and strides off along the beach towards the centre of St-Juan-sur-Mer. “See you again, Mr. Brubeck,” she calls over her shoulder with a knowing lilt in her voice.

      “It’s Burbeck,” he calls after her, adding, “Wait, I need to talk to you.” But she doesn’t.

      “Nice looking woman; could she be the one?” he muses, watching as she heads towards the centre of town. “Who would want to stick a knife in her?” And he picks up his pad and starts again.

       A gunshot rang out …

      “I think I’ve made contact,” Bliss says a few hours later, telephoning his office in London from a pay phone a few miles along the coast, in the ancient Provençal port of Antibes, strictly according to his handler’s instructions. (“Christ, that’s taking it a bit far,” he said originally. “Can’t be too careful, Dave,” the