Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle. James Hawkins
to retreat.”
Arnie flashed him such a dirty look that Bliss realised immediately he had missed the point.
“’Course they ’ad time to retreat, plenty of bloomin’ time,” he spat. “But the Major was such a prissy-ass ’e weren’t gonna leave the place in a such a state. Didn’t want the bloody Boche accusing ’em of being scruffy so-an-so’s, ’e said. So ’e ’ad all ’is troops running round tidying the place up, even made ’em pick up all the shell casings and put ’em in neat piles.”
Patterson, who had been stewing in silent contemplation since Dowding’s revelation about Bliss’s registration number, couldn’t contain himself. “You’re joking.”
Arnie looked offended and crossed himself, saying, “As God is my witness – ’e made ’is men pick up every last bit of rubbish – even filled in the latrines – an’ all the time the Jerries were picking ’em off. Everyone hereabouts knows what ’appened – ask any of ’em. That’s why when ’e come back no-one would ’ave anything to do wiv him, only old Doc Fitzpatrick. An’ rumour ’as it as how the old Doc only treated ’im ’cos ’e went private an’ always paid cash.”
Bliss cogitated on the ridiculous spectacle of troops tidying up the battlefield under fire and, despite Arnie’s invocation of the Supreme Commander, put it down to the sort of outlandish rumour that would be spread about any unpopular officer. “You’ll have to carry on here,” he said to Patterson, feeling he’d heard enough. “I’ve got some business to attend to in London this afternoon. I’ll be back before nine for the re-enactment.”
Patterson gave him a jaundiced look then bobbed out of his seat. “I’d better get back to the station,” he said quickly, then mumbled about the need to supervise the house-to-house enquiries.
“I was rather hoping you could arrange to get Arnie home.”
Arnie heard. “I could prob’ly make me own way if I ’ad another pint,” he said, his voice pained in self-sacrifice, as he held out the empty glass and slumped comfortably back in the deep chair.
Chapter Six
Sidestepping a guilty feeling that he was abandoning the hunt for the Major, telling himself there was little he could do until the body surfaced, Bliss set off for London. The driver of a small blue Volvo obligingly let him escape from the Mitre car park into the High Street and, with a quick salute of thanks, he slipped his Rover into the stream of traffic heading out of town toward the motorway.
The grey overcast had evaporated into milky blue and the hazy sun was already drying off the damp pavements as Bliss navigated the narrow streets, barely aware that the Volvo was tagging along behind. As the road opened up Bliss swept aside the fears that had been with him since the morning’s visit to the Dauntsey house and he found himself conducting the 1812 overture, volume blaring, bass speakers pulsating.
The music, erupting with canons, muskets and rifle volleys, rose in a crescendo and transported Bliss away from the bloody murder of the Major to another time, another place, and an altogether different scenario of violent death. In his mind he conjured formations of brightly festooned French Dragoons sweeping across the steppes, swooping out of the early morning mist, sabres and lances glinting in the sunrise, only to be mown down by a terrifying rabble of Cossacks armed with broadswords.
The triumphant chorus and jubilant peel of bells signified the finale of the orchestrated battle and Bliss savoured each chord almost as though it were the last time he would hear it. The final strains hung in his ears for a few seconds then the air stilled. The gentle buzz of the engine and the steady hum of the tyres on the road seemed only to augment the sense of tranquillity that had returned. Bliss loosened his grip on the wheel, relaxed back into his seat and glanced in the rear-view mirror. He jerked alert – the Volvo was still there and a chill rippled through him as he caught a glimpse of it slipping in behind a van. “Don’t be stupid,” he chided himself, dismissing immediately the possibility that he was being followed.
Why would someone be following me?
You know why. You remember what Mandy Richards’ murderer had screamed across the courtroom at the Old Bailey? He remembered. The killer’s words were forever burned into his brain. “I’ll get you for this copper – I’ll get you.”
Forget it, thought Bliss. Ignore it – it’ll go away. Like you ignored the threatening letters, the midnight phone-calls and the shadowy stalker, until someone put a bomb through your letterbox and took out your front door.
O.K., he conceded, but don’t panic. He’ll be more nervous than me.
Why? He’s done it before, remember. And he’s already spent one lifetime in prison: becoming acclimatised to the routine, inured to the coarseness and violence and revelling in the irresponsibility of institutional life. So how will he do it – run me off the road into a bridge support; pull alongside and put a single bullet in my brain; or pick off a tyre and laugh as I lose control and career into a bus or truck.
Passing an exit ramp, he checked the mirrors again. A small blue car was dissolving into the distance as it slowed in the deceleration lane and he admonished himself for allowing his imagination to run away with him. With a sigh of relief he rummaged through a glove-box of cassette tapes, seeking something less climactic than Tchaikovsky, and pulled himself together, telling himself that he was being ridiculous. A hit-man wouldn’t be driving a Volvo, he told himself. A hit-man wouldn’t be seen dead in a Volvo. Hoodlums don’t drive poky little Volvos with more safety features than a spermicidal condom. He would be a Jag man, or a Mercedes or BMW. Even the smallest of petty villains could manage a Jaguar, especially a hot one, and Mandy’s murderer was no small time villain.
Relaxing, Bliss amused himself with the notion of a villain turning up at a mobster’s convention, wearing a slick suit with an ominous bulge under his left armpit, driving a little blue family saloon. But five minutes later the Volvo was still there and his pulse raced as he spotted it tailgating a large yellow rental van with the hire company’s telephone number emblazoned across the bonnet. Ignoring the blare of an annoyed motorist’s horn he eased out and straddled the white line as he manoeuvred into a position where he could see the following driver. Peering deeply into the mirror he sought a familiar face, and a familiar pair of eyes – the same icy eyes that had stared unflinchingly at him across the courtroom eighteen years earlier as he stood in the witness box describing the pointless murder of Mandy Richards. But he couldn’t see, not clearly. His vision was obscured by distance and the constantly shifting traffic that conspired time and again to block his view.
Vowing to concentrate on his driving, he dismissed worries about the Volvo but couldn’t dislodge Mandy Richards from his mind, demanding to know whether he would have ducked if he’d known someone was behind him in the bank? But he’d been through this a thousand times – knew the answer – knew there was no answer. He had ducked – flinging himself sprawling onto the floor as the blast ripped through the space he’d vacated – nothing could change that.
Mandy Richards’ memory continued its torment as he sped along. She would have been thirty-eight, if she’d lived, he calculated, recalling that she had been twenty when both barrels of the shotgun exploded and ripped a cavity in her chest large enough to get his fist into. She had been a pretty girl, beautiful he had thought, seeing her framed photograph propped on her coffin at the funeral, though he’d not noticed at the time of the shooting. His eyes and mind had focused only on the gaping wound.
A mental snapshot of the scene in the bank hit him with the stark clarity of an unkind mirror and the road ahead dissolved into images of screaming bank customers, terrified tellers crouching behind the counter, and a tiny girl in a red dress clutching her mother’s hand while a puddle of pee grew around her feet. And there, spread-eagled on the floor, the lifeless bundle of flesh that had been Mandy Richards.
He had seen the shots coming, not physically, not with his eyes. It was more of a feeling – a pulse of evil intent so strong he would have known the man was going to fire even if he hadn’t noticed the fingers