Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle. James Hawkins
would she say? One look at her sorry face gave him the answer: You’ll never escape completely.
A wooden cuckoo popped out of a clock and jump started the time.
“So, I suppose you’re gearing up for the auction tomorrow,” he said, enthusiastically digging into his gâteau.
Chapter Ten
The driver of the blue Volvo shrank quickly out of sight as Bliss drove past on his way up the quiet street to deliver Daphne home.
“I can manage,” Daphne said, as he started to get out to escort her to the door. Ignoring her, he opened the gate and accompanied her up the front path, waited while she flicked on the light and turned the key, then brushed her cheek with a chaste kiss.
“Ooh, Chief Inspector,” she giggled.
“Thank you, Daphne,” he said with a depth of meaning way beyond her comprehension. Thank you for your courage, your sacrifice, your modesty. Thank you for making me realise the insignificance of my fears.
“No ... Thank you, Chief Inspector,” she replied, letting herself in. “And I hope I didn’t spoil your evening,”
“I learnt a great deal,” he said, heading back to the car and driving off without noticing the Volvo – too many other considerations occupying his mind, too many plans to make, too many demons to slay.
He had intended returning to the Mitre and set off in that direction, but fate snatched the wheel out of his hands and spun him around in a U-turn, leaving the driver of the following Volvo no choice but to dive for cover up a side street. By the time he re-emerged, Bliss had gone – speeding recklessly down dark narrow lanes, inspiration weighing his foot on the accelerator, feeling that, if he drove fast enough, he might somehow break through the time barrier and go back eighteen years. But if he could go back to the bank and fall dead in place of Mandy – would he?
The road became a switchback as he raced headlong into the night and he allowed the car to choose its own path – tearing through villages, laughing at speed limits and screeching at corners. Deep down he knew where he was headed and he finally knew he had run out of road when the tyres scrunched on the sand-swept tarmac of a beach-side car park. The English Channel lay ahead, and, beyond the narrow choppy sea, France.
Two cars, sinisterly dark, sat at either end of the car park and his first instinct was to seek somewhere more solitary, more remote for his deliberations, but, as he rolled to a stop, his lights picked up a flurry of activity on the beach and two figures scurried in opposite directions. Twenty seconds later the two cars burst simultaneously to life and crept away into the night without lights. “Oops,” he said to himself, but isn’t that the thrill of adultery – the risk of being caught.
The beach turned inky black as he switched off his lights and cut the engine, then gradually came back to life as his eyes and ears acclimatised, and he sank in his seat, exhausted, letting the gentle swishing of the surf wash over him and erase his stress. Ahead, over the ocean, a couple of hazy lights flickered hypnotically and held his attention, then an armada of grey shadows steamed sluggishly out of the mist and rolled over him. He fought off the drowsiness for a few seconds, swimming back to consciousness a couple of times before surrendering to the waves.
A thousand battleships drifted slowly out of the haze and sailed through his mind as he floated weightlessly on the sea. Above him, the deck rails of the silent ships were lined by grey lifeless men – men with faces pulled gaunt by fear. Silent men, immobile men, dead men. Men who had beaten the bullet and found death before it had found them. Wasn’t it easier that way – less painful for all concerned. Wasn’t it better that each sombre faced man had already accepted his destiny and said his last goodbye. “Don’t worry – I’ll make it back,” he would have said with a forced smile, his own obituary already written and in his pocket ready for the burial party to find. “My Dearest One – I expect you’ve heard the bad news by now ...” or, more often, “Dear Mum and Dad ...”
Where were the happy cheering hordes that filled the Pathé newsreels at the Saturday Matinee? Where were the happy-go-lucky Yanks, Canucks and Aussies who always had a kitbag on one arm and a girl on the other as they headed for the gangplanks?
Endless fleets of ships with countless dead-pan faces sailed by and disappeared slowly over the dark horizon, then he slipped beneath the black oily surface; exhaustion dragging him deeper than dreams, beyond the depths of even the darkest nightmares.
An hour later the cold sea-breeze bit into his bones, rousing him sufficiently to fire up the engine and turn on the heater. Waves of warmth soon lulled him back to sleep and he picked up the dream as Daphne, (or maybe it was Mandy), rode a bicycle up a sun-soaked beach at the head of a column of dead men. Daphne – surely it was Daphne – enthusiastically waved her frilly knickers in the air, and in her basket, the wicker basket slung on the handlebars, was a skull – a grotesque skull, a skull with bulging eyes and a gaping fleshless mouth shouting encouragement.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” The staccato rattle of automatic fire burst through the dream. Margaret Thatcher with a machine gun leapt out of the scrub firing from the hip.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Daphne crashed off the bike, blood pumping out of her chest, her skirt up around her waist, her knickers still in her hand – still waving.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” The Major’s skull, still screaming orders, rolled along the beach.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Bliss cringed as a searchlight picked him out and Margaret Thatcher turned the machine gun in his direction.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Get down – get down. I can’t, Daphne’s behind me.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Sir ... Are you alright?”
The searchlight beat into his brain and Margaret Thatcher faded in its glare.
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Open the door.”
“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Open the door, Sir, or I’ll have to force it.”
“What the hell?”
“Police – Open the door, Sir, and turn off the ignition please.”
A few seconds later the policewoman eyed both him and his newly issued warrant card carefully, while he eyed her. Low forties, he estimated; jet-black hair; dark eyes with a hint of the orient; a complexion with a touch of Mediterranean warmth; and a trace of smile not entirely masked by her official face.
“Detective Inspector Bliss ...” She queried suspiciously, inviting him to jog her memory. “I can’t say I remember you, Sir.”
“Ex – Met,” he explained. “Look at the date on the card. I only transferred last week.”
She looked. “Oh I see – that explains it. Well, I’m sorry to disturb you … ” then she wavered. “Are you sure everything’s alright, Sir?”
“Just tired.” Tired of running; tired of hiding.
“You should go home then.”
“Yes – I will, Miss. Thanks.”
Go home, he thought, as she crunched noisily back to her car across the sand-strewn car park, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, as soon as I’ve cleared up the case of the dead Major.
And what about Mandy’s murderer?
What about him? He pulled the trigger on Mandy and her baby – not me. He’s the one who should feel guilty – not me. For the past year I’ve been scared shitless by a two-bit hoodlum ...
Where the hell did that come from?
I’ve been watching too many American movies. What else was there to do in the safe house – six months solitary in a video library.
Anyway, don’t change the subject, he’s been killing you – strangling you with fear – you’re no