Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. Read online

  “One moment, sir,” says the receptionist as she connects the caller to the desk phone, and Bliss finds himself looking at a familiar face as he idly scans the front page of the Seattle Times.

  “Scotland Yard Man in Town for Conference,” screams the headline above a picture of him sitting next to Trina in the Kidneymobile. “Detective Bliss, who recently shot to fame around the world by unearthing a cache of Nazi gold, was spotted pedalling a kidney away from Vancouver…” continues the article and Bliss yelps, “Oh, that’s bloody marvellous,” as he answers the phone to a reporter from the BBC in London and curses the marvels of global communication.

  “I’m a very big supporter of charities,” he’s forced to say, thinking, I’ll strangle that damn Button woman when the receptionist tells him that he has another call waiting.

  “Bliss — it’s Edwards,” spits the chief superintendent. “I thought I told you to cancel that conference.”

  “Shit,” mutters Bliss under his breath, wondering how much lower his day can sink. “Sorry, sir. I must’ve misheard. But I did the report you requested.”

  “I know that,” shouts Edwards, “and you’d better come up with something damn good, because I just lied to the commissioner to save your ass.”

  “Up yours,” mutters Bliss as he replaces the handset and turns to find himself face to face with the governor of Washington.

  “Honour to have you here, Commander Bliss,” says the governor with an outstretched hand. “So looking forward to your speech on Thursday. I must say we’re rather counting on Scotland Yard to come up with something special to deal with this people-trafficking problem. I’m fed up with listening to lefties and commies continually knocking the decadence of America and the West without offering any sensible solutions.”

  “Right, sir,” gulps Bliss.

  “Oh. By the way,” carries on the governor, pointing to the front page of the Times. “Nice touch, that. Very clever… You can’t buy that kind’a advertising. You boys certainly know how to milk the media. You sure must have some PR department over there.”

  Bliss’s PR department is currently headed at full speed for the United States side of the border, with bunting and balloons flying, as Trina whoops, “Hold tight, Daphne. America, here we come.”

  “America sounds mighty fine to me,” responds Daphne in a passable Texan drawl as she clutches the giant polka dot hat to her head. “This takes me back fifty years,” she sings out as she pumps the pedals with the enthusiasm of a thirty-year-old. “We used to ride everywhere during the war, you know,” she carries on as they approach the border at little more than walking pace while passing motorists “beep” and wave, and others pull alongside, yelling, “Saw you in the paper — good luck!” as they toss handfuls of coins into the back of the bathtub.

  “Wow!” exclaims Trina as she gaily waves her thanks. “This is really going to work.”

  “Just take a look at this,” blares the American immigration officer to his colleague as the Kidneymobile slowly pulls up at the control box. “And where are you two ladies off to today?” he asks as he tries desperately to keep his face straight.

  “We’re going all the way to Seattle,” answers Daphne with aplomb.

  “Well, I just hope you’ve got a licence to drive that,” he jokes, and he’s laughing so much that he signals them through without checking their passports. “Don’t go breaking any speed limits,” he calls after them. “The Highway Patrol is pretty hot around here.”

  “Thank you, officer.”

  “And don’t go poppin’ no wheelies, either.”

  “We’ll remember that,” laughs Trina as she gives him a friendly wave, but it’s not their own speed that concerns them as they head south on the verge of the multilane freeway.

  “This is just a little scary,” shouts Daphne above the roar of passing juggernauts that whoosh past and pluck at her hat as they threaten to sweep the frail craft into their slipstreams.

  “Time to hit the path less travelled,” concurs Trina and she turns off the freeway at the first interchange. “This is better,” they agree, as a cedar-lined lane leads them gently down to a flotsam-strewn beach where they stop for a sandwich and tea as the waves gently swish on the sand.

  “We’ll stick to side roads and stay close to the coast from now on,” says Trina as she checks her map, “although we’ll have to go inland a bit at first. Anyway, Rick can always come and get us if we run out of steam.”

  “The fresh air certainly gives me an appetite,” admits Daphne as she tucks into a sandwich; then she pulls a face.

  “What d’ya think?” asks Trina.

  “It’s certainly different,” admits Daphne, surprised to find that Trina has creamed the smoked salmon and bananas together into a sandwich spread.

  A bald eagle has caught Daphne’s eye as it circles overhead, and she has trained her binoculars on it when Trina spots a surfacing whale in the blue bay and nearly wrenches her companion’s head off in a grab for the binoculars. “And there’s another, and another, and another,” Trina carries on as orcas surface one after another.

  “This is absolutely heavenly,” whispers Daphne, and so the afternoon continues as they soar along peaceful side roads lined with tall pines and twisted arbutus trees, while porcupines, chipmunks and squirrels barely stir at their silent approach.

  “It reminds me of gliding,” whispers Daphne delightedly as they skim along under the cloudless sky with ravens, gulls and eagles as company overhead and their tires swishing along the smooth tarmac beneath them.

  A half-dozen cars and a couple of vans pass them in an hour but, as the sun starts its slow descent over the Pacific Ocean, Trina is beginning to worry that they haven’t seen anything resembling a hotel since leaving the beach. “There’s a town up ahead,” she calls out confidently as the pedals keep revolving, though it turns out to be nothing more than a signboard and a dozen abandoned shacks.

  “It looks a lot bigger on the map,” Trina complains, scratching her head; then, with an eye on the disappearing sun, she decides it’s time to call Rick.

  “Oh, damn,” she says despondently as she checks the tiny screen on her phone. “We’re out of range.”

  “We could flag down the next car and get a tow,” suggests Daphne, and that remains their plan for nearly half an hour, until the sky turns progressively pink and the tall trees start to crowd in on them.

  “It’s a lovely clear sky,” says Daphne as Venus begins to glow, but the evening’s chill is already starting to nip.

  “Perhaps we should have brought flashlights,” mutters Trina with growing concern, though Daphne is less worried as she rummages in her handbag and announces, “I’ve got matches. A Girl Guide is never without matches for lighting signal fires.”

  “We only ever used them for lighting cigarettes when I was in the Guides,” admits Trina sheepishly. “What else have you got in there?”

  “Let’s see,” says Daphne, still rummaging, “a little candle, nail file, some string, safety pins, a small mirror for signalling, and a penknife with one of those things for getting stones out of horse’s hooves.”

  “Well, that should come in handy,” laughs Trina, though she’s somewhat heartened. “Okay, let’s push on,” she says picking up the pace. “At least we’ll stay warmer if we’re pedalling and we’re bound to get somewhere eventually. There should be a main road up ahead, I think.”

  If there is a main road, its traffic doesn’t disturb the forest creatures, and in the deepening gloom the nocturnal predators begin another night of foraging. Cougars, coyotes and wolves are already on the prowl as a small herd of mule deer cross the road ahead of the two women and pause, mid-carriageway, mesmerized by the unusual sight.

  “Get-out-the-way! The Kidney Queen’s coming through,” shouts Trina and, as the animals scatter into the bush, the surrounding silence takes on an eeriness broken only by the whooshing of the breeze as they skim along in the growing darkness. Then a full moon starts to rise ab
ove the eastern horizon and startles them.

  “It’s absolutely crimson,” breathes Daphne and they stop pedalling to watch its fiery ascent.

  “I’ve never seen such an incredibly red moon,” admits Trina.

  But a full moon offers them some hope as they pick up the pace again. “At least it won’t be totally dark,” reasons Daphne, then she yelps excitedly, “House up ahead!” as she spots lights through the trees.

  “Thank God for that,” sighs Trina. “I was just beginning to worry about the bears and mountain lions.”

  “Oh, how exciting,” gushes Daphne, though Trina is clearly relieved to see the set of double gates at the end of a driveway.

  Mission of Mercy Monastery, announces an elaborately engraved wooden sign, though less encouraging is the addendum: “No visitors, solicitors or salesmen under any circumstances.” However, there is an entryphone attached to the one of the gate pillars and Trina grabs it.

  “Hi,” says Trina breezily. “I’m really sorry to disturb you, but we’re lost and need a phone.”

  “Sorry. We have no phone,” answers the static-laden voice.

  “Oh. Well, it’s getting dark,” pleads Trina. “Can you just let us in until we can get someone to help?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. We have no guest facilities. It’s only five miles to the main road.”

  “Five miles!” exclaims Trina as Daphne gazes to the top of one of the gate pillars and muses to herself, “That’s strange. That looks like a surveillance camera up there.”

  “You don’t understand,” continues Trina. “We’re riding in a bathtub.”

  “Madam, we are members of a strict religious order who have shunned all worldly goods, including bathtubs. I am sorry that we cannot help you. Good night.”

  “Wait,” pleads Trina, then she sticks her mouth against the speaker and harshly whispers, “Look, I’ve got a ninety-year-old woman with me who is going to die of hypothermia if you don’t let us in.”

  The static continues while the spokesman seeks advice, then the voice returns with a sympathetic edge. “You must understand, madam. We are a closed community. What you ask is impossible. However, I could perhaps send someone with a blanket and some hot soup.”

  “What kind’a mercy is that?” demands Trina, adding, “I’ve a good mind to report you to the Pope. There’s bears and cougars out here, you know.”

  The surveillance camera still fascinates Daphne as she watches it sweep up and down the road, while another period of silence signals further debate. Then the ethereal voice asks, “Are you alone?”

  “Of course we are,” sighs Trina. “Otherwise we wouldn’t need help.”

  “Wait there,” commands the voice, and Trina turns to Daphne, muttering, “Like we could go anyplace else.” But Daphne is still focused on the surveillance camera, and the immense electrified fence topped with razor wire which snakes off into the gloom, as she deliberates whether or not its intent is to keep infidels out or devotees in.

  chapter seven

  North of the border, in Trina Button’s snazzy Vancouver kitchen, her husband’s concern is growing as he stands at the window watching the red moon rising over the Rockies, and when the phone rings he races for it.

  “Hello…”

  “Hi, Rick?” calls David Bliss breezily. “I was just checking up on Daphne — making sure she’d settled in all right.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Dave,” says Rick as he drops his tone and confesses, “Actually, I’m getting really worried about them.”

  “Christ! That’s all I need,” declares Bliss once he has been put in the picture; although initially he’s more bothered about them showing up at the conference in the kidney contraption than not showing up at all. “So where the hell are they?”

  “Dave, do you ever get that sinking feeling that something dreadful has happened?”

  “Often with Daphne,” laughs Bliss, “but she always manages to prove me wrong.”

  “Well, I suppose no news is good news,” Rick carries on unconvincingly, though Bliss, with his recent experience with the media, would prefer no news of any kind involving Trina. “Oh, I’m sure they’re all right,” he blusters, adding, “I wouldn’t worry about her knowing she’s with Daphne. The old girl trained with the commandos during the war. She even parachuted behind the lines to help the resistance in France.”

  “But it’s almost dark,” carries on Rick as if he hasn’t heard, “and Trina was supposed to call me as soon as they found a hotel for the night.”

  “Have you tried her cell phone?”

  “They must be out of range. I just get her voice mail.”

  “What is zhe matter, Daavid?” asks Daisy as Bliss replaces the receiver and stares northwards across the darkening forests to the shadow of Mount Baker in the far distance.

  “I wouldn’t know where to start looking,” he muses before explaining the two women’s escapade to his companion. “They’re like a pair of bloody schoolkids,” he moans, still smarting over his embarrassment at the airport. “If she wasn’t so flipping old I’d let her stew,” he adds, though knows that he won’t. “Sorry, Daisy,” he says, with her coat in his hands. “They’ve probably got a puncture.”

  “I don’t mind, Daavid. I zhink zhis is exciting, no?”

  “No,” he agrees, with far more force than intended.

  By one a.m. the excitement is waning, even for Daisy, and their only lead has been a bar drunk whom they found regaling a saloon full of lumberjacks with his account of the happy pedallers heading for the boondocks several hours earlier.

  “They can’t be far off,” the denim-clad woodsman roared. “When I saw ‘em, they wuz tryin’ to outrun a porcupine.”

  But every tortuous lane in the area had taken Bliss and Daisy in circles, and many had petered out altogether or simply degenerated into the rutted tracks of logging roads. So, after three hours of vainly scouring the thickly forested foothills of northern Washington, they’re ready to accept the comforting hypothesis that the two women have coddled themselves in the luxury of a ritzy mountain resort and are enjoying themselves so much that they’ve simply forgotten to phone.

  “I’d better give Rick another call,” says Bliss when they emerge onto the highway a few miles south of the Canadian border and spot a twenty-four-hour gas station with a phone booth. But Trina’s husband has heard nothing and refuses to be mollified.

  “Dave, believe me. She would have phoned. She lives on the phone. In fact, she’s just waiting for the day when she can have one implanted.”

  “Maybe her batteries are dead?”

  “Dave… She’d walk up to a complete stranger in the street and ask to use their phone.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She often does it. And she’s so damn cheeky about it that they always say yes.”

  “I guess I’d better call the local police, then,” concedes Bliss, before arranging a rendezvous with the anxious man in nearby Bellingham. A few minutes later he suffers a mild rebuke from the city’s duty officer.

  “Mebbe you should’a called us earlier,” says Captain Prudenski of the Whatcom County force. “It’s pretty damn cold out tonight.”

  “I know,” says Bliss as he and Daisy stand shivering in the booth. “Though I still think they’ve probably snuck in somewhere toasty.”

  “Wait there,” instructs Prudenski. “I’m on my way.” Bliss uses the time to call his daughter in England, illogically persuading himself that Daphne might have phoned her. But his son-in-law answers and skips the pleasantries.

  “Dave, what the hell’s going on? Edwards has put me in charge of the suicide squad until you get back.”

  “At least he’s keeping it in the family.”

  “You’ve really pissed him off this time. He told the commissioner you were on the case, and the next thing you’re on the front page of this morning’s Daily Express in a frickin’ bathtub.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “The old man wants blood — yours or Edw
ards’.”

  “As if I care,” says Bliss, leaning on his letter of resignation and knowing that Edwards is no longer the only person with entries in a little black book. “But if Edwards drops me in it, I’ll make sure he turns up as a villain in my novel.”

  “Anyway. What are you doing out of bed at this time? I thought you’d arranged to have a little French hen over there to keep your naughty bits warm.”

  “That’s no way to talk to your father-in-law,” jokes Bliss as he snuggles closer to Daisy, though his tone darkens as he adds, “Actually, Peter, we are waiting for the local law to show up. Daphne’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yeah. Though I’m sure she’ll surface — she always does. Anyway, anything new on the suicide front?”

  “Well it seems that at least half of the old dears sent their life savings to Canada in the weeks leading up to their deaths.”

  “CNL Distribution?” queries Bliss.

  “Most, but a load of different companies as well, although they’re all in British Columbia. And the money was always transferred through Western Union.”

  “Okay, Peter. Get me specifics — names, dates, amounts, et cetera — and I’ll get hold of Mike Phillips in Vancouver. He should be back from Hawaii any day now. Do we know how much?”

  “Probably half a million quid in total.”

  “Phew!”

  “Mind, it could be more.”

  “Okay. Well, let me know. And tell Edwards that I’ll deny any knowledge if he tries to claim that he pulled me out of the conference.”

  “I think you’d better tell him that yourself.”

  “So is zhat true, Daavid? Are you are going to write your book about zhe man in zhe iron mask —l’homme au masque de fer? “ Daisy asks with alarm in her voice as he puts down the phone.