Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. Page 2

  Minnie has no queries. She has a meeting to attend and hurries on towards the city’s Norman cathedral.

  Detective Chief Inspector Peter Bryan is making the rounds alone as his new wife powders her nose, with the help of her mother and three of her bridesmaids.

  “Gawd knows what they’re doing in there,” he says to his father-in-law with a nod to the washroom.

  “Twenty-five years with her mother and I never worked it out,” mumbles Bliss before changing the subject. “Young Daphne here is taking a trip around the world with her friend, Minnie.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing,” says Bryan with imprudent enthusiasm.

  “Yes. First we’re taking the Orient Express across Europe; then we’re sailing the Aegean to Istanbul…”

  “That sounds absolutely fabulous. I’d love to hear about it sometime, but —” starts Bryan, with a couple of hundred guests waiting to congratulate him, though he can’t escape so lightly.

  “… then on to Cairo; we’ll be cruising up the Nile to the Pyramids…”

  “I really ought to —”

  “… then there’s the safari in the Serengeti…”

  “Great, but —”

  “… the Seychelles…”

  “Peter,” cuts in Samantha, appearing from nowhere. “They’re calling us to start the buffet — oh. Hi, Daphne.”

  “Hello, Samantha. I was just saying to your husband — oh! They’ve gone.”

  “Never mind, Daphne,” comforts Bliss. “She completely ignored me, and I’m her father.”

  Daphne shakes her head knowingly, laughing, “Children,” as if she’s had a lifetime’s experience.

  The wet-dog smell of Minnie’s saturated woollen overcoat mingles with the ecclesiastical mustiness of the ancient cathedral as she kneels and ponders what to say. Why did you let Dad die before I was old enough to know him? Where were you when Mum fell to pieces? Did you get a kick out of watching her shrivel into a lunatic? And how could you have let Alfred suffer the way he did? Did I ever miss a Christmas or Easter? “Believe,” they said. “Have faith,” they said. I believed; I had faith. Funeral after funeral, I stood with all the others, saying, “I know that my redeemer liveth.” Well, where were you when I needed you?

  “What choice have you left me? You’ve let me down,” Minnie says aloud, her voice rising in a crescendo of anger. “I hate you now.” She pauses and tries to rein in her feelings, but it’s too late and she runs down the aisle with tears streaming down her face as she turns to shout at the altar, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

  Ronnie Stapleton, forced out of the Copper Kettle by impecuniosity, is slouching past the cathedral in search of someone to scam for a fix, when the distraught old woman emerges into the rain. The young layabout sums up the situation in three strides and is already high on the proceeds of Minnie’s purse when a spoiler steps in.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” asks a concerned young mother, sensing Minnie’s distress, and Stapleton is forced to back off.

  Minnie scurries away with a mumbled “Yes, I’ll be all right.” But the young woman puts Stapleton’s rapid retreat in context, and takes careful note of the hand-painted swastika on the back of his jacket as he slinks away.

  “Remind me to take Minnie a piece of wedding cake,” says Daphne as the happy couple cross hands and slice into the multilayered confection at the Berkeley. “She’ll be sorry she missed this.”

  “I doubt it,” replies Bliss as he joins the applause for the newlyweds. “This is pretty small potatoes compared to the adventure you two have cooked up.”

  “Did I mention the Orinoco…” starts Daphne, but Bliss shushes her as the groom’s brother coughs into the microphone and brings the room to silence.

  “It is my duty as the best man at this wedding…” he begins and is met with a concerted groan from the floor. “All right… All I’m going to say is that when the Commissioner called for better co-operation between his senior officers and the legal profession, I don’t think he had bonking in mind.”

  The rain has intensified as Minnie sets her sights on her final destination — Westchester’s stately railway station with its elegant glass canopy supported on cast-iron pillars — and she is so focused on the journey ahead that she takes no notice of Stapleton’s shadowy figure lurking behind her as she skirts the brightly illuminated main entrance and heads for the goods yard.

  “So… Chief Inspector. Have I missed the best bits?” asks an unwelcome voice as the speeches end, and Bliss spins to find Chief Superintendent Michael Edwards on his shoulder.

  “Oh. You made it, sir,” says Bliss, trying hard to keep disappointment out of his tone.

  “I thought I should show the flag, Dave. Esprit de corps and all that. I just hope I’m not too late to toast the happy couple.”

  “Esprit de corps,” echoes Bliss sourly as Edwards paints on a smile and makes his way towards the newlyweds.

  Inspector Williams creeps up behind Bliss, saying, “He’s gotta bloody nerve.”

  “Be nice, Mick,” says Bliss. “You know — the way we’re supposed to treat villains nowadays.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that, flying a desk at the Yard. Anyway, you spend so much time out of the bloody country you never have to deal with the bastard.”

  “Tut-tut, Mick,” cautions Bliss, though he has no intention of defending the senior officer. Neither is he going to defend his cushy job liaising with Interpol, though he’s conscious of the jaundiced eyes of some of his colleagues.

  “So. How do you like shuffling papers, Dave?” asks Williams.

  “It’s okay,” Bliss says with little enthusiasm, “but I think I’d rather be out chasing scum.”

  That’s not true, Bliss acknowledges to himself as Williams wanders away. And he drains his Dom Pérignon, thinking, The truth is you’d rather be back in France, dancing in the Mediterranean moonlight with a certain Provençal popsy named Daisy. She’s still there, waiting for you.

  I know.

  So, what’s stopping you? You’re forty-seven now. Your hair’s beginning to slip south along with the flab.

  It’s not that bad.

  Give it time.

  It’s impossible and you know it. She’ll never leave there — what about her mother and grandmother?

  Have you asked her?

  “David… David,” a persistent voice breaks into his musings and he finds Daphne on his arm.

  “The band’s starting. How about the first dance?”

  “Why not?” he says, though can’t help wishing that it were Daisy.

  In Westchester, at the railway station, Minnie has plotted her path, and she slips past the “Staff Only” sign at the goods entrance and onto the platform without looking back. Her slight figure registers hazily on the platform’s rain-fogged security camera in the signalman’s box just off the end of Platform One, but is unseen by Robert Mackellar, the duty signalman, as he fills his teapot from a boiling kettle, turns up the radio and auditions for a baritone part with the Merthyr Tydfil male voice choir.

  “Tonight… Tonight… Won’t be just any night…“ he sings to an audience of switches and monitors high above the station’s platforms.

  Minnie pauses for a second, the muffled tones of Mackellar’s rich voice breaking into her thoughts, then, with her goal in sight, she puts her head down and presses onward against the rain. Behind her, Ronnie Stapleton briefly hesitates while deliberating on the wisdom of his chosen path, but he shakes off his unease and picks up Minnie’s trail.

  “Tonight there will be no morning sun,“ continues Mackellar as a warning bell draws his attention to a flashing light on an indicator board.

  Seventeen-fifty-seven non-stopper, he says to himself, and he doesn’t need to refer to the schedules to know that the London-bound express has entered his section and will whistle past at a hundred miles an hour in just over two minutes.

  The screech of the distant train’s siren is lost in the maelstrom as Minnie heads for
the platform’s edge, while Stapleton keeps a careful eye on the surveillance camera and slips into the shadows of a giant billboard behind her.

  Above Minnie, Mackellar sings along with his regular routine: “Tonight… Tonight… I’ll see my love tonight… Pour a cup of tea; check line is clear… And for us the stars will stop where they are… and ensure the road crossing barriers are going down… Today, the minutes seem like hours… and make sure the signals are working and showing correct colour; confirm all points are properly set… Oh moon…“

  A minute to go — time to add the milk and sugar. But a closer look at the station monitor shows a misty figure at the edge of one of the platforms, so he hits a button to wake up an electronic announcer.

  A tinny overhead speaker blares out a warning. “Attention all passengers on Platform One: please stand clear of the tracks.” Minnie straightens herself, but doesn’t back away.

  “… moon glow bright, and make this endless…”

  Stapleton inwardly smiles at his luck; all he needs is the tornado of a passing train to cover his attack, and he measures the distance with the care of a footballer in the run-up to a penalty kick.

  Minnie stands rigidly, her eyes focused on the past, and as she scans the faces of her childhood, she is deaf to the distant scream of the train’s whistle and the singing of the rails.

  Stapleton loosens his muscles, checks his timing and confirms the platform is free of potential witnesses.

  A stream of urchins’ faces play through Minnie’s mind and she begins labelling them: Mark, Annie, Maureen… but the picture quickly fades.

  Signalman Mackellar’s eyes are focused on Minnie’s shadowy figure and his voice has a worried edge as he sings, “… and make this endless day… get away from the edge, lady. Please get away from the edge.“

  Minnie’s handsome young father is with her now, giving her and her mother a final hug as his troop train readies to pull away from the same platform in 1939. “Bye-bye, Dad,” she cries aloud, her sobs lost to the wind, and the tears continue as she mourns her childhood innocence shattered by the ugliness of war. “Missing. Presumed dead,” was all the telegram had said, and she had cried alongside her mother for days until a sad-faced captain confirmed that her father’s body had been identified.

  Thirty seconds to go and Mackellar hits the warning again as his voice rises in crescendo. “… endless night… Tonight… Tonight.“

  “Attention all passengers on Platform One: please stand clear of the tracks,” repeats the ethereal messenger, but Minnie doesn’t hear; she’s dancing away her youth in the post-war euphoria, while her broken mother sits alone at home hoping the scars will heal.

  Ten paces, Stapleton estimates, as he limbers up with a couple of gentle bunny hops. Overhead, the track’s power wires begin to hum, drawing Minnie closer as she walks up the aisle to stand by the side of a youthful Alfred Dennon.

  “I do,” Minnie says aloud and inches forward as the siren of the approaching engine sends out a final warning.

  Stapleton is running now, co-ordinating his arrival with that of the oncoming train, and Mackellar has stopped his singing and is heading for the window.

  “Get back, lady. Get back!” screams Mackellar from his lofty perch, but his words are whisked into the wind.

  Stapleton falters for a fraction of a second as he tries to process the sound, but his path is set; his mind made up.

  The train’s driver peers ahead through the murk, searching for the next signal, when Minnie and Stapleton come into view.

  “What the hell?” he starts with one hand on the whistle and the other reaching for the brake.

  Minnie is calm and is standing over Alfred’s coffin now as the rush of the train’s forward wind tears at her hair and the shriek of the whistle blasts her ears.

  “Goodbye, Alfred,” she cries and leaps just as Stapleton grabs for her handbag.

  “Oh my God… Oh my God,” screeches Mackellar as he throws all the signals to danger and races for the emergency phone.

  chapter two

  The Bluebottles, a six-piece combo of off-duty police officers, are hammering away on stage as Daphne Lovelace demonstrates the Twist to a handful of novitiates with more gusto than a sixties go-go dancer.

  Peter Bryan keeps an eye on her as he puts on a serious mien and takes Bliss to one side.

  “How the hell did they know where to find Daphne?” Bliss queries as soon as he’s dispelled the notion that his son-in-law is pulling some sort of perverted joke.

  “Apparently the killer ditched Mrs. Dennon’s handbag in a dumpster outside the station. They found her wedding invitation in it and put two and two together.”

  “Oh my God,” breathes Bliss, wondering how he’s going to break the news. “Look at her. She’s eighty-odd and she still thinks she’s Ginger Rogers…”

  “Do you want me to —” starts Bryan, but Bliss cuts him off.

  “No. It’s your big day, Peter. Anyway, she knows me better.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily make it easier,” says Bryan sagely, but Bliss waves him away.

  “Don’t worry, Peter. Just get me a very large brandy…”

  “Aren’t you going to drive her home then?”

  “It’s not for me, you idiot; it’s for her.”

  Word spreads faster than cholera in a room filled with nearly eighty policemen, and a depression settles over the reception as Bliss gently leads Daphne from the dance floor. Samantha has heard the news and races to be at Daphne’s side as her father edges the aging woman towards a distant chair.

  “What’s happening, David?” Daphne demands breathlessly, aware that she is suddenly the centre of attention.

  “Just a minute,” he says, and frantically signals the band to start up again.

  “You’re scaring me, David,” Daphne continues, but Bliss needs her to be seated.

  Daphne sits, crushed in her own private world, as Bliss forges through the downpour with his face pressed to the windshield. “There’s no point in hurrying,” he has told himself a dozen times since leaving the Berkeley, “it won’t bring her back.” But he can’t keep his foot off the throttle. He turns on the radio to break the overbearing silence and catches the end of the hourly news.

  “… reporting live from the scene of today’s murder.

  “In a bizarre attack in Westchester this afternoon an elderly pensioner was pushed into the path of a London-bound express.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear,” says Daphne quietly, and Bliss turns it off as the reporter confirms that the victim’s name is being withheld while next-of-kin are informed.

  “She doesn’t have any — not close, anyway,” says Daphne, before sinking back into her misery.

  Detective Inspector Mike Mainsbridge of the British Transport Police is the officer in charge at the scene and is giving the same answer to the local radio reporter.

  “What can you tell us then, Inspector?” demands the reporter.

  “We’ve contacted a friend of the deceased and are awaiting her arrival, though we are fairly certain that we can positively identity her from articles found in her possession.”

  “Any suspects at this time?”

  “We’re looking for a white male, twenty to thirty years…” Mainsbridge continues, while Ronnie Stapleton slumps on Krysta Curran’s bed with his face buried in his hands as they listen to the report.

  “Don’t turn me in. I didn’t do it, Krys, honest,” he snivels. “The old bag just jumped.”

  Krysta swats ineffectually at her own tears. “They said she wuz shoved on the telly,” she says, as if a picture of a police officer demands greater credence than mere words, and the tears continue to cascade down her cheeks. “You can’t stay here…” she is saying as the Inspector continues, “Fortunately we have a clear picture of the suspect from the station’s surveillance camera…”

  Stapleton lashes out in frustration. “Switch it off!” he yells. “Switch it off.” Then he sags in despair. “
What am I gonna f’kin do, Krys?”

  “You could turn yourself in.”

  “What — and tell ‘em I didn’t do it — yeah, right. They’ll swallow that. I got form, remember. I’m on probation.”

  “Yeah. For a couple of ounces of dope — not for bumping someone off.”

  “D’ye think the filth’ll care?”

  “It’ll be worse if they catch you.”

  “They ain’t got no witnesses,” spits Stapleton.

  “You heard him, Ron — they got video.”

  “It was dark. They could be bluffing,” he pleads, tears streaming down his face. “She f’kin jumped, honest.” Then he brightens with an idea. “You could say I wuz ‘ere all afternoon with you. We wuz playing on your computer — remember?”

  Krysta’s face falls. “I dunno…”

  “I thought you loved me. I mean, it’s not like it’s gonna make any difference now. The old crumbly’s gone.”

  “But, we wuz in the caff together. You wuz making fun of her. The others will know.”

  “Then we came right back ‘ere afterwards, aw’right?”

  Krysta keeps her eyes on the floor as she mumbles. “My mum and dad will be back soon.”

  “You’re throwing me out?”

  “Ron… I…”

  “Oh. Screw you.”

  “Where’ya gonna go then?”

  “Mind yer own f’kin business.”

  Daphne Lovelace has kept a stoic face since receiving the news, though she has loudly blown her nose on several occasions as Bliss drives her back to Westchester. “I’m afraid I rather spoiled Samantha’s wedding,” she starts, but Bliss rebukes her immediately.

  “You most certainly did not. Hardly anyone noticed. In any case, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Well, I still feel responsible. Minnie was probably feeling miffed that I’d gone without her when she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “In which case she wouldn’t have been at the station?”

  “Maybe she’d perked up and decided to come to the reception.”

  It seems unlikely, thinks Bliss, finding it difficult to imagine that someone of Minnie’s age would venture to London alone. Then he chides himself for the thought; after all, she was just about to set out around the world.