Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. Page 3

  “She was so thrilled about the trip,” continues Daphne, reading Bliss’s mind. “She’s never really travelled anywhere before — not like me — and I was looking forward to showing her all the places I’d been… Red Square in Moscow, Istanbul — the blue mosque — the Taj Mahal…” Daphne’s voice slowly fades in loss and sorrow and she blows her nose again.

  The rain hasn’t eased as Ronnie Stapleton slinks along the scruffy lane at the back of his parent’s terraced house on the outskirts of Westchester. With his eyes focused steadfastly on the light from his mother’s kitchen, Ronnie peers over the rotten lattice fence and sees her familiar figure fussing over the stove.

  “I’m gonna chuck his dinner out if he doesn’t show up soon,” Dorothy Stapleton calls out to her husband, and she checks the clock on the microwave. “It’s gone eight. I told him not to be later than six.”

  “I’ll eat it,” yells a child’s voice in response, and the shadow of Ronnie’s rambunctious ten-year-old brother, Marty, appears in the window.

  “You will not, and it’s time you were in bed,” laughs his mother. “You’ve got school in the morning.”

  The muffled sounds and blurry images of his family tug at Stapleton, and the prospect of a hot meal and some warm, dry clothing drag him towards the backyard gate. They obviously don’t know, he tells himself, and seriously considers walking in as if nothing has happened.

  You’re innocent, the voice in his mind says, though he hangs back, asking, How long before they see the news? How long before the knock on the door?

  And how will they know it’s you? The cop said it was a white male aged twenty to thirty. You’re only eighteen.

  What about the video?

  They’re lying. They always say they’ve got video.

  And, what if they’re not lying this time?

  Ronnie Stapleton pauses with his hand on the gate latch and the memory of his father’s final admonition ringing in his ears. “This is the last time, son. You only get one chance in my books,” he’d said only three weeks earlier as he’d led his son out of court. “If the fuzz ever come looking for you again, you’re out.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Your mother and me won’t stand for it — understand?”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “You will be if you don’t shape up.

  “I’ll have to do the honours, I suppose,” says Daphne Lovelace, breaking a twenty-minute silence as she and Bliss approach Westchester. “It ought to be church, but my front room would probably be more fitting; I don’t think God’s been on Minnie’s Christmas list for a few years now. And you’d be amazed what they charge for a service today.”

  “I wonder if she wanted to be buried or cremated,” Bliss muses aloud, though Daphne’s response holds no answer.

  “I don’t even know if she’s got a will. I thought she was just like the rest of us, with a little rainy-day money tucked away somewhere, until a few weeks ago when she told me her plans.”

  The day that Minnie broke the news about her grand intentions had started inauspiciously for Daphne. Her kitten, Missie Rouge, had rounded up a couple of mice for recreation, but the young cat’s natural boisterousness had overcome one of the terrified creatures as she’d enthusiastically batted it around the kitchen floor, whereas the other had gone to ground under the kitchen cabinet.

  Minnie’s unexpected arrival found Daphne sprawled on the kitchen floor with the vacuum cleaner’s hose stuck under the cupboard.

  “I did ring the bell…” Minnie started, explaining why she had used her emergencies-only spare key on her friend’s front door, but Daphne shushed her.

  “Mouse,” she whispered, then yelped joyfully as the little animal disappeared up the tube with a pronounced, “Plop!”

  “That’s put the wind up him,” she cried triumphantly, and then she rushed into the garden to release the tiny rodent.

  “Shakes ‘em up a bit,” she explained on her return, “but they usually survive.” Then she turned quizzically to Minnie. “It’s Wednesday. Isn’t it your bingo day?”

  “I thought it must be Alzheimer’s or the gin bottle,” Daphne continues to Bliss as they slow down in Westchester’s suburbs. “I’d never seen her so flighty. And you know what she can be like when she gets excited. ‘How about you and me taking a trip all the way around the world, Daph?’ she said, out of the blue, so I started telling her all the places I’d like to go, just to humour her.”

  “But she was serious?”

  “Absolutely. I even went with her to Maplin’s when she booked. Then we had to go to London to get her a passport.”

  “Daphne…” Bliss pauses and puts a note of concern in his voice. “You do realize that the local police will probably want you to identify the body.”

  “Oh. Don’t worry, David. I’ve seen more bodies than I care to remember. It’s the least I can do for the poor old soul.”

  “I’ll drop you home first and make some enquiries,” says Bliss, knowing that he could just as easily pick up his cell phone and call Westchester’s police control room, but preferring not to do so with Daphne sitting alongside him.

  It is approaching nine o’clock when Daphne turns the key in her front door.

  “I’ll light the fire,” she says, shuddering at the coolness of the empty house and the realization that she’ll never be opening the door to her oldest friend again.

  Bliss switches on the television and is surprised to discover that Minnie has become the poster child for Age Concern, and several other elderly-rights groups, and her demise has been catapulted to first place in the national news.

  “With surveys just out showing that forty-seven percent of the general population, and a staggering seventy-eight percent of the elderly, are frightened to venture out after dark,” begins the newscaster with a backdrop of a heavily dressed bag lady struggling along a dark street, “residents of the usually peaceful community of Westchester were shocked to learn today that a frail widow —”

  “Turn it off, David. They make her seem like some friendless down and out,” says Daphne. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  The sound of the front-door bell makes them jump.

  “I’ll go,” says Bliss, and he is met at the door by Phil and Maggie Morgan, Daphne’s elderly neighbours. Phil has armed himself with a large flashlight and the fireplace poker and is riding shotgun as he constantly sweeps the bushes while Maggie gushes, “Minnie’s been murdered, David.”

  “I know…”

  “Pushed in front of an express.”

  “You’d better come in —”

  “They say that bits of her were scattered halfway to Briddlestone,” chimes in Phil, and Bliss changes his mind, eases himself out of the door and drops his voice.

  “Look… You can come in, but please don’t upset Daphne. She doesn’t want to talk about it at the moment, though it would be nice if you’d stay with her while I go to the station to find out what’s happening.”

  Westchester’s railway station is alive with uniforms when Bliss arrives ten minutes later. County police officers, together with specialists from the British Transport Police, shelter under the platform canopy, while a team of forensic scenes-of-crime technicians are scouring the track at the end of the platform in the daylight of a dozen halogen floodlights. But it’s a lost cause. The driving rain has washed away all trace of the incident, and the speeding train has spread Minnie’s remains for nearly a mile.

  A cluster of officers gathered around a mobile control room in the station’s parking lot fall silent as Bliss approaches, seeking the officer in command. He flashes his badge — “D.I. Bliss. Met. police C.I.D.,” says Bliss, momentarily forgetting his recent promotion.

  “Wow! God’s squad,” mutters the junior officer.

  Detective Inspector Mainsbridge of the Transport Police introduces himself with a quizzical eye on Bliss’s morning coat.

  Bliss takes a mental look at himself and laughs, “It’s my daughter’s wedding. It’s
going back to the hire place tomorrow.”

  “National Crimes’ Squad?” questions Mainsbridge, wondering why the heavy brigade would be involved in such a straightforward murder.

  “Hardly — Interpol liaison officer, actually. I just knew Mrs. Dennon, that’s all.”

  “Did you know her well?” asks Mainsbridge, angling for the significance of Bliss’s presence.

  “Just a friend of a friend — Daphne Lovelace. She was with me at the wedding. Have you established a motive?”

  “Mugging. The surveillance camera caught him grabbing her bag. The tape’s fuzzy, but we should be able to get the lab boys to clean it up.”

  “Cash?”

  “Could be as much as ten grand in big ones, we think.”

  “Phew!” exclaims Bliss. “Ten thousand quid. That’s a hefty bundle for an old woman to be carting around. How d’ye know?”

  “We’ve got her bank book. It seems as though she’s cleaned out her life savings over the past couple of weeks, two withdrawals totalling seven thousand. And it looks as though she took out a loan for another three.”

  “Hmm,” hums Bliss. “You might want to check with the local travel agents on that. My info is that she’s just spent thirty grand on a world trip.”

  Now it’s Mainsbridge’s turn to be surprised. “You’re well informed.”

  “Inside information,” Bliss says smugly, then asks, “Where’s the body now, Mike?”

  Mainsbridge takes a meaningful look along the tracks before replying. “We’ve found a couple of bucketfuls so far.”

  “Oh, shit,” moans Bliss.

  “Could you formally I.D. her for us, Dave?”

  “Not in a bucket, I couldn’t,” replies Bliss seriously, and Mainsbridge gives him a wry smile.

  “Well, if it isn’t Chief Inspector Bliss of the Yard,” says a familiar voice, and Bliss warms at the approach of a smiling face.

  “As soon as I heard that Daphne Lovelace was involved I guessed you’d show up,” laughs Superintendent Donaldson, slapping Bliss affectionately on the back. Then his face falls in concern. “How’s the old bird taking it?”

  “You know Daphne,” starts Bliss, and Donaldson turns to Mainsbridge in explanation. “She was the charlady down at the Nick for years, but she cracked more cases than most of the brainless wonders in C.I.D. put together. ‘I reckon old so-and-so did that,’ she’d whisper in my ear whenever she brought my tea and biscuits, and I don’t think she was wrong once.”

  “She’s keeping her chin up,” says Bliss, “but I’d better get back to her.”

  “Why don’t you just get a permanent transfer here, Dave? We could do with a real live hero on the force.”

  “Hero?” queries Mainsbridge vaguely.

  “Yes,” says Donaldson, inviting Mainsbridge to search his memory banks. “This is the Detective Chief Inspector David Bliss.”

  “The Nazi gold case?” breathes Mainsbridge.

  “The very same,” says Donaldson, basking in his association with Bliss. “The man who uncovered a buried fortune off the coast of Corsica, and all he got was an extra pip on his shoulder.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t quit,” says Mainsbridge. “You could make a mint if you wrote a book about it.”

  “Oh, I’ve definitely given it some thought,” replies Bliss, though he doesn’t add that the book he’s planning is about an even greater mystery than the discovery of the missing Nazi treasure. Tell them you’ve discovered the identity of the man in the iron mask and watch them laugh their heads off, he tells himself, but lets it go. “Anyway,” he continues. “If there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Donaldson ticks off a completed task list on his fingers: “Forensics, witness appeal, coroner informed, murder squad are checking similar M.O.’s… Not a lot more we can do till the morning. Mike’s got everything under control here. I was just going for a bite to eat. There’s a new steakhouse in the High Street; care to join me?”

  “Any suspects?” asks Bliss, remaining focused.

  Mainsbridge steps in, saying, “We’ve got a witness.” And he pulls out his notebook to confirm the name. “A Janis Ng. She’s pretty sure that she saw some young punk stalking the old lady outside the cathedral just before it happened. She didn’t see his face, but he had a swastika painted on the back of his jacket.”

  “That should help…”

  “And the signalman saw him, though couldn’t really give us much — talk about shaken up. The poor bastard knew exactly what was going to happen and couldn’t do a thing to stop it — like watching a Hugh Grant movie. Then there’s the surveillance tape, of course, though it’s a bit murky.”

  “Right then, Dave. Let’s eat,” says Donaldson, but Bliss shakes him off.

  “I really ought to get back to Daphne…”

  “Breakfast, then,” continues Donaldson, undeterred. “Eight-thirty at the Mitre. We should have the whole thing sewn up by then. How long are you staying?”

  “Couple of days, I expect. Just to keep Daphne company. I had tomorrow off anyway. My daughter was married today so I thought I’d take a long weekend. Though God knows what I thought I’d be doing. They obviously didn’t need me.”

  “Always the same for us blokes,” moans Mains-bridge. “Christmas, birthdays, weddings. I dunno why we even try. We might as well just hand over the chequebook and piss off to the pub until it’s over.”

  “Sir,” questions a sergeant. “The railway people are asking when they can reopen the line.”

  “Tell them we’re still waiting for the engineers to examine the train’s brakes, though it’s a waste of bloody time. The poor bastard couldn’t have stopped a bike that quick.”

  “How is the driver taking it?”

  “Shock — completely confused. We’ve bundled him off to the hospital.”

  Ronnie Stapleton is also confused as he squats on the concrete floor of a phone booth, examining the contents of Minnie’s purse while he tries to work out his future. “F’kin fourpence,” he mutters in disbelief. “I ain’t doin’ life for that.”

  Stapleton’s descent from mugger to murderer has left his mind racing faster than a rat in a maze. Escape… but to where? And how? Thumbing a lift is a risky option, yet it’s all he can afford. He would normally have jumped a train, but the sight of Minnie’s body slamming into the front of the engine still runs and reruns in his mind like a cartoon character being whisked away at a hundred miles an hour. He closes his eyes, hoping it’s just a crazy computer game and that when he comes out of it he’ll be a winner, but the picture’s even gloomier when he refocuses, and the tears start again. He’d like to be crying for the woman, but knows that he’s not.

  Krysta answers the phone at the first ring and accepts the charges.

  “You shouldn’t ‘a called,” she whispers. “Dad might have answered.”

  “You didn’t tell ‘em, did ya?”

  “No. ‘Course not. But everyone’s talkin’ about it.”

  “You gotta get me some dough, Krys. I gotta get away.”

  “I dunno…”

  “Please…”

  “I’ll try. Call me back in half an hour, ‘kay?”

  Bliss is also wishing that it was simply a game as he views the station’s surveillance video alongside D.I. Mainsbridge and sees Stapleton’s shadowy figure racing across the platform towards Minnie’s figure at the platform’s edge.

  “Try freezing it,” Mainsbridge instructs the VCR operator, hoping to catch the moment of impact, but the technician has made several attempts already and is sceptical of his chances.

  “It will be better when it’s transferred onto a DVD, though I’m not promising,” he says as he reruns the tape again and again, while grumbling about the inadequateness of the antiquated recording system.

  “Sorry, guv,” he says in exasperation as Minnie’s body simply vanishes time and time again, leaving Stapleton holding her bag.

  “I’d better get back to Ms. Lovelace,” Bliss says even
tually. “I’ll have another look in the morning.” And as he heads towards his car, he can’t help hoping that if they play it enough times, Minnie will eventually not be whisked away like a magician’s assistant.

  Ronnie Stapleton is another player yearning for the immediate invention of time travel as he’s forced out of the phone box by the evening’s chill and he seeks some warmth from the window lights of a small street of dingy shops. A car slowly rounds the bend behind him. “Cops,” he breathes, and he instantly turns to use the window as a mirror as he pretends to peer at the wigs in a hairdressing salon.

  They must have changed the one-way system, Bliss is thinking, not recognizing the street, and then he is alerted by the loiterer’s suspicious movement.

  “Turn around… let’s see your face,” mumbles Bliss, as he cruises slowly past, but Stapleton’s face is frozen to the window display. Then Bliss’s lights catch the offensive logo on the back of the boy’s jean jacket.

  “Got you,” breathes Bliss in amazement, stepping on the brake pedal.

  The car’s brake lights bounce off the window and Stapleton hits the pavement at a run. Seconds later he is jinking down a side alley like a startled gopher.

  Bliss is out of his car in a flash, but he wastes time as he ducks back inside to grab his cell phone. He should call for assistance, but he knows he’ll lose his quarry if he does. And he still hasn’t seen the youngster’s face.

  Stapleton is already racing down the littered alley, leaping boxes, abandoned bikes and rusty garbage bins, as Bliss takes up the chase. With his eyes firmly on the youth, Bliss lurches from obstacle to obstacle and curses the long tails of his morning coat as they snatch at passing junk and threaten to snag him.

  A discarded supermarket buggy trips Bliss and sends him sprawling as Stapleton shoots from the lane into the High Street where the Odeon cinema is turning out.

  “Police — stop!” yells Bliss, spurring his quarry on, and a group of youngsters neatly part to let the fleeing man through, then they jeer Bliss as he passes with shouts of “Let him go, Pig!”