Deadly Sin (16 page)

“Daavid, I want to see you,” she insists, and with Prince Philip tucked safely away on the Scottish moors for another week, he makes a vow. “Next Friday. I promise.”

“Please, Daavid. I love you.”

“Much of tonight's violence appears religiously based,” the reporter continues as Bliss's mind spins. “Mosques, temples, and churches have been fire-bombed — several destroyed …”

“Daavid?”

I love you, too, is the response he is looking for, but with the memory of a lonely weekend in Cannes still gnawing at him the best he can do is, “We'll talk on Friday.”

“Put everything on hold. The balloon's gone up,” says Commander Fox as Bliss walks into a wall of activity Monday morning: men and women rushing around with folders; canteen staff laying out coffee cups in the conference room; technical staff setting up monitors and computers; secretaries polishing their nails.

“The rioting?” questions Bliss, but Fox shakes his head sombrely.

“No. The f'kin palace has rescheduled — Friday after next.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” moans Bliss as the conference room fills with unit commanders and support staff. “That's all I need.”

“Have you got problems at home?” queries Fox with a knowing lilt, but Bliss shrugs it off as a stone-faced assistant commissioner shuffles papers with his head down, preparing to announce the bad news officially.

Thirty-two officers and staff but no sign of Edwards or the CIA, Bliss tallies quickly as the assistant commissioner clears his throat to bring the meeting to order.

“Whose bloody bright idea was that?” demands a special ops superintendent above the rumble of disbelief, and the assistant commissioner sternly jumps on him.

“Her Majesty the Queen, officer. She thinks it the best way to bring an end to the riots, but maybe you've got a better plan.”

“Oh, no, sir,” he says, deflating, then questions, “And what about Prince Philip, sir?”

“She can't go without him, can she,” strikes back the A.C. “It would look as though she's keeping him in the Bloody Tower.”

“It's a bit like dragging a four-year-old party pooper back to say sorry to the red-eyed birthday girl,” suggests Bliss. “I just hope he doesn't try it again.”

“It's your job to stop him, Chief Inspector,” says the A.C., and then he passes the floor to Commander Fox, who offers an olive branch to the assembly by pointing out that nothing needs to be changed from the original plan, other than names of officers on leave or off duty through sickness.

“Another meeting Wednesday,” concludes Fox, “and we'll have it sewn up.”

The rumble of dissent returns as officers begin to leave the room, but Fox grabs Bliss's arm. “Michael Edwards is on his way over from the Home Office with the Duke's trick-cyclist.”

“Just what I need to start the week off,” mutters Bliss
sotto voce
, but Fox lets it go.

“The event shouldn't cause us any problems,” begins Fox, explaining that Prince Philip's clumsy antics may
actually have taken some sting out of the rescheduled visit. Al-Jezeerah and the other Arab stations have repeatedly run clips for the amusement of their audiences, and every comedian and cartoonist in the world has lampooned the royals. “The whole thing has become one huge joke,” Fox is saying as Michael Edwards and Professor Morteson arrive to review the video of the original incident and to strategize.

“I suppose they could travel separately this time,” suggests Edwards as they watch the motorcade approaching the mosque, and then the videographer narrates as the Queen alights from the car.

“Commander Fox salutes and spins to escort her up the steps to the waiting dignitaries,” he says as the cameras follow the Queen up the steps. “Prince Philip, in his military uniform, catches up —”

“Wait a minute,” says Bliss, reaching over to hit the pause button. “Why did it take him so long?”

“'Cos he had to get out the other side of the car and walk round,” says Fox.

“Do we have a recording of that?” Bliss calls to the videographer, and the man begins checking his logs.

“Forget it. Let's get on,” says Edwards irritably. “It doesn't matter how he got there. He got there.”

“Right, sir,” says the technician and he starts the show again.

“Here Prince Philip is following Her Majesty up the steps —”

“Cut, cut, cut,” interrupts Bliss with something on his mind, but Edwards steps in and grabs the remote.

“Just watch the f'kin film, Chief Inspector. Christ, you sound like Cecil B. DeMille.”

“Who was that, sir?” asks Bliss, feigning ignorance.

“Before your time. Now just shut up and watch.”

The Queen is shaking hands with the first of the grey-robed dignitaries when the shot widens to include the
Duke as he unleashes his sword. Now Edwards hits the pause button.

“So. What do we see?”

“He looks angry,” says Bliss. “See the way he threw off his protection officer.”

“Professor?”

“Frustrated more than angered, I would say, Michael. It looks to me as though he somehow got entangled with his scabbard and momentarily lost his composure.”

“Any response, Chief Inspector?”

The whitewash continues
, thinks Bliss as he wonders what to have for his dinner. “No, sir. Fine with me.” But, as the meeting breaks up, he sidles up to the videographer, asking, “Can you make me a copy?”

“Here,” he says, “take this one. It's all on memory cards. I can make as many copies as I want.”

“I'd still like to see if we've got him getting out of the car.”

“I'll let you know.”

“I'm going to be in Washington for a few days,” Edwards loudly brags as he picks up his briefcase. “The Home Secretary thought I should sit down with the top brass at the Pentagon. See what they've got to offer.”

“Absolutely, sir. Good thinking,” says Bliss with undisguised sarcasm, knowing exactly whose idea it would have been to pick the taxpayers' pockets for a first-class junket to America.

Edwards scowls, but he balks at taking on Bliss in the presence of Professor Morteson.

By the time Bliss has returned to his office to take another look at the video, Daphne is back, circling her imaginary labyrinth in the noonday sun, muttering, “Here kitty-kitty-kitty … Here kitty-kitty-kitty …” fifty times a minute.

Amelia chuckles as she stands in the shade of the oak by the side of John Bartlesham's wheelchair. “She's just like a little clockwork mouse.”

A distinguished voice says, “Amelia. Is that Miss Lovelace out there?”

“Oh. Hello, Mr. Jameson, sir,” says the girl, turning to the stately figure behind her. “Yeah,” she says, laughing, “that's my Daffy.”

Robert Jameson of Jameson and Fidditch, Legal Services, distinguishes himself by his ability to withstand all weathers in a three-piece worsted suit, complete with a starched pocket handkerchief, a white rose boutonniere, and, in summer, a Panama hat.

“Miss Lovelace,” he says, doffing his hat as he walks onto the field and stands in her path, but she swerves around him and picks up her labyrinth without missing a step.

“Here kitty-kitty-kitty … Here kitty-kitty-kitty …” she continues, with her eyes on the ground, as Jameson stands and wipes perspiration from his brow and hat band.

“You won't stop her, Mr. Jameson,” laughs Amelia from the boundary. “Not till her spring runs down.”

“Miss Lovelace,” Jameson tries again solicitously, as Daphne's circuit brings her close, but this time he falls in step. “I wonder if I might have a few words with you about your will.”

“Here kitty-kitty-kitty …” she starts anew, then stops, gives Jameson a fierce look, and starts again. “Here kitty-kitty-kitty …”

“You might as well come in an' 'ave a cuppa tea, Mr. Jameson,” calls Amelia. “She won't stop till she's done.”

Daphne is done ten minutes later and, as she sips her warm tea in the supervisor's office, she explains that she has no family as far as she can recall.

“Of course, I may have forgotten,” she adds with a faraway look. “They say I forget things.”

“What about children, Miss Lovelace? I think you'd remember them.”

“I lost the only one I ever had,” she says, without explaining that the baby she has in mind wasn't hers. It was the child a critically wounded Frenchwoman entrusted to her in the heat of battle, and it became one of Hitler's victims.

“All right then,” says Jameson, as he stems a flood of perspiration from his brow with his sopping handkerchief, and she focuses intently on his blue eyes as he explains in considerable detail the legal difficulties that her beneficiaries might encounter should she die intestate.

“So, I'm sure you understand how important it is,” Jameson concludes with a flourish, and Daphne slowly puts down her plastic mug, wipes her lips with a napkin, and sits back as if she is finished.

“Miss Lovelace?” queries Jameson, leaning expectantly into her after a prolonged pause.

“Yes?” she says.

“Did you understand everything?”

Daphne's face slowly metamorphoses from wide-eyed interest to scrunch-faced concentration, and Jameson sighs in disbelief when she eventually scratches her head and says, “Would you like to try again?”

Doctor Williamson pokes his head into the office five minutes later, just as Daphne finally seems to be grasping the benefits of tidying herself up before she trots off to the cemetery in the back of a black Bentley.

“Won't be a minute, Geoffrey,” calls Jameson, then he turns back to Daphne and changes tune. “Maybe I can make it easier for you,” he offers helpfully. “Maybe you should give someone power of attorney over your affairs. Then you wouldn't need to worry about a thing.”

The doctor is examining Emily Mountjoy in her room by the time Daphne has given Jameson tacit approval to draw
up necessary papers, and she is blocked at the door by Hilda Fitzgerald.

“Emily's not at all well,” says Hilda. “Maybe you should take a little walk while we sort her out and take her to the sickroom.”

“She seemed all right earlier,” protests Daphne, but Hilda's face isn't promising. “It's her heart,” she confides with a grimace of distaste, depicting Emily's heart in the same vein as the Antichrist, leaving Daphne no choice but to return to her labyrinth.

By mid-afternoon the videographer has dug deep into the digitized mind of his computer and uncovered the images Bliss requested. But after ten viewings of Prince Philip leaving the royal limousine and walking to the mosque's steps, Bliss still has questions and seeks a second opinion.

“Can you spare a minute?” he asks, phoning his son-in-law, D.C.I. Peter Bryan, and a few minutes later they sit together in front of Bliss's computer screen.

“He gets out of the car on the offside, straightens himself up, brushes off his collar, and walks around the back,” narrates Bliss. “Now watch carefully,” he carries on, stabbing the screen with a finger. “He reaches the pavement and stops. Now look at his face.”

“He looks as though he's crapping his pants,” says Bryan; Prince Philip stands rooted to the spot while his face puckers in strain.

“Indelicately put, but absolutely true, Peter,” says Bliss, adding, “Then he pulls himself together and heads for the steps to the reception party.”

“Gas,” suggests Bryan as Bliss stops the disc and repositions Philip onto the pavement. “The old boy didn't want to desecrate the mosque with a raspberry and be damned in Hell for eternity, so he just stopped to give his head a squeeze and clear himself out before he went up the steps.”

“There goes my chance of heaven,” laughs Bliss, recalling his days as a young choirboy, but Peter Bryan isn't so sure.

“I bet you could get in on appeal.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Let's face it, they're all the same. They all want you on their team. It's the emperor's new clothes syndrome. And what else have they got to offer apart from absolution for sins, bingo, and a shot at heaven?”

“Some very nice music,” suggests Bliss, but his son-in-law is on a soapbox.

“They're like travel agents plugging package holidays at a tourism fair,” claims Peter Bryan, as he mimics a Bible-barker. “‘We've got the best deals on heaven,' yells a guy wearing a bishop's mitre. ‘Constant sunshine; lots of old friends; great for family reunions; strawberries and champagne; harp and lyre orchestras.' Then an evangelist in a Stetson waves you over. ‘Don't listen to that lot of old fuddy-duddies, Dave. We'll give you all that, plus — and you are just gonna throw your hands in the air and burst into tears when you hear this — you will get to sing in the choir.' ‘Really?' you say. ‘Oh, yeah. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord. Everyone gets to sing in the choir in our heaven.' ‘That's very tempting,' you're saying, when this guy in a white robe drives up in a Mercedes. ‘You come with me, mister,' he says in a dodgy accent. ‘We go for very short ride and then I take you to special place with seventy-two virgins — all very nice girls — just for you.' ‘Well … I don't know,' you say. ‘I'm not sure I feel comfortable getting into a car with a suspicious-looking package on the floor and an Mk 47 on the back seat.' ‘Forget heaven and all that nonsense,' calls out a guy in a turban at the next booth. ‘We offer a full return package. Come with us and in no time at all you'll be back. And, who knows, you might be a maharajah next time.' ‘Are you serious?' you say, then this chap with a beanie…”

“All right,” laughs Bliss, “you've made your point. So I guess my grandchild won't be christened then.”

“Ah. Now that would be a very dangerous assumption for any man, Dave. Especially one married to your daughter.”