Deadly Sin (33 page)

“What about the Brimble girl?”

“She didn't actually see anything,” he says, digging out Amelia's statement. “According to her, the first time it happened the old lady admitted she fell out of bed in the night, and the next time the only person in the room was this Hilda Fitzgerald woman because she sent Brimble off to give another patient a bath.”

“Who is this Hilda woman?” asks McGregor. “Is she the cook or what?”

“General factotum — like her husband, as far as I can gather. They live on the premises and pretty well run it,” says Roberts, before continuing with his roundup and detailing the various searches and inquiries that have been made with negative results.

“Patrick Davenport has had a few speeding tickets and got a couple of endorsements on his licence,” he concludes. “Otherwise the place is squeaky clean.”

“So that only leaves us with the papers that she reckoned were proof they were trying to kill her.”

“I've spoken to her about that,” says Roberts with a tone that says he is not convinced. “She admits breaking
into Davenport's desk, stealing them, and mailing them to a friend. But somehow they've ended up on the dump. I've got half a dozen men out there now having a look, but I don't have a lot of hope.”

“What are they supposed to prove —” starts McGregor as a sergeant, with triumph all over his face, knocks and then rushes in with an envelope addressed to Mavis Longbottom. “Wow. That was good timing.”

The medical records of St. Michael's residents could be used as a practitioner's training guide for professionals entering the field of gerontology. Alzheimer's, osteoporosis, emphysema, diabetes, and a host of cancer-related complaints top the list, and the numerous treatments and medications all appear to be meticulously recorded. But it means nothing to the officers.

“I wouldn't know an Aspirin from Viagra myself,” admits Roberts as they scan the documents.

“I'll steer clear of you when you've got a headache then,” jokes McGregor, before handing the records over to the sergeant, saying, “Get these to the Police Surgeon and ask him to give me an analysis, stat.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replies as McGregor and Roberts take a closer look at the remainder of the paperwork.

“Power of attorney,” says Roberts skimming a dozen similar documents. “Now this is more interesting,” he adds, as he flicks through them. “Yes. She's right about that. They all name a lawyer called Robert Jameson.”

“And look at this,” says McGregor, finding a signed affidavit giving Jameson withdrawal privileges on their bank accounts attached to the back of each document. “I think someone should have a few words with our lawyer friend.”

“I wanna word with you,” snorts Fox mid-afternoon as he catches Bliss out in the open. “I've been looking for you all bloody day. Where have you been?”

“Out and about,” says Bliss cheerily as he willingly accompanies the commander to his top-floor office.

The walk to the gallows is the longest walk on earth, but Bliss takes it with a bounce in his stride. He has been practising for this moment ever since his attempt to get into the American embassy garage backfired.

“Fox is gunning for you,” he has been warned by cell-phone time and again, as the commander slunk around the Yard trying to sniff him out. But he went to ground in the legal aisles of the British Library and kept his head down until he was in possession of all the ammunition he needed.

“Now,” starts Fox as he slams the door behind his detective chief inspector and plonks himself behind his desk. “What's this I hear —”

“Hang on a minute, sir,” says Bliss, holding the commander up with the palm of his hand. “I'd just like you to read this before you go any further.”

Fifteen minutes later David Bliss is standing on London Bridge, staring down at the sludgy water, trying to see into his future again.

Well, you've done it now, haven't you
, he tells himself, but he is still smiling in memory of the look on Fox's face when he smoothed out his crumpled resignation letter and slammed it on the commander's desk.

“Dave. You really don't have to go that far,” Fox tried remonstrating, but Bliss wasn't listening.

“Actually, I do,” he said. “To be honest, I've had enough of all the conniving politics and underhanded crap. When I joined I thought I'd spend my life fighting villains, I didn't expect to be working for them.”

“Now that's uncalled-for.”

“Is it?” said Bliss. “I don't think so. I've spent the past five years being jerked around by that scum Edwards, until someone managed to put the skids under him, and then the poisonous little bastard weaseled his way back in the Home Secretary's pocket.”

“I will not have you saying …” Fox was shouting when Bliss walked out. And then the commander's words, “All right. Resignation accepted. You are finished, Bliss,” followed him down the corridor.

“Not for another four weeks,” Bliss shouted back, although he has already tallied his outstanding leave and knows he has only two days of actual duty to work before he will be free.

“Finally free … after twenty-eight years,” he muses aloud as he stares down at the Thames. “Free — with a good pension and a clean record.”

Now what are you going to do?

Maybe I'll write another book like Samantha suggested.

Are you crazy? The last one nearly killed you. Why not do something easy like brain surgery or climbing Everest?

Anyway, first I have to do something about Daisy.

You could go this weekend. There's nothing stopping you now. You could go and never come back.

But there is something stopping him and he knows it. And it's not just her “cousin,” whoever the man may be. It's the same problem he's faced for the past two years since the start of their relationship.

“Where were the fireworks?” he has questioned a thousand times, recalling the three months that he tangoed around her before he finally took her home after the last dance. But just as the kindling took a long time to catch, so the smouldering embers are taking forever to die.

It's like someone dying a slow and peaceful death
, he thinks, and is reminded of Daphne Lovelace as he imagines her deciding when she might finally turn in her passport. “Not today — I might wait till the weather worsens or I might even wait till Christmas.”

And then he ponders just how many old people have said to themselves, “I'll just hang on to see one last Christmas,” and have ruined subsequent Christmases for the rest of the family for years to come.

Now or never
, he tells himself as he stands midway on the bridge and phones.
I guess my Christmas is over — time to start a new year.

“Daavid. I want you to come to see me after zhe Queen,” says Daisy, before he has a chance to gather his words. “Is zhat possible? I have somezhing very important to tell you.”

It's a long way to travel just to be told to pack his bags, but he can't help feeling that he might need an excuse to get out of the country in a hurry on Friday, so he agrees.

“I'm into my fifties now,” Bliss claims as his reason for resigning when he makes the next call to his son-in-law. “Whereas you are just a young whippersnapper with family responsibilities.”

“Cut the crap, grandpa,” says Bryan. “What are you planning?”

“Hey. Enough of the grandpa stuff. But you're right. I do have a little surprise in mind.”

“So, why quit?”

“Because, my son, as I'm sure you are aware, they can't fire me if I've already put my ticket in.”

“Dave. Whatever it is, don't go it alone. Count me in.”

“In that case — Edwards has called a meeting at nine-thirty tomorrow morning at his office, and I think we should be there.”

“I wasn't invited.”

“Neither was I,” admits Bliss, before adding sternly, “Just one thing, Peter. If the wheel comes off, I'm taking the rap. You had no idea what I was planning.”

“I don't know what you're planning.”

“That's precisely what I just said.”

T
he clock in the tower of Big Ben is winding itself up to strike nine as hundreds of lesser civil servants make a frantic dash from bus stops and tube stations to the front doors of the Home Office, a few blocks east of the tower at St. Anne's Gate.

It is the start of just another day for the bureaucrats responsible for the internal security of the nation — blue-suited men and women whose daily contact with the police takes them deep into the murky underworld, without them ever having to risk the inconvenience of a bullet in the head or a knife in the back.

Her Majesty's Chief Inspectors of Constabulary and Prisons, the loftiest guardians of law and order, will arrive at the front door in chauffeured limousines, but not until their desks have been cleaned and their cappuccinos made. Middle rankers, together with invited guests, will park their Audis and Volvos in the car park at the rear of the
building under the noses of Bill and Fred (Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee behind their backs), a couple of jovial pensioners dressed up as security guards.

“M'ning, Bill … M'ning, Fred … Nice day … How's the lumbago?” calls driver after driver as regulars sweep by without needing to be checked by the two old-timers.

Michael Edwards, in his BMW, stops to hand over a list of visitors due for his meeting. “See if you can find them a decent spot, please,” he requests and gets an affirmative nod. “They're mainly people from the palace,” he adds, hoping to lend weight to his own credence rather than his visitors'.

“Right'o, sir,” says Bill.

Lefty and Pimple are hot on Edwards' tail and pull up at the gatehouse just a minute later.

“We have a meeting with Mr. Edwards,” says Lefty, handing over their American Embassy ID passes, and Fred ticks them off Edwards' list.

“Just one moment, sir,” says Fred as he disappears into the backroom of the gatehouse, where he seemingly morphs into a couple of uniformed police constables and two detective chief inspectors.

“Would you gentlemen please step out of the car,” requests David Bliss, emerging with the Americans' IDs in hand, while Peter Bryan and one of the constables make their way around the car to the passenger's door.

“What is this, Bliss?” sneers Lefty as he tries to snatch the passes back, but Bliss grabs his arm and spits, “I said, step out of the car.”

“And you as well,” says Bryan to Pimple, wrenching open the passenger's door.

Time stops as Lefty's arm tenses under Bliss's grip, and his eyes burn into his captor's brain as he weighs the odds. The moment of decision for a cornered man whose entire future turns on this moment. Make the right move and he can be free. But what is the right move — fight or flight?

“What the hell's going on?” demands Edwards, breaking the spell as he spots the commotion and races across the car park in their direction.

“I am arresting you for administering a noxious substance under Section 24 of the Offences Against the Person Act 1861,” cautions Bliss as he hauls Lefty from the car. “You do not have to say anything —”

“On what evidence?” cuts in Lefty as he struggles to free himself from Bliss's grip. “You ain't got no witnesses.”

“Mr. Edwards here saw it happen. Didn't you, sir?”

“Now look here, Bliss …”

“Unless he would prefer to be arrested as an accomplice.”

“Now you're going too far.”

“I haven't even begun,” says Bliss as Pimple is pulled from the passenger's seat and rubbed down by Peter Bryan.

“Oh,” says Bryan as he draws a loaded Smith and Wesson from the CIA man's shoulder holster. “That's very naughty.”

“I am authorized to carry …”

“In America, maybe. But this is dear old Blighty,” says Bryan as he drops the magazine out of the pistol and hands it to the constable. “We get very touchy about people having guns. In fact, all handguns are illegal here — didn't anyone warn you?”

“Bliss, Bryan. You two are finished,” snarls Edwards from the sidelines as he pulls out his cellphone. “The U.S. Ambassador will have them out in no time. You have no idea what you're dealing with.”

“That may well be true, sir,” says Bliss while the two struggling Americans are being handcuffed and Peter Bryan is reading them their rights. “But in the meantime, as long as they are in my custody, I have the right to search them and anything in their possession for evidence.”

“That's American Embassy property,” shouts Pimple, squirming to free himself from the handcuffs as
Bliss begins a search of the car. “Touch that and you're dead.”

“Threatening to kill a police officer. Now that is a very serious offence under Section 16 of the same Act,” says Bliss delightedly as he sticks his nose into the American's face. “So now you're under arrest for another crime, but we shouldn't overlook a further offence under the Firearms Act of committing a crime whilst in possession of a loaded weapon.”

Michael Edwards eventually attempts conciliation. “Look, Dave,” he tries warmly. “This is ridiculous. Just save yourself a lot of grief and let these men go.”

“I can't do that, sir. You know that,” says Bliss with a deliberately smarmy smile. “They've committed serious crimes. What would the Home Secretary say if he knew we were letting foreign terrorists rule our streets?”

“They're not terrorists …” explodes Edwards as Bliss opens the trunk of the car and lets out a low whistle. The transceiver taken from his office cupboard still has his signed evidence tag attached when he lifts it out and holds it aloft.

“Oh. Look what I found,” he says gleefully. “I do believe this is stolen property.”