If Fear Wins

by Tony J. Forder

‘That’s a relief. I like her enthusiasm as much as her insight. And local knowledge is seldom a hindrance. I have appraisal reports to write up soon. What’s your take on Carmichael and Hunt?’

  ‘Efficient. Good in their own way. They both lack a bit of… oomph.’

  ‘You mean they seem content to sit back and wait for instructions, as opposed to putting themselves out there?’

  Chandler nodded. ‘And Mia?’

  ‘Her report takes care of itself,’ Bliss said. ‘Her star is on the rise.’

  The Insignia powered down the slip road, they got lucky with the lights at the huge roundabout, and moments later were back at the station. As usual, Bliss grumbled about how long it took him to find a parking space.

  ‘I’m sure they designed this place with Mr Plod and Noddy’s fucking car in mind,’ he growled. ‘You squeeze your motor into some of these gaps you need a shoehorn and a tub of lube to get out of the bloody thing.’

  ‘So get yourself a smaller car. I’ve no idea why you need something this size anyway. Compensating for something, are you?’

  Bliss ignored the innuendo. ‘I like my comfort when I drive. It feels more solid, safer, too.’

  Chandler shook her head and rolled her eyes at him. ‘Well, you can’t have it both ways. Don’t buy a big fuck-off car and then whinge about parking bay size.’

  Bliss laughed. ‘You’re a real donkey on the edge. What’s up?’

  ‘Donkey on the… what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Shrek. Donkey in Shrek. Eddie Murphy. When he gets riled up he calls himself a donkey on the edge.’ As he cut the engine, Bliss shifted in his seat to stare at her. ‘None of that means a thing to you, does it?’

  ‘Nope. Never seen it.’

  ‘Well, take it from me, that’s what you are. What’s your beef?’

  ‘No beef. Nothing’s up. No donkey, no edge. Let’s just put it down to several months of listening to you drone on and on and on about bloody parking. Some days I just want to tune you out.’

  ‘Do I really need to remind you who your superior is, Sergeant Chandler? Have we got to have that talk again?’ Bliss said over the car roof as they both got out.

  The space he had found was underground, and his voice bounced back off the cement walls in sibilant whispers.

  ‘No. Boss.’

  ‘Good. Subordinate. Now, you remember what my baguette order is?’

  ‘Yes, boss. I’ll run along like a good lackey and grab one for you.’

  But Bliss was already shaking his head as the pair strolled towards the entrance. ‘No, forget it. I lost my appetite about the same time as I stepped inside that bloody tent.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I was going to spit in it.’

  ‘If you say so… donkey.’

  Leaving Chandler to get the incident room up and running, Bliss settled himself behind his desk and used his networked computer to check the latest missing persons logs. The file associated with the clothes found on the riverbank had not been updated. There was no further news either on AWOL flying officer, Duncan Livingston. According to the notes, he had spent the night with friends at a pub in Barnack, but instead of returning to the base accommodations with them, had remained behind to try it on with the barmaid. He had apparently left the pub a little before midnight and would have had to walk the three miles, but there was no indication that he ever arrived back at his shared flat. No accidents close to the area had been reported, and a drive-by search of the route had yielded nothing.

  Bliss hoped he was wrong about this one. Whilst the murder being drugs-related was still highly likely, he was keen not to assign an early theory with so few facts available to them. Speculation was one thing, creating an investigative trail based solely on that conjecture quite another. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was in need of a decent night’s sleep, but that was looking less likely now and for the foreseeable future. A new murder case was the Prince of Thieves, the harsher ones stealing tiny nuggets of sleep right out of your eyes.

  His partner had things under control by the time Bliss reached the incident room. The investigation was now designated as Operation Compound, which was the random word generated by the operations system. With Bishop and Ansari still clearing the scene of crime, Chandler had pulled in detective constables Carmichael and Hunt, plus fellow sergeant Mia Short. A similar number of uniforms completed the initial squad, and there would also be one or two civilian workers attached at some point. As the operation developed over the following forty-eight hours, more staff would be drafted in, the precise numbers dependent on where the case took them.

  The open-plan working arrangements were far from intimate. Whilst it gave a team room to breathe, space in which to operate without every single conversation necessarily being overheard, there was a constant hubbub of noise in the background. Its clean lines and recent intake of new office furniture, including ergonomic chairs recommended by Occupational Health, provided a comfortable environment. As Bliss surveyed his colleagues doing what they did best, his thoughts were drawn back to the old days when scruffy coppers populated scruffy offices amidst a cloying fug of smoke from the twenty-a-day mob. Soup stains on ties and crumbs flecking hirsute faces had been commonplace. Often the attitude matched the lack of personal hygiene. Progress wasn’t all bad, Bliss reasoned. Not that the odd slovenly character hadn’t fallen through the cracks to remain amongst them.

  ‘Any joy with the security patrol?’ Bliss asked Chandler as she stood writing crime scene notes on one of the room’s three whiteboards. Bliss eschewed the interactive boards, preferring the reliability of hand-written notes. Chandler was both more comfortable and adroit with the technology but rather than argue with him, she went along to get along. She considered him a relic, he knew. But one he liked to think his sergeant was fond of.

  ‘I have them both coming in for an interview in exactly an hour, boss. You want them in separate rooms?’

  Bliss shook his head. ‘Not worth it. If they were sleeping instead of working or doing something else entirely then they will already have concocted a story by the time they arrive. I’ll know if they are bullshitting, though.’

  ‘Takes one to know one, I guess.’

  Bliss frowned. ‘We’re not in the playground now, DS Chandler.’

  Chandler laughed. ‘Any updates on our RAF misper?’

  ‘Nothing. Last seen shortly before midnight. He had a three-mile walk home. Not far for a fit young man, little more than thirty minutes, but much of it would have been on dark, quiet country roads.’

  ‘If he’s not our necklacing victim, could we be looking at a hit and run there instead? If they hit him hard enough they could maybe have sent him off the road and over a hedge somewhere. I’ve seen that happen before.’

  Bliss pondered that for a moment. Chandler had raised a good point. ‘A search was made, but I doubt it would have been every nook, cranny, garden or field between the pub and home. Let’s action that. And see if the RAF want to send in some volunteers to help with the search.’

  Chandler looked doubtful. Remaining by the boards, she recapped the marker pen and said, ‘You want me to wait until we have an ID on our body, boss? If this airman is not our victim then his disappearance is not our case. The DCI will have a real hissy fit if we spend money on a misper that has nothing to do with us.’

  His DS was right. Edwards would slam him for it. On the other hand, Bliss found the approximate timings and the close proximity between the village of Barnack, RAF Wittering, and the crime scene, to be more than happenstance. He was unconvinced that a search would locate Livingston – he was pretty certain the young man had been horrifically murdered. But for Bliss, doing nothing was not an option, either.

  ‘Go ahead and action it,’ he said. He had been perched on the edge of a desk. Now he stood and shook his head, noting Chandler’s raised eyebrows. ‘I may be completely wrong about the whole drug-related line, but I am pretty sure our dead body is that of our RAF f
lying officer. The confluence of events and locations convinces me. We could wait for forensics to rule him in or out, but I’d rather we were pro-active. I’ll armour-up for DCI Edwards later.’

  This time Chandler smiled. ‘For what it’s worth, I agree with you. Not that she’ll care what I have to say.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the DCI. Let’s settle on a few priorities here. So, number one is obviously an ID. Get Ansari and Bishop over to the pathologist as soon as they clear the scene. Any delay, grab the two nearest suits and have them do it instead. You and I will meet with the security duo. The search is our third priority. Push back the briefing if you have to, but I’d like some answers in time for it.’

  Bliss turned to leave, but then paused. ‘Oh, and Pen. The call you make to the RAF… leave it for ten minutes. When I meet with Edwards I want to be speaking the truth when I provide her with a list of actions that fails to include that one.’

  3

  To Bliss’s mind, Alicia Edwards would always be The Gunslinger. It was all about her walk. It reminded him of old western movies where the white hat and the black hat met at high noon for a duel. It was in her stride – the slightly bowed legs, the hands curled, fingers twitching by her sides as if preparing to draw a gun from its holster. Where some people envisage someone naked in order to negate their power, Bliss always imagined Edwards edging towards him with a pair of Colt pistols raring to go. It did the trick every time.

  He was not afforded the opportunity for, or the pleasure of, that imagery this time, as the Chief Inspector was already seated behind her desk when Bliss entered her office. Though not much larger than his own room, hers was pristine, a clutter-free zone, with every item squared off along perfect angles. Bliss did not know if Edwards was underworked or had OCD, but he had never seen the office looking anything but showroom squeaky clean. It even smelled fresh, and Edwards wrinkled her nose every time he came through the doorway, as if suspecting his mere presence might befoul the air trapped inside. The best that could be said about their current working relationship was that they tolerated one another. Always on her terms, though. Bliss was clear about that. They both were.

  He had all the experience and expertise necessary to be a DCI, but even if circumstances had not conspired against him to the point where he was unlikely to ever rise above his current rank, he would never consider seeking the promotion. It was rare to see a DCI out on the streets, and that was precisely where he wanted to be. He was no administrator, and had little time for those like Edwards who aspired to be. Bliss knew he was a good detective, but also that he lacked the required tact and diplomacy to walk the political line with any degree of comfort. Over the years he had learned to keep himself in check. At least when doing so counted for either everything or nothing. Reporting to Edwards was a part of the job. No more, no less.

  Bliss took a few minutes apprising Edwards as to where things stood, other than the RAF contact which Chandler would be making in a few minutes’ time. He made it clear that the lack of either witnesses to the murder or evidence in and around the scene, meant the operation was still seeking a clear direction for its investigative path to follow. Bliss did not linger over his description of the charred body.

  ‘I wonder if this is a first,’ Edwards said as she settled quietly back in her chair. The DCI alternated between sharp business suits with skirts and sharp business suits with trousers. Bliss had noticed earlier that today was a trousers day. ‘And I don’t just mean for us locally, I mean the UK police service as a whole.’

  ‘I was wondering the very same thing myself,’ Bliss said. He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t recall ever hearing of one.’

  Edwards shuddered. ‘Makes me feel quite ill just thinking about it.’

  ‘It’s barbaric.’

  ‘Bad enough that they burn someone alive, but the whole necklacing thing is so completely inhuman.’

  ‘And oddly enough, it doesn’t really achieve what the perpetrators may hope to get from it. Whilst the tyre does ensure the victim can’t force it off and try to beat out the flames, it doesn’t actually prolong the agony. If anything, it helps shorten it, because the presence of the tyre directs the fire straight up and into the face. Apparently, the victim sucks down the flame and smoke and often dies within a couple of minutes. If they started at the feet it would be so much worse for far longer.’

  ‘I had no idea you were such an expert on the subject, Inspector. Even so, two minutes is more than enough. Two minutes that must feel like hours.’

  ‘I would imagine so.’ Bliss did not care to dwell upon it.

  ‘So where do you start on this one, Bliss?’ Edwards peered at him as if hoping for a flash of inspiration.

  He hooked one leg over the other, relaxing now that it seemed as if this would be one of their less strained meetings. When you had nothing to work with, there was really only one way it could go from there.

  ‘When I’m done here I’m due to have a chat with the security patrol, the two guards who discovered the body. I want to establish a time window, because I’m thinking it must have happened not long after he was taken. We have yet to ID the victim, so that’s a clear priority. I’m also obtaining a warrant for some CCTV footage. There’s an industrial complex on the same stretch of road, and it may just reveal more.’

  Edwards had been nodding along with him. Now she stopped and fixed him with a cool stare. ‘I understand you were not overly keen to have this case, Inspector.’

  Bliss frowned, and then twigged. For a second or two he jammed his tongue into a space where a molar used to be and shook his head. Then he said, ‘That fucker, Sullivan. Boss, it was a joke. You know how I am. I can’t believe that humourless prick gave me up on it.’

  ‘As part of the case summary it was mentioned to his DCI, who took it seriously enough to call me.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry about that. I had no idea it would go this far. I made a dumb crack about shifting the SOC and the body a few yards into his county. That was it.’

  ‘You never learn, do you?’ Edwards was smirking. ‘Some of us take a serious job seriously, Bliss. It wouldn’t hurt for you to curb your… witticisms. At least until you know whether or not someone is capable of treating them as such.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Have you? Really?’

  Bliss uncrossed his legs and edged forward. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to make an issue of this. It was nothing.’

  Working under this particular DCI was like riding a roller-coaster. He never knew from one day to the next whether she was going to be pleasant or antagonistic towards him. Lately they had bumped along together just fine, but Edwards was never one to pass up on any opportunity to chew him out.

  ‘Remember what I have always said to you about enough rope, Bliss. There is a noose at the end of it now, and you are edging ever closer to sticking your head inside.’

  ‘Closer, but it’s not around my neck just yet. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘For now. Look, I realise that you ended up a bloody hero to many people in this building last year. You earned yourself a reprieve, and I have had to accept that. You also appear to have the Superintendent onside. But what infuriates me is that you never seem to learn anything as you barge and barrel your way through life. You seem to have a self-destruct button, Bliss. One that is always armed and cocked. Believe it or not, I want things to work out for you here. It would certainly help make my life easier. I’ve also come to respect you as a damn fine detective. I understand you have a method these days for controlling your anger. I suggest you consider using it whenever you’re about to open your trap in future.’

  Bliss did just that. His instinct was to tell his boss to go fuck herself for being so bloody condescending. They were alone, and he could deny ever having said it. But he gave himself time to think, and in doing so he realised Edwards was not exactly wrong about him. She had also paid him a compliment, and he was a little surprised to learn she respected him. But he was never goi
ng to change his nature entirely, and they were both going to have to live with that.

  Still, she was right this time.

  And Bliss did not like that one little bit.

  4

  Ryan Bristow and Paul Cogger were not happy men. The pair were working their way through a week of night shifts, which meant they ought to have been at home and tucked up in bed at this time of day. Instead they had been asked to attend an interview at Thorpe Wood police station. The way Bristow put it, the telephone conversation had come across as more of an instruction than a request. He was not foolish enough to ignore it – whatever it amounted to. That did not mean he had to be happy about it.

  ‘I’m really not sure what I can tell you that I didn’t tell the other cop at the scene,’ he said. Bristow’s arms were folded across his chest, but Bliss felt it was more bluster than genuine resentment. A defensive posture for a defensive situation. ‘We were late off shift because of the time he detained us, and we won’t be getting paid overtime for that, I can assure you.’

  Bliss sat on the opposite side of the table that was located about two thirds of the way into the rectangular room. There was little air inside the four walls, and the aged plumbing system only ever threw out heat that fell somewhere between sweltering and volcanic. The stifling conditions seldom helped the agitated, so Bliss made allowances for exchanges that tended towards bad-tempered. He sat back and let the man get it out of his system. Whilst he understood Bristow’s irritation, Bliss had little sympathy for people who complained about being put out a little when there was a dead body lying in the mortuary. When push came to shove, if the input from this pair provided even a microscopic amount of assistance towards finding out who burned a man alive, then Bliss could not give a toss how much he put them out. In response to Bristow’s outburst, he left a lengthy pause, allowing the silence to roar.

  He weighed up the two men. Bristow was older by a decade, greying hair closely cropped. Carried a bit of extra weight around the gut, but was otherwise densely muscled. Bliss noticed the slightly stained teeth of a smoker, and a nervous tic just beneath his left eye. Cogger appeared hesitant, hanging on Bristow’s every word. His fair hair, centre-parted, was carefully moulded back with product. He was thin but looked in decent shape. He wore narrow and wide glasses with a vague blue tint to them. To Bliss’s trained eye, the pair of them looked shifty.