‘I think I get enough crime and thrills in the day job, don’t you?’
‘I imagine you do. But I ask because you remind me of two fictional cops, Bosch and Rebus. The way you sit here in your chair on your own, sleep in it quite often as well, I imagine, knocking back the booze and listening to music.’
‘You mean I’m a cliché?’
This time Emily shook her head. ‘No. Well, not in a bad way. Perhaps those two reflect real life more than most people realise. Detectives on their own, a few quiet pleasures, not always bothering to retire to bed at night, and not really taking good care of themselves.’
Nodding, Bliss said, ‘I think you’re right. Even detectives who have families probably do a bit of this as they mull over an investigation, but the truth is when you live alone you don’t really need much more.’
They were quiet for a while. Bliss finished his drink, feeling his body begin to relax and adjust itself back to some kind of normality.
‘I’ve decided I’m going to carry on fighting, Jimmy,’ Emily said a few minutes later. By now it was dark, and Emily had switched the garden lights on. The effect was soothing. ‘No matter what anyone says, I’m going to fight to prove Simon was murdered. After the house was broken into, and with everything you’ve told me so far, I really do think it has to be connected with something he was working on. Something his presence, perhaps even photographs, had exposed.’
Bliss said nothing. He felt lousy at not telling her everything he knew. He could not be certain that doing so would protect her. Very much the opposite was more likely. If Emily discovered who her husband had been and what he had been doing, then not only would that shred the very fabric of her marriage and their life together, but it would expose her to the ruthlessness of a government organisation that viewed the general public as pawns in a game only they had mastery over. Emily was not the type to meekly accept what had been done, neither to her nor to her murdered husband. Six would brush her aside, but they would ruin her in doing so.
‘I understand your impetus,’ Bliss said. ‘But false hope is no hope at all, really. I think you need to wait a while, take time to grieve, time to start accepting your loss. Re-evaluate then. See how you feel, and whether things change in that time. You never know, it may be that you decide to let it be.’
‘I don’t see that happening. But, we’ll see. Do you think it’s safe for me to go back home tomorrow, Jimmy?’
Bliss knew it was, that Six had no need to enter the house again. But he could not reveal that, and thought it best to continue playing the game for the time being. ‘Probably. But why not stay another day or two? No need to take risks. You can wash your clothes here, you can relax because I’m out most of the time, and not be so alone of an evening. I know I’m not around a lot, and tomorrow promises to be a very busy day for me. But your house will be secured, and there’s nothing there for you that won’t wait.’
Colour seemed to flood back into Emily’s cheeks. They gleamed, almost radiated. They bulged as she smiled back at him. ‘Thank you. You know, I think I will take you up on that offer.’
‘Good. What are your intentions regards work?’ Bliss asked.
‘I had considered going back tomorrow, actually. But I think I’ll give it another week. They’re being very good. Supportive.’
‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. You could do with a few more days.’
Before she went upstairs to bed, Emily turned to Bliss and said, ‘Tell me about the pain, Jimmy. When you lose someone like this, does the pain ever go away?’
He gave it a moment before shrugging. ‘I don’t know. It’s only been seventeen years.’
Later that night, Bliss slipped his headphones over his ears and spent some time with B B King. While the digitalised notes washed over him his eyes fixated on the still beauty of his garden. He wondered how different Emily was finding him. Bliss completely understood the changes he had undergone, the incidents that had combined to alter his life. Behind it all that smouldering temper remained, but these days he had it on a lead. He no longer sought confrontation, though seldom took a backward step when it entered his life.
Bliss suspected there was more of that to come in the days ahead. But he had a hook into his investigation now. A starting point. He would allow himself to be swept up by it then. Tonight, he would slip away into an unguarded sleep and allow the night to unfold.
It felt like only minutes later, but when Bliss next opened his eyes it was 4.27am. The French windows had been left slightly ajar but on the latch, and a breeze billowed the net curtains in a wraith-like flow. The air outside was cold, and Bliss shivered as he closed the glass door.
The dream came back to him immediately. It was a Saturday evening and Bliss was nine or ten. His father had taken him to a game. Chelsea were playing away so they went instead to a West Ham versus Arsenal cup tie at Upton Park. They returned home to a family party, during which friends came and went with holdalls full of goods, all of which exchanged hands for hard cash. Bliss ran into his bedroom clutching a box of Maltesers and when he closed the door behind him he was in his late teens, sneaking in a box of beer and watching Match of the Day on his black-and-white TV. He went to bed late and when he awoke a year or more had passed, he rose from a different bed in a different house, and around the breakfast table sat two cops and a villain by the name of Dave McKinley, whose first call upon being released from prison was on the Bliss family. In the midst of this a chill darkness fell over them and then it was just him and his father. Light surrounded his father’s face only, as if it were disembodied. Twisted and ugly in a scowl, Bliss’s father said to him, ‘Jimmy, you have to make a choice now… either you’re a good’un or you’re a wrong’un. I tolerate wrong’uns as friends, but I won’t take that from you, sunshine.’ Clearly he had done something to incur his father’s wrath, and that had not been a rare event. As the light of his father’s face winked out, so others flared. All around him were the visages of local villains, grinning crookedly at him, baiting him with tales of untold wealth, easy women and becoming a local face to be feared and respected. Bliss found himself shaking his head, hands out in front of his eyes trying to ward them off, calling for his father to take pity on him…
Bliss exhaled, looking around the dark living room, chilled as much by the memory of the dream as the frigid air now trapped inside the room. He understood what he had seen, however. The reality encapsulated in those few snapshots. A life which might easily have led him down a very different path, where he could have been a Darren Bird – albeit without the violent tendencies, he liked to think. Not a serious villain. Bliss did not believe that had ever been something he was capable of. His father had been a good cop whilst on the job, but outside of it he took people as he found them. There was a difference between an armed blag and knocking out a bit of hooky clothing off the back of a lorry. Different levels of tolerance, at least. Bliss had grown up with that all around him, and had taken it on into his own adult life.
Why the dream had hit him tonight, Bliss could not answer. Perhaps there was no reason or rhyme to it. Just one of those weird tricks of the subconscious mind. It served to remind him of his father, though. He missed the old bugger. He could go days without thinking about him, but then as soon as he did a smile would split his face and the memory would somehow give him renewed strength and an appetite for the day ahead.
Bliss felt it now. Felt it spread throughout his body, a warm glow of appreciation. He welcomed it, breathed it in. And then prepared himself for another day.
35
‘I think I know the what, the why and the how,’ was how Bliss began the early morning meeting he had called for. ‘Or at least, as close to it as makes no real difference. I just need to figure out the who.’
In attendance were the Superintendent, DCI, CTU and MI5 in the form of Munday. It was a quarter past eight and once again they were assembled in the conference room. Bliss had already been at his desk for an hour before that. There were always
things to do in the office when you were running a major investigation. Paperwork needed to be caught up on, logs read, documents signed, databases accessed, filing taken care of. In Bliss’s case the filing pretty much took the form of stacking heaps of folders on the floor, but then there were the mundane chores such as petty-cash chitties, annual leave requests and overtime forms to rubber stamp. By the time the meeting came around, Bliss was as up to date as it was possible to be in a fluid situation. The sheer drudgery of admin had taken his mind off both the early morning dream and the briefing he was about to deliver.
Bliss paused in his delivery as the conference room door squealed open. Into the room came Chief Superintendent David Tucker, and the Assistant Chief Constable from Cambridge HQ, Walter Arnold. Bliss had spoken to the former on a single previous occasion, in the aftermath following the Thompson-Delaney case. He had only ever laid eyes on the ACC before, without exchanging a single word. Now the two men pulled out chairs at the back of the room and took their place at his briefing.
‘Do go on, Inspector,’ the ACC said. ‘We’re here to observe only.’
No pressure there, then, Bliss thought. He gathered himself quickly before continuing.
‘We previously established that Flying Officer Duncan Livingston was attached to the RAF wing responsible for logistics. What we missed was how crucial this information might be. We thought it was just his job. I now believe it was so much more than that. The role involves arranging flights in and out of the country, and for the shifting of both people and equipment around the world. Nothing that lands here has to go through customs in the same way standard freight does through a regular airport. It relies on the checks, balances, honesty, and integrity of the teams involved. All of which leaves it vulnerable to exploitation and corruption.’
Bliss cleared his throat and surveyed the room. He had captured their interest. ‘It is my belief that artefacts stolen from the Middle East and beyond are being flown into RAF Wittering, and that our victim played a part in ensuring particular crates or packing cases were rerouted into the hands of an Essex gangster by the name of Darren Bird, and that this took place via a third party based right here in Peterborough. In a nutshell, that’s the criminal enterprise I believe is taking place and which had a direct impact on the murder of our airman.’
‘And you have evidence of this?’ Edwards asked, beating out a rapid tattoo on a notepad with her biro. Bliss noticed how agitated she had become at the presence of the brass.
‘No, boss. Not at present. But I’ll get it.’ Bliss did not want to get wrapped up in specifics at this stage, so he pushed on. ‘I believe our airman was murdered because he was skimming off the top. If whoever killed him had simply made him disappear, or had murdered him in some other obvious way, then the full weight of our investigation would have looked into every nook and cranny of his life, turning it upside down, with the good possibility that something would have spilled out to provide us with a concrete lead pointing in the direction of these activities. So instead, those responsible staged an elaborate act of supposed terrorism and attempted to force our investigation down that route and that route alone. They did so cleverly, to make it appear that we had discovered something they did not want uncovered. That’s the why and the how that I referred to earlier.’
‘I take it you have no evidence of this, either?’ Fletcher asked this time.
‘No, ma’am. But when you hear how I put the pieces together, I think you’ll find my conclusions are logical.’
Bliss spent the next twenty minutes informing the group of his activities down in Essex. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘Stacey Bird’s admission that her husband was buying artefacts, and my NCA source’s tip that Bird was somehow involved with a deal involving the RAF, all fit together neatly. Planes are in and out of the base all the time. All it takes, I imagine, is one or two bent groundstaff at the other end and the same here. Some of these logistics crew fly all over, wherever our people and equipment are needed. We know that in and around the Middle East, especially in Syria right now, there are treasures and cultural items being looted every single day. When some fine old buildings are destroyed, many of the cultural items also get left behind or sold on to the highest bidder. It would be naïve of us to imagine that some of it did not find its way back here. I can’t think of a better way for it to be smuggled in than on a flight whose cargo will be met by those who are also involved in the deal. I can’t be certain of the precise mechanics of the operation, of course, but my guess would be that they set aside a marked crate and it is hauled off by our third party posing as one of the regular couriers.’
‘But isn’t everything shipped by the RAF themselves, in RAF vehicles?’ Edwards asked.
‘No, boss. You’d think so, but evidently that’s not the case. The majority of shipments, yes. But the armed forces also utilise specialist haulage companies. Provided they have the right paperwork, the presence of a non-RAF vehicle would raise no eyebrows whatsoever.’
The room was silent for a few seconds. CTU officer Garner spoke up next. Her face betrayed no sign of what she might be thinking. ‘With respect for your intuition and fine work, Inspector Bliss, isn’t all of this just speculation at the very best?’
‘Of course. At the moment it’s a theory. All theories are speculative at the beginning. In my view, however, this is the best lead and theory we’ve had since what I maintain to be faked security footage came our way, and I think the logical flow fits perfectly.’
DCI Edwards exhaled with a slight shake of the head. ‘I’m not so sure, Bliss. I thought you had more than this when you summoned us by text at the crack of dawn this morning.’
‘I agree with both the DCI and Kate,’ Inspector Hilton said, slipping a sidelong glance towards his CTU colleague. ‘In terms of a broad notion this is a nice idea, Bliss, but you opened as if this was the conclusive answer we were waiting for.’
‘If you’ll forgive me,’ Bliss said with no malice, working hard not to so much as glance at the two men seated at the back of the room. ‘I think that’s because you don’t really know me and you’ve not worked with me before. I presented it that way because this is what you’ve been waiting for. This, or something pretty close to it, is the way it went down. I know it is. And now that I know it, my task is to tie it in to whoever that third party is. Because that’s who murdered Duncan Livingston.’
‘But you can’t possibly know that for sure,’ Edwards argued.
‘And yet I do.’
‘I think Inspector Bliss has a point.’
All eyes turned to the man at the far end of the table. It was the first time Munday had spoken up during one of these meetings, and from the look on the faces of those around the table, Bliss guessed the man was less than chatty on all other occasions as well.
‘Whilst nothing is so far proven,’ Munday continued, ‘the theory holds water. As Bliss quite rightly stated, all theories are pure speculation at first. Otherwise they would not be theories. If you follow the linear pathway provided by what we do know has happened, and by what we also know to have been said, then the salient aspects of what we just heard are likely to be correct. This Essex gangster purchases artefacts from someone in Peterborough. The best route from the Middle East from where these artefacts are stolen to Peterborough is RAF Wittering, provided you have the right personnel on your payroll. Who better to make the arrangements than someone from logistics? Livingston worked in logistics. It’s a perfect fit. The pieces are all there. You just need to find the glue that binds them together.’
‘Surely that’s not enough for us to collapse our own side of the investigation,’ Garner said. Her cheeks flushed. ‘I’m of the opinion that we cannot drop everything and simply leave this to the Inspector and his team.’
Munday spread his hands. ‘I never suggested for one moment that we should. You sound as if you almost want it to be an act of terror so that we can break the case, Kate. No, we will carry on carrying on. However, I personally feel
more confident now that we are chasing wild geese whilst the Inspector here is looming up behind our real perpetrators.’
‘In that case,’ Edwards chipped in, ‘perhaps the Inspector would like to tell us what he intends to do next as a follow-up to his smoke and mirrors act.’
Bliss turned to stare down his DCI, angered by the jibe. It was unnecessary, and more than a little spiteful. ‘I can assure you there’s no illusion here. I’ve not been sitting on my arse coming up with wild claims and thinking of ways to pull the wool over your eyes. As soon as we’re done here, DS Chandler and I are off to Wittering. Right now I have a number of two-up teams out and about looking into dealers of cultural items, visiting storage areas, meeting with informants, and generally finding out as much as they can about possible new targets for us to aim our big guns at. By the time we all reconvene in the incident room I would hope to have either broken someone else at the RAF who was working with our dead officer, or have names of people for us to pay visits to, or possibly both. No smoke, no mirrors, no sleight of hand, just old-fashioned coppering and bloody hard work.’
Following his outburst in response to the DCI’s snide dig, the room reverberated to the sound of throats being cleared and the shuffling of documents. From the corner of his eye, Bliss caught Munday fighting down a snort of laughter. He immediately warmed to the man from MI5. Then Bliss turned to face Munday, wondering if the spy knew more than he was letting on. How closely do you liaise with your counterparts at MI6? Is that why you came down in my favour just now – because you know it to be true? Because you know Bird is somehow connected to our torched victim? Munday looked up, caught Bliss’s eye and held it locked with his own. Then, as he rose to his feet, the MI5 man winked, smiled, and stepped away from the table.
As Bliss stood to follow, Superintendent Fletcher raised a finger. ‘Hold back a moment please, Inspector. I’d like a quiet word.’
If Fear Wins Page 27