“We’ve had a few of those—that’s what the Yorkshire ripper reckoned he was doing.”
“Our problem is that he’s suddenly gone quiet. It’s been more than four months since the last case, but some of them stretch back twenty years or more. Even Ruth’s mother might have been one. By the way, any news on her father?”
Bliss laughs, and is in the process of recounting some of Daphne’s little pretexts that had finally led them to isolating Geoffrey Sanderson, when, by a fortuitous fluke, the editor of the Merseyside Mail phones with news.
“We think we’ve found Sanderson,” he tells Bliss excitedly.
“Where?”
“He’s still in Vancouver, apparently. The local paper ran the photo this morning and they’ve had several calls.”
“That’s great.”
“By the way. Is Mrs. Longbottom planning the reunion for Liverpool or Westchester?”
The temptation to hand the phone to Mavis, saying, “It’s for you,” is fleeting, though nonetheless amusing, but Bliss thinks better of it and stalls for time as he asks, “Has Sanderson actually been approached in person? Only, it’s a fairly common name.”
“Not unless one of the informants told him. I think the Vancouver paper is holding off in the hope that they can fly Mrs. Longbottom over to get a mushy front-page photo. You know the sort of thing: ‘Old friends reunited after forty years.’”
Daphne is looking quizzically in Bliss’s direction and he’s seriously tempted to call her over and tell her to deal with it, but she appears so disheartened about her misreading of Maxwell that he carries on stalling. “I expect she’ll need to confirm that it is the right man first. Have you got an address for him?”
“That was good timing,” says Bliss handing Phillips the Vancouver address on a Post-It Note. “Sanderson is the only possibility, although he’s a long shot, and I’ve no idea how you can persuade him to put his hand up to doing the nasty with Ruth’s mother all those years ago.”
“I’ll just have to ask him, I suppose.”
“Daphne thinks you should pinch his beer and check the glass for DNA.”
“I suspect that’s illegal, Dave,” says Phillips. “Though I might be willing to give it a try if all else fails.”
“What about Ruth? Will she give a sample?”
“She already has,” Phillips says, then explains the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Ruth’s mother, and the difficulty of finding human remains in the British Columbian wilderness. “There’s a whole lot of back-country in the mountains, Dave. You should come and visit sometime. But if he’s stashing bodies up there, the wolves and coyotes won’t leave much that can be identified. The best we might do is DNA from a few bone fragments or a few scattered teeth.”
“Good luck,” says Bliss.
“I guess it’s time we were heading back to London,” says Phillips as the excitement of the day wears down, but Daphne has one last surprise.
“Wait a minute,” she yells, with a sudden thought, and she dashes out to the rear garden and into the coal-house tacked onto the back of the house. Thirty seconds later she reappears, smothered in coal dust, triumphantly carrying a dilapidated and dusty cardboard box which she places on the kitchen table with as much reverence as if it contains the crown jewels.
“Paul Anka,” she beams, as she opens the box and withdraws the warped and cracked remains of a forty-year-old LP, then her face falls as she says, “Oh, dear. I guess he’s seen better days.”
Trina and Ruth share the back seat of Bliss’s car with a couple of suitcases that wouldn’t fit in the trunk as they prepare to leave. Minnie has already kissed David Bliss goodbye twice without complaint from Daphne, so she tries a third time.
“Time we were getting off, Minnie,” says Bliss as he ducks aside, fearing that Daphne might explode, but Daphne is still sulking over her misjudgment of Maxwell’s identity and doesn’t seem to notice.
“You just keep out of mischief or I’ll have to come back,” Bliss tells her as he gives her a warm hug, then she pulls away in thought. “Wait a minute,” she yells, regaining some of her bounce, and she rushes back to the house and reappears with the giant hat that Ruth had worn to the manor.
“Here ... Keep it as a memento,” Daphne says, stuffing it in the window to Ruth, and, for opposite reasons, both women have tears in their eyes.
“It seems so funny that someone would actually be happy that their husband is dead,” says Daphne as she waves the car away, but Mavis doesn’t find it at all unusual, telling her, “You’ve never been married, Daphne, that’s your trouble.”
In any case, Jordan Jackson isn’t dead. A point demonstrated a few minutes later when Mort gets another early-morning call in Vancouver.
“It’s me,” says Jackson, and Mort uses his stump to shove a girl off his bed, hissing, “Get out,” as he spits into the phone. “Jordan, what the fuck do you want?”
“I wanna come back, Mort.”
“Well you can’t can ya?”
“I want my ID back,” bleats Jackson.
“Have you got the ten grand?”
“I already paid.”
“Yeah ... with me own money. What d’ye f’kin take me for?”
“But I didn’t know where she got it from.”
“That’s your problem, Jordan,” he shouts. “Ten grand or you can stay there and rot.” Then he slams down the phone and yells to the bathroom, “Oy. Get back in here, slut. You ain’t finished yet.”
chapter nineteen
The David Bliss sightseeing tour of London had taken in much more than the castles, palaces, and cathedrals over the following two days, but Ruth Crowfoot—formerly Jackson—and Mike Phillips had spent most of their time gawking at each other, rather than the sites of infamous events and notorious murders. The historic horrors of The Tower of London, Whitechapel, and the gruesome Black Museum at New Scotland Yard, had rounded off the trip in something of a rose-tinted blur for the happy couple and, as Bliss drops them at the airport, Mike Phillips promises that they’ll stay for a week next time and pay more attention.
Trina Button is no longer with them. Having declared that she would be knee-deep in doo-doo if she left her patients a moment longer, she had headed straight back to Vancouver the day after their arrival.
“I guess that means we’ll have to fly back with the jolly old riff-raff,” Phillips had said to Ruth in an English accent, but she hadn’t cared, replying, “I’d sit on the wing as long as I’m with you.”
“You could always use Daphne’s hat as a parachute if anything goes wrong,” Bliss laughs as he sees his guests through check-in at Heathrow, then, as he waves the homebound Canucks through security, his cellphone rings. It’s a panic-voiced Minnie Dennon in Westchester.
“David. You’ve got to come back right away. Daphne’s gone missing again.”
“What?”
“I left my gloves round there the other afternoon and when I went back this morning she’d gone.”
“She’s probably out shopping.”
“The milk is still on the doorstep, David,” says Minnie, her voice loaded with meaning, and Bliss comprehends immediately as he counts the number of times Daphne had told him that the milkman always delivers before six in the morning, usually adding, “He knows I can’t do a thing until I have my morning cuppa.”
“But it’s barely eleven,” says Bliss, checking his watch. “Maybe she went to visit someone in a hurry. Have you asked the neighbours?”
“David,” insists Minnie, “the milk is on the doorstep.”
“Maybe she forgot to take it in,” he tries finally, though he knows it’s not at all likely; knows that, as spontaneous as Daphne may be in certain areas of her life, only matters of State would deter her from an early morning cup of Keemun with fresh milk.
“OK, I’m on my way,” Bliss says, as he makes a run for the parking garage. “And I’ll call Superintendent Donaldson.”
Donaldson is having a mid-morning snac
k in the canteen to keep him going until lunchtime, and is just sitting down with a plate of buttered toast with strawberry jam and cream when Bliss phones.
“Have you got any clues?” asks Donaldson, once Bliss has filled him in.
“You might get someone to have a word with Maxwell up at the manor,” suggests Bliss, devoid of other ideas, but the superintendent is skeptical.
“Surely, she wouldn’t have gone back there?”
“She might ...” starts Bliss then carries on to explain that he wonders if it was guilt that drove her to offer to help clean Maxwell’s apartment in the first place. “She seems to blame herself for turning him into a villain.”
“Whatever gives her the idea that he’s a villain?”
“Oh. She was really narked about her furniture polish, guv. ‘That’s theft, Chief Inspector,’ she told me, as if she expected me to arrest him. But now she knows he really is Monty Maxwell’s son, my guess is that she’ll try to put matters right with him, though it’s difficult to believe she would have stayed overnight.”
“Do you reckon she’s in any danger?”
“Good grief, no. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her.”
“Dave. We are talking about the son of a murderer, here,” Donaldson reminds him, but Bliss isn’t buying it. “If she is there, she’ll have him eating out of her hand. You know what she’s like when she turns on the charm.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Daphne Lovelace is certainly at Thraxton Manor, but she doesn’t have charm on her mind, nor is the occupant of Thraxton Manor eating out of her hand, although the bull mastiff on guard duty certainly has been. In fact, he has eaten so much that he will happily snooze until noon, given the chance. The large bag of chuck steak that Daphne had brought with her had greased her way into the grounds, though the fact that the big dog had been introduced to her on her previous visits had helped.
Daphne is pinned down in a foxhole just inside the cover of the trees surrounding the old house, where she has been since the early dawn, monitoring the comings and goings of workers unloading the shipping containers stacked behind the stables. Her lookout post, a natural hollow inside a clump of alder bushes, is equipped with a flask of steaming Keemun and a hot water bottle for staving off the early morning chill, and she has a couple of flashlights and a camera in an old canvas shopping bag at her feet. She’s well camouflaged, in a drab olive coat, old brown hiking boots, and a rattan hat interwoven with sprigs of greenery clipped from her garden, and she is peering through a pair of binoculars that hang around her neck.
From her concealment, Daphne is timing each operation as two men inside the container manhandle a skid of plywood onto the tines of a forklift which, in turn, manoeuvres it into one or the other of the enormous barns before returning. She is trying to gauge the best moment to make a dash for the manor’s outbuildings without being seen, but she has a problem. Before she can slip into the stables and back into the apartment through the hayloft to search out Jackson’s passport or other incriminating material, she has to wait until her quarry has left; something that he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to do.
David Bliss, on the other hand, is in such a hurry that he has twice triggered radar speed cameras as he races to Westchester, and he calls Donaldson again hoping for good news.
“I’m just arriving at the manor,” says the superintendent, once Bliss is patched through to the senior officer’s radio, “although I’m damned if I know what to say Maxwell. He must be getting ticked off with people turning up on his doorstep unannounced.”
A Scotland Yard inspector, an RCMP sergeant, and now the local superintendent have all beaten the same path within the past week or so, and alarm bells are ringing off the wall in the apartment above the stables when Donaldson announces himself at the gate. But the voice on the entry phone is more guarded than aggravated as the new lord of the manor says, “Just drive straight up to the stables, Superintendent. I’ll meet you at the door.”
The giant gates whirr open and Superintendent Donaldson motors slowly up the driveway as he takes a good look around. Work on unloading the container stops briefly as the men eye the newcomer, while Daphne spots the familiar figure through her binoculars and muses, “Damnation,” under her breath.
“Sorry—I haven’t seen her for a week or more,” says the apartment-dweller as he greets Donaldson. “What makes you think she’d be here?”
“Just from what she said to a friend, Mr. Maxwell. Apparently there was some sort of misunderstanding over some furniture polish.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve still got it upstairs. Perhaps you’d give it back to her. Would you mind? I felt bad about what happened. I guess I was just having a bad day.”
“Don’t worry,” laughs Donaldson. “I don’t think she intends pressing charges.”
“Hang on then,” says the man and he rushes up the stairs to the apartment two at a time, returning with Daphne’s aerosol can in seconds. “Tell her, ‘sorry,’” he says as he hands it over.
“Delighted to,” says Donaldson, then he spots a couple of heavies patrolling the perimeter fence and queries, “You seem to have quite a bit of security for a woodworking shop, Mr. Maxwell.”
“We’re pretty isolated out here, Superintendent. In any case—have you bought any wood recently?”
“Yes. I know what you mean,” says Donaldson. “I paid ten quid for a bit of shelving the other day.”
“If you ever need the odd sheet of plywood, give me a call and we’ll fix you up.”
“Thanks, Mr. Maxwell,” says Donaldson, as he gets into his car and throws the can of polish on the rear seat, “I might take you up on that.” Then he pauses with an afterthought as he looks around the estate. “I don’t suppose Ms. Lovelace would have gone into any of the barns for any reason? Only, she can be very inquisitive at times.”
“You’ve seen my security, Superintendent. What do you think?”
“Good point,” says Donaldson, adding, “Just give us a call if she’s shows up.”
“There’s no sign of her at the manor,” Donaldson tells Bliss when he phones him back a few minutes later. “And Maxwell seems a pretty decent bloke. He even gave me her polish back.”
“Well, I didn’t get a good feel about him,” admits Bliss. “Don’t you have a tame Magistrate who’ll give us a search warrant?”
“Dave, there isn’t a shred of evidence that she is there. Maxwell is going to be on the phone to the Chief Constable if we don’t stop pestering him.”
“I hear you, sir, though I’m buggered if I know where else she might have gone. I’ll be at her place in about ten minutes; maybe I’ll find some clues.”
Daphne had watched Donaldson’s car drive out the gate, breathed a huge sigh of relief, and has just started pouring herself the last of the tea when the scene in front of her takes a dramatic change. A dozen or more men pour out of the barns and buildings and race toward the stables, along with the unloaders and security guards, and, just when she is thinking that it might be a good opportunity to stretch and exercise away some of her cramps, the men fan out in all directions, clearly intent on finding something—or someone.
“What on earth could they be looking for?” Daphne questions to herself as she sees two men with shotguns headed her way.
Inspector Bliss and Superintendent Donaldson arrive simultaneously at Daphne’s to find Minnie sitting disconsolately on the doorstep.
“She’s gone for good this time. I know it,” snivels Minnie.
“Rubbish,” says Bliss slumping down beside her and putting his arm around her shoulders.
“Well, where could she be?” Minnie carries on. “I’ve phoned everyone. No one has seen her.”
“Have you been inside ...” Bliss starts, then lightning strikes. “Shit!” he exclaims, leaping up. “I bet she’s still in bed. I bet she’s sick and couldn’t get up to take the milk off the doorstep this morning.”
“That never occurred me,” says Donaldson, as Bl
iss starts checking the windows to find a crack.
“Me neither,” admits Bliss, giving Minnie an accusatory stare. “Someone convinced me that she’d done a bunk.”
“I wish I’d made a copy of her door key now,” says Bliss a few minutes later, when both the front and back windows have failed to yield. “Brick through the window it is then,” he adds, but Donaldson grabs his arm.
“Hold on, Dave. If she’s like most oldies I bet there’s a key under a rock or a flowerpot. It doesn’t make any difference how many times we warn ’em not to.”
“Maybe under the Christmas tree,” muses Bliss, and he can’t help noticing that the little fir tree growing in its pot by the back door has developed a second bald spot as he tilts it to look underneath.
“Bingo!” Donaldson exclaims, and a few seconds later they are inside calling, “Daphne ... Daphne ... Where are you?”
The momentary elation of finding the key soon turns to disappointment once the entire house has been searched.
“Talk about déjà vu,” says Bliss as he counts suitcases, then he stops in thought. “Sir,” he calls, and Donaldson barrels into Daphne’s bedroom as Bliss points to the bed, “Look. She hasn’t made it since she last slept in it.”
“Meaning?”
“She must have left very early this morning. She would never leave her bed unmade all day.” Then he checks her alarm clock. “I knew it—five a.m.”
“But where could she go at that time?” asks Minnie. “There’re no busses.”
“She must have walked,” replies Bliss, heading back down the stairs to the sitting room and pointing out that the partially burnt logs and ash in the fire grate tell the same story as the milk on the doorstep.
“This means she left really early for sure,” says Bliss as he prods the lifeless fire. Missie Rouge begging by the refrigerator door offers another clue. “And she must have planned on returning this morning, or she would have fed the cat.”
A Year Less a Day Page 29