If Fear Wins (DI Bliss Book 3)

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ she said now. The deep, strong voice he remembered was now weak, both her eyes sunken and glazed. Emily looked as if she and sleep had become strangers recently. Otherwise, the dozen years that had passed since their last night together had been extremely kind to the person his team at the time had referred to as the Bone Woman. She had gained a little weight, perhaps, and now had a vibrant copper tinge to her shoulder-length hair, and Bliss was struck by the lack of impact time seemed to have had on her. She wore a royal blue coat over a black-and-white checked dress, and black leather boots that came just below the knee. She looked good, but decidedly uncomfortable.

  ‘Emily? I… sorry, seeing you sitting there took me by complete surprise. I’m shocked, truth be known. How are you? You look great.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure that’s not entirely true. You are, though. Lean and fit.’

  ‘Were you expecting fat and clapped-out?’

  The smile she gave was perfunctory at best, pulling at a mask of make-up that Bliss saw now was more heavily applied than had once been usual for this particular woman. He also noted that Emily had not responded to his enquiry as to her health. She was there for a purpose, not idle chit-chat, and it had to be important for her to have come to him after all this time. Bliss softly closed the interview room door behind him then took a seat close to the woman whose company he had enjoyed for only a short time all those years ago, yet had nonetheless left a positive and lasting mark upon him.

  ‘Let’s ignore the niceties for now,’ Bliss said. ‘Tell me why you’re here and what I can do for you.’

  Emily looked down at the hands clasped together in her lap for a moment, before taking a deep breath and raising her head to face him. ‘Did you hear about the incident on the A1 last week at the Norman Cross junction?’

  ‘The suicide? Caused a pile-up that blocked the north-bound lanes for hours. That the one?’

  ‘Yes. Only it was not a suicide.’

  Bliss arched his eyebrows. ‘Oh? You have evidence to suggest otherwise, Emily?’

  She shook her head, and now Bliss could see great pain behind the redness of her eyes. ‘Not evidence, no. I don’t really know how to say this, Jimmy, so please bear with me. The victim your investigators are suggesting committed suicide was my husband. I know you must get spouses and other family members making such claims all the time when similar incidents occur, but I’m telling you straight that my husband did not take his own life.’

  Bliss blinked. His eyes dropped to her left hand, where he noticed the rings for the first time. Now the name given to him by PC Casey made sense. It was a strange quirk of human behaviour that when people stopped being in your life you rarely thought of them in any way other than how they were the last time you saw them. There was no reason whatsoever why Emily Grant would not have moved on and got married in the past twelve years or so, yet for some reason the possibility had never occurred to Bliss.

  ‘Tell me what you think happened instead,’ he said, recovering quickly and forcing his train of thought back on track.

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that. I wish I did.’

  ‘There would have been no inquest yet as it’s far too soon. So no coroner’s verdict, either.’

  ‘No. I suppose you think my coming to you like this is premature, but neither the police nor the pathologist are looking at any other classification as far as I can tell. Certainly not the police investigators. Other than the fact that Simon left no note – and I’m aware that most suicides don’t – I have no evidence to refute the police and pathologist’s opinions. All I have in Simon’s defence is what I know inside to be true.’

  Bliss knew how things usually went from this point on. If it were any other member of the public, he would attempt to influence their state of mind by laying out the wealth of readily-available data on the subject. Data that suggested nobody knew anybody as well as they liked to think they did. That people became depressed for no apparent reason, and often when they did they were either unaware of it until they took their own life without any thought or planning, or were ashamed of having a mental weakness and so hid it from everyone else until they had planned their suicide to the nth degree. Bliss had no desire to steer Emily through these banalities. He did not know if he believed her version of events, only that he cared enough to be compassionate and understanding towards her now.

  ‘What is it that you’d like me to do, Emily?’ Bliss asked. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘What I am asking for is a favour. I would like you to speak with the accident investigators. Perhaps even the pathologist if necessary. To have them provide you with details they might be keeping from me, perhaps to try and protect me. To explain to you why they are so certain that Simon took his own life.’

  Nodding absently, Bliss said, ‘I can do that. Not officially, of course. I can have a word on the quiet, though. But Emily, what if they confirm and convince me of their findings?’

  With the back of her thumb she wiped away a stray tear that had sneaked its way through her defences. Emily was a demure woman, always stylish and elegant in both the way she dressed and deported herself. She would not enjoy making a fuss, and would certainly not be here now unless she was absolutely convinced by her own beliefs.

  ‘Then I will probably ask you to do more, for further favours. I know there is no reason why you should, Jimmy, but I’ll ask anyway. You’re my last hope. My only hope.’

  He understood that level of commitment. ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘Seven years. We’d dated for a year beforehand.’

  ‘Was he from your field? Did you meet at work?’

  Bliss had first met Emily Grant when she delivered a day-long training course relating to human decomposition. Her speciality was anthropology, with a passion for archaeology thrown into the mix. She had been working with a team at the Bronze Age dig on the outskirts of the city, and when Bliss and Chandler were called out to Bretton woods following the unearthing of human remains, it was Bliss who had asked the Bone Woman for assistance on the case.

  ‘No, not in the least.’ Emily shook her head dismissively. ‘Simon was a freelance journalistic photographer. He worked anywhere and everywhere on the planet.’

  ‘I see. Sounds interesting. You still over at Flag Fen?’

  ‘Not anymore. I work in Cambridge, lecturing in anthropology.’

  ‘In Cambridge or at Cambridge?’

  ‘At the university, yes.’

  ‘Impressive. But you still live here in the city?’

  ‘Close enough. Out in Holme.’

  Bliss knew the village, just a few miles south of Peterborough. He sensed he was rubbing his scar too often, licking his lips more than he should. He was anxious, and his heartbeat was running way above average. He felt curiously self-conscious. Emily Curtis was a stranger to him, but Emily Grant had been so much more than a friend. Their last evening together in early 2006 was a long way back in the past, and the paths their lives had taken since had not crossed again until now. Once again he was taken with this smart and intellectual woman’s manner, her grace and style, even in such obvious distress. Bliss was not a fan of regrets. Once upon a time he had allowed himself to wallow in them. No longer. If he had a mantra to live by, it was to focus only on what could be controlled. The past was not one of those things. He and Emily Grant had simply not been destined to be together, though he had thought about her often and with great fondness in the intervening years. Bliss felt a deep sadness emitting from her in waves, and decided he would do everything in his power to help.

  ‘Emily, I am truly sorry for your loss,’ he said, turning sideways and edging forward on his seat. ‘You’re an intelligent woman, so I won’t waste time explaining how this is most likely going to turn out. I’m working a really awful case right now, one which demands my full attention, but I promise you I will find time to talk to the right people about your husband. I can’t tell you exactly by when, but I can see you are hurting
so I won’t let you linger like that for long. Give me a day, two at most. Is that all right by you?’

  The Bone Woman got to her feet and held out her hand. Three rings gleamed and sparkled on the other. ‘I’m extremely grateful to you, Jimmy. I truly am. Despite what happened between us, I felt we parted on good terms, and if I had to choose anyone to be in my corner right now it would be you. Please take all the time you need.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. I promise.’

  ‘I know you will. I’m counting on it.’ She tilted her head a little and narrowed her gaze. ‘By the way, how are you these days? You look good, but I know you have that awful condition to contend with.’

  Bliss smiled ruefully. ‘It’s as under control as it can be, thanks.’

  ‘You certainly look as if you’re on top of it.’

  ‘For the most part, that’s true. And that’s really the best I can hope for.’

  ‘I heard about what happened on the Norfolk coast a few months back. I thought about you a lot while that awful series of murders was going on. Prior to that I had no idea you were back here in the city, of course. Why would I? Then I saw that media interview you gave, and seeing you again on TV brought back some fond memories. I followed the investigation closely. Poor Penny… how is she? Well, I hope?’

  ‘She’s fine. Back on the squad with me.’

  Emily smiled. ‘I’m pleased. You always were a good team, you two.’

  ‘So people tell me.’ Bliss matched her smile.

  ‘I hope you both got the help you needed after your close call with that madman. It must have been such a traumatic experience.’

  ‘It’s mandatory these days. You go through something like that and you have to tolerate the psych sessions.’

  This time Emily shook her head and put a hand on his arm. ‘Same old Jimmy. Regarding something designed to help as something to endure instead.’

  Bliss brushed the comment aside. ‘We each handle things in our own way. I find my path through. Always have done, always will, I guess.’

  ‘I hope so. I will need some of that resolve myself in the coming days and weeks. To strike my own passage through such a devastating loss. Anyhow, I wish you well, Jimmy.’ Emily opened up her shoulder bag, withdrew a purse and took a white card from one of its many pockets. ‘You can reach me on either of the numbers here.’

  Bliss took the card. Nodded. He handed her a card of his own.

  ‘My mobile number is on the back,’ he said. ‘Call me if you want to. Any time.’

  And then the two shook hands once more like strangers.

  10

  Bliss was in the canteen, towards the rear of a long queue by the till about to pay for drinks for him and Chandler when DC Carmichael came barrelling over, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. He virtually shoved other members of staff aside in order to deliver his message more quickly.

  ‘Boss, you have to come and see the footage we got from that company out near Kings Cliffe.’

  Bliss grinned at the man’s pink-cheeked enthusiasm. Carmichael was prone to outbursts of excitement over very little. ‘Did it capture a vehicle?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, boss. And so much more. We have it on the big screen in the Tech-Ops room.’

  There was something flickering in Carmichael’s eyes. Something more than his usual bluff eagerness. Something that told Bliss this was going to be worth his time. He glanced around the canteen and spotted Ansari chatting with a couple of uniforms at a nearby table and called out to her.

  ‘Gul! Get your arse over here. Pay for these drinks, please, and then get them up to us in Tech-Ops. Get yourself whatever you want and join us double quick.’

  Bliss did not wait for a response. He stepped out of the queue, then followed Carmichael and Chandler who had already turned to head for the canteen’s exit. He had previously decided not to tell her about the visit from The Bone Woman. He felt as if this one was on him alone.

  ‘You remind me so much of Gene Hunt from that TV show ‘Ashes to Ashes’, Chandler said to him over her shoulder. She wore a big smile and shook her head in admonishment. ‘You’re so mired in the eighties.’

  ‘That’s because the eighties was the best decade known to mankind. And anyway, Gul knows I wasn’t being sexist. I didn’t tell her to get the drinks because she was a woman. She happened to be the first member of the team I clapped eyes on, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re still stuck in your ways.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m still your boss, so zip it, DS Chandler.’ They began heading up the stairs. ‘Which reminds me, have you started studying for your Inspector’s exam?’

  Chandler turned her head and screwed up her face. ‘I’m not sure I want to.’

  ‘What? You were all for it last time we discussed it. You’re a shoe-in, and a natural.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I want the responsibility. I see you having to handle all the politics, all the bullshit with the DCI, and ask myself if I could deal with it. Or if I want it that much. At the moment, I really don’t know the answer to those questions.’

  Bliss liked that response. A lot of detectives were keen to move up the ranking ladder as quickly as possible so that they would have to spend the least amount of time out on the streets actually investigating crimes. His partner was taking the opposite viewpoint, dedicating herself to the role Bliss still saw as the primary function of any detective worthy of the name.

  They had reached the Tech-Ops office, which was usually inhabited by two civilians who handled all of the technical evidence that came through the system. It was a small room, a tight square that felt smaller than it was due to all of the equipment stacked up on shelves and desks, but as they entered they discovered only Bishop and Short waiting for them. Without a word, Bishop first waited for everyone to find a space then hit a button and the huge wall-mounted screen flickered into life.

  Bliss hardly blinked, seldom took a breath, and maintained the silence as he watched a white van draw up. The footage itself was grainy, and the only light was that which spilled out from the chemical plant, but it was sufficient to reveal everything that took place next.

  Two men exited the front of the van and walked around to the rear. Larger than average builds, but no giants. They opened the doors, at which point a third man jumped out of the back. He and the driver then reached inside and hauled out a fourth man. Despite the poor light, it was clear to Bliss that the man yanked out by his collar and thrown to the floor was Duncan Livingston. Not only was he dressed differently to the others, but he was also the only one of the four whose face was completely uncovered. A face ravaged by terror.

  The next ten minutes were tough to watch, as the three men took turns in beating the airman first with their fists, then boots, and finally what appeared to be steel pipes. Throughout the vicious assault the three men handing it out gestured animatedly. Their faces were unrecognisable as they were hidden by checked scarves pulled tight around their heads, leaving only their eyes and noses uncovered. As they gestured, the scarves seemed to move excitedly as well, as if angry words were being yelled out.

  As the beating ceased, Ansari appeared at the door clutching a tray of hot drinks. Bliss shook his head and she retreated without a word.

  If that initial ten minutes was hard to witness, what followed next was unbearable.

  The driver reached back inside the van and pulled out a car tyre, whilst his front passenger withdrew a red can. The beaten airman could be seen to plead for his life, but after a couple more blows and kicks seemed to accept his fate and remained kneeling and still as the tyre was slipped over his head and forced down until it wrapped around Livingston’s arms and upper torso.

  Bliss felt himself shudder. The man had literally been beaten into submission.

  The contents of the can were then poured over the RAF officer. There was a slight pause as his attackers gesticulated wildly with their arms. Amidst the movement, one of the three brushed an arm against his scarf, which shifted, leaving
only his mouth visible for a few moments. It was clear to Bliss that the man was repeatedly shouting something out, spitting it into the young officer’s face. Then the van driver took a step backwards, flicked open a lighter, lit it and tossed it into the petrol-saturated sunken bowl of the tyre.

  The fuel ignited with a fierce explosion of flame. Livingston reacted as if electrocuted, jerking and spasming, flapping around like a netted seal, as the flames erupted and roared, cloaking both the tyre and the airman’s entire head. Those responsible for his truly horrific death stood and watched until the body slumped forward, their arms raised joyously as if in victory. Then, with the minimum of fuss and no further outbursts, all three climbed into the van’s cab and drove away whilst their victim continued to burn.

  ‘Turn it off,’ Bliss said as the vehicle disappeared from view.

  ‘Do you not want to run through it one more time?’ Bishop asked him.

  Bliss shook his head, chin almost resting on his chest. ‘Not right now. I’ve seen more than enough for one day. One lifetime, actually.’

  He felt sick. Physically, something nauseating rose up and filled his throat with acrid bile. Bliss grimaced as he swallowed it back down, scorching his gullet in the process. Prior to watching the CCTV footage he had considered a burned body to be the most disgusting thing a person could ever lay eyes on. He had been wrong. Watching it burn in the first place was so much worse.

  Bliss turned to the sergeant. ‘Bishop, please go track down a lip-reader. Right now. I want to know what they were shouting at the end there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the door, and Bishop immediately stood and left the office.

  ‘That looked very much like an execution, boss,’ Short said, her eyes narrowed and red-rimmed. Bliss guessed she had wept the first time she had seen the footage. It was yet another reminder to him as to how he and his colleagues lived with the reality of things the general public could scarcely imagine. ‘Some gangland thing. You suggested drugs before. That’s what it looks like to me now.’