Bad to the Bone

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘Yeah. The filth.’ The boy shook his head, removed the shades and peered into the car. A dusting of freckles decorated his nose and cheeks. He looked both angelic and demonic at the same time. He winked at Chandler and flashed a smile. ‘I should’ve spotted it right away. Must be losing my touch. I can smell you now, though.’

  Bliss exchanged grins with his DC. He rearranged his features into something resembling serious before looking back at the boy. ‘Smell us? Where do you get all this stuff? Not Sesame Street, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Fuck off, pig,’ the kid snarled before riding away, leaving behind his contempt for them to chew on.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly not short on confidence,’ Bliss remarked, powering the side window back up. The car was buffeted by a sudden blast of wind, and a few people walking by had to lean into the gust to stay upright.

  ‘Little shithead. No respect, and way too old before his time.’ Chandler chuckled, craning her neck to follow the youngster who was about to disappear around a street corner.

  ‘I think most of them are in places like this. If you’re not streetwise you’re not anything.’

  ‘You sound as though you’re speaking from experience, boss.’

  Bliss nodded. ‘I grew up in similar circumstances. Always looking for an edge.’

  ‘And you turned out all right.’

  ‘Just about, Penny. Just about. It could just as easily have gone the other way. Difference is, in my day the worst you got on the streets was a good hiding, a few clumps, some bruises. Badges of honour, really. Today you get a blade pulled on you for looking at someone the wrong way. Sometimes just for being on the same street.’

  ‘That’s a pleasant thought.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. I’m in a “glass is half empty” mood today.’

  ‘I don’t suppose what the Bone Woman had to say cheered you up much.’

  Bliss shook his head, sighed. Knew he’d been doing too much of that lately. ‘You’re not wrong there. Our Jane Doe was one unlucky woman.’

  ‘Do you think the fact that she was pregnant might be significant?’

  ‘It’s a real possibility.’

  Emily Grant’s final revelation had been to tell them that a smaller skeletal form had also been found amongst the main victim’s. A child, nowhere near fully formed, definitely unborn.

  He sighed. Another one. Ran both hands down his face. ‘Come on, Penny. Let’s get out of here. That bloody place is still inside my nostrils.’

  As he nosed the Vectra away from the kerb, Bliss’s thoughts slipped from Jane Doe back to the message left on his answer machine by DI Weller. There were puzzles everywhere. It was now time to focus.

  Thorpe Wood, the area police headquarters, was located towards the north-west edge of the city. In line with the majority of structures erected in Peterborough during the late seventies, the two-storey building was bland, grey and featureless. Impenetrable tinted windows gave the impression of secrecy, perhaps even a sense of foreboding. A dour edifice to match a grim setting. The underground car park used by Thorpe Wood staff was bursting at the seams, and it took Bliss a few minutes of circling around to find a space. He grumbled about it as he and Chandler made their way up to the rear main entrance, where she tapped in the door code to let them both inside.

  Bliss was still muttering to himself when they wandered into the open-plan CID area, where his office sat tucked away in the far corner, one of four set aside for officers at DI level. Out in the main room, between twenty and thirty detectives went about their business, phones cupped to their ears, fingers tapping away at keyboards, a hubbub of voices bouncing off the walls.

  ‘I’ll be glad when the new overflow place is ready,’ Bliss said. ‘That way we might not be lumped together like lab rats and it might take less than an hour to get parked.’

  Moving part of the HQ operation to Bretton had been approved by the Cambridgeshire Police Authority, but the much-needed expansion was still some way off. Meanwhile, the simple act of finding a space for his car was enough to irritate Bliss beyond all reason.

  ‘Maybe they’ll put us all on bicycles,’ Chandler replied, grinning.

  ‘Don’t say that within earshot of the bosses. They’d probably take you up on it.’

  ‘Yeah. I can see it now, you and me on our bikes chasing after a souped-up Aston Martin. Listen, I’m going to get myself a drink. You want something?’

  Bliss thought about suggesting they take a break in the canteen, but decided he could do with a few minutes alone to pull himself together before getting stuck into the procedure of setting up a major inquiry.

  ‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ he said.

  Penny nodded. ‘I’ll get it from the canteen. The stuff that vending machine spews out is toxic.’

  The office Bliss had inherited from a DI who’d been struck down by bowel cancer was a basic partition structure that formed a flimsy barrier between him and those working at the desks in the main outer area. Nothing fancy, but a haven all the same. Bliss hung his coat and jacket up on a hook protruding from the back of the office door, before almost falling into a leather-look swivel chair at his desk. The padded cushioned seat was moulded to the shape of his backside, and he knew he would pine when the day came to throw it out.

  Towers of folders, files and paper perched precariously on and around the desk, but he insisted his administrative methods were a controlled kind of chaos, that he could lay his hands on anything within a few minutes. So far no one had tested his claim, but Bliss knew the day would come. He also knew he’d be found wanting.

  Stretching out his legs and resting the back of his head in the palms of his hands, Bliss closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. After a minute or so he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He was feeling hot and a little light-headed, his eyes bouncing around like rubber balls beneath the lids. He thought ahead to the hospital appointment he had arranged for the following morning. Wondered if the recent searing headaches and the sense of imbalance were connected. Stress, his GP had insisted, but had referred him to ENT anyway. Bliss pushed the thought aside, moved beyond it. There was enough to worry about here and now.

  Chandler joined him a few minutes later and handed over the mug of tea he’d asked for. It was still hot, but he took several small swallows, savouring the taste on his tongue. ‘Christ! I needed that,’ he said. ‘I was as dry as a bone. No pun intended.’

  Bliss watched Chandler sip rather more demurely from a bottle of mineral water. He saw her eyes flit to the wall behind him, her mouth curling into a smile. He didn’t have to turn to know what she was looking at. Within a month of Bliss arriving from the Met, some wag had stuck up a sheet of cardboard on which was drawn a circle, with a rough arrowed pointer pinned to the centre. Written in black marker on the top was the title: The Bliss Pissed-Ometer. It ranged from ‘Mild’ to ‘Ballistic’. He’d never caught the person responsible, but the pointer was in a different position every day, sometimes actually matching his mood. He had swiftly gained a reputation for having a temper every bit as quick as his mind, and the chart was the squad’s response. Being a moody bugger hadn’t helped, either.

  ‘What does it read today?’ he asked her.

  ‘Steaming.’

  Bliss nodded. ‘That’s about right. The murder of a young woman is inclined to piss me off.’ He looked out into the main office, working areas sectioned off by waist-high carpeted baffles. There was some movement out there, but no one was looking their way. No furtive grins. He’d catch the bastard responsible one day.

  Chandler perched on the edge of his desk, crossing one leg over the other while removing her suit jacket. The Thorpe Wood building was an enigma – no air conditioning in the warmer months, and a heating system that seemed to have only one setting: blast furnace. Once you were inside, you got rid of as much clothing as was decent. Penny’s white blouse clung to a flat stomach, and Bliss could make out the mottled form of a lacy bra beneath the silk. The skir
t rose high on her thighs, and he had a fleeting mental image of Dr Bates’s assistant. Penny Chandler was attractive without it being obvious – not striking, exactly, but quietly eye-catching.

  Bliss averted his gaze before she noticed. He’d already been caught out once today. He placed his mug on top of a blue folder, whose cover bore the scars of many other drinks.

  ‘I’ll see what kind of resources I can drum up for this one, Pen. It might be hard work, though. Particularly with regard to putting a search team over at Fletton lake. Cold cases are not exactly flavour of the month around here, but I think we’ll need a decent team around us.’

  Bliss got to his feet and walked across to a window sorely in need of cleaning. He peered out at the Lloyds TSB office buildings opposite, the offices there appearing every bit as anonymous as his own, and then across to the steady stream of traffic hissing by on the parkway. As tyres rumbled across joins in the road surface at high speed, they created a noise that to Bliss sounded like distant gunshots. He checked his watch. It was ten thirty, the day dribbling away from them. Every officer with even a modicum of experience knew that the first six to ten hours in a missing persons case were crucial. Beyond that and the chances of a successful outcome were dramatically reduced. Jane Doe had been missing for a dozen years at least.

  ‘Tell me,’ Bliss said, turning back to his DC, ‘what’s the skinny on me these days?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Chandler looked up at him, her bottle of water stalled part way to her lips.

  ‘I mean, what are my colleagues saying about me? Behind my back. Let’s face it, Penny, I fucked up big time on our last murder case. Too many people were killed, and I still have a suicide on my conscience.’ He raised a hand to ward off a protest. The memory of his failure six months earlier still scalded his mind. ‘No, I’m coming to terms with it, Pen. And I’ll have to carry on dealing with the guilt. But I need to know that I still have support out there. If I’m going to stand up and deliver this briefing, I have to be confident that the team are behind me.’

  ‘Then you can be.’ Her eyes insisted he believe her. ‘There are no whispers behind your back. And the only member of the team who blames you for the outcome of that case is you. Shit happens, boss, and everyone I’ve spoken to about it has nothing but sympathy for your situation. You did your best. It’s all anyone can expect of us.’

  His best. Bliss wondered if that were true. The investigation had got out of hand, had spiralled out of control. But it was a fact that he had received enormous support and encouragement from many of his fellow detectives in the long months that followed. Perhaps now was more about retrieving some self-belief and accepting things at face value. Bliss looked at Chandler and gave a nod, touched by her assurances.

  ‘Okay, then. Penny, I want you to set up a Major Incident Room and try to round up some suits and uniforms, about half a dozen of each to start with. Have the team assemble at…’ He glanced down at his watch again. ‘One thirty. I have to be somewhere at noon, but I’ll make it back in time.’

  Chandler nodded. She recapped her bottle and moved away from the desk, hooking her jacket over one shoulder. About to walk away, she paused and fixed her eyes on him.

  ‘Are you okay, boss?’ she asked.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I mean, do you feel all right? You look a little bit… peaky.’

  Bliss shooed her away with his fingers. ‘I’m fine. Tired, that’s all. Go ahead, and I’ll catch up with you back here five minutes before the briefing.’

  Peaky? Bliss thought as Penny left the office, quietly closing the door behind her. Peaky? If only she knew. Peaky didn’t begin to cover it. But it’s just stress, he told himself. His GP had assured him of that. The stress that comes with the job. Bliss blew out his cheeks. Though some people scoffed at the idea, stress was real enough. He knew that better than most. And a pile of unexplained human remains wasn’t about to help.

  Chapter 5

  Bliss drove into the city centre and found an empty bay on the third floor of the market car park. It was dark and the spaces were narrow, but it was much easier to find somewhere to park here than over at the main multistoreys by the bus station. He paid and displayed, resenting the fee. Still feeling a little unsteady on his feet, he took the lift down to the ground floor, emerging into the cold and heavily overcast day.

  If open air markets sold everything he wanted or needed, Bliss would never even enter a shopping mall. He found such places devoid of character, charmless pods containing overpriced goods sold by underpaid, poorly trained and unenthusiastic staff. Markets, on the other hand, had substance, throbbing with life and vitality. Livelihoods were on display, and there was true competition.

  The Wednesday market was in full swing, garish displays of bright colours, discordant sounds, and a variety of smells emerging from stalls, providing an all-out assault on the senses. Protected from the elements by a vast steel and corrugated plastic roof, traders and customers went about their business seemingly without a care.

  Though the cacophony of voices was music to Bliss’s ears, the largely Asian population of stallholders were nowhere near as vocal as the traders he had both known and worked with in London. Petticoat Lane, Islington’s Chapel Street, Roman Road, all great markets in their time, bursting at the seams with loud, gregarious characters, each with a hundred stories to tell. In his early teens, Bliss had earned a few quid every Sunday morning at Petticoat Lane in Whitechapel, first helping to pull the stalls out and dress them, and then selling fruit and veg alongside a friend of the family he’d always known as ‘Uncle Reg’. It was only when Uncle Reg pulled a twelve-year stretch in Brixton prison for armed robbery that Bliss learned of the man’s shady lifestyle. It had come as quite a shock, given that Bliss’s father was a desk sergeant at the local nick in Stepney. This revelation led Bliss to understanding that, while half his father’s pals were colleagues, the other half were villains.

  Uncle Reg and a miscellany of assorted family friends had been uppermost in his thoughts earlier when he’d told Penny that his life could have gone either way. At that age it had been a close call, and though in later years he would come to understand that boys tend to rebel against their fathers, it was on his fifteenth birthday that Bliss decided he wanted to become a police officer. His father’s expression told him he’d made the right choice.

  Mixing with villains didn’t mean his father was bent. Bliss had somehow understood this. His own fondness for Uncle Reg had not diminished merely because the man was banged up in jail. Carrying out a robbery was wrong, of that Bliss was certain. Being armed when doing so was even worse, and the punishment was suitably severe. Uncle Reg was a convicted criminal, but not a bad man. Not in Bliss’s eyes. And this acceptance of a person’s darker side was, he believed, the reason he had been successful in his dealings with all types of criminals. The simple fact was, he empathised with them. Had come close to being one of them.

  A cry from one stallholder to another brought Bliss out of his reverie. He smiled at the fleeting memory, wondering exactly how close he’d come to choosing the dark side. Not that it mattered. Not now.

  On the corner of the market square, opposite a minor Tesco store, was the Tasty-Bite café. A business run by the same family for more than two decades, they prepared food fit for any builder, cabbie, lorry driver, or market trader. Praise didn’t come much higher. As Bliss entered the warm, somewhat clammy interior, he recalled the day he and DI Weller had first enjoyed breakfast there together. It was late afternoon by the time they’d managed to free themselves from the scene of the Post Office raid, but at the Tasty-Bite, breakfast started at six in the morning and went on right through to closing time. They hadn’t spoken a great deal around their food and milky tea, not even to discuss the case, but Bliss had taken a shine to the DI all the same. Bernard Weller was a good copper and a thoroughly decent man.

  Checking his watch, Bliss saw that it was now five to twelve, and Weller was not one of the caf
é’s dozen or so patrons. Bliss ordered and paid for a coffee and a bacon sandwich, then tucked himself behind a two-seater table so that he could face the door and the busy market beyond the steam-painted glass. While he waited, his mind flitted between the current murder case and the reasons Bernard Weller wanted to meet with him. Bliss had been suspended as a result of how his last murder investigation ended and, having made an enemy of his superintendent at the same time, he’d been happy enough to keep his head down these past six months or so. He was currently investigating about a dozen cases, but they were mostly forlorn hopes, and murder was always the trump card. Despite Penny’s earlier assurances regarding how other colleagues felt about him, doubts swarmed like angry bees inside his head. The only saving grace was that this inquiry was unlikely to be as high profile as the one he had so badly fucked up.

  Figuring out Weller’s intentions was a much tougher proposition. Bliss could only assume it had something to do with the case they’d worked together, but had no idea why the man would go to all this trouble over something so cut and dried. The two men serving time for the raid were guilty, of that Bliss was certain. What else was there to discuss? Unless it simply was a matter of wanting to keep in touch.

  His sandwich and drink was brought to the table by a young girl whose cheeks looked as if they would sizzle if touched. Her limp blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and sweat filmed her acne-scarred forehead. Huge hooped earrings hung from her lobes, and her jaw seemed to be working overtime on some gum.

  ‘Busy day?’ he asked, offering a sympathetic smile.

  A roll of the eyes was her only response as she turned and walked away. Bliss gave a stifled laugh and shook his head; right now the art of conversation was turning in its grave. She’d probably dismissed him as a middle-aged letch, when all he’d sought to offer was common courtesy. Dismissing the waitress from his mind, Bliss ate quickly, feeling hungrier now the smell of bacon was right beneath his nose. The coffee was milky, though he’d ordered black. It didn’t seem worth making a fuss over.