Bad to the Bone

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘Bernard was killed earlier today, Mr Bliss. A car accident.’

  Now it was his turn to be silent. Weller was dead. Probably killed on his way down to Peterborough. Eventually Bliss found his voice. ‘I had no idea. Obviously. Sorry, I must sound like a babbling idiot. Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘It seems as though he just ran off the road. Killed instantly, we’re told.’ She sounded doubtful, and was right to be. According to most emergency service people given the terrible job of delivering the worst kind of news to relatives, no one ever died a lingering, painful death. Bliss knew the truth was usually very different.

  He was dumbfounded, caught completely unawares by the shocking news. ‘I’m so sorry. Please do give my sympathies to his wife. I didn’t know Bernard that well, but I liked him. He was a good man.’

  ‘Yes. He was.’

  After offering a few words of comfort, Bliss said his goodbyes and hung up. Over what was now a distinctly unappetising chicken balti, he couldn’t turn his mind to anything but poor Bernard Weller. More than the untimely death, however, Bliss began to question the coincidence. Weller calls him up out of the blue one night almost three years after their last conversation, arranges a somewhat secretive meeting, and is then killed on his way to that meeting. What were the chances these two incidents were not related? He was thinking like a copper, of course. But then that’s what he was. And something about this didn’t feel right. Long before he’d shoved the foil dishes and their cooling contents to one side, Bliss knew he wasn’t going to let go of it.

  Alan Dean thought: so this is what the cold steel muzzle of a gun feels like when it’s pressed against the back of your neck.

  He’d seen guns before, had even stared wide-eyed at one pointed in his direction several years back, but he’d never actually touched one. More importantly, one had never touched him. Standing in the darkened hallway of his own home, he instinctively knew that the gun barrel jammed against his goose-pimpled flesh was the last thing he would ever feel.

  The day had started a hell of a lot better than it would end. His last day on the job after almost forty years in the police force. Now a service, of course, because ‘force’ gave the wrong connotations in a world littered with politically correct fascists. For the past five years he had spent his time at the main criminal courthouse in Milton Keynes, shuffling prisoners from holding cell to courtrooms and back again. There’d been the occasional flutter of excitement when a prisoner tried to escape or threw a hissy-fit when sentenced, but mostly it was a yawn-inducing winding down of a career in which he never rose above the rank of sergeant and had never wanted to.

  At the end of today’s shift his colleagues had presented him with a Sara Lee chocolate gateau, a lit candle spluttering away like a sparkler in its centre, and a boxed chess set – wooden board with marble pieces. Dean had started a chess club at the courthouse, and playing a game or two while eating chocolate cake had become a popular way of passing time with fellow officers of all ages. The set was a lot nicer than the ebony and ivory one he had at home, and the retirement gift meant a great deal to him. What had almost brought a tear to his eye, however, were the promises of many games awaiting him in the future. He was waving goodbye to his job but not to them, his friends assured him.

  A farewell drink in a nearby pub had also been arranged, and Dean hit the whisky harder than he had in many a year. By the time he and a dozen or so of his friends headed across the city centre to an Indian restaurant, he was feeling light-headed and unsteady on his feet. At around midnight his closest friend, Bill Smith, had driven him home heavier by one tandoori mixed grill and several pints of lager.

  If only you’d let Bill see you in like he’d offered, Dean thought now. He’d refused, believing he was about to throw up everything he’d eaten and drunk during the day, and not wanting to have his pal witness it. Bill might have been sober enough to sense that something was wrong, however. Then again, maybe driving away with Dean still stumbling on the pavement was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to Bill Smith.

  Alan Dean wondered who might find him, hoping no one he knew would have to smell his piss and shit and decaying flesh. Having experienced that for himself a few times, he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

  Well, perhaps the man standing behind him right now with his finger on the trigger. Shit! How had he let this prick sneak up behind him in the dark?

  ‘Don’t turn around,’ the man insisted.

  His breath moved around Alan Dean, its odour fetid.

  ‘You could use a mint,’ Dean said.

  ‘You could use a miracle. Now, don’t turn around.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You’re not going to struggle? Not going to plead for your life?’

  The voice was calm. Devoid of emotion. It also sounded somewhat familiar. Dean swallowed and said, ‘Would it make any difference?’

  ‘It might.’

  He wasn’t convincing. ‘Yeah. Right. I wouldn’t give you that satisfaction.’

  Halitosis man chuckled in Dean’s ear. ‘You know why I’m here?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You were expecting me?’

  ‘Someone. At some point. I thought I had a few years yet. Thought I might even get to go all the way.’

  ‘You’ve been lucky up to now. Unfortunately, your luck has run out.’

  Dean closed his eyes and swept his mind back in time. A career to be proud of, spoiled by a single, terrible lapse. Tears squirted down his cheeks, warm and salty on his lips.

  ‘I take it they found her, then?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Then maybe this is for the best.’

  Silence filled the hallway with its own distinctive menace. Then the gunman said, ‘It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘Fuck that. Murder is always personal.’

  His own voice was the last thing Alan Dean ever heard. By the time the sound of two gunshots bounced off the walls of his hallway, the retired police sergeant was already dead.

  Chapter 8

  On Thursday morning, Bliss called in at Bretton Woods. The forensic investigation was winding down, and he wanted to get an update from SOCO before they pulled the plug. Signing investigators in and out of the scene was a uniformed constable by the name of Morris. He looked up from his clipboard as Bliss approached.

  ‘Morning, Constable,’ Bliss said. He blew on his hands to warm them. Though the overnight rain and severe winds had relented, there was still a bite to the air. ‘Tell me, did anyone manage to organise the digging of exploratory holes around the gravesite?’

  ‘I’ve only been on scene since the early hours, sir.’ He nodded towards a small mobile trailer. ‘We can check it out in the incident office if you like.’

  They stepped up into the long, narrow trailer, inside which stood two desks surrounded by a number of boxes. The mobile incident office was a crucial point at which information was both gathered and stored until it could be moved across to Thorpe Wood. It was also the access point for potential witnesses.

  Morris checked the case book, flicking through a number of pages which logged the investigation procedures. He looked back up at Bliss and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. All clear, it seems.’

  Bliss gave a slight hike of his shoulders. He hadn’t given serious consideration to the notion that they might have a serial on their hands, but the procedure was worth doing. If only to confirm they had if asked.

  ‘Anything else found in or around the site itself?’ Bliss asked. ‘More clothing, coins, buckles?’

  It took a minute or so of sweeping through the pages before Morris shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir. It looks like we got everything first time around.’

  As expected. Secretly, Bliss had hoped that an ID of some sort might be discovered, but sharing that with the officer might make him appear desperate. He thanked Morris, walked back to his car, and drove off to make his appointment just a mile or so away on the other side of the Soke parkway where
Bretton bordered Westwood.

  Edith Cavell was a mostly NHS hospital that added to its overall income by allowing facility access for a number of private patients. Bliss had been referred by his GP, and using his own personal health plan rather than go through official channels, he was now lying on his back in a skimpy cotton gown waiting to be inserted into a huge tube. A young female technician in a long white coat had made sure he was comfortable, and was now rubbing something between the palms of her hands.

  ‘Am I getting a massage as well?’ Bliss asked, hoping his voice betrayed none of the anxiety he felt.

  She smiled as if she’d never been asked the question before. ‘No, that’s my other job. And I don’t come cheap.’

  ‘What are you doing, then?’

  ‘Making your earplugs pliable. They need squeezing and moulding, so that when they expand they fill the ear chamber.’

  ‘Why do I need my ears plugging?’

  Raising her eyebrows, she said, ‘You didn’t read your MRI booklet, I take it, Mr Bliss.’

  He gave a guilty shrug. ‘No. Sorry. I forgot.’

  The technician tutted amiably. ‘The MRI machine makes a fairly loud noise each time it rotates, and the sound can add to the overall level of stress for the patient. Once you’re inside you need to stay as still as possible, otherwise the readings might not take and you might have to do it all over again.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable. How long will I be in there?’

  She laughed. Her eyes twinkled with good humour. A good couple of stone overweight, she was a perfect advert for those who believe all heavy people are jolly. Bliss thought she was sweet, and extremely pretty beneath the excess of flesh.

  ‘You really didn’t look at your booklet at all, did you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, look, the scan will take around thirty minutes, and during that time I’ll be in the control room behind that glass pane.’ She pointed towards a large rectangular window set into the rear wall. Other than the MRI scanner and a chair, there was nothing else in the room. ‘I can see and hear you from in there. If any panic sets in, just ask me to stop and I will.’

  ‘Panic?’

  ‘Claustrophobia. Even people who don’t suffer from it can be affected once they’re fully inserted into the scanner. But it’s all in the mind, so I’d advise you to close your eyes and shut off until we’re done.’

  ‘You’re the expert. And thanks for making me feel less concerned.’ It’s not the scan itself that worries me though, Bliss thought. It’s the result.

  Little more than half an hour later, it was all over. He was shown back to his cubicle in the small changing area, where he stripped off the hospital gown and got dressed. He slipped his watch and wedding ring back on and went upstairs to wait in the ENT reception for his appointment with the consultant. There he waited for a further twenty anxious minutes.

  When he was eventually shown into the consultant’s room, she was running her gaze over a series of what looked like X-rays. ‘Good morning, Mr Bliss,’ she said, smiling pleasantly. Lines neatly bracketed her mouth. ‘Nice to see you again. Please sit down. I won’t be a moment.’

  Captain Judith Scowcroft, an ex-army officer, stood tall and rigid, as though a metal spike ran the length of her spine. She had the kind of bearing that had suggested military to Bliss, even before he’d been made aware of her full title. Close-cropped hair and little make-up implied either a reluctance to conform, or a schedule too busy for anything more than casual preparation. When she eventually turned away from the light box, she came and sat down opposite the chair he had taken, no desk between them. The consultant wheeled herself forward until their knees were almost touching.

  ‘First the good news.’ Full beam smile this time. Teeth and all. ‘There is no sign of a brain tumour.’

  Bliss let go a lungful of air he hadn’t realised he’d been holding back. The recent episodes of dizziness, coupled with a series of lancing pains down the right side of his head, had screamed tumour at him despite the consultant’s doubts expressed during their previous appointment. At the time of arranging the MRI she had insisted the scan was nothing more than a precautionary measure – more to rule something out than in. Human nature didn’t often allow the luxury of thinking only positive thoughts, however, and Bliss had been unable to prevent himself from worrying.

  ‘I can’t think of better news right now,’ he said, relief clattering against his chest. Emotions highly charged, Bliss suddenly felt close to tears. He took a breath and collected himself before speaking again. ‘But I gather there must be some bad news, too.’

  Scowcroft inclined her head and pursed her lips. ‘Only in that your symptoms remain undiagnosed. That said, I do have a good idea what might be wrong with you. Tell me, how’s your hearing?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Bliss cupped a hand around his right ear. He grinned and gave a shrug. ‘I know, you must get that all the time. Actually, there’s still that element of fullness, like a build-up of pressure, as I described to you last time we met. And if pushed I’d say the hearing is a little worse.’

  ‘We may be able to help that with the insertion of a grommet. This will release any build-up of fluids. How about the tinnitus?’

  Bliss rolled his eyes. ‘Some nights I feel like ripping my ear off. The high-pitched squeal creeps up on me the moment I think all is quiet. And that other sound I described to you last time, like the noise an ultrasound scan makes, that also seems to have got worse.’

  The doctor nodded, scribbling something on her chart. ‘That may be because you’re now acutely aware of the sound, expecting it when there are no other obvious sounds. They say Van Gogh had tinnitus, hence the lopping off of one ear. If true, it’s very sad, as actually it would not have resolved the problem. All right, tell me about the other symptoms.’

  Bliss took a moment to recall what had happened to him. ‘I’ve had two more attacks of vertigo since I was last here. The first time it lasted only a few minutes. I felt nauseous, but wasn’t physically sick. The second attack was more severe, and I dropped to the ground. Fortunately, I was at home both times, but that second one worried me, I must admit.’

  ‘I’m sure it did. How long did this second attack last?’

  ‘The vertigo itself for about half an hour, but I was very dizzy for an hour or so afterwards. And incredibly tired for quite a while after that.‘

  ‘No vertigo whilst sitting, is that correct?’

  ‘No. None. ’

  ‘Good. You realise if you do get an unannounced attack whilst sitting, you’ll have to inform the DVLA. They will probably withdraw your driving licence for an initial three-month period, pending further tests, diagnosis and prognosis.’

  Bliss nodded. Losing his licence was the least of his concerns. He glanced down at a tray of stainless steel implements, each of which looked like an instrument of torture. He pondered his condition for a moment, the impact it was starting to have on his life. Fear lurked in the dark corners of every terrible thought.

  ‘The imbalance is a major concern,’ he went on. ‘I have it every other day or so now. It doesn’t last long, but it’s unnerving. I feel like I’m stepping off a kerb all the time. It’s like walking on sponges. Then, as you warned me might happen last time we spoke, the headaches are constant and intense, and my energy levels are falling away every day. The fatigue is immense. I feel like I’m on the verge of mental and physical exhaustion.’

  Saying this out loud made Bliss feel uneasy. Admitting weakness was not something he was used to, and he felt a little embarrassed by it. He’d always been so healthy, believing his physical condition was as much about character and inner strength as it was levels of fitness. Accepting that he was ill at all had been a battle, but now he was wondering how bad it might be.

  Captain Scowcroft was making notes on his chart each time Bliss spoke. ‘How are your sleeping patterns?’ she asked.

  ‘Reasonable with the help of a tablet
every night. Without them I have no chance. A pill helps me get to sleep, but if I wake up in the early hours I can’t get back off again.’

  After a few moments, the consultant set her notes aside and leaned forward, meeting his gaze directly. ‘I’ll arrange another hearing examination, and also a caloric test.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘We look at your balance in closer detail. We attach a number of sensors to your head and then put on a spectacular light display, followed by a few moments of pumping warm water into your ears. Sounds a lot worse than it is, believe me. This will induce severe imbalance, and we’ll be able to measure both the extent and the length of time it takes you to respond and recover. By the way, are you aware of the rapid eye movement you now have?’

  He was. ‘It’s worse still when I close them.’ He snapped his eyelids together and felt his eyes crawl and swivel beneath. A creepy sensation.

  ‘Very well. I’ll get you in for your tests within the next week or so, but I won’t let you go today without giving you an idea of the way I see things at the moment. Mr Bliss, have you ever heard of Ménière’s Disease, or Ménière’s Syndrome?’

  ‘No.’ Another flare of mild panic exploded inside his gut. Nothing with disease or syndrome in the title could be good. He swallowed and pulled some saliva into his dry mouth.

  ‘There are four major symptoms, which are vertigo, imbalance, affected hearing, and tinnitus. Although our understanding of the illness is changing and growing all the time, the diagnosis of Ménière’s is made when all four symptoms are evident and cannot be explained away by other illnesses. You have all four, plus all recognised resulting effects. The caloric test will tell us more, but I think Ménière’s is likely in your case.’

  ‘Okay.’ He took a breath, not liking the way this was shaping up. He saw no real concern in Scowcroft’s demeanour, but neither did she appear entirely at ease. ‘And if you’re right?’

  ‘Well, let me first put your mind at rest by saying that Ménière’s is not a life-threatening condition. It’s not going to kill you, Mr Bliss. However, in anything other than its milder forms, Ménière’s is very often life changing.’