Deadly Sin

by James Hawkins

  “Daphne, dear. Can you hear me?” asks Trina as she gently mops the old lady’s brow, but the cold flannel is a blade of steel in the tormented woman’s mind, and she sees it gouging into Michael Kent’s left eye and lets out a strangled scream.

  “Oh my God,” says Davenport as he races off to phone for an ambulance, while inside Daphne’s head blood-gushing parts of Michael Kent’s body are chasing her down blind alleys.

  “Daphne,” calls Trina, but the anguished woman is deaf to the outside world as the torture continues.

  “Who are you working for?” yells the interrogator as he fiercely grasps one of her lover’s ears. “Tell me now or …”

  “Daphne … Daphne …” voices are desperately calling as she writhes and thrashes in the bed.

  “Tell me! Tell me!” shrieks the maniacal sadist as he slices through cartilage and flesh, then sticks the dismembered ear into her face.

  “Miss Lovelace … Daphne …” tries Brenda.

  “Look at it, Miss Masterson,” demands the guard, wrenching back her head until her neck cracks. “Look at it and tell us who you are working for.”

  “Go and get a doctor,” shouts Anne McGregor to Brenda while Daphne’s body is jerking in spasms of agony, and the terrified woman is yelling, “No … No … No …” as she watches Michael Kent’s nose, lips, and tongue drop into the blood-spattered bucket.

  “Daphne. Wake up. Wake up. It’s me, Mavis,” calls her friend, and the lights finally go on in Daphne’s mind.

  “Mavis?” she questions as she opens her eyes to the searing light for the first time in two days. “Curtains,” she says, holding a hand over her face, and Trina rushes to close them.

  “I’ve called for an ambulance and the doctor,” says Davenport, returning, but Daphne is already pulling herself up in bed.

  “Well, you certainly gave us a scare,” says Geoffrey Williamson, once he has checked her over and sent the ambulance away, but Patrick Davenport’s pallid expression suggests that, for him, the scare is not yet over.

  “The Jenkinses stole Phil and Maggie’s house,” proclaims Daphne, aware that she now has an attentive audience, but Trina shakes her head.

  “No, they didn’t, Daphne.”

  “Don’t you remember Misty Morgan?” steps in Mavis. “It’s Phil’s brother’s little girl.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps you are losing your marbles,” suggests Mavis a touch acerbically, and Daphne stomps on her.

  “No, I am not, Mavis. I’m well aware of who you mean. But I haven’t seen Phil’s brother for donkey’s years.” However, despite a minute’s concentration, she can’t place a daughter and ends up confessing, “I suppose my memory really is going.”

  “That’s what happens when you get older,” agrees Mavis, and then Anne McGregor steps into view. “Remember me?” she says, holding up her index finger.

  Daphne flushes pink around the edges of the bruise. “Sorry about that,” she says. “I was just so cross that no one would listen to me, and they were driving me round the bend.”

  “Never mind. That’s all in the past. I’m more interested in your daughter, Isabel, right now.”

  “But I thought I told you. I don’t have —”

  “Think carefully, Daphne,” says McGregor, while Patrick Davenport’s knees are beginning to buckle in the background.

  “What’s she talking about, Mavis?” asks Daphne.

  “Someone was here,” says Mavis, not linking Isabel Semaurino with the woman she saw at Daphne’s house. “And she reckoned she was your daughter …”

  “She certainly told me she was your daughter,” chimes in Williamson, and all eyes turn on him. But the doctor has little to offer other than the apparent sincerity of the mysterious woman. However, the news that Daphne is about to become a great-grandmother certainly adds to the mystique — especially in the elderly spinster’s mind.

  “Now I really am worried that I’m going cuckoo,” she laughs — the first time she has laughed in weeks.

  “Isabel Semaurino. The name rings a bell,” admits Bliss to Trina when she phones to give him an update on Daphne’s condition, but he has too much on his mind to recall the woman he met in the bar of the Mitre. It’s already Tuesday evening. Only two clear days before Friday’s rescheduled mission to the mosque — the first public appearance of the royal couple since the ill-fated visit — and the video recording of the men and their pickup truck has disappeared.

  “It’s been wiped,” Hoskins the videographer explained when Bliss went back for a closer look. “Commander Fox told me to …” then the technician paused, “… actually, he ordered me to get rid of everything I had from the mosque.”

  “When?” asked Bliss and wasn’t surprised that it occurred while he was out cold.

  The transceiver is the best physical evidence remaining from the day that Prince Philip went berserk. At least it would be the best evidence if it was still in Bliss’s possession.

  “Somebody smashed the lock off my bloody cup-board,” he complains angrily to his son-in-law as they meet for a strategy session in the back bar of Peter Bryans local pub, the Pheasant.

  “Who the hell?” asks Bryan as he cues up for a game of snooker.

  “Fox … I bet Edwards has got the black on him.”

  “Edwards has got the black on most people, Dave. But what’s his game?”

  “What’s the Yanks’ game? They’re the ones who bother me most.”

  “I guess we might find out in the morning,” says Peter Bryan as he slams a red ball into a pocket.

  “One for you,” says Bliss as he keeps score, and then he questions, “How’s your interest in American cars coming along?”

  “Hi Cindi. It’s me again, Chief Inspector Bliss,” he says as he and Bryan stand at the gates of the security compound on Wednesday morning. “I’ve brought a colleague to go over those tapes.”

  The momentary silence from the bubbly young American indicates a problem. “I’m sorry,” she says once she drums up the courage. “But I got shit for letting you in yesterday.”

  “But I’m a senior police officer.”

  “I’m real sorry,” says Cindi. “The cameras are linked to the Embassy, and I guess someone saw you.”

  “Lefty and bloody Pimple,” Bliss mutters under his breath. “I bloody knew it.”

  “You’ll have to get clearance from the Embassy to come in again. Sorry.”

  “What now, Dave?”

  “At least they didn’t come after me with machine guns this time,” says Bliss as they walk back to their car under the nose of one of the tower-cameras.

  “So, Michael,” says Lefty, stabbing at Bliss on the screen of a laptop in front of Edwards. “I thought you said you had a leash on him.”

  “Maybe he should have a little accident,” says Pimple, pumping his right fist into his left palm. “Just enough to keep him out of the way on Friday. The President sure ain’t gonna be happy if there’s another screw-up.”

  “Leave him to me,” says Edwards. “You just concentrate on what you have to do.”

  Superintendent Anne McGregor starts the daily service with a prayer of thanksgiving for the blessed news that no prisoners died overnight in custody, no murders or riots were reported, and the only complaint against an officer was made by a certifiable lunatic.

  “So. What’s on the agenda?” she asks, and Matt Roberts brings up Daphne Lovelace.

  “From what we’ve got so far,” the detective chief inspector explains as he flicks through his officer’s reports, “she sounds as though she’s our second loony of the day.”

  “Really?” says McGregor, brightening at the thought that she may have been right about Daphne all along.

  “Nothing the old faggot claims holds water,” carries on Roberts, and then he summarizes. “Rob and Misty Jenkins are the lawful occupiers of her uncle’s place. Recent deaths at the home … nothing suspicious and, considering the heat, not out of line with what you
would expect. No complaints from other residents — apart from the food.” Roberts stops to look up and laugh. “Apparently the woman who usually does the cooking — a Hilda Fitzgerald — is a bit of a butcher in the kitchen.”

  “What about the bruising on her face?” asks McGregor, and Roberts goes back to the reports.

  “There’s no eyewitnesses. They say she fell. She says she didn’t. But I know who a court would believe.”

  “What about the Brimble girl?”

  “She didn’t actually see anything,” he says, digging out Amelia’s statement. “According to her, the first time it happened the old lady admitted she fell out of bed in the night, and the next time the only person in the room was this Hilda Fitzgerald woman because she sent Brimble off to give another patient a bath.”

  “Who is this Hilda woman?” asks McGregor. “Is she the cook or what?”

  “General factotum — like her husband, as far as I can gather. They live on the premises and pretty well run it,” says Roberts, before continuing with his roundup and detailing the various searches and inquiries that have been made with negative results.

  “Patrick Davenport has had a few speeding tickets and got a couple of endorsements on his licence,” he concludes. “Otherwise the place is squeaky clean.”

  “So that only leaves us with the papers that she reckoned were proof they were trying to kill her.”

  “I’ve spoken to her about that,” says Roberts with a tone that says he is not convinced. “She admits breaking into Davenport’s desk, stealing them, and mailing them to a friend. But somehow they’ve ended up on the dump. I’ve got half a dozen men out there now having a look, but I don’t have a lot of hope.”

  “What are they supposed to prove —” starts McGregor as a sergeant, with triumph all over his face, knocks and then rushes in with an envelope addressed to Mavis Longbottom. “Wow. That was good timing.”

  The medical records of St. Michael’s residents could be used as a practitioner’s training guide for professionals entering the field of gerontology. Alzheimer’s, osteoporosis, emphysema, diabetes, and a host of cancer-related complaints top the list, and the numerous treatments and medications all appear to be meticulously recorded. But it means nothing to the officers.

  “I wouldn’t know an Aspirin from Viagra myself,” admits Roberts as they scan the documents.

  “I’ll steer clear of you when you’ve got a headache then,” jokes McGregor, before handing the records over to the sergeant, saying, “Get these to the Police Surgeon and ask him to give me an analysis, stat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replies as McGregor and Roberts take a closer look at the remainder of the paperwork.

  “Power of attorney,” says Roberts skimming a dozen similar documents. “Now this is more interesting,” he adds, as he flicks through them. “Yes. She’s right about that. They all name a lawyer called Robert Jameson.”

  “And look at this,” says McGregor, finding a signed affidavit giving Jameson withdrawal privileges on their bank accounts attached to the back of each document. “I think someone should have a few words with our lawyer friend.”

  “I wanna word with you,” snorts Fox mid-afternoon as he catches Bliss out in the open. “I’ve been looking for you all bloody day. Where have you been?”

  “Out and about,” says Bliss cheerily as he willingly accompanies the commander to his top-floor office.

  The walk to the gallows is the longest walk on earth, but Bliss takes it with a bounce in his stride. He has been practising for this moment ever since his attempt to get into the American embassy garage backfired.

  “Fox is gunning for you,” he has been warned by cell-phone time and again, as the commander slunk around the Yard trying to sniff him out. But he went to ground in the legal aisles of the British Library and kept his head down until he was in possession of all the ammunition he needed.

  “Now,” starts Fox as he slams the door behind his detective chief inspector and plonks himself behind his desk. “What’s this I hear —”

  “Hang on a minute, sir,” says Bliss, holding the commander up with the palm of his hand. “I’d just like you to read this before you go any further.”

  Fifteen minutes later David Bliss is standing on London Bridge, staring down at the sludgy water, trying to see into his future again.

  Well, you’ve done it now, haven’t you, he tells himself, but he is still smiling in memory of the look on Fox’s face when he smoothed out his crumpled resignation letter and slammed it on the commander’s desk.

  “Dave. You really don’t have to go that far,” Fox tried remonstrating, but Bliss wasn’t listening.

  “Actually, I do,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve had enough of all the conniving politics and underhanded crap. When I joined I thought I’d spend my life fighting villains, I didn’t expect to be working for them.”

  “Now that’s uncalled-for.”

  “Is it?” said Bliss. “I don’t think so. I’ve spent the past five years being jerked around by that scum Edwards, until someone managed to put the skids under him, and then the poisonous little bastard weaseled his way back in the Home Secretary’s pocket.”

  “I will not have you saying …” Fox was shouting when Bliss walked out. And then the commander’s words, “All right. Resignation accepted. You are finished, Bliss,” followed him down the corridor.

  “Not for another four weeks,” Bliss shouted back, although he has already tallied his outstanding leave and knows he has only two days of actual duty to work before he will be free.

  “Finally free … after twenty-eight years,” he muses aloud as he stares down at the Thames. “Free — with a good pension and a clean record.”

  Now what are you going to do?

  Maybe I’ll write another book like Samantha suggested.

  Are you crazy? The last one nearly killed you. Why not do something easy like brain surgery or climbing Everest?

  Anyway, first I have to do something about Daisy.

  You could go this weekend. There’s nothing stopping you now. You could go and never come back.

  But there is something stopping him and he knows it. And it’s not just her “cousin,” whoever the man may be. It’s the same problem he’s faced for the past two years since the start of their relationship.

  “Where were the fireworks?” he has questioned a thousand times, recalling the three months that he tangoed around her before he finally took her home after the last dance. But just as the kindling took a long time to catch, so the smouldering embers are taking forever to die.

  It’s like someone dying a slow and peaceful death, he thinks, and is reminded of Daphne Lovelace as he imagines her deciding when she might finally turn in her passport. “Not today — I might wait till the weather worsens or I might even wait till Christmas.”

  And then he ponders just how many old people have said to themselves, “I’ll just hang on to see one last Christmas,” and have ruined subsequent Christmases for the rest of the family for years to come.

  Now or never, he tells himself as he stands midway on the bridge and phones. I guess my Christmas is over — time to start a new year.

  “Daavid. I want you to come to see me after zhe Queen,” says Daisy, before he has a chance to gather his words. “Is zhat possible? I have somezhing very important to tell you.”

  It’s a long way to travel just to be told to pack his bags, but he can’t help feeling that he might need an excuse to get out of the country in a hurry on Friday, so he agrees.

  “I’m into my fifties now,” Bliss claims as his reason for resigning when he makes the next call to his son-in-law. “Whereas you are just a young whippersnapper with family responsibilities.”

  “Cut the crap, grandpa,” says Bryan. “What are you planning?”

  “Hey. Enough of the grandpa stuff. But you’re right. I do have a little surprise in mind.”

  “So, why quit?”

  “Because, my son, as I’m sure you are aw
are, they can’t fire me if I’ve already put my ticket in.”

  “Dave. Whatever it is, don’t go it alone. Count me in.”

  “In that case — Edwards has called a meeting at nine-thirty tomorrow morning at his office, and I think we should be there.”

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  “Neither was I,” admits Bliss, before adding sternly, “Just one thing, Peter. If the wheel comes off, I’m taking the rap. You had no idea what I was planning.”

  “I don’t know what you’re planning.”

  “That’s precisely what I just said.”

  chapter eighteen

  The clock in the tower of Big Ben is winding itself up to strike nine as hundreds of lesser civil servants make a frantic dash from bus stops and tube stations to the front doors of the Home Office, a few blocks east of the tower at St. Anne’s Gate.

  It is the start of just another day for the bureaucrats responsible for the internal security of the nation — blue-suited men and women whose daily contact with the police takes them deep into the murky underworld, without them ever having to risk the inconvenience of a bullet in the head or a knife in the back.

  Her Majesty’s Chief Inspectors of Constabulary and Prisons, the loftiest guardians of law and order, will arrive at the front door in chauffeured limousines, but not until their desks have been cleaned and their cappuccinos made. Middle rankers, together with invited guests, will park their Audis and Volvos in the car park at the rear of the building under the noses of Bill and Fred (Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee behind their backs), a couple of jovial pensioners dressed up as security guards.

  “M’ning, Bill … M’ning, Fred … Nice day … How’s the lumbago?” calls driver after driver as regulars sweep by without needing to be checked by the two old-timers.

  Michael Edwards, in his BMW, stops to hand over a list of visitors due for his meeting. “See if you can find them a decent spot, please,” he requests and gets an affirmative nod. “They’re mainly people from the palace,” he adds, hoping to lend weight to his own credence rather than his visitors’.

  “Right’o, sir,” says Bill.