Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. (25 page)

“And what about the new cases?”

“How many?”

“There's a couple due in Vancouver today, and a load more next Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Make sure Buzzer picks up the two today, and freeze the rest till we sort this mess out,” orders Dawson, then he taps the TV screen where the press conference is winding down, saying, “You'd better pray that no one upstairs has seen this.”

However, prayers may be too late, and the shrill ringing of a telephone signals to Dawson that his hopes are about to be shattered.

Mike Phillips's phone has also been ringing, and he turns to Bliss with a pained expression as the press conference breaks up.

“Dave. I don't know how to tell you this, but I've just been yanked off the case.”

“Why?”

“Somebody has put the bite on the brass in Ottawa.”

“And we can guess from whence that shark comes,” says Bliss, his mind set on the south.

“Word has it that they're also squeezing the Canadian immigration department to throw you out of the country.”

“Well, I obviously struck a chord with someone,” Bliss laughs sardonically. “Though I'll be totally stumped if they persuade the British government not to let me go back home.”

“You can come and live wiz me in France,” suggests Daisy, taking his hand, and Bliss brightens at the notion.

“I'm surprised you still want me,” he says, conscious that after four nights in North America they have got no closer than a goodnight kiss, but the tightness of her grip demonstrates her determination to hang on whatever the circumstances.

Some prenuptial honeymoon this is turning out to be,
he thinks, then he stops, peers into her nigrescent Mediterranean eyes, feels the warmth of the Provençal
sun still radiating from her olive skin, and challenges the seriousness of his intentions. But with Daphne's disappearance weighing so heavily on his mind, he lets the moment go and turns to Phillips.

“They're not going to stop me, Mike. I don't know what the hell their game is, but I
will
find out — one way or another.”

“Unofficially, Dave,” says Phillips, quickly checking over his shoulder, “I'll do whatever it takes to help. Christ, this is personal for me, too — and if they don't like it they can stuff their job.”

“You don't mean that, Mike.”

“Not really. But now that I'm married to a millionaire, I can always dream of quitting — though God knows if I could take the boredom.”

“That's what bothers me,” admits Bliss, still deliberating over his plans to leave the force to write. “Anyway, I'd appreciate your help. By the way, what about that white fishmonger's van?”

Phillips shakes his head. “Sorry, Dave. Anybody would think it was a state secret.”

“Can't help you, Inspector. It's not registered,” the Seattle officer had claimed when Phillips had phoned, and despite the Mountie's insistence that he had personally seen the vehicle on a customs surveillance tape at the border, the officer had stuck to his story. Two hours, and a dozen calls, later, Phillips had got no further, though no one had been willing to explain how a falsely registered vehicle had been permitted to cross and recross the border.

However, deep in a CIA basement room three thousand miles away, at the organization's headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Phillips's enquiry has caused something of a stir and has set in motion a storm that is gathering strength
as it sweeps back across the country to a certain pseudo-religious establishment in the state of Washington.

“Mr. Dawson?” queries a voice with an accent honed on the east coast near Harvard or Yale, if not actually within their august precincts.

“Umm, yes, sir,” replies Dawson diffidently.

“I guess you've been watching the news channels this morning?”

“No, sir,” tries Dawson, but the caller doesn't buy it and drops his accent in favour of Brooklyn or the Bronx.

“Don't lie to me, f'kin asshole. You're supposed to be head of security out there. So tell me, what the friggin' ding-dong is going on?”

There goes my pension,
thinks Dawson, but it's likely lost whichever way he jumps, so he opts for a stalling tactic. “I'm aware of certain allegations,” he admits cagily, “and I'm carrying out a full investigation, sir.”

“Okay. Good man,” says the caller, repolishing his tone. “So, why the hell didn't you say so before?”

“Sorry, sir, but there was a junior officer in the room. He's gone now.”

“Oh. Right. Well, get back to me P.D.Q. I've got the president's press secretary on my heinie. I need answers.”

“Will do, sir,” says Dawson slumping back into his chair, then he throws the telephone at Bumface, yelling, “Get working, Steve! Get this damn place cleaned up.”

“So. Where do we go from here?” asks Rick Button once the press have their scoop, and Bliss and Phillips look in unison at the flagging man and join forces to say, “Bed.”

But Button is still fighting. “No. Not until I've got my Trina back,” he insists, and Bliss has a lump in his throat as he lays a comforting arm around the man's shoulder.

“Why not let Daisy take you home and leave it to us for a few hours?” he suggests. “I promise we're doing everything we possibly can, and we'll call you the minute we have any news.”

“No…” starts Button again, but Daisy steps in, gripping his hand and saying, “Come. I take you,” with such authority that he meekly allows her to lead him towards Trina's car.

Phillips and his English counterpart watch the broken man shuffle disconsolately away, and the Canadian officer waits until Rick Button is out of earshot before turning to Bliss. “I'd love to be able to assure him she'll show up,” he says, his tone devoid of optimism. “Although in truth I suppose it's only been two full days since they were last seen.”

“It seems like forever,” sighs Bliss, equally pessimistically. “Anyway, we both know that the first twenty-four hours are the most crucial. Which reminds me,” he carries on, checking his watch, “I suppose I should phone Peter and see what's happening in London. He was jumping up and down about a bank job earlier on, though God knows what it has to do with the suicides.”

Peter Bryan is still unsure of any connection himself when Bliss calls, and is chagrined with the robbery squad for fouling up his Friday evening.

“I don't think the blagging gang knows what to do with him,” he tells Bliss candidly, and briefly explains the comical circumstances of Joliffe's villainous escapade before saying, “Apparently, all the witnesses have gone soft. Even the girl he robbed reckoned she would take him home as a substitute granddad if she had a chance.”

“Oh, that'll bring out the Kleenex in the jury box all right,” says Bliss, and Bryan agrees.

“Quite. He's got as much chance of doing time as O.J. Simpson.”

“And his connection with the suicides is?” questions Bliss with mounting impatience.

“Tenuous at best, Dave,” says Bryan, explaining that he had only been consulted because the octogenarian raider had apparently been quite prepared to blow his own brains out if he hadn't been allowed out of the bank with the money. However, since his arrival at Kensington police station, and following a brief interview with a legal-aid lawyer, Maurice Joliffe has completely clammed up.

“Anyway,” asks Peter Bryan, temporarily washing his hands of Joliffe, “did Edwards get hold of you?”

“Oh — yes,” says Bliss. “I'm disappointed, though. I was expecting him to suspend me.”

“He can't,” laughs Bryan. “If he suspends you, he can't order you home.”

“And he needs to order me home because…?”

“Because the Americans are treading heavily on the Home Secretary's nutmegs.”

“Really?”

“Oh, boy. You've done it properly this time. In fact, they say the British Ambassador in Washington has been summoned to the State Department for a few words of advice on international police relations. Apparently you and your big gob have pooped in their soup — again.”

“Again?” questions Bliss.

“Well, they seem to think that your dig at their hypocritical stance on sex, booze, gambling and drugs at the conference wasn't exactly cricket.”

“Hah. I expected that, Peter,” chuckles Bliss. “Though do I sound as though I care? Anyway, if our boys
weren't such Nellies they'd be giving the White House shit for kidnapping the women.”

“They absolutely insist that they didn't.”

“It's most likely some government boot camp,” carries on Bliss with his ears closed. “They're probably training counter-terrorists so they can lob a 747 into the middle of Mecca during the Hajj to get revenge for 9/11.”

“What makes you think it's official?”

“How else would they know that I'd been thrown out of the country before?”

“And they knew?”

“The bigmouth at the gate did.”

Dawson may have been belligerent when he dealt with Bliss at the monastery's gate, but now that he senses that the wheels are coming off his wagon, he is in a quandary.

“What the hell are we gonna do with them?” he pleads, as he and Bumface watch Daphne and Trina on the surveillance monitors.

Daphne sits, motionless, on the edge of her bed, focusing all her energy on a way to escape her predicament, while Trina, in a separate room, sleeps off the sedative that was shot into her after she'd snapped following her recapture.

Daphne also has her eyes closed, but she is mentally alert and is carefully thinking her way through her well-thumbed collection of novels by Conan Doyle, Christie, Carr and a host of other mystery writers, searching for scenarios involving escapes from sealed rooms. But every plot she conjures up requires some form of outside assistance, or a prepared room — other than those relying on implausible devices like tame rodents and hocus-pocus, which she dismisses without consideration.

The snooping eye of the surveillance camera creates the greatest obstacle to every escape scheme. It's an impediment that obviously didn't exist in the era of the classics, and she dismisses idea after idea until she is finally left with only one viable scenario: feigned death.

The camera is also a source of concern for Dawson, whose escalating anxiety is reaching screaming point.

“You realize we're gonna get a visit, don't you?” he says, once Bumface has made a couple of calls. “And we're finished, man. I'm telling you — we're finished with a capital fuckin' F. The moment someone finds the women, we're screwed — and what about Allan? What's he gonna say?”

“Nothing,” says Bumface. “He ain't gonna say nothing. His ass is on the line as much as ours. And stop worrying about the damn women. There's two hundred freakin' people here. How are they gonna find a couple of dames unless they check every room?”

Dawson stabs meaningfully at the monitors. “All they've gotta do is come in here and look at
this,
for chrissakes.”

“Okay,” says Bumface, “I can fix that,” and a few minutes later Daphne's eyes pop open in surprise. Something in her environment has just changed. The feeling is ethereal and she can't grasp its root, though she has the sensation that a weight has been lifted, and her gaze instinctively goes to the surveillance camera.

In Vancouver, Bliss is seeking inspiration in a large coffee in the police station cafeteria when Phillips sidles up to him. “Good news, Dave. The white van's back.”

“How do you know?”

“I have my sources,” he says, as if it's some well-preserved secret, and then he relents. “The customs officer
— the one at the border who checked the videotape with me — he spotted it coming back about ten minutes ago. Apparently it comes over most days.”

“Okay. So where do we go from here?”

“Well, let's have a little chat with the driver, shall we?” says Phillips as he phones his control room to say that he's taking the rest of the day off. “My wife's not feeling too good,” he explains, and Bliss teasingly “tuttuts” before asking, “So how do we find him?”

“It shouldn't be too difficult,” replies Phillips. “I guess there's a good chance he'll be buying stock from the trawler fleet at the fisherman's wharf. Let's go see.”

Mike Phillips's supposition is correct — although this morning there is no fleet, just a solitary vessel heading shoreward from the fishing grounds. However, the flock of raucous herring gulls hovering expectantly over the Vancouver quayside will eventually be forced to scavenge lunch at the city's garbage dump — the cargo in the hold of Victor Kelly's trawler won't be of any interest to them.

In London, there is an equally raucous gathering in the foyer of Kensington police station when Peter Bryan arrives to interview Maurice Joliffe. Fuelled by the young bank clerk's speculation that the bicycle bandit appeared to be in his late eighties, or possibly even nineties, a crush of reporters is badgering the press officer for information and demanding an opportunity to question the elderly man.

Joliffe is still in the interview room — unaware of the hubbub in the lobby, unaware that he is already being pejoratively labelled “The Grandfather” and that news organizations from around the world are badgering their London correspondents for information and pictures. In truth, considering the gravity of the charges, he should be
locked up in the remand wing of Wandsworth jail, but no one wants to risk turning him into a folk hero. Even Wendy Martin, in her hospital bed, can't help feeling compassion for the distressed senior who had tried so hard to help her to her feet after the shooting.

“I'm ever so sorry, luv,” the little old man had repeated several times, close to tears. “I must've forgotten to put the safety on.”

If Peter Bryan had been doubtful of a link between Joliffe and the rash of elderly suicides when he first heard of the case, by the time he has been briefed by the robbery squad commander he is convinced. He's also convinced that the robbery squad have lumbered him with the ancient marauder because they realize there is little mileage in prosecuting someone who'll probably get more public sympathy than a pill-popping pop star or a drunken footballer. Maurice Joliffe appears equally aware of the dilemma, pleading, “You ain't gonna send me to jail at my age, are ya?” as soon as Peter Bryan switches on the video recorder and begins the interview.