The Dave Bliss Quintet (32 page)

Half expecting Hugh and Mavis to turn up, despite the fact that their plane left the previous day, Bliss is focussing on the empty-handed stragglers strolling by when his ears prick up.

“Are the hoteliers talking about the potter?” he asks Angeline as she bustles by.

“
Oui
,” she says. “Some of them say they will buy special ovens next year and make money — to cook the pots.”

“Typical,” he mutters, having concluded from the general condition of the French houses that the only things that were ever fixed were those that weren't broken, and he shakes his head at a nation of techno-savvy people unable to unblock a toilet — “
Merde
.”

Where's Jacques? he wonders, scanning the length of the promenade, expecting him to appear to gloat over the arrival of the sirocco — but Daisy has pleaded with Bliss to say nothing about Roland until she's had time to decide what to do. “Twenty-four hours,” he told her, though he felt sorry for her, knowing how hard it would be for her to admit to Jacques, of all people, that she had lied by her silence.

Bliss looks up to find his fraternal brother approaching.

“Ah, Jacques,” he greets warmly, “you were right about the sirocco.”

“But of course, Monsieur. I am French. Being right is
mon forte.
And now
le pounant —
the warm westerly wind — will bring an end to zhe
tempêtes
of summer.”

“I'm glad the tempests are over,” laughs Bliss, going on to say, “But I understand we have something in common.”

Jacques's reply falls somewhere between question and answer. “We do.”

“
Oui
. I too am a fisherman,” teases Bliss, but Jacques catches on immediately.

“But of course … you are a policeman. The first time I saw you I say to myself, Jacques, zhat man Brubeck, he has
le nez fin —
zhe good nose — and
les é crase-merde —
zhe big feet — of a policeman. Zhen I say to you, zhe way you look, always watching, you see everyone and everything. I am right,
n' est-ce pas
?”

“
Oui.
You are right, Jacques,” laughs Bliss, “but it's Burbeck, not Brubeck.” Then he confides, “I'll tell you a secret, though. I don't usually work undercover.”

“I can tell.”

“But … the hand in the water?” enquires Bliss, suddenly remembering Jacques's apparent indifference to the event. “You said nothing to the gendarmes.”

“
Oui
.”

“Why?”

“Zhat is how I know zhat you do not usually work under zhe covers like me. I watch, but it is not my case.
J'ai d' autres chats à fouetter
,” he carries on. “As you say … I have other cats to whip. And now, if you will excuse me,
Monsieur l' Inspecteur
, I have zhe little business to attend.
 bientô t, mon ami
.”

The question “How did you know my rank?” barely passes Bliss's lips as Jacques le Policier disappears from sight.

“Well, I'm damned,” Bliss mutters, then casually dumps the contents of the table's glass ashtray into his pocket and heads for his apartment.

The black limousine in the driveway, driven by a sumo wrestler in chauffeur's uniform, warns Bliss something is happening in Johnson's ground-floor apartment. Hearing nothing at the door he races up to his balcony and looks over in time to see the caged boy's dog being used in a tug of war in the garden below.

“Give me the fucking thing, Nathaniel,” hisses Johnson, tugging roughly at the Spaniel's hind-quarters, as his wife and the young man grapple with the yelping creature's front end.

“Leave him alone,” cries the distraught owner, and Johnson's wife joins in, screaming, “Morgan, don't — please don't.”

“Give it over,” orders Johnson, yanking until the animal squeals. “I've had enough of this crap.”

Oh,
merde
! thinks Bliss, but can't see what to do without becoming embroiled in the ruckus.

“I'm an effin' laughingstock,” beefs Johnson as he keeps up the pressure. “What do you think people are saying? I hear your boy lives in a cage with an effin' dog. Look at him — long-haired fucking ponce.”

“Morgan … the neighbours,” warns his wife.

“Bollocks to the neighbours. If they don't like it they can effin' move. Now give me the damn dog.”

“Dad, don' t,” yells the young man, but Johnson tears the animal out of his son's hands, whips its head angrily against the trunk of the lemon tree, and tosses it onto the lawn, where it lands as limp as a wet rag.

Screaming hysterically, the young man scrabbles across the lawn, gathers up the lifeless animal, and curls into a sobbing ball. “Pooh-pooh,” he cries. “What have you done to my Pooh-pooh?”

“Oh, shit,” mutters Bliss.

“Stupid fucking kid,” sneers Johnson, but his wife turns on him. “It was your fault. You abandoned him. All he needed was a proper father, not some piece of shit … ”

Johnson isn't listening. Shoving her forcefully to the ground he heads for the apartment's kitchen door and starts wrestling with the cage.

With the distraught young man still keening over his dog, his mother picks herself up and flies to the kitchen. The first slap sends Bliss running. Grabbing the work-man's overall he is out of the apartment and down the hibiscus-lined lane to the port in seconds. I'll never get a better chance of catching Natalia on her own, he thinks, praying the dog will be the only fatality in the apartment.

The
Sea-Quester
sits grandly in the centre of the quay, lording it over less inflated craft on either side. The brilliant moonlight, along with the festive strings of quayside illuminations, picks out the impressive vessel
and lights Bliss's way up the gangway. His workman's overalls give him some cover
. Just come to see if Mr. Johnson needs any painting done, mate
, he has on his lips, though it's not needed as he swings through the yacht's unguarded and deserted main deck from stern to stem. The darkness of the upper deck tells him not to bother, so he takes a companionway down from the bridge to the fore-cabins.

“Ahoy there,” he calls hesitantly as he faces a number of cabin doors in the dim light. “Anybody aboard?”

A scuffling so slight it might have been imagined has him half-expecting one of the doors to crash open and the limousine driver's brother to flatten him for trespassing.

“Empty,” he mouths, gingerly peeking into cabin after cabin before heading back up to the bridge. The tour of the charter boat earlier has turned into a godsend as he easily charts the ladder to the engine room and navigates his way past the giant powerhouses to the aft hold.

“Bingo!” he breathes, finding an Aladdin's cave of neo-Romano amphorae. Several of the giant double-handed wine jars with distinct, though clearly impractical, sharply pointed bottoms stand in specially constructed frames. A heavy fire extinguisher becomes a weapon, and in seconds Bliss shoves handfuls of shards into his pockets and sets off to search the rest of the vessel.

“Natalia,” he calls, urgently tapping on one of the aft stateroom doors. “Come on,” he murmurs, concerned Johnson and his gorilla may return at any moment.

“Natalia.” He tries another door, but hears no answer. With a gentle shove he peeps in. The luxurious cabin, though well slept in, is empty, and he is about to close the door when he spies a soft light from an adjacent room.

“Hello,” he calls, poking his head around the door, and finds a naked young woman flaked out in a gold-plated bathtub.

“Hello,” she replies vacuously. “What's your name?” The lack of water doesn't seem to concern her, but Bliss turns quickly and grabs a robe from the floor.

“I love to swim in gold,” she croons, as she writhes sensuously and plays her hands over her body. “Do you?”

“I've never tried,” he admits, offering her the robe. “But I guess you're Natalia Grimes.”

Rising inquisitively to sit, she pushes the robe away, grasps his wrist and urges lasciviously, “Why don't you join me, then?”

Like mother, like daughter, he thinks, realizing Marcia had probably been just as stunning when she was eighteen. “Come on, get dressed. Your dad wants to see you,” he says, keeping his eyes on her face.

“I don't think Morgan would like that,” she mutters, climbing out and walking unashamedly to the bedroom.

“Please put some clothes on,” he pleads, but she turns and poses statuesquely.

“What are you — a fag or something? Don't you think I've got a good body? Morgan does.”

“Natalia, I don't have time for this,” he says angrily. “Now put something on and come with me.”

“I'd love to come with you,” she drools, draping herself around him and reaching for his groin, “but Morgan would kill me.”

Forcefully grabbing her wrists, he peels her off and holds her at arm's length. “You asked for it,” he says, then puts her in the picture — straight — no mincing around: her father's disfigurement; her mother's involve
ment; her uncle's death. He finishes with a graphic account of Morgan splatting a little dog's head against a tree trunk.

“Oh! The poor dog,” she whines, as if that's her biggest concern.

“Come on,” he says, letting go of her wrists and holding out the bathrobe, but she shakes him off and slumps to the bed. “I can' t.... Morgan will kill me.”

“He'll kill you if you stay here.”

“Why?” she asks. “I always give him what he wants.”

A movement on the aft deck above them alerts Bliss to someone boarding.

“Quick,” he implores. “Please come, Natalia.”

Splaying herself provocatively across the bed she mocks, “Why don't you take me?”

The girl's not particularly heavy, he judges, and considers forcefully bundling her into the bedclothes and carrying her off. Will she scream or put up a fight? he is wondering, when the shuffling of heavy footsteps signifies some sort of struggle going on above them and he decides to retreat.

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he cautions, as he grabs a sharp-ended metal comb off the dressing table and makes for the companionway. But he's trapped. A full-scale war is raging on the main deck at the top of the stairs. Johnson and his gorilla are struggling with the young man while fighting off his mother.

Worrying that the bodyguard may be the surgeon who operated on Grimes, Bliss doesn't fancy being found anywhere near Johnson's naked girlfriend, but his only option is the escape hatch into the engine room. Squeezing himself into a dark corner behind a generator he waits for the commotion to die down.

The fleeting notion of snatching Natalia and carrying her ashore has him questioning his sanity, and he decides he'll be a winner if he manages to escape with his own life, let alone hers.

As the fuss in the passageway above subsides, Bliss stealthily arms himself with a heavy wrench and stands ready to pounce.

This is not fun, he thinks, and curses himself for getting caught up in something that is little more than a massive domestic debacle.

Approaching footsteps force him deep against the bulkhead, and he holds his breath as the hatch flies open.

“Where are you?” demands a distinctly English voice.

Natalia's told him, he thinks, as he readies to strike.

“I know you're there,” the searcher claims, but he's playing a master and Bliss stays silent.

Apparently satisfied, Johnson shuts the hatch, and Bliss listens to the retreating footsteps with a deep breath and decreasing pulse, but, trapped below decks until Johnson and his goon are safely tucked in their bunks, he settles down to wait. Ten minutes later he's shaken rigid as the port engine bursts to life.

“Shit!” he swears, realizing what it means, and moments later the second engine fires up.

The engine room is alive with sound, and the air vibrates as the propeller shafts start to spin. “I've got to get out of here,” he says to himself and heads for an escape ladder leading to a deck hatch. A swaying motion tells him the vessel is inching out of its berth as he struggles to unlatch the storm-proof catches, but the prospect of being taken for a one-way ride by a bunch of psychos urges him on. Fighting to undo the resilient fasteners he feels the bow starting to rise as the boat heads towards
the port entrance. He doesn't relish the idea of swimming far in the dark waters, although he doesn't fancy swimming in the harbour, either.
You can't swim here — you can only go through the motions
, some enviro-activist had spray-painted along part of the harbour wall, and Bliss has seen hard evidence several times.

Caught by the wind, the hatch flies out of his hand, and he leaps onto the side deck just as the vessel rounds the harbour light and throttles out to sea. With barely a thought to the consequences he leaps over the rail, and as the boat rips through the narrow harbour entrance he is immediately swamped by the vessel's burgeoning wake. The wet clothes and pottery-filled pockets instantly drag him under. Disorientated in the dark water, he takes several seconds to reach the surface, and then the wind-whipped waves in the bay dunk him repeatedly as he fights to stay afloat. It's the weight of the workman's overall, he realizes, and, after struggling to free himself, he finally jettisons it in relief. A millisecond later, as he takes his first good breath, he remembers the amphorae shards and dives frantically to retrieve the sodden clothing and salvage his find.

Half an hour later he's back in the apartment's garden surveying the aftermath of Johnson's rampage. The carcass of the dead dog has taken the place of the fallen lemon, and the dull, sightless eyes accuse him of fatal procrastination. You should have done something to prevent this, the pathetic sight proclaims, and his spirits sink with the realization that if Natalia Grimes's naked body washes up on a beach one day soon he will be responsible for that, as well.