James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“You’re gorgeous, Samantha. I’d really like to make love with you.”

“But you already have,” she replied, leaving him questioning his memory.

“Did I miss something?”

“Close your eyes again,” she commanded, squirming back across the sand to gently stroke his forehead, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his face as her soft sing-song voice played in his ears. “Love is what happens in here, Dave — in your mind,” she whispered. “Surely you saw me slide out of my bathing suit: you must’ve seen my boobs when they slipped free — wasn’t that your tongue …?”

“ Mmmm — You were very good, Dave,” she continued after a pause, her deep breathing soothing him hypnotically. “And wasn’t that your hand between my thighs,” she went on, sighing breathlessly in his ear. “And your finger playing a tune on my violin … I could feel it … gentle but firm; soft yet hard … And couldn’t you feel yourself inside me — throbbing and pulsing … It was wonderful, Dave … Oh, so big; so strong; so … Mmmm … Didn’t you hear the angels singing and the trumpets sounding?” He smiled at the sensual imagery and she kissed him lusciously. “You see, we did make love,” she breathed softly into his mouth. “And the nicest thing is we could do it all over again the next time.”

Opening his eyes, half afraid she was an illusion, he found himself staring straight into hers. “Do you mean that — a next time?” he asked. “Do you mean — for real?”

“I don’t think you’ve been listening,” she said, looking him closely in the eye and gently tapping his temple. “What’s real is what’s in here, Dave — what you believe — what your mind tells you is the truth.”

“But what about you?”

“It was good for me too,” she laughed.

“Are you teasing me, Ms. Holingsworth?”

“Maybe,” she laughed. “Or maybe you’re teasing yourself.”

“How did you do that?” he asked as they dressed. “It felt as though your fingers were right inside me.”

“I trained professionally,” she explained, while using the blanket as a change tent. “I’ve even got a certificate somewhere.”

“So — why are you in the police force?”

“I did six months as a massage therapist,” she replied as if it had been a prison sentence, asking rhetorically. “How many lives do you think I saved? How many times did I go home at the end of the day thinking I’d made my little corner a safer, nicer place?”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to pick dead bodies off the beach — or stand at someone’s kitchen table watching them die a little as you tell them their Mum, Dad or little kid is lying on a slab at the morgue.”

“Nobody said the police was perfect, Dave. I just get more satisfaction than I did pummelling flabby backsides and sweaty armpits. Most of the time I was up to my elbows in some dirty-minded fat geezer with bigger tits than mine, and I knew exactly what was going through his mind — not that he stood the remotest chance.”

“Well, I know what was going through my mind,” Bliss said, wondering if he qualified as dirty-minded.

She turned and kissed him tenderly. “Yeah — but you’re not fat and greasy.”

“So what’s happening with the murder case now?” asked Samantha as she drove him back to his car.

“Patterson’s pissing me about,” he complained, then revealed what had happened the previous afternoon when he’d asked if results on the duvet and syringe had come back from the laboratory.

“I’ll chase them up, Guv,” Patterson had said, making to pick up the phone.

“No — I’ll chase them up, Pat,” said Bliss, adding, “They might get a move on with an inspector’s boot up their ass. Which lab?”

The left half of Patterson’s face twitched violently as he leafed through a stack of papers mumbling, “I’ll have to look it up.”

“Look up what? Which lab did you send them to? — I can get the number.”

Putting his hand to his face he stilled the twitch and said, “Sorry, Guv. The courier must’ve forgot to take them.”

“What?” exploded Bliss. “You’ve been hanging on to that syringe for a week — this is a murder enquiry, Pat, not kids nicking sweets from Woolie’s.”

“Don’t blame me, Guv.”

“O.K. Where’s the paperwork?”

“Paperwork?” echoed Patterson.

“Sergeant — stop wasting my time. If the exhibits were packaged for transportation to the lab yesterday the paperwork would be ready to go with them, now where are the copies?”

Patterson needlessly hunted through his desk, muttering about the unreliability of couriers and the untrustworthiness of staff in general. “They seem to have disappeared,” he said finally, adding nervously, “Someone must’ve thrown them out.”

Bliss got the message. “Right, Sergeant — you will personally drive those samples to the lab now. You will grovel and beg and, if necessary, you will kiss the scheduler’s backside and lick his boots …”

“The scheduler’s a she, Sir.”

“Well it could be your lucky day then, Sergeant, but whatever you do, don’t come back here without results.”

“Right, Sir.”

“And the next time the dog eats your homework — bring me the dog. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Guv.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Samantha. “He pretty much ran that office before you arrived. Your predecessor spent more time knocking back scotch than knocking off villains, and Patterson wore his shoes for years — not that he kept them very clean, if you get my meaning.”

“I think I’m beginning to.”

“So. What are you planning to do about the bloke who’s trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know anymore. So far everything I’ve tried would qualify for the Guinness Book of Cock-ups . It started with the letters — when the first ones arrived I thought I’d just ignore him and he’d get fed up.”

“But he didn’t”

“He sent me the bomb instead,” agreed Bliss with a shake of his head, adding. “Plan B was to hide … just a week or so in a safe house until he was caught — but he wasn’t. Plan F …”

“Hold on,” she said. “What happened to C, D and E?”

“Impractical,” he said, dismissing them without consideration. “Anyway, F was to come here or some other equally out of the way place and hope he didn’t find out.”

“And he did?”

“Within days.”

“So what’s your plan now?” she asked, pulling away and looking to him for an answer.

“I’m not going to run …” he started, then stopped, realising it sounded foolish, and admitted that he no longer had a plan.

“You’ve got to have a plan, Dave,” she told him. “Life just sort of wanders aimlessly past if you don’t have a plan.”

“I used to have a plan but I somehow got off the path and I’ve been trying to find my way back ever since.”

“Stop!” she cried. “I’ve heard enough.”

“What?”

“You have to stop trying to find your way back. There must have been a reason why you were derailed. All you can do now is to make a new plan, and start again. You’ll never find your way back onto the old path, and if you do you won’t be satisfied with what you find at the end of it.”

“Go back and start all over again at my time of life.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

He looked deeply into her eyes. “I think it would be — with you.”

“Yeah … well don’t get your hopes up — I’ve been on my own a long time, and I’m quite happy not having to skivvy for man. Anyway, I’ve had more than my share of men using me as a dumping ground for their excess baggage.”