James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“I didn’t think it would break that easily.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Honestly, Sam.”

She stopped with such purpose he heard the squeal of shoes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry … I … I didn’t …”

“My name is Samantha,” she continued, with a resolve that spoke of past traumas and left a question in the air which she defied him to ask.

He didn’t ask. “Sorry, Samantha .”

She lightened immediately and bounced back to his side as they made for his car.

“Breakfast then,” he said, assigning the contraction of her name to a past lover — one of the insidious dead relationships she’d spoken of — and headed for the restaurant where he’d met the Westchester Gazette reporter.

“My Dad always called me Sam,” she admitted sheepishly without prompting, after a few minutes of awkward silence in the car. “It’s sort of special.”

He smiled warmly, “I know how he feels. I call my daughter Sam and it means such a lot to me.”

If he couldn’t see the darkness in her face, he certainly felt the sudden chill in the air and knew the cause. “Bugger,” he said under his breath. “I’ve said the wrong thing again.”

Now what? he worried, as the ragged edge of the town gave way to rolling hills and hawthorn hedges of the countryside, and the oppressive silence became deafening. He looked at the radio, dismissed it as too obvious, and opened his window to the rush of wind. I’ll have to say something in a minute, he thought, as he slowed at the sign, “The Bacon Butty — all day breakfasts,” but Samantha beat him to it.

“There’s Mason’s Volvo,” she said, with so little surprise she might have been pointing out a pigeon or a pony.

It was just pulling out of the car park. “Gotcha,” shouted Bliss, locking his back wheels in a 180° spin, shooting off after it.

Samantha spun her head around. “Isn’t that Sergeant Patterson?” she asked, amazed, seeing a figure coming out the cafe.

“Where? Are you sure?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only met him once or twice

Bliss stared deeply into his mirror but the man’s image had already shrunk to an unrecognisable size. “Could’ve been anyone,” he muttered.

They caught up to the small blue hatchback in seconds and Bliss mentally confirmed the number. “That’s him,” he breathed, as if he had never expected it to be, then, pulling alongside at a junction, he got a close look at the driver. “It’s not him — not Mandy’s killer,” he said, full of disappointment.

“Of course it’s not,” said Samantha, with a touch of aggravation. “It’s Bomber Mason.”

“I know,” he said. “But haven’t you ever got an idea into your head and can’t shift it even when the truth is staring you in the face?”

“Is this deja-vu or have we had this conversation before?”

“Oh yes. I forgot — Your childish faith in the existence of Santa Claus.”

The Volvo was speeding up, the driver looking nervously in his mirror.

“He’s spotted us,” said Bliss

“Not surprising — any closer and you’ll be up his exhaust pipe.”

An hour later Superintendent Donaldson sat at his desk keeping half a dozen executive toys in motion simultaneously. Samantha, sitting alongside Bliss, was ready to scream “for Christ’s sake, stop that” when a timid tap presaged the entrance of Detective Sergeant Patterson.

“Come in,” shouted Donaldson with ill-concealed tetchiness.

“You wanted to see me, Guv,” he began, then paled to marble as the blood drained from his face. “Mr. Bliss,” he breathed in disbelief.

“Sit-down-Patterson,” ordered Donaldson, stringing the words together into a single command.

“Sir …?”

“I said sit.”

He sat.

“You know Sergeant Holingsworth from Blenheim-on-sea I understand.”

Patterson’s brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at Samantha. “No. I don’t think we’ve met …”

“Take a good look,” said Donaldson with uncharacteristic fierceness, not waiting for the other man to finish.

“What is this?” Patterson demanded, rising and looking at Bliss for some sort of explanation. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I said — sit down, Sergeant. I won’t tell you again.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Walk out that door and I’ll arrest you myself.”

“Arrest … What for? I ain’t done nuvving.”

Donaldson was unyielding. “Sergeant Patterson — one more time — the very last time. Do you recognise Sergeant Holingsworth?”

Patterson wavered. It was obvious he’d missed something important but couldn’t grasp it. “No, Sir.”

“You don’t recognise her from the description?”

“What description?”

“The one that Bomber Mason gave you.”

“Patterson looked as though he’d crapped in his pants,” Samantha laughed later as she shared lunch with Bliss and Donaldson at The Mitre Hotel.

“So did Mason when he had his accident,” laughed Bliss as he downed a third celebratory scotch.

Bomber Mason’s car accident, at the time it occurred, surprised only Bomber Mason. Bliss and Samantha knew exactly what was coming and were braced for it, though it had not been easy to arrange.

“Have you ever had a car crash?” Bliss had said, revealing his intention as they tailgated the Volvo from the Bacon Butty toward Westchester.

“One or two.”

“Get ready — you’re going to have another.”

“Wait a minute, Dave,” she said, pulling her cell-phone out. “Why don’t I call up a uniform car to stop him.”

“On what grounds? That Daphne said he’d parked in her street a few times; that a similar vehicle might have followed me to London?”

She took a deep breath and put the phone down. “You’re right, but it’ll play havoc with your insurance.”

“I’ll risk it. Anyway, it’s a hire car.”

“They’ll love you.”

“You should have seen Mason’s face,” said Samantha to Donaldson between bites of pate, “He didn’t know what had hit him. Dave was brilliant. ‘My dear, Sir, I am so sorry,’ he said, helping him out of the wrecked Volvo. Mason didn’t know whether he’d been stung, screwed or stuffed. Wham!” she laughed, “We’d rammed him straight up the ass and smacked him into a lamp post.”

The “accident” had been considerably more difficult to engineer than Bliss had envisaged. “He’s going too bloody fast,” he complained to Samantha as Mason tried to outpace them. “I want to shake him up a bit, not put him in hospital.”

“Westchester’s coming up,” she said, sighting the 40 mile an hour sign. “He’ll have to slow down.”

“Slow down, you bastard,” breathed Bliss: Mind the pedestrians; watch the cyclist; slow down — slow down; mind that bus. That’s all I need — send him spinning out of control into a bus stop full of schoolkids — that really would finish my career.

“Look out!”

“Fuck — those lights changed quick.”

“Phew … that was close. You nearly got that Jag.”

“Sorry — Get ready, I’ll try to nail him at the next light … Hold tight. Hold tight … Shit!”

“What is it?”

A jaywalking pedestrian. “Watch the lights, you pillock,” screamed Bliss, adding, “And up yours!” in response to the finger.

The smiling Swedish receptionist, doubling as a lunchtime waitress, poured Bliss a glass of house Cabernet and waited for his approval. “Fine,” he nodded, then continued to Donaldson. “Samantha was the one who cracked Mason really. All I did was pull him out of the wreck …”

“And rub him down,” interrupted Samantha.

“Just making sure you’re not injured, Sir,” he had said to the dazed man as he checked him for weapons before throwing him across the bonnet with his arm up his back. “So, Bomber — why are you following me?”