LITMIR.BIZ

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on a par with diddling little children — and arranged a welcome party for him in the prison's shower room.

      By Monday morning, when Stapleton had been due to appear in Magistrate's Court for a further remand hearing, Bliss was at Westchester Police Station conferring with Inspector Mainsbridge.

      "I've just heard that your prisoner's had a very nasty accident in jail," said Mainsbridge, meeting his colleague in the foyer.

      "Oh God! I feared that might happen," admitted Bliss as they made their way to Mainsbridge's office. "I bet every old lag in the country has a granny like Minnie, or they'd like to have one. The screws should have realized that was a possibility. They should have put him in segregation, or on the hospital wing."

      "The trouble is that the guards have all got grannies as well, Dave," Mainsbridge said as he motioned Bliss to a chair, adding, "I thought you would have been glad to be back at the Yard this morning,"

      "I'd cleared my desk to make way for Samantha's wedding," Bliss explained, "so a few extra days won't make a great deal of difference. And I can't help feeling we've missed something, Mick," he continued. "It just doesn't make sense for Stapleton to have legged it with that much money and then wander the streets in the rain. Why wasn't he getting pissed with his mates or beetling off to Paris for the weekend?"

      Bliss and Mainsbridge got an answer, of sorts, a few minutes later when Stapleton's lawyer raised himself to a lofty five-foot-three in front of the cameras outside the empty courtroom.

      "My client saw the deceased, Mrs. Minnie Elizabeth Dennon, in a very distressed state," Goldsmith meticulously explained. "He was concerned about her, so, in a spirit of altruism rarely seen in young people today, he followed her to the railway station to simply make sure she was all right. When he realized that she was standing too close to the edge of the platform for safety, he rushed to restrain her, to save her life, but unfortunately he only managed to grab hold of her bag."

      "What a load of twaddle," Mainsbridge whispered in Bliss's ear as they watched on one of the station's sets.

      "As a result of precipitous action by the police," Goldsmith continued smarmily, "and before they had established the full facts of this case, my client had been arrested and incarcerated in a penal establishment where he was seriously assaulted and sodomized."

      "Serves the little bugger right," muttered Mains-bridge, and seemed unconcerned as Goldsmith had wrapped up his address by saying, "It is my client's intention to take action against the officers involved for unlawful arrest and unreasonable detention, and to demand a public enquiry into the laxity of the prison service."

      "The Lord gave…" continues the bishop with reverence, "… and the Lord hath taken away." Though Bliss can't help wondering if it might not be more appropriate to hold the railway company responsible for that.

      "Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust," concludes the bishop, and Daphne sniffs loudly as the coffin containing a substantial amount of Minnie is slowly wheeled past them on her way to her final resting place.

      "I hate to say it, David," says Daphne, as she takes Bliss's arm to escort the entourage out of the cathedral to the waiting hearse, "but I can't help feeling that young Master Stapleton got exactly what he deserved. Poor Minnie was so looking forward to that trip."

      "Obviously," responds Bliss, and for that reason he hunts out D.I. Mainsbridge from amongst the throng of mourners.

      "Let's have another look at that tape from the railway station, Mike," says Bliss. "It's not that I buy Stapleton's mouthpiece's story, but something doesn't add up here."

      "What?"

      "Well," starts Bliss, "we have the remains of the deceased's coat, her handbag and her purse. Yet we don't have a railway ticket."

      "And…?"

      "I've checked at the station. There is no record of anyone buying a ticket around that time."

      "So…?"

      "So, what was she doing there without a ticket?"

      "Meeting someone, perhaps."

      "Then they should have shown up on the next train."

      "Stapleton could have stolen the ticket with the money…"

      "If he stole the money."

      "But, if he didn't, who did?"

      The missing money is still plaguing Bliss an hour later as he and Mainsbridge rerun the digitalized version of the surveillance tape for the nth time.

      "It doesn't look as though her bag's particularly stuffed," says Bliss, peering closely as a smudgy figure moves across the platform one frame at a time.

      "Ten grand in big bills doesn't take much space, Dave."

      "True," agrees Bliss, then he follows Stapleton's progress as the shadowy teenager creeps out of the darkness and begins his run.

      "See," explains Mainsbridge, pausing the image. "She starts to turn just as he reaches for her bag, then, ‘Bang!'"

      "He reckoned she jumped."

      "I s'pose it's possible," admits Mainsbridge. "It's dark, foggy. The old bird is miles away in Kathmandu or Kuala Lumpur. He sneaks up behind her at a run and scares the crap out of her — ‘Boom!' — she leaps like a rabbit with a shotgun shell up its bum."

      "So, you think he might not have planned it."

      "Hey, Dave. Don't worry. It's still manslaughter, even if he gets away with murder, and it won't matter a monkey's fart how much steam his mouthpiece blows."

      A phone call cuts into their conversation, and Mainsbridge hands the receiver to Bliss. "It's a Chief Superintendent Edwards for you, Dave."

      Bliss's face falls as he briefly cups his hand over the mouthpiece and mutters, "Damn!"

      "Dave, old chap…" explodes Edwards with uncharacteristic bonhomie. "Congratulations — that was a good collar, well done."

      "Thank you…"

      "What's all this crap from his lawyer? Is he smoking something, or is he talking out of his backside?"

      "Well, there are a few —"

      "Rubbish, Dave. I've seen the video. Christ! The whole damn world's seen the video. It's cut and dried — nail the nasty little bastard's bollocks to the floor."

      "It's just that —"

      "Like I said, Dave, nice one." Then his tone takes on a sarcastic edge. "By the way, are you still working for us, or have you joined the turnip crunchers permanently?"

      "I was just waiting for the funeral…"

      "Okay. I'll expect to see you first thing tomorrow morning, then."

      "Yes —" Bliss starts, but the line is dead and he's still shaking his head as he replaces the receiver.

      "Who the hell was that?" queries Mainsbridge.

      "Edwards," replies Bliss. "Senior delegate of the sore-backside brigade at H.Q. He's bleating about me still being here. I've told Daphne that I'll go with her to the bank to sort out Minnie's affairs later this afternoon, but after that I'll have to get back to the big house."

      "No sweat, Dave. They reckon it'll be weeks before Stapleton's fit to plead. Anyway, I've got all the evidence I need."

      Mark Anderson, Minnie's bank manager, is well aware of his customer's demise but, other than offering his condolences, he's unwilling to discuss her affairs with anyone, even a chief inspector from Scotland Yard, until Daphne puts the bite on him. Staring him coldly in the eye, she queries, "Aren't you the Mark Anderson who grew up on Batsford Street?"

      "Yes," he responds cagily.

      "I thought I recognized you," says Daphne triumphantly, and then her face sours as she closely scrutinizes him. "That's the trouble with small towns, Mark. I'm sure we all do things when we're teenagers that we hope will be forgotten… although I doubt that Detective Chief

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