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and props her against the settee's arm.

      "What's this about a letter from Minnie?" Bliss asks, and her laughter turns to tears.

      "The stupid fucking — oops, sorry, Chief Inspector, sir," starts Daphne, then she pulls herself together and sits upright. "S'cuse me… Little Miss Potty Mouth…Where was I? Oh, yes. Silly billy — hah-hah, Minnie's a silly billy."

      She looks to Bliss, pleading for sympathy as her eyes fill up, and she sniffs loudly as she says, "She's a — She's a dead silly billy, David."

      "I know."

      "D'ye know… D'ye know… D'ye know what she did?"

      "No."

      "She's a silly — oops, I already said that… She… Are you sure you don't want a scotch?"

      "No, honestly —"

      "I think I'll have another."

      "Are you certain?"

      "No… No… Well, all right, just a teensy-weensy — hah-hah, teensy-weensy, teensy-weensy. Hah-hah, that's funny — teensy-weensy, teensy-weensy, teensy-weensy… That's funny, isn't it, Chief Constable?… Oops, now I've insulted you."

      "Daphne, love, what about Minnie?"

      "Stupid fuck — oh, I already said that. Look…" then she slides onto the floor and crawls towards the coffee table on all fours. Missie Rouge rises from the carpet, her red-haired hackles rising, and backs away warily as Daphne barks at the confused creature. "Woof-woof… woof-woof… hah-hah…"

      "Daphne…"

      "Oh, yes…" she says, raising herself onto her knees and saluting firmly. "Daphne Ophee… Ophee… Daphne Ophelia Lovelace, number 7311281 reporting, Mr. Chief Constable, sir."

      "What about Minnie?" demands Bliss.

      Daphne falls back to the floor and grasps a letter from the coffee table. "Wrong address," she says clearly as she holds the letter triumphantly aloft for a second, then she crashes headlong onto the carpet.

      "Oh, shit!" mutters Bliss as he rushes to her aid.

      Five minutes later, Daphne is in her bed, snoring loudly, and Bliss leaves her door wide open so that he can listen to the reassuring sound as he returns to the living room and Minnie's letter.

      My dear friend, starts the letter, as Bliss helps himself to a large scotch and carries on reading. I don't know how to tell you the bad news. I was so looking forward to seeing all those lovely places you're always talking about — you've been so lucky, but I'm afraid I just got carried away and I don't think I can afford it now. I know I've let you down, but please try to forgive me. You're the only friend I have and I can't bear the thought that I've hurt you. Please forgive me.

      "‘Ms. D. Lovelace, 27 Stonebridge Road,'" says Bliss aloud as he reads Minnie's handwriting off the envelope, and he sees the problem immediately. It's Stone bank, he says to himself, then he checks the postmark and realizes that the letter has been bouncing around the sorting office for over a week.

      "It sounds suspiciously like a suicide note," Bliss is telling Donaldson by phone a few minutes later, as he relays the letter's contents. Which leaves us with something of an embarrassment, he thinks, though he doesn't say it, realizing that Donaldson is quite capable of working out the ramifications for himself.

      "Why the hell did she book that trip if she knew she couldn't afford it?" soliloquizes Donaldson as he looks for a scapegoat while Bliss is wondering who is going to tell the media, the coroner and Stapleton's lawyer that the young man may not only be innocent but may actually be a hero, that Minnie Dennon may well have jumped?

      "The media will bloody love this, Dave," fumes Donaldson, on the same page as Bliss. "I can see the headlines now. I mean, they've made such a big deal about her death, they'll look more stupid than us if they have to admit that Stapleton's innocent." Then he perks up and grasps at straws. "Of course, we don't know for sure that she planned it. And the boy certainly stole her purse."

      "Or simply kept hold of it because he was traumatized," adds Bliss, snapping the straw.

      "Thanks, Dave. I needed that," says Donaldson. "Can we discuss this over breakfast?"

      "Sorry, guv. I have to leave at seven-thirty, assuming Daphne's slept it off by then. I'll call you from the office."

      Seven-thirty sees the early-morning sun streaming into Daphne's living room, but if Daphne is awake, she's not co-operating. She had slipped to the bathroom at seven o'clock, and Bliss had put the kettle on with a sigh of relief, but her bedroom door had gently closed a few minutes later, and she still hasn't resurfaced.

      I bet she's waiting for me to leave, thinks Bliss, and he is tempted to do so, but the morning television news changes his mind when it is revealed that thirteen pensioners have killed themselves overnight in different parts of the country. "This brings to twenty-seven the number of seniors who have taken their own lives in the past three days alone," the newscaster says as she introduces a spokeswoman for Age Concern, saying, "I understand agencies like yours are becoming disturbed at this apparent epidemic…"

      This is just synchronicity, he tries telling himself, though can't shake off the feeling that Minnie's death may have somehow sparked a series of suicides by elderly people.

      By nine o'clock he's pacing. Daphne has obviously been awake for some time and he's beginning to wonder how long she can hide.

      I could take her a cup of tea, he thinks, but he convinces himself that it might be better if she were to deal with her grief in her own way. In any case, he has his own grief to deal with in the form of Chief Superintendent Edwards.

      "Good morning, sir," he says brightly as Edwards answers his phone at first ring.

      "Ah, the hero's return."

      "Actually —"

      "Just give me five minutes, then pop along and see me, will you, David. I've got something that I think you're going to enjoy."

      "Bad news, I'm afraid, sir," says Bliss, bracing for the explosion. "I didn't quite make it back last night."

      "David," calls a pathetic voice from the top of the stairs, "are you on the telephone?"

      "Can I call you back?" whispers Bliss, not wanting Daphne to overhear, but Edwards is seething.

      "No, you f'kin well can't —" he's shouting as Bliss mutters, "Sorry — battery's dead," and hits the "off" button.

      The degree of Daphne's degeneration is alarming. Without her false teeth and her customary blush of makeup, she has gained thirty years, and her puffy bloodshot eyes merely add to her age.

      "You should stay in bed," says Bliss, guiding her back to the bedroom. "I'll bring you a cup of Keemun tea."

      "I'll be all right," she says, but her tone lacks conviction. "Maybe an Aspirin."

      "I'll find some," he tells her as she slumps onto the bed.

      "You do know what that letter means, don't you?" she says, focusing on him for the first time and expecting a response.

      "Well, I don't know…" he waffles, but she's clearly reached her own conclusion and doesn't want to be contradicted.

      "David. You've no idea how many deaths I've had to deal with," she says, her wounded conscience dragging her down. "I've lurched from funeral to funeral my whole life, and I've arranged quite a few of them in one way or another."

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