LITMIR.BIZ

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nice, Mick," says Bliss. "You know — the way we're supposed to treat villains nowadays."

      "It's easy for you to say that, flying a desk at the Yard. Anyway, you spend so much time out of the bloody country you never have to deal with the bastard."

      "Tut-tut, Mick," cautions Bliss, though he has no intention of defending the senior officer. Neither is he going to defend his cushy job liaising with Interpol, though he's conscious of the jaundiced eyes of some of his colleagues.

      "So. How do you like shuffling papers, Dave?" asks Williams.

      "It's okay," Bliss says with little enthusiasm, "but I think I'd rather be out chasing scum."

      That's not true, Bliss acknowledges to himself as Williams wanders away. And he drains his Dom Pérignon, thinking, The truth is you'd rather be back in France, dancing in the Mediterranean moonlight with a certain Provençal popsy named Daisy. She's still there, waiting for you.

      I know.

       So, what's stopping you? You're forty-seven now. Your hair's beginning to slip south along with the flab.

      It's not that bad.

       Give it time.

      It's impossible and you know it. She'll never leave there — what about her mother and grandmother?

       Have you asked her?

      "David… David," a persistent voice breaks into his musings and he finds Daphne on his arm.

      "The band's starting. How about the first dance?"

      "Why not?" he says, though can't help wishing that it were Daisy.

      In Westchester, at the railway station, Minnie has plotted her path, and she slips past the "Staff Only" sign at the goods entrance and onto the platform without looking back. Her slight figure registers hazily on the platform's rain-fogged security camera in the signalman's box just off the end of Platform One, but is unseen by Robert Mackellar, the duty signalman, as he fills his teapot from a boiling kettle, turns up the radio and auditions for a baritone part with the Merthyr Tydfil male voice choir.

      "Tonight… Tonight… Won't be just any night…" he sings to an audience of switches and monitors high above the station's platforms.

      Minnie pauses for a second, the muffled tones of Mackellar's rich voice breaking into her thoughts, then, with her goal in sight, she puts her head down and presses onward against the rain. Behind her, Ronnie Stapleton briefly hesitates while deliberating on the wisdom of his chosen path, but he shakes off his unease and picks up Minnie's trail.

      "Tonight there will be no morning sun," continues Mackellar as a warning bell draws his attention to a flashing light on an indicator board.

      Seventeen-fifty-seven non-stopper, he says to himself, and he doesn't need to refer to the schedules to know that the London-bound express has entered his section and will whistle past at a hundred miles an hour in just over two minutes.

      The screech of the distant train's siren is lost in the maelstrom as Minnie heads for the platform's edge, while Stapleton keeps a careful eye on the surveillance camera and slips into the shadows of a giant billboard behind her.

      Above Minnie, Mackellar sings along with his regular routine: "Tonight… Tonight… I'll see my love tonight… Pour a cup of tea; check line is clear… And for us the stars will stop where they are… and ensure the road crossing barriers are going down… Today, the minutes seem like hours… and make sure the signals are working and showing correct colour; confirm all points are properly set… Oh moon…"

      A minute to go — time to add the milk and sugar. But a closer look at the station monitor shows a misty figure at the edge of one of the platforms, so he hits a button to wake up an electronic announcer.

      A tinny overhead speaker blares out a warning. "Attention all passengers on Platform One: please stand clear of the tracks." Minnie straightens herself, but doesn't back away.

      "… moon glow bright, and make this endless…"

      Stapleton inwardly smiles at his luck; all he needs is the tornado of a passing train to cover his attack, and he measures the distance with the care of a footballer in the run-up to a penalty kick.

      Minnie stands rigidly, her eyes focused on the past, and as she scans the faces of her childhood, she is deaf to the distant scream of the train's whistle and the singing of the rails.

      Stapleton loosens his muscles, checks his timing and confirms the platform is free of potential witnesses.

      A stream of urchins' faces play through Minnie's mind and she begins labelling them: Mark, Annie, Maureen… but the picture quickly fades.

      Signalman Mackellar's eyes are focused on Minnie's shadowy figure and his voice has a worried edge as he sings, "… and make this endless day… get away from the edge, lady. Please get away from the edge."

      Minnie's handsome young father is with her now, giving her and her mother a final hug as his troop train readies to pull away from the same platform in 1939. "Bye-bye, Dad," she cries aloud, her sobs lost to the wind, and the tears continue as she mourns her childhood innocence shattered by the ugliness of war. "Missing. Presumed dead," was all the telegram had said, and she had cried alongside her mother for days until a sad-faced captain confirmed that her father's body had been identified.

      Thirty seconds to go and Mackellar hits the warning again as his voice rises in crescendo. "… endless night… Tonight… Tonight."

      "Attention all passengers on Platform One: please stand clear of the tracks," repeats the ethereal messenger, but Minnie doesn't hear; she's dancing away her youth in the post-war euphoria, while her broken mother sits alone at home hoping the scars will heal.

      Ten paces, Stapleton estimates, as he limbers up with a couple of gentle bunny hops. Overhead, the track's power wires begin to hum, drawing Minnie closer as she walks up the aisle to stand by the side of a youthful Alfred Dennon.

      "I do," Minnie says aloud and inches forward as the siren of the approaching engine sends out a final warning.

      Stapleton is running now, co-ordinating his arrival with that of the oncoming train, and Mackellar has stopped his singing and is heading for the window.

      "Get back, lady. Get back!" screams Mackellar from his lofty perch, but his words are whisked into the wind.

      Stapleton falters for a fraction of a second as he tries to process the sound, but his path is set; his mind made up.

      The train's driver peers ahead through the murk, searching for the next signal, when Minnie and Stapleton come into view.

      "What the hell?" he starts with one hand on the whistle and the other reaching for the brake.

      Minnie is calm and is standing over Alfred's coffin now as the rush of the train's forward wind tears at her hair and the shriek of the whistle blasts her ears.

      "Goodbye, Alfred," she cries and leaps just as Stapleton grabs for her handbag.

      "Oh my God… Oh my God," screeches Mackellar as he throws all the signals to danger and races for the emergency phone.

       chapter two

      The Bluebottles, a six-piece combo of off-duty police officers, are hammering away on stage as Daphne Lovelace demonstrates the Twist to a handful of novitiates with more gusto than a sixties go-go dancer.

      Peter Bryan keeps an eye on her as he puts on a serious mien and takes Bliss to one side.

      "How the hell did they know where to find Daphne?" Bliss queries as soon as he's dispelled the notion that his son-in-law is pulling some sort of perverted joke.

      "Apparently the killer ditched Mrs. Dennon's handbag in a dumpster outside the station. They found her wedding invitation in it and put two and two together."

      "Oh

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