“Wait a minute ⦔ begins Edwards, but he's talking to himself.
It's Friday and it's Bliss's final poet's day as he walks out of Scotland Yard a couple of hours after he walked in.
Piss off early, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life
, he tells himself, and after his treatment at the hands of Fox he sees no reason to prolong his old life a moment longer. He has said his farewells and is booked on the five o'clock flight to Nice, but the idea of hanging around London with both Edwards and Fox on the prowl doesn't appeal, so, as he takes the tube home to pack for a few days in Provence, he makes plans for lunch in Westchester with a very old friend.
Daphne Lovelace is still in hospital, although she has the okay to go home. Trina is to collect her after lunch, but now the veteran has a visitor. Social worker Tony Oswald hasn't caught on to fact that his client's apparent psychosis was her ticket to St. Michael's and is explaining the arrangements he has made for a homecare nurse to call in on her a few days each week.
“I really don't need anyone. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much,” remonstrates Daphne, but her convincing portrayal of a demented old lady will haunt Oswald for some time to come.
“And I've had a word with the animal control people at the Council,” he continues, changing the subject before she
can object further. “They're going to serve a notice on Mr. Jenkins to stop his dogs annoying you or he'll have to get rid of them.”
The dogs, and especially the garden fence between Daphne's property and her neighbours', are also matters of concern to Trina as she and Misty work on the preparations for Daphne's homecoming party.
“I don't mind paying for the materials to fix it,” explains Trina, while Misty rolls the pastry for banana cream pies.
“Okay,” says Misty as she dusts flour off her hands, and then she opens the back door and yells at her sons, who are helping the gardener straighten some of the plants damaged by the dogs. “Tell your dad to get his lazy backside over here.”
“Right, Mum.”
“And tell 'im to turn that friggin' stereo down. It's givin' me a friggin' headache.”
“That will be Mother and Mavis,” says Trina as she hears the front doorbell.
“We've got eleven adults and fourteen children,” says Mavis proudly as she wheels Winifred into the kitchen. “And that doesn't include us and the Jenkinses.”
“I want to come as well,” pipes up Trina's mother from her chair, although she's not entirely sure what she is volunteering for. Her feet have recovered, and in truth, she can hobble around perfectly well. But she has grown attached to the wheelchair and the attention it brings, and she delights in recounting far-fetched tales of the trials and torments of her great pilgrimage, insisting, “The El Camino ruined my feet.”
“The house is looking wonderful, Trina,” says Mavis as she sneaks a freshly made chocolate cookie. “Daphne will be so happy.”
“Thanks to Misty and her boys,” says Trina as she throws her arm around the young neighbour's shoulder, but much of the credit is due to the painters and the professional tradesmen Trina hired to smarten up the property.
Professional burglars are in many ways similar to the tradesmen who spruced up Daphne's house. Most work quickly and efficiently and leave the premises as neat and tidy as when they started. However, the team who turned David Bliss's house upside down in search of the mind machine made sure their visit wasn't overlooked.
“They've totally wrecked the place,” Bliss whinges to his son-in-law by phone as he gets a glimpse of daily life in Kandahar and Kirkik. “The bastards smashed the lock off the door and trashed the place.”
“Vandals?” queries Bryan, but he knows better.
“No. The Americans. Lefty and bloody Pimple,” Bliss fumes as he picks through the wreckage in his front hallway. Then an unopened envelope catches his eye amongst the debris.
“Or Edwards,” suggests Bryan, revealing that his friend in the fingerprint department has matched Edwards' prints on Daisy's photograph to some he found on the transceiver.
“I expected that,” says Bliss. “I bet Fox nicked the thing from my cupboard and dropped it on Edwards' desk, and he gave it back to the dynamic duo.”
“What do we do now?” asks Bryan, and Bliss makes him wait a few moments while he rips open the envelope.
“You'd better dump the damn thing on Fox's doorstep,” Bliss replies eventually, but his mind is in turmoil as he reads and rereads the note, and he is barely able to keep his voice straight. “They won't quit till they get it back.”
“You're giving up?” Bryan says in amazement, but his father-in-law is uncharacteristically blasé, explaining that his twenty-eight years of fighting criminals and idiots on both sides of the thin blue line officially ends in just six hours and he can't be bothered to pursue the matter for another moment.
“D'ye know, Peter,” says Bliss resignedly, “I've been trying to pin something on Edwards for years, and each time I was sure I'd nailed him he pulled a dodge and I ended up back where I started. Everyone knows he's a sack of you-know-what, but when he looks in the mirror he sees a rose, and I'll just have to accept that.”
“Are you sure that you are all right, Dave?”
“Yes, Peter. I know it's difficult to believe,” says Bliss. Then he nonchalantly adds, “In any case, I've just sold my first book.”
“What?”
“We believe that your historical narrative,
The Truth Behind the Mask
, has bestseller potential,” Bliss reads at speed, before saying that the publisher wants a meeting to discuss terms as soon as possible.
“Bestseller! That's brilliant, Dave.”
“I know. I can't believe it myself,” admits Bliss as he continually rereads the note. Then he has an idea. “Why don't you borrow Hoskins's screwdriver, take the thing apart, and lose one or two pieces before you give it back.”
“That's sneaky,” laughs Bryan, but he agrees, guessing that it might give Fox and Edwards a headache once they've returned it to the CIA.
“That'll make up for the headache they gave Phil and me,” says Bliss as he puts down the phone to take another look at the publisher's letter.
“Bestseller potential,” he muses, and he is still rolling the title of his book off his tongue ten minutes later when he has waded through the wreckage to find enough clothes for his trip.
“
The Truth Behind the Mask
, by David Anthony Bliss,” he recites again and again as he drives half a dozen hefty screws into the frame of his front door, then, with a hastily packed bag and a broad grin, he takes off to Westchester en route to an entirely new world.
The report of the recovery of the Mk-Ultra equipment reaches Lefty and Pimple in Langley, Virginia, just as Bliss pulls into the entrance of Westchester General, and their euphoria will last until someone switches it on.
“I just made a few alterations,” Bryan tells Bliss when he calls his son-in-law to find out what happened, explaining that no one could accuse him of stealing if he merely rejigged some of the wiring. “I had a few bits and pieces left over from when I tried fixing my computer, so I thought, why waste them?”
“David,” calls Daphne, taking off her broad-rimmed sun hat and gaily waving to him from a chair in the hospital garden as he gets out of his car.
“You soon got your memory back,” he says, hugging her warmly. “You're just a big fraud.”
“I know,” she says as she buries her nose in the bouquet of roses he presents to her. “But I was so sure they were up to no good at that St. Michael's place.”
“You should have told me.”
“I did,” she reminds him reproachfully. “I tried telling everyone, and no one would listen.”
“Sorry. I had a lot on my mind,” he says. “But Samantha tells me that nothing was going on at the home after all.”
“This was,” replies Daphne, pointing to the fading bruise on her face. But she has already been advised by P.C. Joveneski that, because of the lack of corroborative evidence, they won't be taking any further action.
“Amelia heard that woman knocking me about,” continues the elderly patient bitterly, suggesting that she doesn't agree with the verdict, but Bliss can only commiserate, knowing that the defence would have a field day with the
young girl in the witness box, accusing her of sour grapes because she was fired.
“It's very annoying,” he says in sympathy, guessing that his nose will soon be the colour of his elderly friend's cheek and he will be equally robbed of legal recourse.
“At least I managed to get out of there alive,” she carries on with a note of triumph, knowing that she succeeded where so many others have failed.
“I'm not surprised,” chuckles Bliss. “If I recall rightly, you once saved your neck with a packet of chocolate digestives.”
“You remembered,” she laughs, and then she has a quizzical look in her eye as she says, “You seem very chirpy today. Did you win the lottery or something?”
“In a way â” starts Bliss, with both his retirement and his book deal on the tip of his tongue, but Amelia Brimble interrupts.
“Hi, Daffy,” calls the young girl excitedly as she rushes across the lawn. “I brought a visitor to cheer you up.”
Camilla, Amelia's tabby, leaps from her arms straight into Daphne's lap and begins washing.
“Oh. She loves you, Daffy,” burbles the teenager as she simultaneously strokes Daphne and her cat, and then, as if entirely unplanned, she says, “Why don't you keep her for a while, Daffy?”
“Oh. I couldn't ⦔
“Just until Missie Rouge comes home.”
“I'm not sure ⦔
“I could visit ⦔ she chatters on, and Bliss stands back and smiles at the happy tableau. Then Trina Button shows up and digs him in the ribs.
“Look at Daphne's face. See what they did to her. You wouldn't listen to me. I told you they were keeping her prisoner and drugging her. Nobody ever listens ⦠Oh! What happened to your nose?”
“I fell over,” Bliss is trying to say as Trina ditches him in favour of Amelia's cat.
“Oh, what a pretty pussy,” she coos.
“Daffy's gonna look after her, aren't you?” says Amelia proudly, and Bliss feels himself fading from the picture as three generations of women come together over the purring young tabby.
“I suppose I'd better be off,” he says. “I've got to be at Heathrow in an hour. I just wanted to tell you ⦔
“Ooh, look at her little tiny white feet,” mews Daphne as the others sigh in unison, and Bliss comes to the realization that being an author can't compare with having whiskers and a fluffy tail, so he slips away to catch his flight.
“Time to get you home,” says Trina, once Daphne has been given her freedom, and she puts out an arm for the old warhorse.
“I can manage on my own, thank you,” says Daphne, levering herself out of the chair. “She didn't break my legs.”
“Okay,” says Trina, leading the way to her car. “Amelia and Camilla in the back and you can drive.”
“I can't ⦔ starts Daphne, then she laughs. “Very funny, Trina.”
“I don't even wanna look at that place,” says Amelia as they approach St. Michael's on their way home from the hospital, and Daphne is in agreement.
“I still can't understand it,” she mutters aloud. “I'm not usually wrong about people.”
“How could I have been so wrong?” Anne McGregor asks herself for the
n
th time since Hilda Fitzgerald's file hit her desk at breakfast time, and then she smartens herself up at the sound of a knock on her office door.
“Detective Chief Superintendent Malloy from Liverpool, ma'am,” says Joan Joveneski as Malloy and four of his most senior detectives enter.
Malloy is young for his rank, barely forty, and he bristles with enthusiasm as he shuns the offer of coffee and scans the fingerprints and photographs that McGregor lays out for him.
“Well, well, well,” he muses contentedly as he passes the evidence to his juniors and turns to McGregor. “So what's the plan, Superintendent?”
In the six hours since Hilda Fitzgerald set off the alarm on the Police National Computer, a team of social workers have been assembled and briefed, twenty off-duty officers have cursed the invention of cellphones and pagers, and a dozen detectives have wandered up and down the streets surrounding St. Michael's looking like lost tourists.
It's exactly 3:00 p.m. when Daphne arrives home. Her celebrity as the pensioner who was kidnapped from St. Michael's has not been tarnished by the suggestion that she engineered her own escape, and more than half of the street's residents have turned up for the victory party.
“Welcome Home, Daphne,” reads the banner outside her freshly painted home, while young couples who previously took little notice of the dapper lady with a hat for every occasion now conjure up fond memories as they stand with their children beside tables laden with cakes, sandwiches, and banana cream pies and applaud her arrival.
“I never realized she had the O.B.E. till I saw it in the paper,” admits one, while others recall the way that she would always stop to smell their roses or say hello to the children.
As a beaming Daphne steps out of Trina's car in Westchester, David Bliss plonks his bag on the check-in scales at Heathrow Airport, while in the same terminal Isabel Semaurino, arriving from Florence, is collecting her bag from a carousel. And at St. Michael's Church of
England Home for the Elderly, a cavalcade of police and social services cars draw up to the front door.
“Mr. Davenport. Do you know a woman by the name of Hilda Williams?” asks D.C.S. Malloy, head of the Merseyside Police, Criminal Investigation Department, once the home's manager has been cornered in his office.