The Dave Bliss Quintet (4 page)

“What did he say?” asks another.

“Zhat he would rather eat his own pots,” he mutters weightily as he forks most of an onion and anchovy pie into his mouth, adding as he chomps, “He said … my food … tastes like
la ragougnasse —
pigswill — but what does he know? … He is
Anglais, n'est-ce pas?
”

“The potter is English?” Bliss queries of Jacques, surprised. “Is that true?”

Jacques shrugs. “Perhaps.”

The meeting disintegrates into animated discussion groups as the
président
, lacking answers, loses control, and a few passers-by become embroiled, most in defence of the popular artisan.

“What harm is he doing?” complains a young woman carrying a pot. “He makes me smile.”

“You'd think differently if you had to dig the shit out of the toilets every morning,” replies one of the hoteliers, although the look on the woman's face suggests otherwise.

The answer appears simple to Bliss. “Just put a notice on each toilet,” he mumbles, unaware Jacques is listening.

“Do you zhink zhey haven't tried?” he demands, one ear tuned to the proceedings. “
Autant pisser dans un violon.
How you say? It is as much use as pissing into a violin.”

“We don't say that,” protests Bliss, but he gets the drift.

The raised voices dwindle to an angry murmur as a pretty teenager walks by with two freshly minted pots. “Look what I've got,” she calls, beaming, balancing a pot in each hand as she rushes to show her prize to her father.

“Someone's gonna have a bunged-up toilet tomorrow,” mutters one of the hoteliers in French, and no one smiles.

“Oh-oh! Here comes another pot headed for zhe toilet,” says Jacques, giving Bliss a nudge. Bliss turns, spotting another outstretched hand heading their way, but then his eye is caught by a familiar face hovering in the mid-distance.

“
Excusez-moi
,” he says to Jacques, tosses a handful of coins on the table, and takes off.

She's gone by the time he gets there; Marcia, he's certain, was standing alone looking thoughtfully in his direction, but she has been swept into the wash of latenight promenaders, leaving him perplexed.

Bliss wakes to another postcard day and wanders, coffee in hand, onto the balcony. Short flecks of cloud, like fleece, turn puce in the first rays of the sun, then shift through red to pink before evaporating in the day's gathering warmth. Ahead, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkle with sun diamonds as the gentlest of breezes tickles the surface, and the mistral, foretold so forcefully by Jacques, is stillborn in the mountains.

“This isn't real,” he breathes, taking in the sweep of the bay, thinking: It's a setting for a movie, a scene of perfection even Hollywood would have difficulty matching. All that's missing is some mood music, he thinks, and, putting on his Walkman headphones, he flips through the small stack of Brubeck CDs he's picked up at a second-hand mart and stretches out on the padded lounger with “Summer Song” tinkling in his ears.

The top-floor apartment, arranged by Commander Richards, was found for him by Daisy, a bouncy real estate agent with a smile almost as broad as her hips.

“
C'est pas donné
,” she explained, expressively rubbing forefinger and thumb together under her nose as she ushered him in. But he didn't expect it to be cheap; didn't want it to be cheap. If this was an olive branch, he intended to squeeze it for all it was worth.

“It would be less expensive in winter,” she added, making him wonder what she had been told about his visit.

“It is very comfortable,
n'est-ce pas?
” she gushed, bouncing enthusiastically from room to room as she presented the stainless steel kitchen, pink marble bathroom, and beige leather study complete with computer. Then, with more than a twinkle in her eye, she led him from the lounge to the bedroom and trampolined her ample bottom on the king-size bed, giving him the distinct impression that, with very little encouragement, she could probably be induced to be included in the comforts.

“Very comfortable,” he parroted, leaving her testing the bed as he opened the shutters with a touch of a button. “A room with a view” was an understatement, he realized, as he stepped onto the balcony and found a scene culled from
South Pacific
— blue waters, palm trees, white sand beaches, and a cluster of verdant islands in the hazy distance.

Now, two weeks later, the beauty of the vista still stops him every time he gazes out from the balcony. This really could be Hollywood, he thinks, watching yachts in full sail glide silently across the horizon as if pulled on tracks, and he picks up his journal and makes an earnest start.

The shiny facade of the Côte d'Azur is painted gaily across the skyline, and the set is finished with a spectacular backdrop of snow-capped peaks. Across the bay, a cluster of green islands swim in the perfectly blue sea. Sardines and snorkellers dance together in underwater ballet, seagulls share sandwiches with sunbathers, and —

However, the veneer of respectability is thinly spread. Behind the front of Provençal knick-knack stores, pricey fish restaurants, and snotty perfumeries, the stockaded villas of gangland thugs, corporate raiders, stock market fraudsters, smugglers, tax evaders, and tax exiles take cover in the wooded hillsides. The sun, so sharp and welcoming on the beach, barely penetrates the thick cover of eucalyptus and pineapple palms. Heavy-set men loiter in the deep shade near fortified gateways, their bulky jackets singling them out from tourists and tradesmen alike. Powerful cars with deeply tinted windows glide almost soundlessly around contorted laneways, and spiked gates whirr open in recognition of electronic commands. The cars, and their equally shady occupants, slip out of sight as if they had never existed.

Putting down his pen, Bliss picks up his binoculars at the sight of an interloper in the peaceful bay. “It's huge,” he breathes, scanning the length of the five-decked yacht, guessing it to be at least forty metres. Must be worth a fortune, he is thinking, when the throaty sound of diesels bobbles across the water as the captain kicks up the power. The sleek vessel lifts her bow and takes off. “Wow!” he murmurs, guessing the mini-cruise liner capable of twenty knots or more as the bow wave rips a white scar across the blue silk sea.

With his concentration broken, he checks his watch and decides on another visit to the beach — maybe Marcia will resurface.

The elevator hums to a halt on the ground floor, and as he steps out the click of the door lock reminds him of the lemon. Damn — I forgot to check if it's still there, he is thinking, when he has an idea and steps back into the elevator. Thirty seconds later, the elevator, empty now, hums to a halt again, and as the door starts to open Bliss, out of breath, bursts out of the doorway from the emergency staircase further along the ground floor corridor.

The apartment door slams with enough force to shake the walls, but not fast enough to prevent him from glimpsing a long-haired woman. Youngish, he thinks, and blond; it's more an impression than an accurate assessment, but it's a start, and he resolves to try again later when she's lost her jumpiness.

The early morning beach still tingles with the freshness of dawn, and the lazy swell gently sighs as it falls onto the shore. Parallel lines pattern the sand where students have earned their croissants and coffee, raking away all trace of the previous day's fun in the sun before taking up their posts as mattress purveyors and beach waiters. A serious-faced couple wearing headphones swing metal detectors ahead of them as they search sightlessly for yesterday's pocket change.

Bliss has hardly taken in the scene when his quarry rushes breathlessly along the beach. “He's gone. He's gone,” screeches Marcia, her silk scarf still flying.

“Slow down — slow down,” he implores. “Who's gone? Why are you telling me?”

“Aren't you …?” she begins, her eyes questing deeply.

“Aren't I whom?” he demands, determined to force her hand, mindful of Richards's warning to give away nothing without the password.

Marcia, looking confused, starts to turn away. “Sorry, I —”

“Hang on,” says Bliss, and the expectancy in his look gives her a clue.

“Bingo,” she explodes, almost shouting the prearranged codeword.

The meeting is brief, leaving Bliss with more questions than answers. Marcia will say little beyond the fact that the man he seeks has suddenly upped anchor. “He'll kill me,” she repeats several times, her eyes as skittish as a doe's on a freeway verge.

“Let me help,” he starts, taking a firm grip on her arm to stop her from running.

“Tonight,” she says, pulling free. “Go to the same bar tonight and if it's safe I'll talk to you.”

“It was you!” he exclaims, but she's gone, walking purposefully away.

A couple of sixty-year-olds skip along the promenade with the agility of teens, rejuvenated by the newly risen sun, their years whisked away on the sea breeze, and Bliss smiles. But his smile is in relief that, after two weeks of soaking up the sun and ridiculously cheap
vin rouge
at the taxpayers' expense, there is finally some substance to the case.

His customary morning stroll to the
boulangerie
for
un petit pain au raisins secs —
a sticky bun shaped like an escargot and stuffed with soft raisins — takes him along the beach road, and he walks in a daze, meditating over his meeting with Marcia. She's scared shitless, he is thinking, when a car skims by, close and fast, and
startles him. “That's Edwards,” he breathes in disbelief, instantly recognizing the driver. Or was it? The car, speeding like all others, has rounded the bend before he's pulled himself together sufficiently to take the number. Disorientated by concern, he passes the bakery and heads directly for the supermarket.

The cart finds it own way as he idly plucks groceries from shelf and bin. Three jars of salted anchovies end up exchanged for a tub of caramel ice cream, and four varieties of Camembert all make it to the cart when he can't choose between them. Several inviting packets with unknown contents seem to select themselves, but he's careful to pick a twelve-pack of fat-free yogourts. His mind should be on Johnson, but what is Edwards doing here? This is serious, he thinks, putting back the yogourts and taking the crème brûlée instead. Was it him? he wonders, adding a second pack.

Why didn't Richards warn me that Edwards was here? he worries, and, searching for something sweet, he wanders away from his buggy. Later, reaching the cash desk, he comes to his senses when the young assistant gives him a quizzical look as she scans a pack of incontinence pads.

“What the —” he starts, catches on, grabs the package, buries it deep in the cart, and scurries out of the lineup.

Further back in the store, an elderly spinster stands next to Bliss's cartload of comfort food with a tube of hemorrhoid cream in her hand and a lost look on her face. Bliss rounds the corner of the pharmacy aisle, sees her, and scoots off. Try explaining that in Safeway let alone
Le Supermarché Géant
, he reasons, dumping her buggy in the wine department, and, empty handed, he hurriedly makes for the bar next door.

The possible presence of Chief Superintendent Edwards is enough to drive him to order a double Scotch as he deliberates on the suspended officer's motives.

He could be on holiday, says his inner voice.

He's suspended, facing dismissal — for what? Abuse of authority and neglect of duty. Doesn't sound like much, but he nearly got me killed trying to protect his own backside.

So … he could be on holiday.

He'd only be happy if I were dead. Perhaps that's the plan. That's why I'm here on my own — no backup, no witnesses.

“You are not to tell anyone of this mission. Do you understand? Not anyone.” Richards repeated, his face saying he meant it. “As far as everyone is concerned you are on indefinite convalescent leave and no one else will know — not even the force admin officer. If anyone enquires they'll be told — honestly — that you are sick,” he said, before adding forcefully, “This is very big case.”

Big or dodgy, Bliss thinks, downing the Scotch, seeing Edwards's fingerprints everywhere.
Set Bliss loose on some risky adventure where the best possible outcome is an anchor around his neck ten miles out in the Med.

He might just be on holiday! screams his inner voice again, desperately wanting him to believe it. Then, with a sudden realization that he has absolutely no idea what is going on in the rest of the world, he finds a pay phone and calls Samantha.

“How are you? Have you found him yet?” she blurts out as soon as she hears his voice.

“Shhh — you're not supposed to know.”

“What's up? Do you think my phone is tapped? Dad you're just a cop, not James Bond.”

What to say?
My last will and testament is under the mattress in the spare bedroom. You can keep the car
.

“I'm OK, love. Just thought I'd give you a call,” he says. There is little point in burdening her with worries of Edwards. Particularly as he may be mistaken — hopes he is mistaken.

“There is something you can do, though,” he says, realizing that now the informant has surfaced, Morgan Johnson is a huge step closer to being real. “Maybe you could ask a few discreet questions — who wants him and why. Make sure I'm not chasing a wild goose.”

Samantha senses there is something else. “And …?” she queries.

Warning himself he is getting paranoid, he tasks her to phone Edwards on a pretext. “Just to make sure he is home,” he says. “Tell him you're doing a survey on the police suppression of free speech. That should get him going.”

“OK. If I've got time.”

“Please, Samantha,” he begs, then warns in afterthought, “Make sure you use a pay phone.”