A Year Less a Day

by James Hawkins

“And you are, sir?”

  “Maxwell. Jeremy Maxwell. Why?”

  “Just wondered, that’s all. You’re not English are you?”

  “Astute of you—Canadian actually.”

  “Is this the Maxwell estate then?” inquires Bliss as he sweeps a look around the grounds and takes in the decayed manor house together with numerous outbuildings and barns.

  “Has been for the past four hundred and fifteen years, Inspector.”

  “I guess you’re used to this weather,” continues Bliss realizing that he’s running out of questions and hoping to start a dialogue.

  “Yep.”

  So much for that, thinks Bliss as he struggles for a reason to remain. “Would you mind if I had a look around?” he asks finally. “I have an interest in conversions. I’m thinking of buying an old barn myself.”

  “I’m a bit busy at the moment,” says the man, nodding to his supplies. “Some other time, perhaps.”

  “Of course. Sorry to disturb you,” says Bliss, turning away; then he spins back hoping to catch his quarry off balance. “I don’t suppose you know someone called Jordan Jackson by any chance? I think he’s Canadian.”

  “Sorry. Never heard of him.”

  As Bliss drives away, the new tenant of Thraxton Manor climbs the stairs to his apartment, puts his box of groceries on the kitchen table, and takes a very serious look at a pair of soggy women’s shoes that he has dug from the snow near the apartment door. Then he checks his underwear drawer and thoughtfully balances a Canadian passport in his hand.

  Daphne doesn’t waste time at the hospital, and by three in the afternoon, when Bliss returns as promised, she has cajoled the doctor into releasing her.

  “Whatever happened to your shoes?” Bliss asks her as he drives her home.

  “I lost them in the snowdrifts outside the stables,” she replies. “I’ll have to go back and get them when it thaws.”

  “I think you’d better stay away from there—until I find out who he really is.”

  “You do believe me, don’t you?” she asks warily and Bliss has to admit to a certain confusion.

  “It’s just that you seemed so positive that it was Jeremy before,” he says as he checks the dashboard clock. “Maybe I’ll give Mike Phillips a call and see if they’ve got any record of either man in Canada. It’s about seven-thirty there at the moment. I’ll try his cellphone as soon as we get home and get you tucked into bed.”

  The sun is just rising over the Rockies as the earth rolls on another day in Vancouver, but a low-pressure system has swept over the Strait of Georgia from Vancouver Island and threatens a deluge. Mike Phillips stands nude, peering out of his hotel window at the slate sky and charcoal clouds, and wishes that he could snuggle back into the giant warm bed. But duty calls, and he gently brushes his lips on an exposed forehead.

  “Good morning, Ruth. I have to go to work now,” he coos to the sleepy woman. “Will you be OK?”

  “Mike?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kiss me again, please.”

  Phillips laughs. “Anybody would think you’ve never been properly loved before.” Then he kisses her—tenderly at first, their lips barely touching; their breaths mingling; then deeper and harder, until their tongues entwine and she reaches out to hold him.

  “What are you planning for today?” he asks, inching his lips away a fraction as he softly strokes her face and peers into her eyes.

  “I could think of something,” she says lasciviously, and draws him back to bed.

  Phillips readily slides under the sheets, saying, “I really do have to go soon.”

  “I know. I just wanted to give you a little something to make sure you wouldn’t forget me by tonight.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’ll happen,” he says as he runs his hands over her naked body and finds her breasts.

  “I’ll go round to Trina’s to do the laundry and cook dinner as usual,” Ruth says as she gently massages him. “Don’t forget: I’m supposed to be staying there as part of my bail conditions.”

  “Only when you’re not in police custody,” he says, smoothly slipping a hand between her thighs. “And at this particular moment—you are.”

  “Is this called fraternizing with the enemy?” she moans as she melts under his touch, then Phillips’ phone rings.

  “Oh, shit,” mutters Phillips, and is inclined to let it go, but Ruth loses the moment.

  “You might as well answer it,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve been given all my rights.”

  “Mike Phillips,” he calls into the phone with a touch of aggravation.

  “Oh, Mike. It’s Dave Bliss in England. I haven’t screwed up have I?”

  “No,” laughs Phillips, “neither of us have. What’s happening, Dave? Are you having a party there?”

  “Not exactly,” answers Bliss, then explains Daphne’s dilemma as Blossom, Mavis, and Peter help their old friend continue her warming trend with a bottle of champagne in the background. Minnie is keeping her head down over some sausage rolls in the kitchen, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before Mavis blows the whistle on her unauthorized sleepover.

  Prior to picking up Daphne from the hospital, Bliss had raced around replenishing the liquor cabinet and taking Minnie to the supermarket to restock the cupboards. Then she had bounced around, putting everything straight and desperately trying to get her house in order before the return of Daphne; even snapping at Peter for wanting a chocolate cookie. “They’re not made on trees,” she had told him crustily. “Money doesn’t grow on Daphne. She’s only a pensioner, same as us.”

  “Jeremy Maxwell,” Phillips repeats as Bliss asks him to see if anything is known of the man, and the Canadian officer chews the name over as he types it into his laptop. “It’s got a ring to it ... I’ll check it out as soon as I get to the office,” he says. “Mind you, without a date of birth or a social insurance number, it’s a bit of a long shot.”

  The name Jordan Jackson, on the other hand, has much greater significance.

  “Talk about coincidences,” says Phillips slipping into the bathroom and quietly closing the door behind him. “Ruth’s husband was a Jordan Jackson. Though it’s a common enough name. What does he look like?”

  The similarity between the description furnished by Bliss and the one given to him by Ruth are sufficiently striking to elicit a whistle from the Mountie. “If he wasn’t dead, I’d say it could be him,” says Phillips. “But why does she think his name’s Jackson?”

  “His passport,” explains Bliss, then relates Daphne’s story.

  “I’d need more info,” says Phillips. “Though, if it is the same Jackson, I’m guessing that somebody lifted his passport from the dump he was living in when he died.”

  “But Daphne insists that the guy in Maxwell’s house is the one in the passport and, to be honest, if she says it’s the same guy, I’m inclined to believe her. You’ve met her Mike. You know what she’s like.”

  “Then it has to be a different character altogether. My Jackson is definitely dead. But if you can get me a date of birth or the passport number, I’ll happily see what I can come up with.”

  “Leave it to me,” says Bliss. “I’ll pay him another visit. There has to be an explanation.”

  Thraxton Manor’s new occupant appears to be out when Bliss returns just before dusk. In the absence of a bell, Bliss bangs repeatedly on the apartment’s door and even tries the handle.

  “Anyone home?” Bliss calls as the doorknob refuses to budge, then he stands back to toss a few pieces of gravel at the apartment’s window.

  “Shit,” he mutters, and is on the point of leaving when he takes Daphne’s standpoint. ‘I’ve come all this bloomin’ way ...’”

  The flowerpot key has gone, but one of the stables is open and he slips in and searches for the trapdoor leading into the hayloft. A ladder stands against an empty horse stall and tempts him, but the thought of the owner showing up and throwing a fit sends him
back to the apartment door.

  “Mr. Maxwell,” he tries again, calling through the letterbox, but his voice echoes hollowly up the stairs.

  The ladder is his only choice and he moves it into position under the trapdoor as stealthily as possible. This is not only stupid, it has to be illegal, he tries telling himself as he climbs, though he knows that’s not the case—not unless he’s planning on murder, rape, theft, or damage—which he’s not. Trespassing with intent to take a peek at a suspect passport is a statute yet to be enacted, and Bliss worries more about getting lashed with a riding crop than stung with a prison term.

  The trapdoor budges easily with a shove of his shoulder and Bliss is quickly in the loft, but the sound of passing traffic startles him and he is readying to bolt back down the ladder when he spies the door to the apartment in the gloom. In for a penny ... he muses, and tries the handle. It’s locked, and an enormous cast-iron escutcheon plate suggests that the lock is both old and substantial—though, he suspects, easy to pick with the right equipment.

  The light is fading fast as Bliss exits the stables, but he has one more task before he leaves, and a few minutes later he is searching around in the snow for Daphne’s shoes and doesn’t notice the apparent heir to the estate ride up, his horse’s hooves muffled by snow.

  “Inspector—are you trespassing on my land for a reason?” calls the rider. “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

  “Hot pursuit of a convicted criminal,” explains Bliss as he wades out of the drift and gestures to the imprints that Daphne had cut across the grounds to the road. Then he approaches the owner and points to the stables. “I suspect that he took refuge in here during the storm, Mr. Maxwell. That’s why there’s only one set of tracks.”

  “But why are you looking here?” the rider demands. “Surely it makes sense to see where the tracks end—not where they begin.”

  “That’s true,” says Bliss, stalling momentarily. “But I wondered if he’d stolen anything—guns or weapons of any kind.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Have you checked?”

  If Bliss was hoping to worm his way into the apartment he was disappointed. “I’ll be sure to phone your station if I find anything amiss, Inspector,” says the rider, dismounting and leading his mount toward the stables. “Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” says Bliss, with litte to lose.

  The horseman turns with a growl. “It’s Maxwell. I told you. I’ve never heard of Jackson.”

  “Sorry, I forgot,” says Bliss, and he is left with no alternative but to retreat.

  The main gates had been padlocked on his arrival and he’d been forced to abandon his car in the roadway and enter by a side gate. Now, the walk up the long driveway in the gloom of dusk is lengthened by the feeling that a pair of eyes are burning into the back of his skull, and it takes all Bliss’s willpower to stop himself from turning around.

  Bliss is right. The horseman does have a suspicious eye on him and watches him all the way to the gate, then he quickly tethers the horse, lets himself into the apartment and heads for the phone.

  Mort, the porn merchant in Vancouver, is still in bed when his phone rings. “Yeah?” he answers.

  “It’s me,” says the apartment dweller, and Mort tells him to hang on while he shoos his latest schoolgirl out.

  “Go and do something in the bathroom. Know what I mean, luv?” he says, unsure of her name.

  “What, Mort?”

  “I don’t f’kin’ know. Whatever f’kin women spend hours doin’ in there. Just f’kin git. Know what I mean?”

  “What’s up?” Mort demands into the phone as the fifteen-year-old sulks off into the bathroom.

  “We’ve got a problem. The pigs are sniffing around.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Some old woman has been shit-disturbing and a snoopy inspector from Scotland Yard’s gotten involved somehow.”

  “Bollocks,” says Mort. “He’s way off his patch out there. Unless he’s National Crime Squad.”

  “Can we delay for a few weeks ’til it calms down?”

  “How much does the dame know?”

  “Not much, or he would’ve gotten a search warrant. It’ll probably blow over if we give it time.”

  “We don’t have f’kin time. Maybe she could have a nasty fall—know what I mean?”

  “Maybe ... But what’s happening at your end? Is it all quiet now?”

  “Yeah. Some screwy woman got her jugs on the front page and stirred up the law a bit, but the old doc set ’em straight with the death certificate. Jordan Jackson is just a box of ashes—know what I mean?”

  “I’ve had a call from England about a Jordan Jackson,” Phillips had told Ruth as he’d finally prepared to leave for work, and Ruth’s expression had drained. “No. Don’t fret,” he’d continued. “It’s probably someone with the same name or somebody has gotten hold of his passport. Probably stole it from his room in that apartment building.”

  “I’m still trying to come to terms with his death,” Ruth had said with a worried mien. “I don’t think I could stand another shock.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. It’s not Jordan, I promise,” Phillips had said as he’d kissed her goodbye, unaware that he had unleashed another nightmare in her mind. What if he’s not dead? she’d asked herself. What if he really did go to L.A. for treatment? What if he turns up cured? Oh my God—what if I lose Mike now?

  chapter fifteen

  Ruth sees her world spinning out of kilter again as she waits for a bus to take her to Trina’s. It’s a couple of months since Jordan’s disappearance and, if anything, the news of his death was a relief, even if it did occur several weeks before she actually missed him. The fact that he was no longer suffering was a comfort, so the possibility, however remote, that he may still be alive plays on her mind, and sends her into a convenience store in search of a chocolate bar.

  Don’t do it.

  But I want one, she tells herself at the door.

  You know what’ll happen.

  Just one, I promise.

  You can’t have just one. You’ve never had just one.

  I will this time; honest.

  Phone Trina and ask her, then.

  She’ll say no.

  Don’t do it then.

  “A Hershey’s milk chocolate bar please,” says a familiar voice.

  I told you not to.

  “The family size, Ma’am?”

  “Sure. Go for it.”

  Oh, no—not the family size. What an idiot. You know you can’t.

  “There’s a special on this week, Ma’am. Three for the price of two.”

  “Oh, great. Yeah. Why not?”

  You stupid fat cow.

  “That’s seven dollars, twenty-three cents, including the tax ma’am.”

  “I’m not sure that I’ve got enough,” says Ruth searching the bottom of her bag.

  “What about that lottery ticket ma’am?” says the assistant, spotting the ragged piece of paper in her purse. “Have you checked it? You never know, you might have won ten bucks.”

  “It’s probably out of date,” mumbles Ruth as she hands it to the young man while continuing to count pennies. “How much did you say?”

  “Seven-twenty-three,” he replies as he scans the ticket. Then he pales and starts to hand it back. “Sorry. I can’t pay this ma’am. You’ll have to go to the lottery office.”

  “Oh, I haven’t got time for that. Just give me one bar, then.”

  “But ... but you’ve won.”

  “Well give me all three, but hurry, or I’ll miss the bus.”

  “No. I mean you’ve really won.”

  “How much?” she asks with a glimmer of understanding.

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to say,” he replies, nervously checking to see if other customers can hear.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think it’s supposed to be verified at t
he office first.”

  “Look. I’m going to miss the bus in a minute,” says Ruth in frustration as she begins opening the chocolate.

  “You’ll have to ask at the office,” says the flustered assistant.

  “I will if I’ve got time. But, like, what is it, fifty or something?”

  “It’s a little over five million,” says the assistant cagily, adding very quickly, “but don’t quote me, and don’t blame me if the machine’s screwed up, either. I’m only telling you what it says here.”

  “How much?” she says, dropping the chocolate.

  Ruth leaves the bar on the floor and walks past the bus stop as the rain begins to pound down. The lottery ticket in her hand is beginning to get saturated, and she puts it back into her purse convinced that the young assistant had made a mistake.

  Throw it away then, says the voice in her mind.

  But what if you really have won?

  Wake up, Ruth. Losers like you never win.

  But he said you’d won.

  Then what? asks the voice.

  Then you can pay back all the money you owe. You can pay Trina—who lied about hiring Hammett and thinks that you didn’t figure it out; and her husband and kids who know what you’re supposed to have done and adore you anyway. Then there’s Mike who’s been treating you like a princess for the past few months. And Raven—if it hadn’t been for her nagging you would never have bought the ticket. Even Tom, not that he deserves it after lying to the police about you, but at least you wouldn’t have to worry about him popping up out of the blue with his grubby hand out.

  Yeah. And the moment I walk into the lottery centre the bells will sound and the whistles will blow. “Five million dollar woman,” will scream the headlines and the first person on my doorstep will be Jordan’s stingy mother, followed by Inspector Wilson, wanting to know why I waited nearly six months to claim a jackpot on a lottery ticket that I just happened to have bought the very day that Jordan supposedly announced that he was supposedly dying of cancer. The very day that he was last seen by anyone who knew him.

  But you didn’t know you’d won. You didn’t even remember buying the ticket.