Free Deadly Sin by James Hawkins Page B

implanted.
    â€œC’mon, Daphne, pick up,” she is muttering into her hands-free microphone as she scoots across the Lions Gate Bridge into the centre of Vancouver. It is barely seven o’clock on the Pacific coast of Canada. Saturday. Schools aren’t in, offices are closed, and the city’s roads are almost deserted. A native bear, cougar, or elk could safely cross today, but it’s many decades since anything larger than a racoon or an escaped domestic goat has dared Vancouver’s traffic. Survivors long ago retreated from the smoggy jungle ofconcrete and glass to the surrounding mountains, followed by many of the tourists, while others have sought solitude on one of the numerous forested islands that dot the coast.
    Trina’s Volkswagen Jetta is on autopilot as she gives up on her English friend, balances a pad on her knee, takes a swig of coffee and a bite of muffin, and phones her dispatch office.
    â€œI lost old Mr. Darnley yesterday,” she admits as she asks for a new assignment.
    â€œI’m not surprised,” says Margaret.
    â€œI was,” bitches Trina. “First visit — ten minutes. I just pulled down his underpants and stuck him on the loo and
plop
he was gone. He didn’t even touch the stewed banana I did for his lunch.”
    â€œStewed banana?” queries the dispatcher.
    â€œWith bacon,” stresses Trina, sensing her culinary arts are being challenged.
    â€œOh, well. At least you didn’t get personally involved this time,” says Margaret cheerily, recalling occasions when Trina’s heart burned at the iniquities of life and she turfed her own children out of bed in favour of some broken-down geriatric. But Trina’s patients are often nearing the end of the road. It is an unspoken rule amongst the dispatchers. Not because of Trina’s great nursing skills or exemplary compassion, but because, at that stage of their life, the medical professionals have already inflicted the bulk of the damage. “Sorry, Trina,” adds Margaret after checking the schedule. “Everyone’s been taken care of today.”
    â€œHer Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, will remain in the care of …” the BBC newscaster is saying as Bliss watches the satellite television on the back of the aisle seat in front of him, but the picture dies as the captain announces their imminent arrival in Nice.
    The Mediterranean’s Bay of Angels, in the shadow of the snow-capped Maritime Alps, is flecked with sails of every size and hue as the plane swoops low to land. Close to shore, the sweeping bay is an artist’s palette of turquoise, aquamarine, and sapphire, but as the water deepens towards the horizon, the colours slowly meld into a vibrant azure that fuses perfectly with the sky. It is David Bliss’s favourite sight in the entire world, which today is being enjoyed by a Machiavellian six-year-old who is well on his way to a career as a con man.
    â€œLook at that, Mum … Look at that, Mum …” he shouts excitedly time and again as he thumps against the window, while all Bliss can do is turn his watch one hour ahead and wait for the bump as the sea gives way to asphalt.
    Daisy will be so surprised, he tells himself with a grin as he walks from the terminal to a line of cabs and then is hit by the aromas of the Niçoise August. The fragrances of jasmine, orange blossom, and hibiscus, so reminiscent of Mediterranean springtime, have been zapped by the heat and replaced by the stink of car exhausts and the stench of sewers in the city’s languid summer air.
    â€œSt-Juan-sur-Mer,” he calls to the driver as he leaps in and slams the door against the putrid fumes, then he tries to back out as he spots the cigarette in the driver’s hand.
    â€œMonsieur?” yells the driver with his foot already on the floor, and Bliss coughs accusingly.
    â€œLe cigarette.”
    â€œ
Bof!
” spits the driver with a