Читать книгу Missing: Presumed Dead - James Hawkins - Страница 8

Chapter Two _____________________________

The press officer at Headquarters was on the phone when Bliss and Patterson arrived back at the station. Pat Patterson picked up the call then, realising Bliss had strolled into the office, smiled in relief. Sticking his hand over the mouthpiece he held it out like a gift. “Just in time, Guv, the press are fishing for some sort of statement – want to know how come we solved this one so quickly.”

“You tell me,” said Bliss slinging his wet macintosh over a chair and flopping down, making it clear he wasn’t anxious to seize the phone.

“It was pure bloody luck to be honest.”

“I’m not sure we should say that,” Bliss frowned with disapproval. “We wouldn’t want to dispel the public perception that we actually know what we’re doing.”

Daphne, rounding up dirty mugs, grunted, “You might know what you’re doing, Chief Inspector, but this lot couldn’t detect a bad smell in a sewage works.”

Patterson ignored the quip and held the phone away from him as if it were venomous. “Will you give a statement, Guv?”

Bliss shrank back into the chair, waffling about insufficient local knowledge; lack of information; inadequate material data, leaving Patterson no option other than to release his hand from the mouthpiece and shape his mouth ready to reply.

“Wait,” said Bliss, leaping forward, clamping his hand over the instrument. “I’d rather you didn’t mention my name either.”

“If that’s what you want,” Patterson said, his face clearly struggling with the intrigue of an ex-metropolitan police officer shunning publicity.

“Yeah, just stick to a few basic facts – suspect in custody – enquiries continuing – no names, no pack drill – you know the score.”

Feigning disinterest, Bliss wandered across the room and busied himself with a large-scale wall map of the area. The sergeant gave a series of carefully crafted “no comment” type remarks, then put down the phone, joined him and explained the strategy. “We’re concentrating on the woods and fields around the Dauntsey place ... here,” he said, stabbing a finger at a spot on the outskirts of the town. “The Black Horse is just off the Market Square ... here, and the cemetery’s about halfway between the two. The men we pulled off the search for the cemetery were doing the stables and outbuildings at Dauntsey’s house but they’d been at it since six o’clock this morning and were pretty much finished.”

“I’m a bit concerned we might be putting too much focus on Dauntsey’s place,” said Bliss, trying to keep his tone uncritical. “What makes you think he took the body back to his place? Surely it would make sense to get rid of it as far away as possible.”

“It would – but the Super figured it might be a question of familiarity. On the assumption it wasn’t premeditated murder, he would have had to act quickly and take the body to the first place that came to mind; somewhere local; somewhere on or near his own turf probably.”

Bliss was nodding, “There’s a degree of sense in that.”

“Even more so,” continued the sergeant, “Now we know where he took the duvet. The cemetery’s on the flight path from the Black Horse to his place – he must have dropped it off en-route.”

“That would have taken him awhile, to stop, find the open grave, throw in the duvet, scoop a load of dirt back in – it all takes time – and he still had to get rid of the body.”

Patterson shrugged, “He probably knew there was an open grave.”

Bliss turned from the map with a throwaway remark, “I’m beginning to wonder if there is a body.”

“Of course there is – there’s witnesses; blood on his clothes, the knife, the duvet; four people saw ...”

Bliss’s eyes lit up with inspiration. “No!” he exploded. “What if the Major isn’t dead – only wounded? It doesn’t negate what the witnesses say – they heard a fracas; saw Jonathon dump him in the pick-up; found the knife and blood. But what if Jonathon stabbed him and has taken him somewhere ...”

“But, Guv ...”

“Have you checked the hospitals?” Bliss cut in.

“No ... we didn’t think ...”

“That should have been routine.”

“Why, Guv? Jonathon said he’d killed his dad, not wounded him.”

“And what if he was lying?”

“Why on earth should he?” asked Patterson with a tired testiness bordering on insolence.

Bliss recoiled at the reproach and, feeling boxed in, felt compelled to come up with a reason. With his eyes firmly focused on the map he sifted determinedly through memories of past cases, even drifting into the realm of crime novels, seeking an explanation. “What if,” he began, an idea springing out of nowhere and slowly taking shape in his mind. “What if they got into a fight, the Major gets stabbed ... accident ... self-defence ... whatever. Then he refuses point blank to be taken to hospital. I can just imagine the crusty old Major saying, ‘I’m not having some snotty-nosed kid in a white coat digging needles into me. Anaesthetic – phooey – just get on with it. Didn’t have anaesthetic in my day – In my day they’d stick a lump of wood between yer teeth and cut yer bloody leg orf.’”

Patterson was laughing at Bliss’s impersonation. “You might be right, Guv. That would certainly explain why Jonathon isn’t fazed; why he says he doesn’t need a solicitor.”

“Because he knows his dad will pop up right as rain once his wound has healed ... ”

“Then sue the Chief Constable and all of us for unlawful arrest,” continued Patterson projecting the unlikely scenario forward.

“He’d be wasting his time,” said Bliss screwing up his nose and shaking his head. “All we have to show is reasonable cause – we have plenty of that.”

“O.K., but why bury the duvet?”

“It was covered in blood – he probably realised the dogs would easily scent it out. Wait ... There is another possibility – what if he took him to a hospital and registered him under a false name to save the old man’s embarrassment, and avoid answering awkward questions.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know – but try the hospitals anyway. Alive or dead, he has to be somewhere. Bodies don’t just disappear into thin air.”

“This one has.”

Bliss ignored the comment. “Get onto it right away – All hospitals within 45 minutes – an hour to be on the safe side. Any males over sixty-five admitted since 9.30 last night. Better check all doctor’s clinics as well. Shit. Why didn’t we think of it before – as soon as the body couldn’t be found? It explains everything.”

Patterson was less sure, “Maybe.”

“I’d better bring the Super up to date,” said Bliss feeling pleased with the progress they had made. Selecting a phone from one of the D.C.’s desks, he dialled Donaldson’s home number and listened to the ring until a gravelly sleep-filled voice answered, “Donaldson.”

“D.I. Bliss, Sir.”

The superintendent catapulted himself awake. “You’ve found the body?”

“Not exactly, Sir.”

“Exactly what?”

“We found the duvet in a grave and we’ve got a tin soldier ...”

Excitement swung to annoyance at the other end of the line. “What are you babbling about. He didn’t kill a tin soldier. He killed a real one. Tin soldiers don’t bleed all over the place.”

“I just thought ...”

“I said call me when you’ve got the body, not when you’ve found something to play with.”

Bliss sensed that the superintendent’s phone was angrily heading for its cradle. “Sorry, Sir ...”

“Click.”

“Shit,” he muttered, hurriedly adding. “Pat – you stay here and work on the hospitals, I’ll go and see the widow.”

“Do you know where the place is?”

“No, but I’ll pick up Dowding from the cemetery – I can find my way back there. Oh, and I’d like to interview the last person who saw the Major alive.”

“That’d be the suspect, Jonathon Dauntsey.”

Bliss scrunched his face in mock pain. “Use your loaf, Pat.”

“Sorry, Guv. – I don’t think we know who saw him last, apart from those who saw him being dumped in the pick-up. I guess it was probably the landlady at the Black Horse.”

“I’ll go there after I’ve seen the widow.”

Daphne was hovering in the foyer with half an eye on the rain as he made his way out.

“Still here, Daphne?” he called cheerily, heading for the door.

“Just look at that weather, Chief Inspector. It’s getting worse and I didn’t think to bring a brolly today.”

Was she angling for a lift? “I’m going back to St. Paul’s churchyard, if that’s any help. I could give you a ride.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind ...”

“Not at all, Daphne. Actually I wanted a word with you,” he said, scooping her in an outstretched arm and shepherding her out under his umbrella.

“How is Jonathon?” she asked as soon as they drove off.

“He seems O.K. Remarkably calm, though not what would call happy.”

“Never has been, that one. Always sour. I remember him as a kid. Always sour – always walking around with a face like a smacked bum.”

The wrought iron lych-gates were under heavy guard. Two bulky uniformed policeman, grateful to be out of the drizzle, were determined no-one would get through without authority while ignoring the fact that almost anyone could simply step over the two foot high stone wall forming the remainder of the cemetery’s perimeter. A few disgruntled mourners were clustered under a couple of black umbrellas close-by, discussing tactics, looking, thought Bliss, as if they were deciding whether or not to rush the gates and bury their dead anyway.

“D.I. Bliss,” he said, heading for the gap between the two uniformed men. They stood their ground and an arm closed the gap.

“Sorry, Sir. You can’t ... this cemetery’s closed today. Who did you say?”

“Detective Inspector Bliss.”

“I’m sorry ...”

“Oh, get out of the way you idiot,” snarled Daphne pulling off her plastic rain hood, pushing her way between them and opening the gate. “This is your new chief inspector.”

“Is that you, Daphne?” said one.

“Well, I ain’t one of the Spice Girls, if that’s what you were hoping?”

He turned to Bliss, “Sorry, Sir.”

“It’s alright; you were only doing your job – and I’m the D.I., irrespective of any promotion Daphne may bestow on me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

With the gate swinging shut behind him, Bliss paused to look along the ancient ranks of lichen covered gravestones lolling about like disorganised soldiers waiting for a drill sergeant to shout, “Ten ... tion!” An aura of sadness hung about him as he spent a moment imagining all the suffering that had preceded the erection of each stone, and the pain in his expression caught Daphne’s eye.

“What is it, Chief Inspector? Are you alright?”

“Ghosts, Daphne. Well, one particular ghost anyway.”

“I thought you hadn’t been here before.”

“I haven’t.”

“How d’ye know about the ghost then?”

“Whose ghost – what ghost?”

“The Colonel – Colonel Dauntsey.”

“I thought he was a major.”

“No. I’m not talking about him. Not Rupert Dauntsey – the Major. He’s the one you’re looking for now. I mean his father – the old Colonel. His grave’s over there, look – that posh job with the fancy statue on the roof.”

A white marble blockhouse stood out against the back wall and appeared almost floodlit in the murk. “The mausoleum?” he enquired.

“Yes, that one, Chief Inspector – anyway his ghost is supposed ...”

Bliss wasn’t listening as she steered him toward the mausoleum; he was reading the names off gravestones, half expecting to see “Mandy Richards” – knowing he wouldn’t. Knowing Mandy inhabited a cemetery a world away. Not for her the tranquillity of a country churchyard with overhanging beeches and chatter of birdsong. Even the vicar’s words at her funeral, “In the midst of life we are in death,” had been lost to the roar of a 747 struggling to escape the gravitational pull of Heathrow Airport.

They had reached The Colonel’s resting place and Bliss stood back to admire the statue soaring above the sarcophagus – a white marble winged chariot drawn by a team of flying stallions.

“Very mythical,” said Daphne, following his eye-line.

“That’s strange. Jonathon mentioned something about Homer’s Iliad. I wonder if there’s some connection?”

“What did he say?”

“It didn’t make any sense to me – something about letting fate choose. I don’t remember to be honest.”

“Probably the bit about Hector and Achilles ... ” she started, then cried in surprise, “Oh look! His name was Wellington ... Wellington Rupert Dauntsey.”

“Didn’t you know?”

“No. He wasn’t the sort of man who needed a name. He was just The Colonel. I suppose his family called him something, but I assumed Rupert – Major Dauntsey – called his father ‘Sir’ or ‘Colonel’ like everyone else.”

“‘Sir,’” repeated Bliss. “You think he called his Dad ‘Sir?’”

“Not a Dad, Chief Inspector. People like that don’t have Dads. Dads are warm friendly creatures who cuddle their children, take them on picnics, play silly games and make funny noises ... People like the Dauntseys have fathers who totally ignore them for eight years, then pack them off to a boarding school saying, ‘Thank God for that – children can be such an inconvenience don’t you know.’”

The ornately carved wooden door to the family tomb was locked, and the huge galvanised padlock demanded his attention. “I wonder who holds the keys,” he muttered, examining it carefully, noting that it did not look as though it had been opened recently.

“The family probably – The Major I expect,” said Daphne, peering over his shoulder. “The Vicar will know.”

“I must ask him,” said Bliss with tepid intention, thinking it unlikely that Jonathon would have put his father’s body in such an obvious, albeit appropriate, location. “I’d better get over there,” he continued with a nod toward the knot of policemen still clustered around the open grave.

Daphne’s eyes lit up. “Could I come and have a peek?”

“There’s nothing to see really, just an empty grave. The Major’s body wasn’t in it, just the duvet.”

“I always reckoned he’d have trouble getting past St. Peter, but I thought he’d manage to get as far as the grave,” she whispered, as if fearful of being overheard.

“Why do you say that?”

“What?”

“That he’d have trouble getting past St. Peter.”

“I don’t talk ill of the dead, Chief Inspector,” she said stalking off huffily. “I’m surprised you’d even ask me.”

He caught up to her and tried flattery. “I just thought as how you’re so much part of the police here ...”

“Not me, I’m not. All I do is clean up after the filthy beggars – you should see those toilets – piss all over the floor – young girls today wouldn’t do it. Most of them would throw up at the thought.”

Bliss let her cool down for a few seconds then tried again. “So, without speaking ill, what can you tell me about him – the Major?”

Daphne’s face blanked to an expression of deep thought as she put together a picture of the missing man, then she screwed up her nose. “He was nothing much to look at, certainly no oil painting, but then neither was his father, the old colonel. It was the chin mainly, or lack of it. I think his Adam’s apple stuck out further than his chin. He wasn’t a big man either, although his rank added a foot or so to his height. It’s a good job for Jonathon he took after his mother.”

“When did you last see him – the Major?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him for a long time, Chief Inspector, I’m not in the landed gentry league.” Then she suddenly changed her mind about inspecting the grave. “I’ll walk home from here,” she said, turning and heading back to the gates. “The rain’s eased, and it’s not far.”

Bliss stopped and watched her, feeling she knew more than she’d let on. Then she paused, and swung around with an afterthought. “Where are you staying?” she called. “Presuming you’re not driving back and forth to London every day.”

“It’s only an hour or so outside rush hour, but I’ve booked in at The Mitre for a few days ’til I sort something out.”

“Well you won’t want to eat there.”

“I won’t?”

“Good God no, Chief Inspector. Mavis Longbottom’s cooking there – she’s already lost two husbands?”

“What do you mean – food poisoning?”

“No – Lost ’em to other women – doesn’t say much for her cooking though does it? ... Well you’d better come to me this evening.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ...”

“Don’t talk nonsense, of course you can. Anyway, it’ll give me a chance to tell you what I know about the Major.” Then she looked at him with a cheekiest of sideways glances, “If you’re interested that is.”

He would have said as how he couldn’t possibly impose when she held up a hand to block his refusal.

“I shall expect you for dinner at seven, Chief Inspector,” she said, adding without pause for dissent. “I noticed my butcher had a nice tray of pork chops laid out this morning,” as if her directive was not in itself sufficiently compelling.

Bliss folded. “Alright, Daphne. It’d be a pleasure, but we’d better say eight to be on the safe side, I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a very long day.”

“Roger Wilco. Eight it is,” she said and bounced away like a ten-year-old whose best friend was coming to tea.

Still half expecting to come upon Mandy Richards name on a tombstone, Bliss made his way to the open grave. No further evidence had been uncovered, and Detective Constable Dowding was only too happy to accompany him to the nursing home. Anything was better than guarding a hole in the ground, in the rain, while photographers and scenes of crime officers bustled excitedly around, seizing on anything that may have the slightest connection to the case.

The nursing home was not at all what Bliss had anticipated. His vision of a stately stone mansion with wide terraces and sweeping lawns translated into a grubby backstreet terrace of Victorian red-brick, with a narrow raised pavement protected from the road by an iron railing that looked as though it had been hit more often than missed.

An ancient man with a crinkled spine was polishing a brass plate which was the only shiny thing about the entire place.

“We’ll be sorry to lose old Mr. Davies,” said the matron, answering the door herself having spotted their arrival from her office window and guessing their identity.

“Is he leaving?”

“In a manner of speaking, Inspector ...” she said, leaving the words to find their own meaning. “Now I suppose you’ve come to see the Major’s wife,” she continued, her voice as starchy as her uniform. “You do realise this could kill her,” she added, as if it were his fault.

“Perhaps you could give me a bit of background information first,” he half whispered anxious to be discreet.

“Like what?” she boomed, as if he’d made a smutty suggestion.

“Oh,” said Bliss, taken aback. “I just wondered what you know about the Major and his wife – were they close?”

A teenaged girl, her unrealistically large bosom encased tightly in an all-white nurse’s outfit, had drifted into the hallway and was hovering. The matron looked at her queryingly, as if expecting her to provide the answer, but was apparently disappointed in the blankness of the response. Am I missing something? wondered Bliss, and waited while the matron re-arranged her apron, her hair, and her face, while considering the prudence of her reply. “From what I understand Mrs. Dauntsey had been separated from the Major for sometime,” she answered with obvious disapproval. “She never spoke of him, not to me anyhow. Young Mr. Dauntsey said there was a distance between them.”

“So she wasn’t excited at the prospect of his visit?”

“I got the impression she never really expected to see him again. I’m not aware she was expecting a visit. She certainly never said anything to me about it. Not that she would. Not her – not that one. Thinks she’s too good for us does Mrs. Dauntsey.”

“Has her husband visited her since she’s been here?”

“Not as far as I know ... There’s no need to look at me like that, Inspector. This isn’t a prison, you know. Our guests don’t have to get visiting orders; unlike yours.”

“No, no, I wasn’t being critical. I was just wondering why he should suddenly decide to visit. Maybe he was hoping to get a mention in her will.”

“Oh no. Mrs. Dauntsey doesn’t have much. That’s why she’s in here – if she had money she’d be in Golden Acres over at Fylingford.” She lowered her tone reverently, “That’s where all the moneyed people go – this is a council home. No – I think you’ll find it is the Major who has the money, not her.”

“She’s got cancer, I’m told.”

“Mrs. Dauntsey has Invasive Ductal Carcinoma,” she said with her nose in the air. “Nurse Dryden will take you to her in the day lounge, although I think it would be wise if only one of you should visit her – two hulking great men might be too much for her – scare her to death.”

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked the nurse on the way to the day room.

“Not really. It’s just that saying ‘cancer’ round here is a bit like calling a refuse disposal officer a ‘bin-man’ We try to avoid the word as far as possible – it frightens people.”

“I see.”

“Mrs. Dauntsey will be in her usual place,” continued the nurse, opening the door and steering Bliss toward a frail woman with parchment skin and white hair who immediately demonstrated her determination to guard her territory by picking her handbag off the floor and cradling it to her chest. “I’ll leave you to it,” whispered the nurse, implying that she wished him luck.

Dowding, slicking back his hair, slipstreamed the young nurse toward the kitchen with the promise of a hot coffee and the hope of something more stimulating, leaving Bliss to approach the newly widowed old woman. “Mrs. Dauntsey ...” he enquired with an overly patronising air.

She viewed him warily. “What are you going to stick in me now?”

“No. I’m not a doctor. I’m a policeman ... I wonder if we could go somewhere private,” he added, aware of the anticipatory hush his presence had caused among the twenty or so inhabitants.

“Private – in here?”

“Do you have a room?”

“Don’t worry about this lot,” she swept a frail arm around the room. “They’re all dead.”

He looked: most were immobile, heads flopped, mouths agape. Some were staring at him – desperately hoping to find the eyes of a husband, brother or son, then looking ashamedly away as his eyes met theirs. He felt like the grim reaper, and some of them looked fearfully at him as if he were.

“What d’ye mean – dead?” he questioned.

“Dead is what I mean, Inspector,” she said, making no attempt to keep her voice down. “No longer part of life. Oh, they all eat and sleep; most of ’em stink; some even talk sometimes – rubbish usually, but this is just a holding pen. They’re just waiting for a plot at the cemetery or a slot at the crematorium.” She pulled him closer with the crook of a bony finger. “Just waiting for their fifteen minutes of flame,” she said, without a trace of humour.

Bliss smiled briefly then fought to select a suitable expression to presage his doom-laden message, but his face blanked while an eighteen-year-old memory came flooding back: a memory of Mrs. Richard’s quizzical face, incapable of comprehending the disaster, incapable of absorbing the horror of young Constable Bliss’s words – “I’m very sorry Mrs. Richards but your daughter has been shot and killed.”

“Dead?” she had queried.

“I’m afraid so.”

“She can’t be dead; she’s getting married next week,” she shot back defiantly, as if he were deluded.

She’s dead – and I killed her, he wanted to scream, his conscience trying to drag the admission out of him. Then a policewoman with a bush of red hair bubbling out from under her little blue hat had stepped in front of him and forestalled his confession. “Mrs. Richards,” she said, softly, “there’s been a terrible accident in the bank ...”

It was no accident, thought Bliss, biting back his anger. It was some petty mobster with a sawn-off shotgun.

“There’s been a shooting, and unfortunately your daughter, Mandy ...”

“She’s just gone to the bank to get the money for her honeymoon. She’ll be back in a minute ...” said Mrs. Richards, still uncomprehending, but at least beginning to accept that the police visit was somehow connected to her daughter.

Bliss shook his head and quickly dislodged the old memory. “Mrs. Dauntsey,” he started, biting the bullet, “I’m afraid I have some really bad news ... Your husband has been killed.”

The news stunned her, leaving her head twitching repeatedly from side to side like a malfunctioning automaton and her mouth stuttering, “N ... N ... No.”

Deciding there was never going to be a good time to tell her about Jonathon, Bliss pushed on. “I’m also sorry to have to inform you Jonathon has told us he did it.” A strange look of confusion swept over her and, too late, he realised he had on the wrong face. He still had on his “This tragedy causes me as much pain as it does you” countenance, when he probably should have switched to an expression of “Your son is really in the shit.”

“Jonathon couldn’t have done it,” she retorted with a degree of positiveness that made him realise he would have an uphill struggle persuading her any different. Every mother feels that way, he thought. The prisons are full of men unjustly convicted, in their mother’s eyes. But she was still shaking her head fiercely, “Jonathon did not and could not have killed his father.”

“Do you know why he would want to kill your husband?”

“But I don’t understand ... He couldn’t have … It’s not possible ... Not my Jonathon ...”

“Is there any reason why Jonathon might have killed your husband?” he tried again, rephrasing his question, convinced she was able to comprehend what was happening.

“Take it from me, Inspector, he didn’t do it.”

“He says he did.”

“You just bring him in here. I’ll soon get at the truth.”

You’re probably right, he thought, guessing she was not above giving him a clip around the ear. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Bliss left Mrs. Dauntsey and her living mortuary after a few minutes. “I’m feeling rather tired,” she had said somewhat pointedly, giving him no option but to excuse himself.

As he got up to leave a hushed voice somewhere behind him murmured, “Bloody whore.”

“What?” he said, spinning around, fearing he’d misheard. No-one moved. The “dead” were as lifeless as ever. Had he heard it or was it extra sensory perception, a powerfully malicious thought pulsing through the ether and colliding with his brainwaves. Perhaps I dreamt it, he thought, seeking the eyes of those closest, hoping to establish contact, but the eyes were as lifeless as the bodies and he brushed it aside. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dauntsey.”

“Fucking whore – needs locking up.” There it was again. He hadn’t misheard this time, and the vehemence in the words stopped him in his tracks.

“Sorry – did you say something?” he asked one old lady, noticing her eyes open. She closed her eyes slowly, as if deliberately shunning him, and he turned back to Jonathon’s mother. There was nothing in her face to suggest she’d heard, although there was no doubt in his mind she was the target of the abuse. “I’ll probably have to come and see you again,” he said, listening carefully for the whisper, hearing nothing.

“I won’t be around a lot longer.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that ...”

“Oh, don’t worry. I used to think I’d live forever, but I guess God has other plans.”

He mumbled, “Sorry,” though it sounded forced, and as he turned to find the matron sweeping across the room toward him, wondered if he was sorry she wouldn’t live forever, or sorry that God had let her down.

“Is there any hope for her?” he asked, his mind still spinning with the whispered accusations, as the matron guided him out onto a damp grey flagstone terrace having pointedly said, “You can get out this way, Inspector.” He got the message – she doesn’t want the police to be seen leaving by the front door – probably makes the undertaker carry the coffins out the back way as well.

“There’s always hope, Inspector,” she replied. “But whether or not one’s hopes are fulfilled is a matter of perspective.”

“I’m not with you.”

“Most of our patients hope to die quickly and painlessly, Mrs. Dauntsey’s no exception. It’s her son who can’t accept the inevitability of her passing.”

“It’s the one’s who are left behind who suffer the most, Matron,” he said, and felt the pain of the truth in his heart. “It’s very peaceful here,” he added conversationally to lighten the tone.

“Sunday afternoon is our noisy time – families coming to say goodbye to Gran or Gramps. If the kids aren’t wailing and crying, their parents are.”

“What about the Major? Did he ever come on a Sunday.”

“Like I said before, I’ve never seen him. I suspect this would have been his first visit, although I wouldn’t know for certain. But her son is here all the time – even when she’s asleep – the drugs you know – sits there holding her hands, crying silently. Nothing dramatic, just the odd tear, bleary eyes, occasional sniffle – pretends he has a cold. Keeps his Kleenex in a briefcase – thinks we don’t notice. It’s rather touching really and quite uncommon. You see this is just a dumping ground. By the time we get them most of the relatives have had enough.”

“Can anything be done for Mrs. Dauntsey?”

She shook her head with a finality that eclipsed any words. “Don’t tell her son though. He dotes on her. He’s got a notion into his head about some sanatorium in Switzerland – some quack making a fortune out of desperate people with elaborate claims of a cancer cure. He’s promised to take her there.”

“Could it help?”

“Might extend her life for a few weeks – if the journey doesn’t kill her, but if it did, it wouldn’t be anything to do with the drugs – purely psychosomatic – even with something as physical as cancer the patient’s will to survive can prolong life. Belief in a cure is often the only cure someone needs, but Mrs. Dauntsey’s cancer has metastasised throughout her body.”

“I reckon I could get a date with her,” muttered Dowding as the top-heavy nurse was closing the side-door behind them a few minutes later.

“Would that be alright with your missus then?” asked Bliss with a smirk.

Dowding, taking the hint, slunk to the car.

“You drive,” said Bliss throwing him the keys. “It’ll take your mind off naughty thoughts – anyway, I don’t know my way around yet.”

“Sergeant Patterson called on the radio while you was with Mrs. Dauntsey, Sir,” he said unlocking the door. “He’s checked all the hospitals – negative.”

Bliss was surprised to find the Black Horse open for business, and, by all appearances, doing a roaring trade – gawkers, he had no doubt.

“Who authorised this?” he demanded of the uniformed policeman hemmed against the bar by the throng of rumour driven drinkers.

“I did,” boomed the landlady from across the bar, her voice as brassy as her hair – a Michelin woman with spidery legs that threatened to collapse under the weight at every step. “What’s it got to do wiv you?”

Silence spread in a wave through the bar like a scene from, Showdown at the O.K. Corral.

Bliss introduced himself without pleasantries, saying, “Right. I want this bar closed immediately ...”

“Oh no you don’t. You lot have caused enough inconvenience without costing me a day’s takings.”

“This is ridiculous. This is a murder scene – it should be entirely cordoned off ...”

“Not fucking likely – who’s gonna pay me staff? You gonna pay ’em, are you? This is the biggest crowd I’ve had since Christmas.”

The constable threw up his eyebrows in exasperation as if to say, “See what I’ve had to deal with.”

“This is Mrs. Bentwhistle, Sir. She’s the landlady ...”

“Bertwhistle ... ” she corrected. “And before he gets the chance to stitch me up – I’m the one who cleaned up the mess they made here last night.”

“I want to speak to you about that,” said Bliss as coldly as he could.

“Don’t blame me – nobody told me not to clear up, and they’re bloody lying if they say different. All they said was, “Don’t let no-one go up there – and I didn’t, but I weren’t having those stains drying in. I only ’ad those carpets put down last year ... or maybe the year before. It were the year our Diane got married ...”

“The damage has been done ...”

“Well, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do no damage; I didn’t ask him to do his old man in, not in my pub, I didn’t.”

“What time did the Major arrive last night?”

She turned away and threw down a large gin in disgust. “Gawd – how many more of you are goin’ to ask me that?”

“Sixish,” answered the constable. “That’s what she told me, Sir.”

“What did the Major say?”

“Nothing – not to me anyhow. I didn’t see him. He went straight up. Jonathon came to the bar and got the key; said his dad was tired.”

“So, he didn’t come through this way.”

She shook her head. “Went up the backstairs.”

“No-one saw him,” said the constable butting in. “We’ve asked everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Well – all those who were in the pub and outside at the time.”

Bliss was unmoved. “I still want this place closed, and all these people out until I’m satisfied there is no evidence.”

“You ought’a be out catching criminals,” grumbled a loudmouth as he was led from the bar. Bliss ignored him.

“Now,” he said, feeling he was getting somewhere. “Let’s begin again.”

An hour later, without a scrap of new evidence, Detective Inspector Bliss, feeling more cheated than unjustified, allowed the bar to re-open and retreated to the police station. Superintendent Donaldson was back in his office, according to the counter clerk, and was anxiously awaiting his arrival.

Some serious bloodletting on my first day, he thought as he trod the superintendent’s corridor for a second time that day. Just what I need. And, with a readied apology he tapped gingerly on Donaldson’s door. “You wanted ...”

“Bliss ... Dave ... Come in. Sorry I snapped at you earlier ... tired you know ... lot of strain. Chocolate digestive?” he added, holding out the packet as a peace offering.

Bliss relaxed with a “Thanks.”

“So, I understand from Patterson that we’ve made some progress even if we haven’t found the body.”

“Just the duvet really. His mother says he didn’t do it but she’s in a wheelchair in a ...” he paused, finding himself on the verge of saying, “concentration camp,” reconsidered and said, “She’s in an old folk’s home.”

“She was bound to say it wasn’t him.”

Bliss nodded in agreement. “The complexion of this case is changing ...” he started.

“Rapidly going down the toilet if you ask me,” broke in the superintendent. “Initially, I thought we’d get the whole thing sewn up in a few hours, now we’ve got blokes running round in circles just bumping into each other. So what precisely have we got?”

“It might be easier to analyse what we haven’t got – no body, no motive and very little physical evidence.”

“No, I disagree. We’ve got plenty of evidence ...”

Bliss, sensing Donaldson was about to catalogue the evidence at the Black Horse, held up a hand to stop him making a fool of himself. “Patterson hasn’t told you about the balls-up at the pub then?”

“What balls-up, Inspector?” The superintendent’s eyes demanded a response and his entire demeanour darkened as Bliss explained how the landlady had sterilised every inch of the crime scene; wiping out footprints, fingerprints and blood stains; vacuuming up every trace of fibre and hair; even spraying disinfectant everywhere to mask scents that the dogs may have picked up.

Donaldson deflated into his chair like a punctured inflatable doll. “Oh my God, Dave. How did this happen?”

“I’m assuming everyone dashed off after the suspect, or were tied up taking statements from the witnesses.”

Donaldson, realising he was personally in the firing line, pulled himself together, shot out of the chair and stomped around the office. “That’s obstruction. She knew very well she wasn’t supposed to touch anything. I told her ... You don’t think she could be in on it do you?”

Bliss shrugged, “I shouldn’t think so.”

“But we’ve got a full confession ...”

“True, although I’m always a tad suspicious of someone who’s keen to fall on his sword. I’d like to re-interview him, in light of the discovery of the duvet. By the way, what did he actually say about the body in his original statement?”

“I’ve got a copy of the tape here,” Donaldson said, dropping it into a cassette recorder and comforting himself with another digestive.

Jonathon Dauntsey’s polished accent and deep clear tone sang out of the machine and contrasted with the country brogue of D.S. Patterson as he answered the standard questions relating to his name, age and address. Patterson then launched into the scripted spiel of: date, time, place and persons present – just himself, Dauntsey and a Detective Chief Inspector Mowbray.

“D.C.I. Mowbray?” Bliss mouthed quizzically at Donaldson.

Donaldson hit the pause button.

“He’s gone on leave – flying to Nairobi this morning – I didn’t have the heart to tell him he couldn’t go.”

“What do you want me to say?” enquired Dauntsey as the machine started up again, his voice sounding more confused than contrite.

“I should remind you that you have been cautioned and we could start by asking you to describe your relationship to Major Rupert Dauntsey.”

“He was my father ... but you know that, I told you that already.”

“Perhaps you could just answer the questions,” Patterson said, as if Dauntsey had strayed from the script and mucked up the tape. “This tape is for the court to hear.”

“Sorry – shall we start again.”

“No! It’s alright ...”

“Well, I do think it’s important to get it right, Sergeant,” he continued, digging an even deeper hole. “Perhaps we should have some sort of rehearsal ...”

Exasperation coloured Patterson’s tone as he firmly rebuffed the offer and began again. “Mr. Dauntsey, how would you describe your relationship with your father?”

“I would say we were quite distant,” he replied, apparently leaning close into the microphone and speaking with a dictationist’s metre.

“You can just speak normally – the microphone will pick you up.”

“Roger,” he said, then added in a stage whisper. “I think that’s what you say, isn’t it?”

Bliss would have sworn Patterson said, “Will you stop fucking about,” although there was no trace of the sound on the tape. However, Patterson clearly did say, “Mr. Dauntsey. Please tell us where you were between nine-thirty and eleven o’clock this evening.”

“I was disposing of my father.”

Bliss hit the pause button this time and gave Donaldson a querying look. “What a weird answer; it sounds more like he was getting rid of a used condom.”

“Perhaps that’s what he thought of his father.”

Patterson was making another point as the tape came back on. “A number of people have advised us that they heard a disturbance emanating from the general direction of your father’s room at the Black Horse public house ...”

Bliss cringed at the witness-box jargon.

“Yes,” said Dauntsey.

“And,” continued Patterson, plodding on through the script he’d mapped out in his mind, “several witnesses allege they saw you placing a large object wrapped in a duvet into the rear of a Ford pick-up truck: registration number ... T173 ABP.”

“It would be foolish of me to deny it, wouldn’t it”

“So you don’t deny it?”

“As I’ve already said, It would be foolish of me to do so, with so many witnesses.”

“So,” said Patterson clearly winding himself up to the pivotal question. “What was in the bundle?”

“I suspect you already know that, Sergeant,” said Dauntsey without any indication he was being anything other than as forthright and helpful as possible.

But Patterson’s tone in response suggested he was getting near the end of his tether, even admitting later that he felt like strangling the confession out of the man opposite him. “Never-the-less, Mr. Dauntsey,” he continued, his voice now barely under control, “I would like you to tell me what was in the bundle, in your own words.”

Dauntsey didn’t respond straight away, Bliss even took a quick glance at the little window on the machine to make sure it hadn’t stopped.

“Don’t you think its painful enough for me without having to spell it out?” he said eventually, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Painful or not, Mr. Dauntsey, I am asking you to state unequivocally ...”

“That the bundle contained my father’s body. There, I’ve said it. Now are you satisfied?”

Patterson gave an audible sigh, “Thank you, Mr. Dauntsey. So you don’t deny killing your father?”

“No, Sergeant. I don’t deny it. It was stupid of me to think I wouldn’t get caught.”

“Do you regret what you have done?”

“I can’t help thinking it’s what he would have wanted.”

“To be murdered by his son!”

“Well, we all have to go sometime, Sergeant. The sword of Damocles hangs over us all. Might it not be kinder to have the thread cut by a fellow rather than a foe?”

Bliss reached over and clicked off the machine. “Amazing – the pompous ass doesn’t give a shit. It’s not murder as far as he’s concerned – it’s nothing more than the involuntary euthanasia of an inconvenient parent.”

“My wife’s incontinent old mother lives with us,” said Donaldson, trying hard to give the impression he was joking. “She can be fairly inconvenient at times; perhaps I should do the same.”

“Ah. But there you’d have an understandable motive. What was Jonathon Dauntsey’s motive? From what I can gather the old Major had moved out some time ago.”

Donaldson flicked the tape back on but needn’t have bothered, Jonathon Dauntsey had said all he was going to say.

“So where do we go from here?” asked Bliss, surveying the ceiling, speaking to himself.

Donaldson slumped back into his chair. “I suppose I should call in the Major Incident Unit, but I’ll look a bit bloody stupid now. I turned them down last night – said we had everything under control. Now I’ll have to crawl cap in hand – makes me look a right imbecile – Smilie Johnston will have a field day ...”

“Smilie?”

“Chief Super at H.Q. – a miserable sod.”

Bliss had other ideas. “I’m not sure we need more men; they’ll just end up tripping over each other. Most of the evidence has been destroyed or contaminated so badly there’s nothing to be gained by sifting through it again. Jonathon Dauntsey is banged up in the cells, and we’ll have no problem getting the Beak to remand him in custody based on his confession. The Major’s body is sure to surface in a day or two.”

“We can’t just wait and hope ...”

“I agree,” said Bliss heading toward the door. “I’ll have another pop at Master Jonathon – try a different tack; tell him how much he’s upsetting his Mum by not letting on where the old boy is, that sort of thing. In the meantime we can give the troops a rest – there’s no sense in them tearing around like headless chickens.”

“And if we can’t find the body?”

Bliss, hand on the door, turned. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” Then he paused, something on his mind. “The press are asking questions.”

“Naturally.”

“I don’t want them printing my name.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I can see that – no problem. The editor at The Gazette is a fellow Rotarian. I’ll give him a call ...”

“Don’t mention anything about ...” cut in Bliss, but Donaldson waved him off.

“It’s O.K., Dave. I won’t say anything.”