Читать книгу Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle - James Hawkins - Страница 12

The driver of the blue Volvo shrank quickly out of sight as Bliss drove past on his way up the quiet street to deliver Daphne home.

“I can manage,” Daphne said, as he started to get out to escort her to the door. Ignoring her, he opened the gate and accompanied her up the front path, waited while she flicked on the light and turned the key, then brushed her cheek with a chaste kiss.

“Ooh, Chief Inspector,” she giggled.

“Thank you, Daphne,” he said with a depth of meaning way beyond her comprehension. Thank you for your courage, your sacrifice, your modesty. Thank you for making me realise the insignificance of my fears.

“No ... Thank you, Chief Inspector,” she replied, letting herself in. “And I hope I didn’t spoil your evening,”

“I learnt a great deal,” he said, heading back to the car and driving off without noticing the Volvo – too many other considerations occupying his mind, too many plans to make, too many demons to slay.

He had intended returning to the Mitre and set off in that direction, but fate snatched the wheel out of his hands and spun him around in a U-turn, leaving the driver of the following Volvo no choice but to dive for cover up a side street. By the time he re-emerged, Bliss had gone – speeding recklessly down dark narrow lanes, inspiration weighing his foot on the accelerator, feeling that, if he drove fast enough, he might somehow break through the time barrier and go back eighteen years. But if he could go back to the bank and fall dead in place of Mandy – would he?

The road became a switchback as he raced headlong into the night and he allowed the car to choose its own path – tearing through villages, laughing at speed limits and screeching at corners. Deep down he knew where he was headed and he finally knew he had run out of road when the tyres scrunched on the sand-swept tarmac of a beach-side car park. The English Channel lay ahead, and, beyond the narrow choppy sea, France.

Two cars, sinisterly dark, sat at either end of the car park and his first instinct was to seek somewhere more solitary, more remote for his deliberations, but, as he rolled to a stop, his lights picked up a flurry of activity on the beach and two figures scurried in opposite directions. Twenty seconds later the two cars burst simultaneously to life and crept away into the night without lights. “Oops,” he said to himself, but isn’t that the thrill of adultery – the risk of being caught.

The beach turned inky black as he switched off his lights and cut the engine, then gradually came back to life as his eyes and ears acclimatised, and he sank in his seat, exhausted, letting the gentle swishing of the surf wash over him and erase his stress. Ahead, over the ocean, a couple of hazy lights flickered hypnotically and held his attention, then an armada of grey shadows steamed sluggishly out of the mist and rolled over him. He fought off the drowsiness for a few seconds, swimming back to consciousness a couple of times before surrendering to the waves.

A thousand battleships drifted slowly out of the haze and sailed through his mind as he floated weightlessly on the sea. Above him, the deck rails of the silent ships were lined by grey lifeless men – men with faces pulled gaunt by fear. Silent men, immobile men, dead men. Men who had beaten the bullet and found death before it had found them. Wasn’t it easier that way – less painful for all concerned. Wasn’t it better that each sombre faced man had already accepted his destiny and said his last goodbye. “Don’t worry – I’ll make it back,” he would have said with a forced smile, his own obituary already written and in his pocket ready for the burial party to find. “My Dearest One – I expect you’ve heard the bad news by now ...” or, more often, “Dear Mum and Dad ...”

Where were the happy cheering hordes that filled the Pathé newsreels at the Saturday Matinee? Where were the happy-go-lucky Yanks, Canucks and Aussies who always had a kitbag on one arm and a girl on the other as they headed for the gangplanks?

Endless fleets of ships with countless dead-pan faces sailed by and disappeared slowly over the dark horizon, then he slipped beneath the black oily surface; exhaustion dragging him deeper than dreams, beyond the depths of even the darkest nightmares.

An hour later the cold sea-breeze bit into his bones, rousing him sufficiently to fire up the engine and turn on the heater. Waves of warmth soon lulled him back to sleep and he picked up the dream as Daphne, (or maybe it was Mandy), rode a bicycle up a sun-soaked beach at the head of a column of dead men. Daphne – surely it was Daphne – enthusiastically waved her frilly knickers in the air, and in her basket, the wicker basket slung on the handlebars, was a skull – a grotesque skull, a skull with bulging eyes and a gaping fleshless mouth shouting encouragement.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” The staccato rattle of automatic fire burst through the dream. Margaret Thatcher with a machine gun leapt out of the scrub firing from the hip.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Daphne crashed off the bike, blood pumping out of her chest, her skirt up around her waist, her knickers still in her hand – still waving.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” The Major’s skull, still screaming orders, rolled along the beach.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Bliss cringed as a searchlight picked him out and Margaret Thatcher turned the machine gun in his direction.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Get down – get down. I can’t, Daphne’s behind me.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Sir ... Are you alright?”

The searchlight beat into his brain and Margaret Thatcher faded in its glare.

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Open the door.”

“Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Open the door, Sir, or I’ll have to force it.”

“What the hell?”

“Police – Open the door, Sir, and turn off the ignition please.”

A few seconds later the policewoman eyed both him and his newly issued warrant card carefully, while he eyed her. Low forties, he estimated; jet-black hair; dark eyes with a hint of the orient; a complexion with a touch of Mediterranean warmth; and a trace of smile not entirely masked by her official face.

“Detective Inspector Bliss ...” She queried suspiciously, inviting him to jog her memory. “I can’t say I remember you, Sir.”

“Ex – Met,” he explained. “Look at the date on the card. I only transferred last week.”

She looked. “Oh I see – that explains it. Well, I’m sorry to disturb you … ” then she wavered. “Are you sure everything’s alright, Sir?”

“Just tired.” Tired of running; tired of hiding.

“You should go home then.”

“Yes – I will, Miss. Thanks.”

Go home, he thought, as she crunched noisily back to her car across the sand-strewn car park, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, as soon as I’ve cleared up the case of the dead Major.

And what about Mandy’s murderer?

What about him? He pulled the trigger on Mandy and her baby – not me. He’s the one who should feel guilty – not me. For the past year I’ve been scared shitless by a two-bit hoodlum ...

Where the hell did that come from?

I’ve been watching too many American movies. What else was there to do in the safe house – six months solitary in a video library.

Anyway, don’t change the subject, he’s been killing you – strangling you with fear – you’re no more alive than a soldier going to war with his obituary in his pocket. Take control – take a leaf out of Daphne’s book – pedal through life waving your knickers in the air.

“Sir?”

He leapt out of his thoughts. “Oh! You made me jump.”

It was the policewoman again. “Sorry, Sir, only there’s a couple of messages waiting for you at Westchester station, if you’d like to give them a call.”

“How d’ye know ...” he began, then smiled, “So – you checked me out then?”

“Umm …”

“That’s O.K. – Absolutely right in fact. I would have done exactly the same thing. You can’t be too careful nowadays ... what’s your name by the way?”

“Sergeant Holingsworth, Sir.”

“Sergeant?” he said teasingly. “Funny name for a girl.”

“It’s Samantha, Sir.”

“My daughter’s Samantha ...” he began, then asked, concernedly. “Are you on your own?”

“This isn’t London, Sir. Anyway, I’m a Sergeant – obviously there are some places I wouldn’t go without back-up, but ...”

“Here ... get in a minute,” he said opening the passenger door. “It’s chilly with the window open.”

The graveyard shift, he thought as she walked round the back of the car, recalling his years as a uniformed constable when he’d been glad of almost anyone’s company to help pass the night.

“Thanks,” she replied slipping in beside him. “I’m on suicide patrol – this is a favourite place along here,” she continued, wiping a patch of fog off the windscreen and sweeping her eyes along the dark beach as if expecting to discover a body. “We usually find the car in the morning, a pile of clothes, an empty pill bottle and a note. The corpse washes ashore in a day or so when the crabs and dogfish have chewed off a few bits. The sea gulls usually get the eyes once the body’s on the beach. We’ve had half a dozen this year already – not good for the tourist trade.”

“I’m working on the murder over at Westchester,” said Bliss as if to reassure her she wasn’t the only one dealing with gruesome scenes.

“The old Major?”

“The very old Major as it turned out.”

“I heard – been dead for years they say.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can,” she laughed. “But I’ll warn you, the last inspector who said that to me in a parked car ended up with a slapped face.”

“No. It’s nothing like that. I just wanted to know if you’ve ever believed something that you later realised wasn’t true.”

She laughed again, “Like all the slime-bags who’ve put on a soppy voice and said, ‘I love you, Samantha – of course I’ll leave my wife.’”

“That’s an occupational hazard.”

“Of being a W.P.C.?”

“No. Of being a woman.”

“I never thought of my gender as an occupation, Inspector.”

“Please – It’s Dave. At half-past three in the morning nobody can cling to a rank with any dignity ... and don’t get huffy. A lot of women make careers out of being useless. ‘I can’t do this ... can’t touch that ... I’ll be sick …’ They say it in a girlish little voice and all the blokes go running. ‘Oh let me do that for you.’”

“I know the type. We’ve got a few,” she admitted.

“I meant – have you ever been convinced of something so fully, so absolutely, that when it unravels and you see the truth it leaves you totally gob-smacked.”

“I believed in Santa Claus when I was a kid ...” she began, but he cut her off.

“That’s not the same – every child believes in Santa Claus, even those who never get anything at Christmas still cling to the belief for as long as they can.”

“But I still believed when I was about ten – my friends called me crazy, but I suppose I didn’t want to believe my parents would lie to me. So – why did you ask?”

“I did something a long time ago that went pear-shaped ...”

“Pear-shaped?” she laughed questioningly.

“Yeah. It should have been as round and translucent as a crystal ball, but it got warped out of shape ... Anyway, last night an incredible old lady, with more guts than I’ll ever have, made me realise that what I did was the right thing.”

“So you’ve been blaming yourself.”

“That’s very astute of you.”

“And why did you blame yourself?

“I suppose I confused regret with remorse.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes passing telepathic messages – shall I tell you; if you want to; I want to; then tell me; I don’t know if I should.

“Are you going to tell me?” she asked eventually, knowing that he would, that he was only waiting to be asked.

Thinking about it afterwards he realised there were many reasons why he had told her about Mandy’s murder after concealing it from so many others. Cocooned in the dark and comfortable car he’d felt secure; Samantha had a warm persuasive voice and she had filled the car with the clean scent of pure shampoo and honest soap – nothing fancy or expensive. The sort of woman you could trust, he thought.

“I can’t understand why you ever blamed yourself – I think you were very brave,” she said, after he described the imbroglio in the bank.

“It was nothing ... ” he began, then quickly switched subjects, conscious he had not told her about Mandy’s pregnancy, nor the fact that he was being stalked by the killer. “What does your husband think of you working nights?”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh,” he said, confused, “I noticed the ring.”

“This?” she said, deftly slipping it off. “Just a curtain ring, it saves having to fight off a bar-full of drunks – they all want to marry me – so they say. ‘I’ll get my husband onto you,’ I tell ’em. It usually works.”

“That’s the trouble with pubs.”

“Actually,” she laughed, “I was talking about the blokes in the police canteen. What about you, Dave – married?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s have a look then,” she said, grabbing his left hand off the wheel and holding it against the faintly luminous dashboard. “Well there’s no ring mark, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“You don’t believe me,” he protested, aware she still had a tender hold on his hand.

“I’ve been shafted by married men too many times,” she said. They both laughed. “I didn’t mean that ...” she cried, letting go and giving him the friendliest of nudges.

“I know what you meant. Anyway, believe it or not, I’m not married.”

“Divorced?”

“Correct.”

“And she got pissed off with the screwy hours; the week-ends; nights; bank-holidays ...”

“How did you guess?”

“Why d’ye think I’m still single – how many spouses will put up with it?”

“My ex-wife used to tell people she’d been widowed by a murderer – I suppose it wasn’t entirely untrue – Anyway, I got some very funny looks from one or two people. ‘Are you Sarah’s second husband?’ one snooty woman asked, her eyes sort of scrunched in confusion. ‘No, I’m her lover,’ I said, straight-faced. Sarah was furious.”

An hour passed in no time: the wonders of London; the horrors of the country; the horrors of London; the wonders of the country.

“I’d best be going,” Samantha said eventually. “I’d better make sure there’s no frightful sights awaiting the grockles.”

“Grockles?” he questioned.

“Foreigners; out-of-towners; holidaymakers,” she explained. “It’s a local nickname.”

“Like me ...” he began, then paused, struck by a thought. “I’ve just realised why you looked so concerned when you couldn’t wake me. You thought I was ...”

“Dead,” he was going to say but she was ahead of his thoughts. “Well it happens. I’ve come across a couple of people who’ve swallowed a bottle of tablets and sat in the car waiting for them to start taking effect before braving the water. They doze off and ... Anyway,” she said, getting out of the car. “Thank goodness you weren’t dead.”

“Don’t you believe it,” he muttered and was grateful that she didn’t hear as she shut the door. “Goodnight, Samantha,” he called, winding his window down.

“Good morning,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the bright patch above the eastern horizon. And as he looked at her, framed in early dawn light, he found a most pleasing shape.

It wasn’t until she was opening the door of her police car that he managed to get his mind in gear. “Samantha,” he called, with only a second to spare.

She looked back with a smile. “Yes?”

“Would you have dinner with me one night?”

“Maybe – try giving me a call. But I’ll warn you now – I work dreadful hours.”

Watching her drive away he questioned his motives. Just dinner, he said to himself. Don’t get involved with someone in the job – too many problems. She was certainly good looking. Wake up, Dave – most women look good at this time of night. Maybe a quick dip in the sea will cool you off and freshen you up – your trunks and towel are in one of the suitcases in the back.

A chilly blast of ozone laden air shocked him to life as he opened the car door. That’ll do, he thought, quickly slamming it shut and starting the engine, then he had to get out and scurry to a convenient bush for a morning pee.

Detective Sergeant Patterson was already in the office at Westchester police station when Bliss phoned at six-fifteen. “He’s here somewhere,” said the night telephonist. “I saw him come in.” He was there – ferreting through the papers on Bliss’s desk and digging through his drawers.

“I’ve put out a call for him, he’s not in his office,” continued the telephonist, but there’s a message here for you. A reporter from the Westchester Gazette was trying to get hold of you last evening – wants you to call him about the Dauntsey case.”

“Tell him to go through the press office.”

“I did, Sir, but he was quite insistent that he wanted to speak to you personally.”

“Did he have my name?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry, Sir – did you say something?”

“No, I sneezed. Did he leave a number?”

Giving him the number she finished by saying, “I’ve got D.S. Patterson now, Sir, I’ll transfer you.”

“Where are you, Guv?” queried Patterson coming on the line.

That’s a point – where am I? wondered Bliss, pulling himself upright on the steering wheel, reaching forward to clear a patch of windscreen. Seagulls, sand dunes, a couple of beach joggers and a host of happy childhood memories. But this was neither Southend or Brighton. “Ah ...”

“Only I called the Mitre last night and that foreign girl said you’d left.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“No.” Idiot. “I meant, why did you want me?”

“Sorry, Guv. Well we’ve got the blood tests on the duvet – nothing special – O positive.”

“Is that it?”

“You sound disappointed, Guv.”

“With the way Jonathon’s been pissing us about I half expected cochineal or paint. I suppose a small part of me even began wondering if we were chasing a dead animal.”

“No – it’s definitely human.”

“Well I don’t know whether to say ‘Thank Christ’ or ‘Shit’ but at least we now know it wasn’t the Major’s blood.”

“You can’t get blood out of a bone,” sniggered Patterson.

“Very droll, Pat,” he groaned, then added, “I want you to get everyone together for two o’clock this afternoon. It’s time to hash this case out ...”

Patterson butted in. “It’s Saturday, Guv. I won’t be very popular.”

“You’re not paid to be popular. I’ve got some theories I want to run past you and the others.”

“Whatever you say, Guv,” Patterson said. On your head be it, he meant, already formulating excuses in his mind – Don’t blame me for poxing up your weekend – blame Bliss. I just follow orders. “... Oh, Guv?”

“Yes.”’

“Have you got a new car?”

“Yes – why?”

“Oh nothing, Guv. It’s just that I need the details for the station car parking book, otherwise the bomb squad will blow it up.”

“Right – I forgot.”

“No problem. By the way, have you informed the widow about the Major yet, Guv?”

“That’s my purgatory for this morning, Pat. I’ll see you later.”

But Doreen Dauntsey could wait for the knock on her door, after all she’d waited forty years. He checked his watch, six-forty-five, Saturday morning. Let’s see how keen this reporter is.

The phone was answered at the second ring. “Peter White ... G’morning.”

“D.I. Bliss, Westchester police,” he was curt. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

“Oh yes, Sir. Thanks for calling ...” he began, a bounce of excitement in his voice. “I wonder – could we meet? Off the record.”

Bliss hesitated, “I’m not sure ...”

“It’s all above board, Sir, I promise you.”

“Perhaps we could meet for breakfast in an hour or so. I’m staying at the Mitre.”

It was the journalist’s turn to hesitate. “Um ... Would you mind if we met somewhere a bit more private – the Bacon Butty on the Marsdon Road does a good breakfast, and they open early?”

Bliss knew the place, having passed it en-route to The Carpenter’s Kitchen with Daphne the previous evening, and he found himself agreeing, despite the nagging feeling that fraternising with the press was probably contrary to regulations. “Seven-thirty, then.” he said, leaving no opportunity for dissent, retaining some control.

Bliss arrived early and sat for a few minutes, deliberating whether or not to go in, wishing he had a mini-cassette player with him, knowing that “off the record” had its limitations, and that reporters could be as gymnastic as policemen when it came to direct quotes.

The front door opened on a narrow passageway, the wallpaper flock erased at hip height, and Bliss followed a patternless groove in the lino into a smoky room with nicotine- yellowed walls covered in cheap prints; glitzy framed pictures oozing sickly sentimentality – fuzzy edged images of fat babies with snotty noses, a bloated cat with a budgie on its head and more sad-eyed puppies than a Disney cartoon.

“Mr. Bliss?” enquired the shrivelled occupant of a giant’s sports jacket and Bliss found himself staring at the sole diner, trying to make sense of the spectacle. Nothing fitted. The man had a size six head on a size four body; his oversize nose and glasses appeared to have been borrowed for the occasion from a joke shop and his hair seemed to be slipping off the back of his head.

“Why the secrecy?” asked Bliss, ignoring the outstretched hand and sitting on a chair with an artistically ripped vinyl seat – Stanley knife, he guessed.

“I wouldn’t call it secrecy, Inspector. It’s just not good form for the press to be seen feeding information to the police – though it can work in both directions, if you get my meaning.”

Bliss leant back in the chair, keeping his distance. “So you want to scratch my back, do you ...?”

“Well, I must admit, when I heard they’d brought in a top Scotland Yard detective to lead the investigation, I realised there was more to this than just the death of an old Major.”

Bliss basked in the misplaced notoriety feeling no compunction to disillusion the scruffy little man. “And you are hoping for a scoop I take it.”

“Actually, no ...” he paused to remove his spectacles for an enthusiastic clean, revealing a heavily drooped left eyelid that gave his face a lopsided appearance. “I say,” he continued, “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression.”

“Two full breakfasts was that Mr. White?” called a robust, amiable voice, above a cacophony of kitchen sounds. “Tea or coffee?” she demanded, taking the reply for granted.

“Coffee for me,” answered Bliss, deciding he’d wait until he saw the breakfast, and the state of the cook, before committing himself to eat anything. “And what would the wrong impression be Mr. White, and how did you get my name by the way?”

“I was making enquiries in the Black Horse on Monday when you closed it down,” said White after ordering tea. “And I can assure you I’m not here to pump you for information.”

“Good – you won’t be wasting your breath then,” said Bliss, harsher than intended.

White turned cool, but replaced his spectacles and pressed on. “My editor asked me to prepare a biography on Major Dauntsey to run the day of the funeral. It seemed simple enough, although, to be truthful, I would have preferred to run it today.”

“Why today?”

“The date, Inspector ...” he said peering over the top of his spectacles.

“6th of June – Oh, I see. The anniversary of D-Day – I’d forgotten.” But then his nightmare of dead men and grey battleships suddenly had meaning, and he found himself questioning what had occurred as he had looked out over the dark sea during the night – the same sea that had swallowed thousands of screaming souls a generation ago. Was it a nightmare or had it been something more? he wondered; and his mind wandered, thinking of the ships and men steaming through the long night, arriving off the coast of France at dawn. Then what? A single shell from a strafing Stuka, or a burst of shrapnel from a mine or artillery shell, and it would all be over. Years of training, thousands of miles from home, for what – dead before you even got to the beach.

“Inspector?”

“Sorry ... Yes, please go on.”

White took off his glasses again and gave them a long and thoughtful polish before taking a photocopy of a newspaper cutting from his pocket. “This was what I found in the archives,” he said, handing it over.

Westchester Gazette and Herald

Thursday, July 23rd 1944

Local Major – Battlefield hero

by P.W.Mulverhill

Major Rupert W. Dauntsey,

Royal Horse Artillery, of The Coppings,

Westchester, Hampshire

A spokesperson at the War Office has confirmed to this correspondent that Major Dauntsey has been nominated for an award for gallantry, although could not confirm that a D.S.O. was in the offing.

Details are still sketchy about the action, but early reports suggest that Major Dauntsey’s troops were caught in murderous crossfire as the beleaguered Hun fought a desperate rear-guard action somewhere in northern France. All reports suggest that the Bosch are running faster than rats from a sinking ship, but some are still determined to take as many of our boys with them as they can.

Major Dauntsey’s wife, Doreen, (21 yrs.), married only days before “D” Day, was unaware of her husband’s heroic action when contacted by this newspaper, but she stated that she was not surprised to hear of his bravery – “It is just like him,” she said. “Putting other’s first.”

Unconfirmed reports suggest that Major Dauntsey was himself wounded in the action, but we are certain he will be pleased to learn that a hero’s welcome awaits him on his return. Well done, Major Dauntsey, and God speed your return.

This correspondent will be the first to congratulate the Major and bring our readers a full account from the Major’s own lips on his return.

“Sounds fair enough,” said Bliss handing the cutting back. “And what did the Major have to say when he got back?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, he had difficulty speaking I understand.”

“He may have done – but that isn’t the reason he didn’t say anything. I’ve spoken to Patrick Mulverhill, the reporter, he’s well into his eighties now, but he’s no fool. He went to Oxford with the Major and remembers the day he came back from the front – trussed up like a mummy, he said, and that was the last he ever saw of him. According to Patrick, Doreen Dauntsey kept her husband locked away tighter than a duck’s ass for the rest of his life – however long that may have been.”

If the implication in the journalist’s words left little doubt as to Doreen’s involvement in her husband’s demise, his tone spoke volumes. But Bliss refused to be drawn. “Thanks for your assistance, Mr. White, I appreciate it. Obviously I shall need to speak directly with Patrick Mulverhill ...”

“You could ...” he cut in, then left Bliss hanging.

“But?”

“Patrick is sort of old-fashioned about the independence of the press. He still clings to the notion that we can claim legal privilege. He probably won’t tell you anything, although he can be ... shall we say undiplomatic ... he’s just as likely to tell you to get lost.”

“I’ll take a chance,” said Bliss as the kitchen door burst open and the cook, as fat and friendly as she’d sounded, fought her way through with a groaning tray. “There we are, ducks,” she said. “This’ll put hairs on your chest.”

They ate in silence for a while, the steaming food fogging the reporter’s spectacles until he removed them and looked uneasily across the table. “There is something else, Mr. Bliss,” he began, then betrayed his nervousness by ferociously polishing the spectacles with a handkerchief. “I also came across this,” he said eventually, taking another cutting from his pocket.

With one quick glance Bliss felt his face greying, felt himself sliding back into the miasma of concern.

“You must have trodden on some pretty important toes,” continued the reporter unaware of Bliss’s discomfort, quoting snippets from the cutting. “Bomb explodes at detective’s home – Death threats – Underworld hit-man ...”

“I know what it says,” fumed Bliss. “Where’d d’ye get it?”

White swallowed, “London Evening Post ...”

“I know that. I meant why ... who gave it to you? Who set you up?”

“Set me up ... I don’t understand.”

Calm down ... calm down. How can I calm down? He’s tipped off the local press. He knows he’s got me cornered – I bet he thought they’d just carry the story then I’d be on the run again. “What was it, an anonymous phone-call, or did he mail it?”

“I’m sorry ... I really don’t know ...”

I thought you were going to stop this – remember – wave your knickers in the air and all that. That didn’t last long did it? “Sorry – what were you saying?”

“I ... I don’t know what you mean – who mailed what?”

Him ... The killer. Winding me up again. Letters and words clipped from newspapers and magazines: “You’re DEAD Bliss.” “I’ve done my time – your next.”

“Who gave that to you?” he demanded, jumping up, still trying to get away, as if the cutting were explosive.

“No-one,” shouted White; on the defensive, not knowing why. “It was just a routine search. We usually do a little piece ‘New inspector on the beat,’ that sort of thing, when a new police officer is appointed, and I came across your name and thought I’d root around for a bit of background.”

What’s this – everybody checking up on me today. First Samantha, now you. LEAVE ME ALONE.

He sat, consternation furrowing his brow, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just a bit touchy about it.”

“I can imagine,” responded White, trying to modify his expression from alarm to concern.

“I’d rather you didn’t print anything about it,” Bliss continued. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t use my name at all.”

White muttered non-committally, cleaning his glasses again.

The atmosphere was so heavy as they continued their meal that Bliss checked his watch at a politic moment and announced his departure. “Must dash,” he said, laying a ten pound note next to his partly finished plate. “No – don’t get up. Thanks again for the information.”

Bliss drove idly for a while, a cassette of Handel’s Watermusic calming him, then he headed into Westchester and parked next to the senior’s home. Now for the merry widow, he thought, heading for the front door.

The bulbous breasted nurse whom D.C. Dowding had targeted on their first visit greeted him proudly. “Matron’s off today, Sir, I’m in charge. Unless anything serious happens, then I can call her.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” said Bliss condescendingly. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. I’m here to see Mrs. Dauntsey again.”

But Doreen Dauntsey had donned the veil of widowhood and sought reclusion. Nurse Dryden’s face clouded. “Mrs. Dauntsey’s in her room, Sir.”

“That’s ideal. I wanted some privacy.”

“No, you don’t understand, Sir, that won’t be possible – she is in her room.”

What is this, a euphemism for saying she’s in the toilet? “I can wait.”

“I doubt she’ll be out today, Sir.”

Not the toilet apparently. “I’m not with you ...”

“Do not disturb,” she whispered, making the rectangular shape of a sign with her hands.

“Oh. I understand. Well, I’m sure she’ll want to see me.”

She should have been a traffic warden, he thought ten minutes later when the nurse was still blocking his attempt to see Doreen Dauntsey – the maximum enforcement of minimum authority. “Rules is rules,” she had reminded him at least ten times. “Do not disturb means do not disturb.”

“But I need to tell her that we’ve found her dead husband,” he finally told her in frustration.

“Oh – she knows that, Sir. Everybody knows about the Major in the attic. Bob was telling me all about it last night ...”

“Bob? Bob who?”

“Bob – you know, your sergeant. The one you was with on Monday.”

“Dowding?” he queried. “Bob Dowding?”

She nodded enthusiastically, setting her breasts in spirited motion.

So, Detective Constable Dowding, he said to himself. Been promoted have you? Been playing away from home have you? Been toying with little girls with big tits?

“You’d better call the matron,” he continued, without trace of conciliation.

An hour later he gave up. Doreen Dauntsey wasn’t receiving visitors and, short of smashing down the door with a fire axe, he had no way to get into her room. The matron, looking veritably unmatronly in Saturday jeans and clinging T-shirt, had been empathetic to a fault, although, somewhat implausible in refusing to acknowledge the existence of a pass key. “We are very conscious of our guest’s privacy,” she had said, as if she were the major domo of a ritzy hotel, but she had allowed him to tap respectfully on Doreen’s door.

“Go away,” she had cried, and he had been forced to do so.

She’s hiding, like a kid who’s got into the jam, he thought. “I would have come earlier,” he told the matron as they walked downstairs, “but we had to wait to get proper identification.” It sounded reasonable, but was baloney. You knew it was him the minute you saw what was left of the face, he inwardly admitted.

“I think she’s still in mourning.” explained the matron as she saw him out. Nurse Dryden hung back behind the door and contemptuously poked out her tongue. “See – I told you.”

It was only ten-thirty and Bliss found himself tossing up between returning, tail between legs, to the Mitre, or heading back to the police station and listening to Patterson moan about the spoilt weekend. In the end he ducked the question, deciding instead to visit Daphne to make sure she was alright.

A driverless blue Volvo, with a front-seat passenger reading Thursday’s newspaper, sat near the end of Daphne’s road. Bliss ignored it, not even bothering to note the number. Driving confidently by he congratulated himself – that’s the way, Dave – wave those knickers.

Daphne was pleased to see him, and bustled around in the kitchen making tea, leaving him to stare out over the cornfield and wonder why he’d confided in Samantha when he’d kept Mandy’s death from Daphne. That reminds me, he thought, I must give Samantha a call, though not too soon. I mustn’t appear too keen. Surprised by the strength of his feeling, he tried to rationalise – it was dark, she was a good listener ...

“I’m glad you came round, Chief Inspector,” said Daphne breaking into his thoughts. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to give me a hand in a minute. I’ve got to load a few things in the butcher’s van, the stuff for the Women’s Institute auction. George is taking it to the Town hall – Oh, that’ll be him now.”

The van was manoeuvring up to the front gate as they emerged with the stuffed goat.

“Will you be able to manage at the other end, George?” called Daphne.

“Yeah – the ladies are all waiting, Mrs. L,” replied George, opening the back doors.

“Mrs?” queried Bliss in a whisper.

“Shh – I’ll explain in a minute.”

“Ahh, the old goat,” he said, a crack of nostalgia in his voice. “I gave Mrs. L. this,” he continued, blowing out his cheeks in pride. “And I reckon it’ll fetch a pretty penny. What say you, Mrs. L?”

“What’s that, George?”

“I were just sayin’ to this young man as how the old goat’ll be quite a ’traction at the auction today.”

Daphne winked at Bliss. “I wouldn’t doubt that, George. In fact I shall have my hand up for a few quid, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Bliss is keen – isn’t that so, Dave?”

“Oh. Yes ... Very keen.”

George beamed.

“So what’s the Mrs. thing?” smiled Bliss as George drove away with the contents of Daphne’s front hall.

“Oh,” she chuckled, “just our joke really. I always buy enough meat for two, me and the cat, so George has his bit of fun. ‘How’s the General today, Mrs. L?’ he always calls when I go in the shop.”

“He had me worried for a minute,” teased Bliss.

“Get on with you,” she laughed, then added, “Come in a minute, I’ve got something for you.”

“I’ve got a meeting ...” he started, examining his watch, but she talked over him. “Oh don’t worry, it won’t take a second. It’s just that when I was going through the attic this morning, digging things out for the auction, I came across something that might interest you.”

The black and white photograph had faded to a wash of tonal greys but the front porch of the Dauntsey house and the stiffly composed wedding group were instantly recognisable.

“Well. Do you recognise anyone?” Daphne asked, giving him a few seconds.

“You,” he said, immediately pointing to a slender beautiful woman in a body-hugging dress that made him wish, really wish, he’d been more than just a teenager’s lustful thought at the time.

“Very good, and ...?”

“This must be Doreen ...”

“Oh I remember that terrifying hat?” screeched Daphne. “It was baby-shit brown. They should have sent her to France wearing that – who needs knickers with a hat like that. If that wouldn’t scare ’em off, nothing would.”

“The old Colonel,” laughed Bliss, pointing to the old man, ram-rod straight in his guardsman’s ceremonial uniform. “And this must be Major Dauntsey, when he still had a face worth looking at.”

“That’s right. It wasn’t much though was it?” She turned up her nose.

“What happened to his chin?”

“God knows.”

“And who’s this by his side?”

Daphne leaned closer for a better look. “Oh that was his best man,” she sneered. “Now he was a nancy-boy if ever I saw one. He was the Major’s aide-de-camp, and “camp” was the just about the right word for him. He fussed over Rupert worse than a debutante’s mother. Look ...” she started, then rushed off in search of a magnifying glass. She was back in a flash, peering deep into the picture. “I thought so,” she said, giving Bliss the glass. “Look in his right hand.”

“What is it?” he asked, unable to recognise the object that had caught the glint of the flashbulb.

“Silver-backed clothes brush,” said Daphne, clearly remembering the article. “It was very swish, chased silver with inlaid rubies. He drove me crazy with it – every two minutes brushing the Major down like he was a prize poodle at Cruft’s. He was the sort who’d have creases in his underwear.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head, and by her tone was uninterested in recalling. “A Captain somebody-or-other.”

“Could it have been Captain Tippen?” asked Bliss, remembering the dog-tags in the Major’s trunk, trying a long-shot.

“I don’t know ... ” She screwed her eyes in thought. “Yes I do!” she exclaimed joyfully. “His name was David ... Oh my goodness – I’m not as senile as I thought I was.”

“David Tippen?” queried Bliss.

“Oh, now that would be stretching the grey matter too far, but it was definitely David.”

“I bet it was,” he said, staring into the picture, trying to communicate with the characters. That would explain how Major Dauntsey got the tags – good friends; best man at wedding; dying words as he lies on the battlefield. “Give these to my mother – tell her I loved her to the end.”

“Can I borrow this?” he asked, knowing the answer. “Daphne, you’re a whiz.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector ... are you going to kiss me again?”

He did, on the cheek, and she held onto his arm as he made his way out with the picture.

“By the way, you didn’t tell me what happened after the war,” he said as they neared the gate.

“I stayed in France ...” she began, the inflection saying there was more, much more, and all of it spun around in her mind until she settled on the salient feature. “Hugo, he called himself. He was an artist.”

“The portrait?”

She nodded with a melancholic smile, “I thought he loved me, but, there again, I suppose I thought I loved him.”

“And Hugo?”

“Hugo ... ” her voice faded and her eyes drifted into the distance. “Hugo loved painting.”