Missing: Presumed Dead ib-1

by James Hawkins

  “I didn’t think it was significant,” shrugged Patterson, leaping to his own defence. “It was obviously his mother’s — being ill and all.”

  “She’s got cancer, not diabetes,” shot back Bliss, seizing a vengeful opportunity. “Where is it now? In the evidence store or at the forensic lab, I hope.”

  Patterson, nailed, turned bright pink. “Um … It’s in my desk actually, Guv.”

  “Well get it to the lab then — right away.”

  Patterson wriggled, unconvinced. “It’s burnt … doubt if they’ll find anything. Anyway, what are they supposed to be looking for? They’ll want to know.”

  “A sedative of some sort. My guess is he used it to tranquillise whoever he bumped off, which would explain how he got his victim up to the room in the Black Horse.”

  “Have we any idea who he killed, Guv?” It was the policewoman again, thinking — that’ll teach them for glaring at me.

  “Well, we know for sure he didn’t kill the Major …”

  “We don’t know that at all,” complained Patterson still clinging to his conviction despite evidence to the contrary. “He confessed — I got his confession on tape.”

  “I strongly suggest you listen to that tape again. You’ve been taken for a ride, Sergeant — Jonathon Dauntsey didn’t confess to killing the Major.”

  “But …” protested Patterson. “He said he killed his father.”

  “In which case I suggest you check his date of birth. I know the pace of life has picked up in recent years but, unless Jonathon’s mother was ten months pregnant, I think you’ll find he is not a Dauntsey.”

  “Thank you for your attention ladies and gentlemen,” he added quickly and was out of the door before Patterson had a chance to respond.

  “Thank you, Daphne, you’re a genius,” he said to the corridor wall, took fifty pounds out of his pocket and poked his head back round the door. “All have a drink on me tonight,” he said handing it to the nearest. “Take tomorrow off and we’ll crack this case next week.” Then he raised his eyebrows at Patterson, fully expecting an argument, and was a trifle disappointed when the man begrudgingly nodded his thanks.

  Two hours later he stood on the threshold of his house with more than a tingle of nervousness in his groin. You could run, he told himself — it’s an option. No-one would know. You could high-tail it back to the Mitre — you’ve already paid. Then he thought of Daphne, knickerless, charging the German machine gunners on a bike, and he slipped the key into the lock.

  Samantha had helped with the decor and choice of fabrics when he initially moved in. “You’re useless, Dad,” she had said.

  “I’m a man. It’s not my fault.”

  But the decor had changed, the bomber had seen to that, and the hallway was unfamiliar, hostile even as he stepped inside. He stopped, feeling as vulnerable as a naked man in a cell, realising that his home had been violated; that it had been intruded upon, first by the essence of the bomber himself, then by a slew of policemen, scientists, rubber-neckers, reporters, architects, estimators, builders, and a battalion of civil servants. Even the commissioner had been to inspect — it wasn’t every day that one of his officers was bombed out of his home.

  “It’s like it were in the Blitz,” one of the neighbours had said with a glint in his eye. “Even the King came to have a gawp then.”

  The heavy steel door clanged shut behind him. There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? he breathed in relief. And the decorator’s have done a good job, no sign of the bomb damage …

  “Br-rr-ing.”

  He jumped out of skin and the phone shrieked again.

  “Br-rr-ing.”

  The killer was back — It was less than a minute and he was doing it again.

  “Br-rr-ing.”

  He must be watching the place — get out, get out before a grenade whistles through a window.

  “Br-rr-ing.”

  GET OUT NOW!

  You are kidding? That’s what he wants. He’s outside right now, leering, a mobile phone in one hand and a Kalashnikov in the other.

  I thought you were going to stop this.

  Tell my pulse that.

  “Br-rr-ing.”

  Answer the phone.

  What — put it to my ear and listen for the “Bang” as my head gets blown off.

  “Br-rr-ing.”

  Stand back and hit the speakerphone button then. Alright — good idea. “Yes — who is this?”

  “Identify yourself.”

  “What?”

  “I said — identify yourself.”

  Don’t tell him — Duck! Duck! “Who are you?”

  “This is Tew Park police station — identify yourself.”

  “Oh shit,” he muttered. “I’ve set off the alarm.”

  He’d forgotten — Big Brother was watching.

  “This is D.I. Bliss …” he started, then pulled himself up. “Sorry — This is Michael.”

  “What’s the codeword?”

  There was nothing friendly in the demand — and it was a demand. The codeword? His mind was racing — what’s the codeword? “Hang on, I haven’t used it for six months.”

  “Police officers are en-route — state your codeword.”

  “Sarah.” It came back in a flash. “It’s Sarah.” Ex-wife Sarah — how could I have forgotten? Well, it has been more than five years now.

  “Thank you, Michael — you should have informed us you were visiting the property.”

  “Yes — sorry. Spur of the moment. I didn’t think.”

  That’s what had happened with the codeword, he recalled to himself. You gave Sarah’s name on the spur of the moment — still living in the past — still rushing back to press your nose against the toy shop window.

  “A patrol unit will be with you in just a few moments, Sir,” continued the voice on the speakerphone.

  “That won’t be necessary officer,” he was saying, but he was staring at the door — the steel anti-blast door with double deadbolt locks — still wondering if a deranged sniper with a high powered rifle was out there just waiting for a chink to appear.

  “The unit is with you now, Sir. If you’d be good enough to open the door and just confirm your identity.”

  “Wait, wait — How do I know …?”

  “How do you know what, Sir?”

  “How do I know …” his voice faded.

  This is stupid, Dave. You’re making an ass of yourself. You’re right.

  “If you would just open the door, Sir.”

  His hand was on the handle but it wouldn’t turn.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Open up, Sir — Police.”

  “Sorry,” he said a few minutes later as he sat, crammed in the kitchen with two gregarious Bigfoots in blue uniforms. “I really haven’t got a lot to offer you.”

  “No problem, Guv.”

  “I could do some instant coffee …” he started, then realised he’d have to turn on the water and scare up some mugs. In any case they were shaking their heads — buckets of beer looked to be more in their line. “I really hadn’t planned on coming back today,” he continued, “but I was in the area and I thought I’d see what the old place looked like.”

  “You’re not staying then?”

  “No,” he said easily. Thinking — I was going to until I stood by that door not knowing who was outside — waiting for the bullets. Sorry, Daphne old girl — guess I haven’t got the bottle. “No, I’m not staying — I think I’ll go to my daughter’s.”

  “Thank Christ for that.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cos we would have had to park outside all night if you’d been stopping.”

  “I’ll only be ten minutes or so,” he said, letting the officers out and closing the heavy door. Then he stood, fixated by the door, seriously debating whether he was inside or outside — not inside or outside the house; inside or outside the door — a mental perspective of a physical presence. With the realisation that he wanted to be the other side of the
door he concluded he was actually outside, and left the house as soon as he’d rounded up one or two belongings.

  “Don’t wake me up too early,” Samantha, his daughter, had warned, throwing a clean sheet over the guest bed. “Tomorrow’s Sunday — just forget you’re in the police for once.”

  “Roger, Sam,” he had said, thinking — you sound more like your mother every day. “Don’t worry, I’m so exhausted I’ll probably sleep all day.”

  A swathe of sunlight cut through a gape in the curtains and roused him a little after nine. As he woke, “Samantha” was on his lips and he fought with his soporific memory to retrace the dregs of his last dream.

  Sketchy images appeared — cozy memories: a warm dark car; moonlight on a tropical beach; a dark-haired native with an alluring body. Samantha, the sergeant, he fathomed, then realised that despite all the aggravations of the previous day she had been slinking in the back of his mind throughout.

  Balancing himself on the brink of wakefulness, he played with the images until she was gambolling naked in the surf. Then the shiploads of dead men started drifting in again and spoiled the picture. Waking himself to escape the nightmare, he was annoyed to discover that Samantha had also dissolved. Be sensible, he told himself. Don’t get carried away. It was 4 am and you were tired and lonely. In the clear light of day she’ll be an absolute dragon. Anyway, she didn’t seem overly keen.

  But she said she’d have dinner.

  “Maybe,” was what she said. “Maybe.”

  “Call me,” she said.

  But did she give me a number? — No. Did she tell me where she was stationed?

  That’s easy enough to find out — you’re just trying to duck out of it. What are you frightened of?

  I told you — she’s probably a dragon, works nights so as not to scare the horses during the day.

  You’re frightened of rejection — again.

  Ha — ha, very funny.

  “Have you upset somebody, Guv?” asked the control room officer at Westchester police station when Bliss called a little after ten.

  Does he mean — apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and half the C.I.D.? he wondered, then answered cagily. “Not that I know of. I was just calling to see if … Why?”

  The voice was guarded — circumspect. “Well … were you expecting a delivery of any sort?”

  Oh God — another bomb. Try to sound normal. “No, I wasn’t expecting anything at all.”

  “We thought so, Guv. Well, somebody’s playing a nasty joke on you.”

  “What is it? What’s happened?” It has to be explosive, or something really disgusting like a box of cow-shit. Damn — they will have instigated full anti-terrorist procedures: evacuation; bomb disposal teams, robotic disarming devices. . this has got to stop — one way or another.

  “Guv — Are you still there?”

  “Yes — Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”

  “I said it were a moth eaten old goat.”

  “A what?”

  “Some butcher delivered it this morning — reckoned it had come from an auction. I’ve had it put in the isolation cell. He wanted to put it in your office. ‘Not bloody likely,’ I said, ‘You never know what it might have inside.’”

  “Daphne!” he swore under his breath but he couldn’t help laughing in relief. “Do you mean it could be a sort of a Trojan goat?”

  “A what, Guv?”

  “Never mind — it’s O.K., just a mistake I expect. I’ll deal with it. Anything else?”

  “Three phone calls for you, Guv.”

  “Who?”

  “Three women,” he said, the suggestion of impropriety in his tone. “None of ’em would leave a message, said they’d call back, though one of ’em sounded very much like our Daphne — the cleaner.”

  Directory enquiries located her number in seconds. “Daphne — this is D.I. Bliss. . did you phone me this morning?”

  “Oh yes, Chief Inspector,” she started, wielding formality as a shield. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.” She paused for the words to sink in, then added excitedly, “You bought the goat.”

  “I did what?”

  “Now, you needn’t be cross. I didn’t know what to do and I knew you wouldn’t mind. I bid twenty pounds myself but nobody else seemed interested, then George caught my eye and he looked so downhearted. ‘I thought that friend of yorn were keen,’ he said, his face as miserable as a wet weekend. ‘He was, George,’ I said. ‘He most certainly was.’ ‘Well where is he then?’ he said, forlorn. What could I do, Dave? I didn’t want you getting a bad reputation for welching on your promises, so I bid fifty quid for you.”

  “How much?”

  “Oh don’t be so ungrateful. I did it for you. Anyway, you were lucky. I thought about bidding against you and pushing the price up to a hundred, but the auctioneer was quick off the mark. “Going, going, gone,” he said, and knocked it down before I could get my hand up, so I saved you fifty quid. George was so thrilled he said he would deliver it personally — he thinks you’re wonderful.”

  “A wonderful idiot.”

  She pretended not to hear. “Anyway, Dave, that wasn’t why I was calling really — I’ve got some more good news. D’you remember asking me about that Captain at Doreen’s wedding?”

  “The Major’s aide-de-camp.”

  “Yes. His best man — the one with the clothes brush. Well, I thought afterwards, we were very silly.”

  “We were?”

  “Oh yes. Very silly. You see, when I thought about it, I remembered he was Rupert’s witness at the wedding. I was Doreen’s …”

  “And his name will be on the marriage certificate,” burst in Bliss, catching on immediately. “I’m in London, I can go to the records office tomorrow …”

  “That won’t be necessary, Dave. I went to St. Paul’s church this morning.

  Sunday — “Communion?”

  “No — to look in the parish register of course. The vicar found it in a flash. I’ve got it here. His name was Tippen. David Tippen, just like you said, and he gave an address in Guildstone.

  “I know the place, I drive through it.”

  “You’ll have to go there then,” she said, giving him the address. “I’ve tried directory enquiries and they don’t have a number.”

  “Thanks, Daphne — you’re great,” he said and was about to put down the phone when she announced that there was even more good news. Apparently, George, the butcher, had been so impressed by his generosity in buying the taxidermal goat he had personally delivered a joint of sirloin to her, with a request that it should be passed on. “Knowing you haven’t got a place of your own,” she said, “I thought perhaps I could make Sunday dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, say about 7.30 tonight. If you can forgive me by then.”

  “I couldn’t, Daphne, really.”

  Her voice cracked with pain. “You won’t forgive me.”

  “Of course I’ll forgive you — already have. It’s just that I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

  “Oh I see.” But she wouldn’t be beaten. “I’ll cook anyway, and if you’re not here by eight I’ll go ahead and eat on my own. I can always heat yours up later — Bye.”

  Putting down the phone, shaking his head at Daphne’s impudence, he suddenly realised why he was still running from a would-be assassin while she had boldly walked through the German lines. She was a woman. Even Mandy’s killer had shown his prejudice — “I wouldn’t shoot no woman — what sort of scum do you think I am?” Why? he wondered. What’s the difference — is it more horrifying for a woman to die than a man. But what if the person in the bank had been Andy instead of Mandy? Would the killer still be trying to exact revenge? At least Andy wouldn’t have been pregnant.

  Laying back with his eyes closed, he drifted in thought, realising it was the ethereal nature of the threat that made it so much more frightening — he’d had no problem tackling the killer head-on in
the bank, and needed both hands to count the number of armed villains he’d taken down over the years. But he had been able to see them.

  “I hope you’re going to pay my phone bill,” said Samantha, bleary eyed, sliding unheard into the room and jumping him out of thoughts.

  “Well, I was going to,” he said with a serious face. “But I don’t know if I can afford it now.”

  “Why not?” she cried, instantly wide awake.

  He kept the straight face. “Well, I’ve just bought a goat.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what I said when I found out.”

  “Dad, it’s too early to piss about …” then her face clouded in concern. “Aren’t you taking this country thing a bit far?”

  “It’s alright, Luv,” he said, unable to control his mirth, and, sweeping her into his arms, kissed her forehead. “Of course I’ll pay your bill. Although,” he paused and looked to the ceiling as if in deep thought, “perhaps you can help me out with the feed bill.”

  “What!”

  Daphne, George and the goat were explained with a laugh. “I’ve just one more quick call,” he added as she headed to the kitchen mumbling, “Coffee.”

  The brusqueness of the model’s dealer suggested that he had stood to attention to answer the phone. “The Toy Soldier — Sunday — Closed to the public,” he said, though a buzz of background voices suggested otherwise.

  “Oh … I was hoping to have a word …”

  “Call back tomorrow then.”

  “It’ll only take a second — I was in your shop earlier in the week …”

  “Peter …” a voice called. “I’ve just taken out your tank, old boy, you’d better pull your socks up.”

  “Blast … Well, what is it? What d’ye want?” he questioned in a tone that said, “Get on with it man.”

  “The Royal Horse Artillery gun carriage — you asked me …”

  “Have you got the set?” he demanded, his enthusiasm running away with his mouth.

  “Peter …”

  “Not now … Have you got it?”

  These boys are keen, thought Bliss. “Yes, I think so.”

  “When can I see it?”

  It’s only a toy — not the crown jewels. “Well …”