“Daphne,” he calls, gently tapping on her bedroom door a few seconds later, with Missie Rouge noisily begging for food at his feet.
“What’s the matter?” Bliss asks, lifting the crying kitten, and he’s tempted to creep back downstairs to find the animal some food rather than wake his host. It’s close to midnight, and she is obviously still angry with him but, as he stands on the cold landing, Bliss has a sudden feeling of dread that forces him to knock again, louder—much louder. “Daphne, are you all right?”
Twenty minutes later, with every light in the house burning brightly, Bliss is accompanied by Inspector Graves, the senior night-duty officer from Westchester Police Station, as they pore over Daphne’s empty bedroom, seeking clues.
“It isn’t like her at all,” says Bliss, pointing to the neatly made bed. “This hasn’t been slept in, and it does-n’t appear as though she’s taken anything with her. Something serious has happened.”
Inspector Graves is unconvinced. “Well, there’s no sign of a break-in, Dave. She’s probably just gone out with a friend.”
“It’s past one, and it’s bloody freezing outside,” Bliss explains forcefully. “And they’re forecasting a snowstorm on the radio. Where would she be in Westchester at this time of night?”
“There’s a couple of nightclubs,” jokes Graves, though Bliss hasn’t forgotten the sight of her bopping to the Beatles with an aging beatnik in Liverpool, and he asks Graves to send a couple of lads to check the clubs, adding, “You never know with Daphne.”
“Yeah. She’s a feisty old bird all right,” reminisces the inspector, recalling the time when, as housekeeper at the police station, she’d torn a strip off the chief superintendent for washing his muddy golf shoes in the kitchen sink. “But there’s probably a rational explanation. I think we can safely give her until the morning to show up.”
Bliss shakes his head and puts his foot down. “No. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere without feeding the cat. Plus, she knew I was coming back tonight. She would have left a note. Something has happened to her.”
The search for Daphne starts with her friends, and Minnie Dennon doesn’t waste a second. “I’ll get a cab,” she’d cried as soon as Bliss had phoned, and she’s standing on Daphne’s doorstep fifteen minutes later—fully made-up and ready to roll. By three a.m., the rest of Daphne’s friends have been rousted out of bed by the phone, or by a constable pounding on the door, but none of them admit to harbouring the missing woman or have any useful suggestions.
Alzheimer’s, dementia, depression, dipsomania, and domestic violence are all easily discounted in Daphne’s case. “She was absolutely fine yesterday,” insists Bliss, tiring from constantly having to excuse Daphne for her failure to conform to the norms of octogenarianism. However, amnesia is not a condition that he can so easily discount. “She could have fallen in the street and hit her head,” he concedes, “but surely someone would have found her and taken her to a hospital.”
The hospitals have been checked as a priority, but have proven negative, and the local officers have seemingly exhausted all possibilities when Bliss has an idea.
“What if she’s fallen asleep on a late-night bus?” he suggests, knowing that it’s not unheard of for heavy-eyed passengers to nod off and be woken by the depot’s cleaning staff in the early dawn.
It takes half a dozen policeman twenty minutes banging on bus doors and shining flashlights into the frosted windows to write-off that theory, and once the town’s parks and public places have been checked, they have run out of ideas.
A canine unit and some reinforcements turn up a little after four, when the entire street is alive with activity as Daphne’s worried neighbours huddle under heavy coats and blankets as they check their gardens, garages, and outhouses with flashlights and hurricane lamps.
The suddenness of the storm catches Bliss off balance and threatens to send him skidding along the icy pavement as he listens to Graves giving instructions to the dog handlers while they sit in the warmth of their vans. Then the snow begins and forces him back into the shelter of the house.
“That’s all we need,” moans Bliss, already frustrated at the lack of progress and the repeated assurance by his country cousin that Daphne is safely tucked up in bed somewhere.
“Don’t worry, Dave,” Inspector Graves has said at least ten times. “She’ll be fine.”
The snowstorm begins in earnest just as the dog teams set their noses toward the woodland footpath at the end of Daphne’s road. “It’s like a scene from Scott of the Antarctic,” mumbles the inspector as the four men and two dogs are engulfed in the horizontally blowing wall of whiteness.
Ten minutes later, one dog team returns empty handed. “It’s useless trying in this, guv,” the handler explains as he peels a layer of snow off his dog’s snout. “It’s a f’kin blizzard, and it’s blowing right in his face.”
The other dog team is not far behind. The two men in blue and their black Labrador are barely visible in the solid white curtain of snow as they return with their heads down against the storm. “You’d need a Pyrenean in this,” says one of the men as he shakes a pile of snow onto Daphne’s hall carpet.
As the flakes fall, so does Bliss’s spirit. “If she’s taken a tumble in the woods, she won’t last long in this,” he says, anxiously peering out of the window into the frigid miasma of snow and ice, but there seems little anyone can do other than fill out a missing person report and wait for the storm to abate and the daylight to return.
“Date of birth?” asks the inspector, once he’s taken her name and general description, but neither Bliss nor Minnie has any idea.
“It should be in her file at the police station,” Bliss suggests, though he doubts she was overly honest when she applied for the job. “But she doesn’t look a day over sixty and sometimes I wonder if she’s still a teenager.”
“Next of kin?” asks the inspector, and Bliss has to admit that he doesn’t know that either.
“She never had children,” he is able to say with certainty, though as for other relatives, he has no idea.
Minnie has taken over the kitchen and is supplying ten officers and two dogs with Daphne’s Keemun tea and chocolate cookies with a little more gusto than the situation demands, and Bliss frowns his disapproval. “Minnie,” he calls as she hands around a loaded platter, “those are very expensive biscuits.”
“Oh, Daphne won’t mind,” she chirps lightly, though the officers take the hint and back away.
“Do you know if Daphne has any relatives?” Bliss asks, but Minnie shakes her head. “She never mentioned anyone.”
“Acquaintances?” asks Graves, and Minnie brings up Jeremy Maxwell.
“The son of an old friend of hers,” explains Bliss. “She’s been helping him to move in.”
“His father was Monty Maxwell, the member of parliament,” says Minnie with an air of smugness that makes Bliss think that she is on the point of hanging out Daphne’s dirty laundry, but she contents herself with adding that Jeremy is the new resident at Thraxton Manor.”
“I thought that old place had fallen down years ago,” exclaims Graves.
“It has,” says Bliss, based on information from Daphne. “Apparently he’s furnishing the quarters over the stables, though he says he’s got plans for the old mansion itself.”
The new occupant of the Maxwell estate drowsily answers the phone after several rings, but has no idea where Daphne could be. “Let me know when you find her, eh,” he adds, and, as Graves puts down the phone he turns to Bliss. “He sounds American.”
“Canadian,” replies Bliss. “He’s lived with his aunt in Vancouver since he was a kid.”
“So, where do we go from here?” asks Graves, but he knows the answer—file the paperwork, put out a missing person alert and pray that she shows up unharmed. “We can’t do much more until it’s light and the storm eases,” he tells Bliss. “You look all-in, Dave. You could do with a spot of shut-eye.”
“I’ve been
up since this time yesterday morning,” admits Bliss without checking his watch, “but I’m damned if I’m going to bed ’til we find her.”
It is nearing five o’clock, and Inspector Graves’ radio is alive with reports of accidents and emergencies all across the city as the storm begins to bite.
“We’re going to have to go, Dave,” he apologizes as catastrophes mount. “Why don’t you give her a few hours, and if she doesn’t show up by nine, come down to the station. Things should be a bit quieter by then.”
“They’ve put her on the back burner,” Bliss complains to his daughter when he phones her at seven. He knows there is nothing Samantha can do to assist, but he feels responsible for Daphne and needs to talk. Minnie Dennon is still at the house, but she’s helped herself to a large cognac and has been curled up, asleep, in front of the fire since the officers left.
“Something dreadful must have happened to her,” Bliss continues to Samantha, then lays out his fears that someone will trip over a pathetic little bundle in the snow as they struggle to work through the blizzard.
“It’s only just started here,” Samantha tells him as she peers into the wintry scene outside her window, then she piles on the bad news. “They say it might last a couple of days. I do hope the poor old soul’s inside somewhere.”
“We’re predicting the heaviest snowfall in two decades,” says the glum-voiced meteorological officer when Bliss phones for confirmation a few minutes later.
“So much for global warming,” Bliss snorts as he drops the phone and grabs his coat.
There is an uncommon air of cordiality among the few officers and civilians who have fought their way into Westchester police station by eight a.m. Men and women who usually guard their little fiefdoms with bared fangs are suddenly affable and welcoming to those who have struggled through the tempest with them.
“I’ve made a fresh pot of tea if you’d like some,” calls the lost property officer to the inquiry desk clerk, and they sit and chat like old friends. But tomorrow, once the novelty has worn off, they’ll be back at each other’s throats.
The everyday business of policing has been suspended while all efforts focus on the storm. Crime technicians and secretaries find themselves manning emergency phones as the catalogue of traffic accidents, fallen trees, collapsed roofs, and flooded buildings continues to mount. The crime rate is also soaring, sparked by a series of early morning power failures, when some opportunists had used the blackout to loot a tobacconist, a couple of jewellers, and the drug cabinet of a pharmacy.
Bliss is completely despondent as he wanders the deserted halls, hoping to find anyone available to search for Daphne, but he knows that the situation is rapidly deteriorating and he pauses in the main foyer to wipe the condensation off the window and peer into the street. In the pre-dawn darkness, the streetlights struggle to penetrate the snow and add a touch of glitter to the arctic vista, and Bliss spies a familiar figure stumbling out of the whiteness and making for the police station’s front door.
“I had to walk,” complains Superintendent Donaldson as he crashes into the foyer and shakes off an overcoat of snow. “All the bloody roads are blocked.” Then he looks up. “Oh, hello, Dave. What are you doing here? I thought we’d sent you back to The Smoke long ago.”
“Daphne Lovelace is missing, sir,” replies Bliss, his mind unwilling to waste time on niceties.
“They called me at home,” nods Donaldson with a serious face. “She was something of a fixture around here.”
“I know, sir.”
“I sometimes wonder if the men took more notice of her than they did of me,” chuckles Donaldson; then he straightens his face. “You’d better come up to my office and fill me in.”
Daphne’s duty as Westchester’s police station cleaner had spanned more years than anyone could remember, but no one would forget the fact that she had solved almost as many cases as some of the tardier detectives.
“Have you thought of interviewing old so-andso?” she had been known to hint as she’d delivered the detective inspector’s tea, and rarely had the tip proved worthless.
“Make yourself at home here,” Superintendent Donaldson tells Bliss as they reach his office. “I expect you know your way around,” then he opens the office safe and slips out a package of chocolate digestive cookies. “Breakfast?” he offers, but Bliss shakes his head. “There’s got to be something we can do, sir.”
“We’ve got every possible man out there, Dave. I mean—look at it, it’s thicker than my wife’s tapioca pudding, and that’s saying something.”
“I’m worried sick about her.”
“I can see that, but what can I do? All the men are out on patrol, and it’s not as though I can open a new box of them. Anyway, we’ve no idea where to start looking. If I had five hundred blokes, I still wouldn’t know where to send them.”
“I know, sir,” says Bliss. “I just feel so useless. I’ll get out there as soon as it’s properly light.”
“Dave—find a bed somewhere and get some rest. We’ll call you the minute it stops or we find her, OK?”
By mid-morning, Bliss can stand the tension no longer. If anything, the sky has darkened since dawn and the visibility has worsened. Even the police cars have been pulled off the narrow streets, now clogged with abandoned vehicles. Bliss has called Minnie every thirty minutes, and has worked his way back through the list of Daphne’s friends and acquaintances in an effort to establish the last known sighting.
“No one saw her yesterday at all,” Bliss explains to Donaldson over another coffee. “I didn’t wake her when I left for Liverpool at six, though I’m sure she was there, so she must have ...”
Bliss’s words gradually trail off, and the back of the upholstered armchair takes a prisoner as he slowly slumps, letting his empty cup fall softly to the carpet. Superintendent Donaldson turns off the light, helps himself to two more chocolate cookies, locks the package in his safe, and creeps out of his office as Bliss begins to snore.
It’s nearing lunchtime when Bliss is driven out of Donaldson’s office by a nightmare.
“Any news of Daphne?” he asks, grabbing the first officer he sees.
The sergeant shakes his head and the nightmare continues. “Sorry, sir,” he says, “but the Super is briefing a search party in the parade room in ten minutes.”
More than sixty off-duty officers have volunteered to look for Daphne, and only half of them can cram into the room. A path is made for Bliss as he arrives, and Donaldson introduces him to the crowd before detailing the sparse information that is available. Daphne’s description is superfluous, despite the fact that she has been retired for a couple of years; almost everyone knows her personally and, as far as is known, no other pensioners are missing.
“The woods near Ms. Lovelace’s house may be a good starting place,” explains Donaldson, though Bliss isn’t convinced, saying, “I don’t think she usually walks through there in the winter, sir.”
“You’re probably right, Dave,” continues Donaldson, “but we’ve checked all the places she’s known to frequent.”
Places known to frequent, muses Bliss to himself, as Donaldson’s briefing continues, and the jargon of the missing persons bureau sticks in his mind as he desperately tries to think of every place Daphne ever mentioned visiting.
“We can’t use the chopper in these conditions,” Donaldson is explaining while Bliss is deep in thought, as he tries piecing together Daphne’s daily activities.
“A couple of dog teams are already out there,” continues Donaldson, “but all they’ve sniffed out so far are motorists stranded in snow banks. I think we should start with the woods. Unless anyone has any better ideas.”
“What about the river?” calls an officer from the back, and Donaldson agrees.
“Take a half-dozen men with you,” he instructs, then has a general warning. “Make sure that everybody has a radio or a cellphone, and keep in constant touch. They say it’s going to get much worse.”
> As the parade of searchers in overcoats and galoshes move off, Bliss grabs his coat and gloves. Donaldson is at the door and has other ideas.
“Not with that gammy leg, Dave,” the senior officer says. “I don’t want my men having to search for you as well. Anyway—I need your help to coordinate and deal with the press.”
Bliss is out-ranked, albeit by an officer of another force, and he concedes with a clear conscience. “You’re probably right, sir,” he says, taking off his coat and setting his eyes on the media relations office.
The news editor of BBC Westchester readily takes Daphne’s details, though he is quick to point out that he makes no promises as he surveys the pile of bulletins related to power outages, blocked roads, and closed schools. The reporter at the Gazette appears much more interested, perhaps because it will add morbidity to his extensive storm coverage. “Elderly spinster feared dead in blizzard,” has more clout than “Worst snow in memory,” but the possibility that Daphne could have perished is so alien to her character that Bliss simply cannot bring himself to accept it, and he spends the next hour calling all of her friends and acquaintances again to urge them to renew their efforts to find her.
The riverbank team calls in with the first bad news a little after three, a body floating in the ice-crusted river not far from the old tannery. Bliss, Donaldson, and a half-dozen other officers race to the control room to listen to the garbled radio messages as the men at the scene grapple to get a purchase on a corpse.
“It’s jammed under the ice,” yells one, while another asks control to send some ropes and an ambulance. “You’d better send the coroner’s officer at the same time,” continues the officer. “This definitely isn’t a case of natural causes.”
“Oh my God,” Bliss exhales and is readying to make his way to the scene when one of the officers risks his neck by wading into the river and taking hold.
A Year Less a Day Page 19
