The shop window was exactly as he remembered it from when he’d dragged Samantha there at the age of ten. The visit had been more his treat than hers – one of the times when a son would have come in handy. An antique bow window of tiny mullions, set in a latticework of lacquered wood, bulged out over the pavement, and a life-size guardsman, as stiff as the plywood on which he was painted, stood sentinel at the door.
The entirely appropriate smell of polished leather and Brasso had not changed, neither had a tinny electronic bugle sounding reveille overhead as he opened the door under the sign, “The Little Soldier – Dealers in miniature military memorabilia.”
A tall man with a well-disciplined moustache, a full head of grey hair, (fractionally longer than regulation and afflicted with an unruly curl), modelling a sharp mohair suit, came smartly to attention behind his counter. “Can I be of assistance, Sir?”
“Just looking,” he lied, annoyed at being pounced upon before he’d had a chance to draw breath, and he took his time studying an army of vividly painted small soldiers artistically arranged on a battlefield of green baize. “Very pretty,” he said finally sensing the man standing impatiently alongside him.
The instant frown of disapproval told Bliss he’d chosen the wrong expression. “These are historically accurate reproductions of military personnel ... not Barbie dolls, Sir,” said the dealer, his officer’s accent as crisp as the creases in his trousers.
Bliss mumbled something that could have been mistaken for an apology and dragged the plastic bag containing the remnants of the toy soldier out of his pocket. “I wonder if you can tell me anything about this?”
The look of abhorrence on the dealers face seemed fairly clear as he took the pieces and “tut-tutted,” leaving Bliss in no doubt that, in his Lilliputian world, the miniature statuary had never been a Rodin or even a Royal Doulton. In fact, Bliss was quite prepared for him to pucker his mouth, spit drily in disgust, and drop the pieces disdainfully into a garbage bin. But he didn’t. He studied them seriously, minutely examining each piece with a jewellers loupe, “tut-tutting” again and again until Bliss could stand it no longer and made a move to examine one or two of the other armies in the room.
“How did this happen?” asked the dealer without taking his eye off the magnifying glass, as if sensing Bliss’s lack of attention.
“Dropped,” suggested Bliss nonchalantly.
“Hmm,” he hummed, then “tut-tutted” and gave Bliss an inquisitive look. “I don’t think so.” But he didn’t press the point, returning to the model, leaving Bliss with the distinct impression that he was in his bad books.
With the inspection completed the dealer put down his glass and thoughtfully arranged the two halves of the model on a circle of baize. “Looks as though someone took a hammer to it,” he mused, then, giving nothing away, looked at Bliss critically and quizzed, “Where did you get this, Sir?”
What’s this – the third degree, thought Bliss, immediately riled by the dealer’s demanding tone. “A friend,” he shrugged.
“Well I can tell you it’s a Britains,” said the dealer.
“British,” corrected Bliss with gloating satisfaction.
The dealer looked up. “Oh you really don’t know anything, do you?”
“I’ve led a sheltered life,” retorted Bliss – mentally equating his lack of knowledge about toy soldiers to his ignorance of the inner workings of a dildo.
“Britains,” the dealer began again, then repeated the name for emphasis, “Britains were the world’s finest manufacturers of historically accurate fifty-four millimetre military personnel.” Then, weighing the tiny figure in his hand, he continued condescendingly, “This was made in their Hornsey Rise factory on Lambton Road. It’s hollow lead alloy. It doesn’t seem a big deal today, but Britains revolutionised the whole industry when the son of the founder, William, discovered they could save a lot of metal, and money, by making hollow figures. The Americans, in comparison, were still making solid models years later.”
“Very interesting,” yawned Bliss regretting he had wasted so much time and becoming increasingly irritated by the man’s attitude.
The dealer was unfazed. “This is ...” he glanced down at the figure, “Or rather ... was a mounted officer of the Royal Horse Artillery circa 1940.”
“Oh!” Bliss exclaimed with surprise.
Wrongly assuming the exclamation was in admiration of his expertise, the dealer beamed, but Bliss was tossing Arnie’s words around in his mind, recalling that Rupert Dauntsey had been a major in the Royal Horse Artillery. Suddenly the model had life.
“Sorry,” he said, picking up the front half of the model with interest, now paying close attention. “I missed that. Could you tell me again?”
The dealer’s face had, “Listen this time you moron,” written all over it as he repeated the information.
Bliss wasn’t easily convinced and peppered the dealer with questions, demanding to know how he could be so certain about the identity of such a mutilated figure. It was the paint, apparently, the khaki service dress and, “Of course,” as if Bliss should know, as if everyone knew, “the steel helmet.”
“The steel helmet?” enquired Bliss.
“Britains were the only company who moulded the Royal Horse Artillery wearing steel helmets in 1940 and up to May 1941.”
“Oh, I see,” said Bliss, dropping the pieces back into the bag. “Well thanks a lot,” he added, making a move toward the door.
“Has your friend got any more?” called the dealer.
Bliss paused, “More – like this?”
“Yes – but not mangled.”
Bliss shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“I might be interested, that’s all.”
Realising that he’d not seen any price tags Bliss swept his hand across a couple of regiments. “Are these worth something, I mean – are they valuable?”
“Depends what you mean by valuable, but ... possibly – depending on the condition.”
“And ones like this,” he said holding out the bag of horseman’s remains.
“Maybe ... although I’d be particularly interested if there were a set.”
“A set?”
“Yeah – That’s the officer you’ve got there. A major probably. The original set had a gun carriage with a team of horses and four outriders in addition to the major. Here, take my card – give me a call. I’m sure we could come to a satisfactory arrangement if your friend was interested in selling.”
Bliss drifted back to the counter, his interest piqued. “How would I know what to look for?”
“I could give you some clues,” the dealer said, picking up a red coated guardsman. “For instance, this is a Britains,” he said without bothering to check.
“How do you know.”
He laughed. “They made a mistake with this model and painted the plume on the wrong side of the bearskin ... look,” he pointed. “But don’t worry, there are easier ways to tell.”
“Such as?”
Flipping the figure over in his hand he pointed out the inscription “Britains Ltd.” engraved on the base and laughed again – “Easy, see.”
Bliss, still not certain what he was looking for picked up a few of the models then asked. “Have you got any of the Horse Guards – it would give me a better idea?”
The dealer hesitated. “No, I don’t think I do, but bring in any models you can. I’ll soon identify them.”
Twenty minutes later Bliss pulled up in a quiet street of neat terraced houses and gazed nostalgically at the houses opposite. He had carefully gone through the routine of checking out the neighbourhood – no suspicious Volvo’s, blue or otherwise – but he had spotted two large attentive men in a car half a street away, their wing mirrors trained on his house.
His house had changed and he found himself staring at it with the eyes of a stranger. The front door was different – despite the wood-grain finish and polished brass knocker it was quite obviously reinforce
d steel and blast-resistant. A pattern of scorch marks etched into the stone step, and fanning out across the pavement, still marked the spot where the bomb had exploded. But it wasn’t the physical changes that alienated him, the house no longer had a welcoming feel. It was, he felt, more like unexpectedly finding yourself outside your childhood home – wanting to rush in and find mother at the sink and father asleep in front of the television; the sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie; the cozy warmth of laundry drying around the fire and the promise of a new Beano, Dandy or Boy’s Own.
But there was no mother or father here. This was no childhood den. This was still his house – he had a key, and there was nothing stopping him from entering; only the words of the protection squad commander. “I wouldn’t go back to the house if I were you, Dave – not until we’ve caught him. If he’s desperate enough he’ll try again, and next time it might be a machine gun from a passing car, à la Al Capone.”
He drove away with a certain sadness, managed to force a mendacious smile for the two caretakers as he passed, then was forced to stop and search for a tissue. He’d bought the house for a fresh start, having finally shaken off the divorce doldrums, and now his world had been trashed again, this time by a villainous ghost from the past.
Arriving early at the pub for his rendezvous with Superintendent Wakelin, Bliss checked out the car park and surrounding streets for blue Volvos and jotted down the numbers of a couple, though neither looked promising.
The waitress was beautiful, stunningly so, yet appeared to have no idea as she bustled around serving everyone with the same innocent smile. Bliss was mesmerised by her beauty and wanted to glide his fingers down her slender arms and stroke her soft cheeks just to have the memory for his dotage. “I remember the day I touched the most perfect woman,” he would boast to his peers on the bowling green. “She had stepped straight out of an Old Master – not a Rubens. She was a Rembrandt or Botticelli, or a Bartolini statue. Naked? Naturally. Though nothing coarse, nothing pornographic.”
She wasn’t naked, but her loose fitting dress flowed sensuously over her curves, like the robes of an Egyptian princess, and the open smile on her fresh virginal face left her more exposed than most women totally nude.
“Yeah, mate – What d’ye want?” Her rough cockney accent broke the spell and she slipped under the wheels of her chariot.
“Hello, Michael,” called Superintendent Wakelin pointedly, as he appeared out of nowhere and slid into the cubicle beside him. Bliss tore his eyes off the young woman, now just a waitress, and greeted the senior officer.
“Drink, Guv?”
“So, how are you getting on in Hampshire?” enquired Wakelin once the waitress had wiggled away.
“They’ve given me an interesting sort of murder ... local man killed his father.”
“Domestic, eh! – should be easy enough for you.”
“Oh yeah,” he replied, choosing to ignore the minor problem of the missing body, “but they could manage perfectly well without me. In fact I don’t think they quite know what to do with me. Superintendent Donaldson seems alright, although he’s on his way out. I think he just wants a quiet life. I could see it on his face as he gave me the case. Here you are, son – play with this. Even the Met couldn’t fuck this one up.”
“So what are you saying?”
“To be honest, I want to come back. I’ve done my time.”
He had – six months in a safe house, a padded prison with two acres of neatly tended gardens and a movie star’s video library.
“Dave ... Oh fuck – I’ve done it again. Sorry ... Michael, this guy is determined, and he’s done his homework. He knows where you work, live and probably where you play; he knows your car; he got your phone number – even though it’s ex-directory, and you changed it twice; he even managed to clean out your bank account – in case you forgot.”
Bliss had no argument. “I see you’ve still got a couple of goons doing surveillance on the place.”
“We want to catch him, Dave – Don’t you want him caught?”
“Of course, but that’s the other thing I wanted to see you about.” He hesitated while the waitress bent over to put the drinks on the table. “Pretty girl,” he said to Wakelin as she drifted away.
Wakelin shrugged, “Didn’t notice. Now what’s the problem? What’s happened? You sounded pretty panicky when you called?”
Bliss gave himself time to think as he tested the house Cabernet Sauvignon. “I think he’s caught on,” he said eventually.
Wakelin pursed his lips in a whistle of surprise. “Already?”
“I’m pretty sure I was tailed from Westchester today.”
“You’re gonna have to go back into the safe house then, whether you like it or not.”
The mere thought was enough to have him backtracking. “Well, I’m not a hundred percent certain. It could have been a coincidence.”
Wakelin wasn’t fooled. “Surely the safe house isn’t that bad?”
“A padded cell is just as much a prison. Anyway, I’ve had other villains threaten me in the past.”
“And how many of them have actually tried to kill you?”
He knew the answer. So did Bliss.
Chapter Seven
_____________________________
Wednesday started early and uncomfortably for Bliss. Blue demons had tormented his sleep, chasing him out of bed and into the office at five-thirty. He walked the half-mile from the hotel, and took pleasure in the birthing smells of the dawn, smells that would be swamped by exhaust fumes within the hour. Baker’s yeast, coffee, and even pungent piles of newsprint stacked against the newsagent’s door hailed the new day, though the stench from the fishmonger’s was clearly more an odour of things past than things to come. Without his car he found freedom in the crisp silence of the deserted streets and dawdled to relish images of the morning: the scattered refraction of steeply slanting sunlight through a jeweller’s display of cut crystal; a tousled cat slaking his thirst at a stone trough after the night’s hunt; and a skein of Canada geese winging noisily overhead in search of pasture.
A half-timbered Tudor Inn at one end of the High Street had thrust its upper storey out over the pavement, and Bliss was engrossed in the elegant sweep of the jetty when a persistent teeth-clenching screech brought him to a nervous stop and had him shrinking into a pharmacist’s doorway. Mandy’s killer was back in a flash and his ears pricked as he tried to identify the sound and connect it to some fearsome weapon. Baffled, he was still deciding whether or not to run, when a pile of filthy overcoats shuffled around the corner dragging a supermarket trolley with a buckled wheel and one lifetime’s agglomeration. He watched silently as the white-bearded man passed, warily taking each step as though he were in a minefield, angrily muttering some unintelligible incantation. How pathetic, thought Bliss, watching the bagman struggling with his load. The poor old sod must be at least eighty and still trying to avoid the cracks in the pavement – maybe he’d do better stepping on a few.
A few minutes later Bliss slipped in the back door of the police station and headed straight for the cell block to check on Jonathon Dauntsey.
“Bail!” he screamed as the unsuspecting custody sergeant filled him in. “They gave him bail?”
“Don’t blame me, Guv,” replied the sergeant, fighting off a gauze of haziness as he neared the end of his night shift.
“I take a few hours off and look what happens – Bail!” he spat, marching off with the feeling that the fifteen minute stroll from the Hotel was going to be the highlight of his day.
He was not to be disappointed. More bad news waited on his desk in the form of a report from Sergeant Patterson.
The re-enactment had yielded grievously little – raising more questions than it answered. Not only were they no further forward in finding the body but, according to Patterson’s handwritten note, the whole Dauntsey case would have to be re-thought as a result of their findings.
The episode, according to the report,
had gone much as planned, though Patterson had been somewhat creative in his composition. The planning had been meticulous enough: officers stationed at intervals on the route from the Black Horse to the churchyard; more officers at the pub itself; several patrol cars on the lane to Dauntsey’s house; Sergeant Patterson at the grave where the duvet had been found.
Detective Dowding, since he proposed the re-enactment, had a vested interest in its success and had taken the villainous role of Jonathon Dauntsey. The pick-up truck, not Dauntsey’s, though similar enough in the fading light, had first left the Black Horse at precisely nine-thirty and arrived at St. Paul’s churchyard just forty-five seconds later.
“Amazing how far you can get in under a minute when there’s no traffic,” Dowding said to the constable sitting alongside him, observing and taking notes, then his radio burst into life with Patterson’s bark. “Get back to the pub, Dowding. Half the blokes aren’t in position yet.”
Ten minutes later, with the stray officers rousted out of the bar of the Black Horse, Dowding re-enacted the re-enactment, arriving promptly at the churchyard, slipping out of the drivers seat and reaching for the duvet which, contrary to his wife’s explicit orders, he’d borrowed from the guest bedroom. “Wait a minute,” he said to himself, stopping dead. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s the hold-up, Dowding?” called the sergeant from the side of the newly filled grave fifty feet away.
“Why would he have thrown ...” he started to muse, then shouted his thoughts aloud. “Why would he have thrown the duvet away before getting rid of the body, Serg?”
There was no immediate answer and the performance shuddered to an unscheduled halt as the officers, one by one, were drawn into a debate around the grave. The conclusion was unanimous. Jonathon Dauntsey would not have ditched the duvet with the body still lying in his pick-up – it would have been illogical to do so. The only answer was that wherever Dauntsey had stashed his father’s body he hadn’t wanted the duvet to accompany it, but the evidence road led nowhere from the churchyard and the re-enactment was terminated in as much confusion as it had begun. Most of the men wandered back to the bar at the Black Horse where they had unfinished business. Dowding sneaked home with the duvet hoping his wife hadn’t noticed.
Missing: Presumed Dead Page 12
