Missing: Presumed Dead

by James Hawkins

  “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 fo
r 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, h
eading 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.