Missing: Presumed Dead

by James Hawkins

  “The pension was Tippen’s idea,” Doreen averred when she’d calmed down. “He said we’d have to claim the Major’s pension or someone would start asking awkward questions. I said I wouldn’t do it, but ... ” Her eyes glazed again, this time with a memory so horrific that in fifty years it had never dimmed, even for a day: Tippen, in the turret room, viciously grabbing her by the throat with the three clawed fingers of his left hand, pulling her to within an inch of his grotesque face, then slobbering with a foetid spray of bad breath and saliva as he spat, “As long as we both keep quiet nobody will ever know.” Her face screwed in awful memory of the moment saying, simply, “He made me do it.”

  “But he forged the Major’s signature on the will,” said Samantha. “If you had gone to the authorities they would have soon discovered who he was and the will would have been null and void.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But it would still have left me penniless. Rupert never changed his will when we married. He didn’t have time, I told myself; didn’t want to was more like it. Anyway, his will left everything to the church because he had no other relatives. I still wouldn’t have got anything.”

  No wonder the vicar was thinking he might see a new roof, thought Bliss, wondering why the lawyer had accepted Tippen’s false signature if he had the previous will to compare it against. Then it dawned on him – Tippen alias Dauntsey didn’t have a right hand. He could have scribbled anything with his left, mumbling, “This won’t look anything like my previous signature.”

  “I decided the best thing to do was to pretend Rupert was alive as long as possible and just keep my mouth shut,” Doreen continued, pulling herself together. “I couldn’t think what else to do, and I thought it would all be over when Tippen died.”

  “But it wasn’t?” piped up Daphne, seeming to surface from nowhere and stunning them with her understanding. “I bet it was worse.”

  Doreen nodded, sobbing. “I suppose in one way or another we’re all prisoners of our dead,” she said with remarkable insight. “When he was alive he had no voice. He was my prisoner and I was his. One word from either of us and we would all be out on the street: him, me and Jonathon. But once he was dead he held all the cards: His mother would get the Major’s house and estate, and the pension would stop. I thought once he was dead I would be free, but he never let me go.”

  A sudden flurry at the front door caught Bliss’s eye and he turned in time to see the matron and Jonathon Dauntsey barging in.

  “Oh shit,” he muttered.

  “There she is,” shouted Jonathon as if he’d spotted a fleeing prisoner.

  “Inspector?” said Doreen, grabbing his arm as if she wanted to make a dying declaration. “The dead are the lucky ones – they never have to explain.”

  “Leave my mother alone,” screeched Jonathon, advancing on them.

  Then Doreen had her final say, “He only really makes such a fuss of me because he knows when I’m gone he’ll have to live with himself.”

  “Mother are you alright? Has he hurt you?” said Jonathon, turning a dozen pairs of accusing eyes in Bliss’s direction.

  Daphne turned on Jonathon with such ferocity Bliss wondered if she might kick him. “Don’t be so stupid. Of course nobody’s hurt her. What rubbish – I just took my old friend for a walk and a nice cup of tea. Isn’t that right, Doreen?”

  “Yes. And a meringue ...”

  “You kidnapped her,” spat the matron, catching up to Jonathon. “And you,” she spun on Bliss. “You were in on this. I shall report you to the Chief Constable. This is a disgraceful way to treat a sick old lady. I’m taking her back to the home this instant.”

  “I thought we were the only ones allowed to take prisoners.”

  “How dare you – she’s not a prisoner.”

  “She could be,” he retorted. “I have sufficient evidence to send her to prison for the rest of her life.”

  Something in the sincerity of Bliss’s tone brought the matron up short, then she shook the notion aside. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Are you suggesting we disregard the truth in the interest of believability, Matron?” he asked, putting on a Jonathon Dauntsey attitude, but the manageress intervened, pounding her way back across the room, demanding they should leave immediately, threatening to call the police.

  Daphne started to open her mouth: “We are the police” on the tip of her tongue, but Bliss got to her in time and caught her arm. “Leave it, Daphne,” he said, not wanting to attract any more attention, knowing that Donaldson would already have an all-units warning out for him.

  “Come along then, my dear,” said the matron, in baby-talk, wrestling the wheelchair from Daphne. “It’s your dinner time. The cook made some tasty stewed beef and rice pudding.”

  “Just one question, Jonathon,” said Bliss, standing in front of the man to block his exit. “When I told you we’d found your father’s body, you said, ‘I doubt that very much, Inspector.’ Why?”

  Jonathon’s face puzzled as if asking, “Is this another trick question?” But Doreen was quick to respond, “Come along, Jonathon. I’ve told the inspector everything he needs to know.” Then, giving the matron a nod to push, she added. “Thank you for the tea and the meringue, Inspector,” as if nothing else had happened.

  “She hasn’t changed a bit,” said Daphne as the three of them watched Doreen disappearing through the front door. “Still as flighty as ever.”

  “Possibly,” said Bliss. “But I still don’t know who is, or was, Jonathon’s father. And I’m still not sure who blew Tippen’s brains out.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  _____________________________

  It was not until eleven-fifteen in the evening that Samantha slipped the key into her front door.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dave,” she called cheerily, hanging her jacket in the closet, sighing “That’s better” as she kicked off her black uniform shoes. “Shit!”

  Bliss, worried, dashed out of the living room into the narrow hallway. “What is it?”

  “How long have you been here?”

  He looked at his watch, confused. “About nine hours, I guess.”

  “Nine hours,” she echoed. “Nine fuckin’ hours and already I’m apologising to you for being an hour late getting home from work.”

  “Sorry ...”

  She caught the disappointment on his face. “No – it’s alright, Dave. It’s not you. It’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe I should go ...” he started, half-heartedly, but she flung her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  “I said it was my fault,” she said and clamped her lips on his until he was struggling for breath.

  “I’ll stay,” he gave in without a fight. “Anyway, I made dinner for you.”

  “You cook?”

  “Of course.”

  “You can definitely stay.”

  “You haven’t tried it yet.”

  “Food’s food – and it can’t be worse than mine.”

  She rushed to the kitchen – chicken schnitzel with creamy mushroom sauce on a bed of rice. “You cooked this!”

  “It didn’t cook itself.”

  “Wow!”

  “Well?” he said, dancing in anticipation. “What did you find out?”

  It was the ownership of the blue Volvo that interested him. He’d spotted it behind the Mitre Hotel following the coffee house encounter with Jonathon and his mother.

  “What is it, Dave?” Samantha had asked, sensing him trying to shrink behind a parked car as she, Bliss and Daphne were trying to figure out how to get at his belongings without running into an ambush of Superintendent Donaldson’s men.

  “Blue Volvo at ten o’clock,” Bliss had said from the corner of his mouth, seeing it disappearing out of the far end of the car park.

  “That’s the car what’s been hanging around my place a lot recently,” said Daphne.

  Bliss, wide-eyed in surprise, asked, “I don’t suppose you got the number?”
>
  “Of course I have,” she replied, squirrelling into her handbag and coming up with a neat little diary. “Times, dates and places,” she said. “Six times – seven with today – in a little over a week.”

  Samantha stared at the sprightly old lady in disbelief as she used the little gold pen from her diary to write the number on a scrap of paper.

  “Do me a favour ...” said Bliss, not recognising the number, passing it to Samantha, “See what you can find out.”

  “No problem, Dave. I’m on duty at two.”

  “Well?” he said, still desperate to know if it was the killer himself or a hired assassin in the Volvo. But Samantha tortured him with procrastination as she insisted on trying a bite of everything from the pot.

  “Orgasmic,” she cried, over a mouthful of the mushroom sauce, “Mason’s his real name – string of aliases ... Is this asparagus frozen?”

  “Fresh – just wait a minute.”

  “Can’t ... Wow! ... Petty villain ... How d’ye get chicken this tender?”

  “You smack it around. Mason what?”

  “Bomber is his street name ... Bomber Mason.”

  Alarms went off in his mind. His front door imploded again. “A plastics man?”

  “No, just a nickname; bit of a piss artist as a youngster; bombed out of his brains most of the time. Nothing recent on the sheet – done time for burglaries; taking without consent; handling stolen goods ... I can’t get over this chicken ... He’s been in the frame for a couple of small bank jobs – got off.”

  “Why?”

  “Gawd knows ... this rice is terrific ... You’d have to ask Patterson – he’s nicked him three or four times recently.”

  “Will you sit down ... red or white? I didn’t know which you preferred so I got one of each.”

  “Wine as well. You certainly know how to impress a girl ... ummh – a Grand Cusinier ... Yes please, the red. What did you do about Donaldson?”

  “I called in sick – left a message with the civvy on the enquiry desk.”

  “You didn’t say where you were staying?” her voice rose anxiously.

  “Of course not,” he said, pouring the wine. “No-one knows I’m here.”

  It was a little after midnight. The dinner had been superb – he’d even made the chocolate mousse. Keep busy, he had told himself, take your mind off everything. And the corner supermarket had been surprisingly well stocked.

  “Do you still think Doreen shot Tippen?” asked Samantha sitting next to him on the guest bed, toying with his nose as he lay back on the pillow.

  “You’re tickling ... She seems the only one with a motive and he meant nothing to her, neither did Rupert come to that. According to Daphne, Doreen was the town bike before Rupert swept her off her back.”

  “Dave ... that’s not nice.”

  “Well ... that’s according to Daphne. Anyway, she obviously liked the idea of being the Major’s wife, even if it meant marrying a frog.”

  “But the frog’s supposed to turn into a prince, not a toad.”

  “Now who’s being unkind? But, seriously, she must’ve thought she’d won the lottery – big house; nice clothes; estate in Scotland.”

  “And the world’s ugliest toad.”

  “Is that why they say you should be careful what you wish for?”

  Samantha reached with her lips and kissed him lusciously.

  “What was that for?” he asked dreamily.

  “I could tell what you were wishing for,” she laughed.

  “What I can’t understand is why she waited ten years to bump him off,” said Bliss, his mind still absorbed by the Dauntsey case despite a stirring in his groin. “She’d got what she wanted, even if it came with more strings than the Berlin Philharmonic. Surely it didn’t take that long to work out that nobody would care if he disappeared.”

  “But why leave him in the attic?” she asked, quivering at the thought.

  Bliss hugged her warmly and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, wondering what was above it, in her attic. “I suppose she thought it was the safest place. If she’d buried him in the garden she risked being seen.”

  The ceiling still held his attention – battleship grey. Unusual colour, he decided critically, but it matched the rest of the room: mid-Atlantic green – jade with the warmth washed out – highlighted with azure trim and accentuated by navy blue bed linen. The ensemble had a nautical, masculine feel, he concluded.

  “How come I slept on the couch last night?” he asked, looking around. “You didn’t tell me you had guest room.”

  Samantha coloured up, muttering, “I didn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

  “You didn’t believe me, did you?” he said, catching on and sitting up to emphasise his point.

  “Well,” she stroked his arm placatingly. “You’ve got to admit it was a pretty lame chat-up line: Someone left me a death threat on my computer; broke into the police garage; incinerated my stuffed goat. Ergo, I need a bed for the night. Would you have believed it?”

  “It was true,” he protested. “I couldn’t go back to the Mitre ...”

  “I believe you, Dave. I just wasn’t too sure at one o’clock this morning.”

  Soothing him down with another kiss she lay next to him, fully clothed, and teased his hair. “Like I said, Dave, I didn’t want you to get too comfortable.”

  “I could pay for the room.”

  “You will not,” she shot back. “I’m not having you, or anyone else, having rights. As long as you’re a guest I can boot you out anytime I get fed up with you ... Oh don’t look so hurt. I’m just making sure you behave yourself, that’s all.”

  “I’ll behave,” he said.

  It was close to twelve-thirty. The barman in the lounge of the Mitre Hotel dimmed the lights suggestively, took off his bow tie and yawned with histrionic exaggeration. Detective Sergeant Patterson had worn out the carpet in front of the bar and was taking a circuit around the largely empty room.

  “Where the hell is Bliss?” he asked, pausing to give Dowding a shake in passing.

  “Oh! Sorry, Guv. I must’ve dozed off.”

  “I said, where the hell ... Oh, never mind. Go back to sleep.”

  Bliss was drifting toward sleep himself as Samantha soothed the lines on his brow. “I’ll give you a penny for them, Dave?”

  “I’m wondering what to do about Doreen?”

  “She’s an old lady. She’s dying.”

  “So am I. So are you – everyday we get a little closer.”

  “That’s morbid.”

  “True though. I just find it difficult to feel sympathy for somebody who thought she could sleep her way to a fortune, however small, and was prepared to live a lie for fifty years to keep hold of it. She didn’t give a shit about Rupert Dauntsey – alive or dead.”

  “But he didn’t give a shit about her.”

  “Two wrongs ... ” he started, then shrugged. “Maybe they deserved each other, though I still can’t forgive her, especially after what Daphne went through.”

  “What did Daphne go through?”

  “I promised not to tell.”

  She caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “I could bite ... ”

  He told ... D-Day; the dead baby; Hugo – the works.

  “Wow,” said Samantha, breathless. “And I worry about finding the odd dead body on the beach. But how did she get the O.B.E.?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s almost as if she’s ashamed of it. She always manages to slide off onto something else whenever she gets close to telling.”

  “Goodnight, Dave,” she said, slipping off the bed without warning – just a peck on his lips and a squeeze of the hand.

  He tried to grab her but she jerked away, saying, lightheartedly, “I told you – behave or you’ll be out. And I’ll tell Donaldson where to find you.”

  “Sorry, Miss,” he joked.

  She paused, hand on the door. “Just be patient, Dave,” she said, turning, clearly torn, then made a d
ecision. “You know what they say, Dave – easy come, easy go.” And she was gone.

  It was nearly 1 am. Westchester had shut down for the night; the barman at the Mitre had pulled down the shutters and gone home; Patterson was close to giving up. “Why the hell didn’t he tell us?” he said, putting the blame on Bliss for the hundredth time. “He should’ve told us somebody was after him.”

  Dowding stirred sufficiently to find a more comfortable position.

  Bliss couldn’t get comfortable. It wasn’t the bed’s fault. A maelstrom of thoughts kept him tossing as he tried to unravel the twisted eternal triangle between Doreen, Rupert Dauntsey and David Tippen – who did what to whom, and why? Daphne, the goat and Mandy’s murderer also surfaced from time to time but, amongst the mental turmoil, Samantha was the only constant, a solid ray of sunshine at the centre of the storm – like the eye in a hurricane. And he kept coming back to her, just the other side of a hollow stud wall he reminded himself, warming to indelible images of her mysteriously dark Asiatic eyes and olive black hair.

  It was eighteen minutes after one. A wash of yellow light seeped from under her bedroom door. “Samantha,” he tapped lightly.

  “Yes, Dave?”

  “I can’t sleep – do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Yes please – I can’t sleep either.”

  “Do you take sugar?” he asked, walking in, two cups in hand. “I’ve been thinking about Bomber Mason, the Volvo driver,” he continued. But his mind was screaming: And you, Samantha. I’ve been thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  He eyed the bed, decided against pushing his luck, slumped into a bedside chair and tried to keep his eyes off her. “This Mason bloke and Mandy’s killer probably did time together ...” he began while thinking: Get out now, why torture yourself like this. “He’s probably told Mason to find out my routine so he can strike at the best time.”