Missing: Presumed Dead

by James Hawkins

  The “accident” had been considerably more difficult to engineer than Bliss had envisaged. “He’s going too bloody fast,” he complained to Samantha as Mason tried to outpace them. “I want to shake him up a bit, not put him in hospital.”

  “Westchester’s coming up,” she said, sighting the 40 mile an hour sign. “He’ll have to slow down.”

  “Slow down, you bastard,” breathed Bliss: Mind the pedestrians; watch the cyclist; slow down – slow down; mind that bus. That’s all I need – send him spinning out of control into a bus stop full of schoolkids – that really would finish my career.

  “Look out!”

  “Fuck – those lights changed quick.”

  “Phew ... that was close. You nearly got that Jag.”

  “Sorry – Get ready, I’ll try to nail him at the next light ... Hold tight. Hold tight ... Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  A jaywalking pedestrian. “Watch the lights, you pillock,” screamed Bliss, adding, “And up yours!” in response to the finger.

  The smiling Swedish receptionist, doubling as a lunchtime waitress, poured Bliss a glass of house Cabernet and waited for his approval. “Fine,” he nodded, then continued to Donaldson. “Samantha was the one who cracked Mason really. All I did was pull him out of the wreck ...”

  “And rub him down,” interrupted Samantha.

  “Just making sure you’re not injured, Sir,” he had said to the dazed man as he checked him for weapons before throwing him across the bonnet with his arm up his back. “So, Bomber – why are you following me?”

  “You’re crazy,” he spat. “I dunno what yer talking about.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Let go. No-one. I ain’t working for no-one.”

  “We’d better call the police then.”

  “You are the police ... ” he started, then choked himself off – too late.

  “Well. Well. Well,” said Bliss, screwing the arm painfully higher. “So how would you know that, Bomber? How would you know we’re police, unless you’ve been following me?”

  “I wanna lawyer.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Dave,” called Samantha from the rear of the damaged Volvo. “You might want to see this.”

  “What is it – what have you planted on me this time?” said Mason, already preparing his defence.

  “Have you got a dog, Bomber?” asked Samantha scraping a handful of short white hairs out of the open tailgate, as Bliss frogmarched him to the badly buckled rear of the car.

  “I want my lawyer. I’ve been framed,” he squealed.

  “Framed – that’s a serious accusation, Bomber,” said Samantha. “Framed for carrying your dog around in the back of your car. Tut, tut, tut. That would get the police a bad name if we started framing villains for carrying the pooch around in the back of the family motor. Now, on the other hand, if we were to discover that these hairs were, for arguments sake, from a stolen stuffed goat on its way to be cremated ... ”

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  Bliss laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Helping the police with their enquiries takes on a whole new meaning when dealing with scum like you. So, if you didn’t steal it – how did it get in the back of your car?”

  “I hope the steaks are better than the Pâté,” moaned Superintendent Donaldson sotto voce as the plates were cleared away.

  “I wouldn’t bank on it,” replied Bliss, recalling Daphne’s admonition about Mavis Longbottom’s culinary skills.

  “Anyway,” continued Donaldson, shaking his head in dismay, “I still don’t know what came over Patterson to set you up like that.”

  “I do,” said Samantha, jumping in. “He was jealous. He was in line for the D.I.’s job until Dave came along. The only thing he could do was scare him off, and he got Mason to do his dirty work ... But you weren’t scared were you, Dave?”

  “No,” he said, hoping it sounded convincing, adding, “Patterson put the message on the computer, but Mason followed me, and Mason set fire to the ...”

  “Inspector Bliss,” a familiar voice interrupted and he turned to see White, the Gazette reporter advancing on him.

  “Mr. White ...” he started, rising with outstretched hand, still fascinated by the little man’s weirdly mismatched head and body.

  “Oh. I see you’ve met at last,” said the receptionist in passing.

  “Sorry ...” said Bliss. “I don’t understand.”

  She stopped. “This was the gentleman who was enquiring about you last week. I told you. Remember?”

  The funny looking man delving through the register – trying to discover if he was from London. Of course, Bliss said to himself, as everything fell into place, it had been White trying to get background information for his article on the new man in town. “Well, well, Mr. White,” he smiled, realising that the last of his fears had evaporated into thin air. “We meet again. Please join us. I might have a scoop for you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  _____________________________

  A phone call had summoned Superintendent Donaldson back to the police station after the steak bordelaise, just seconds before the steamed chocolate sponge pudding with custard. “Probably for the best,” he had said, cradling his paunch, though his tone had been less than convincing. “The Assistant Chief wants to discuss Patterson’s future,” he had added, cupping his hand to Bliss’s ear. “Pat’s finished. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get six months inside.”

  Samantha had gone in search of a phone, (“I’ll check with the forensic lab – they said lunchtime.”). And Bliss, alone, relaxed with a large Cognac and a curious sense of great achievement, as if Mandy’s murderer had been caught and the Dauntsey riddle had been solved. Thank God for Daphne, he mused, mentally raising a glass, realising that had she not recorded the Volvo’s number he would still be cringing in terror at every unexpected noise. And, he wondered, how many times he had cringed unnecessarily in the past six months; how many innocuous letters and phone calls had been treated as suspicious; how many entirely innocent people had answered a knock at their door to find a fully armed assault squad because, ten minutes earlier, they had quietly put the phone down when they should have said, “Sorry – wrong number.” But the drained bank account? That was no mistake – somebody had swiped a little over four thousand quid. Or was it paranoia? Could it have been a bent bank employee? There was definitely no mistake about the bomb. What had the anti-terrorist commander said? “Bombs on front doorsteps are scarcer than lottery jackpots. And a thug like him won’t give up until he’s succeeded, or we take him out.”

  Just the thought of the bomb had him edgy, his eyes darting around the crowded room. Stop it – for fuck’s sake stop it, he said to himself. He’s not here, he never was here – not in Westchester. It was Patterson pulling Mason’s strings – “You owe me big time – unless you’d rather do a stretch ...?” It was Mason in the Volvo and the reporter asking the questions. Get over it, he told himself, but knowing Mason was out of the picture didn’t stop him from scanning the faces in the room: bulbous-nosed businessmen with serious drinks and high cholesterol diets, stressed salesmen struggling to keep up the appearance of success: Who would buy from a failure? “Just look at those expenses! You ate at the Mitre!” “You think I enjoy that?” And, off to one side, a party of women in smart business suits mimicking the men. Super saleswomen, guessed Bliss, Avon or Amway. Hyping each other with over-blown sales achievements and stupendous commission claims – just like the men. And by the front door, on his way in, Jonathon Dauntsey and the Swedish receptionist cum waitress, waving in Bliss’s direction. He buried his head – That’s all I need, Dauntsey rampaging about the police strong-arming a confession out of his old mother.

  Jonathon, pale, drawn and exhausted, floundered his way through the busy restaurant, colliding with the backs of chairs and narrowly avoiding a heavily laden waiter. But the sight of Bliss seemed to steady him. “Ah. Inspector. I was hoping
to bump into you,” he said, fetching up at the table with practised nonchalance; as if he hadn’t been frantically scouring the town for him for several hours; as if he hadn’t been up all night plotting a course.

  “Yes, Mr. Dauntsey,” said Bliss, struggling not to compound the situation by incivility. “What do you want?”

  Jonathon pulled himself upright, held his wrists together obligingly in front of him and proclaimed loudly, “I want to confess to a murder.”

  A collective gasp brought conversations to a skidding halt and the whole room closed in around them.

  Bliss dropped his head back into his hands. “I was having such a good day ...” then he looked up. “We’ve already been through this, Jonathon. You got bail – remember?”

  “But that was for killing my father. This is for another one.”

  Bliss sharpened up with a horrible thought. “Oh God. Please don’t tell me you’ve put your mother out of her misery.”

  “No, of course not, Inspector.”

  “Well who have you killed this time then?”

  “The man in the attic, of course. I murdered him.”

  Bliss knew the required response, the catechism according to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act: Jonathon Dauntsey. I am arresting you for the murder of Captain David Tippen. You are not obliged to say anything, etc. But the scene was so ridiculous he couldn’t bring himself to begin. “Sit down and have a glass of wine, Jonathon, you look as though you need it. And for Christ’s sake put your hands down. I haven’t any handcuffs with me and if I did I wouldn’t use them.”

  “Righty-oh, Inspector,” said Jonathon, with a lilt of achievement. “As your prisoner, I would be more than happy to do whatever you ask.”

  “Cut the crap. Just sit down and tell me exactly how you killed Tippen.”

  Samantha tried interrupting from a distance, unaware of the reason for the hiatus. “Dave ... ” she called, semaphoring with the handset of a phone.

  “Hang on a minute, Sam ... sorry ... Samantha,” he replied. Adding, in muted tones, “Jonathon’s just confessing to another murder.”

  “You’re mocking me,” complained Dauntsey.

  “Get on with it – How did you kill him?”

  “Aren’t you going to caution me?”

  “I’d rather kick you in the ... Oh never mind. Yes.

  Consider yourself cautioned. Now, how did you do it?”

  “I shot him.”

  “Where?”

  “In his room.”

  “No. I meant – where in his body?”

  “His head of course.”

  “Jonathon. I hate to disappoint you, and I really have enjoyed your little story, but aren’t you overlooking the fact he’s been dead at least forty years.”

  “Forty-four, to be precise.”

  “So you would have been eight at the time.”

  “Nine actually.”

  “A little young to shoot someone in the head, don’t you think?”

  Samantha, waving with manifest urgency, caught Bliss’s attention for a second time. “Would you excuse me a moment,” he said to Jonathon. “Feel free to leave if you like.”

  “Inspector – I’m trying to turn myself in for murder. You could at least take me seriously.”

  “I think you’ve overlooked something in your determination to protect your mother,” he said, screwing up his napkin, throwing it on the table and rising.

  “What?”

  “The age of criminal responsibility is ten, Jonathon. If you went berserk with a machine gun in the middle of Harrods at the age of nine, I could only ask you very nicely not to do it again. So I really don’t give a shit.”

  “Inspector – This is absolutely preposterous.”

  “It’s the law, Jonathon,” he called over his shoulder, walking away. “Sorry, old mate. Nice try. I’m sure your old mum will appreciate the gesture.”

  “But, Inspector ...”

  Bliss stopped and turned. “Jonathon ... Bit of advice. If you’re still here when I get back I’ll nick you for loitering. Now piss off and stop wasting my time.”

  Samantha had put the phone down by the time he got to her. “They were asking if we had a control sample to match against the blood in the syringe,” she said. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Jonathon, but they think they’ve got enough for DNA analysis. By the way, what did he want?”

  “Oh he’s trying to give himself up again ... ” he started, paused, grabbed her wrist and dragged her back across the room. “C’mon. I think I’ve cracked it.”

  Jonathon was still at the table, still basking in the spotlight of infamy. “Are you still here?” Bliss demanded, masking his gratification with a scowl, then seemed to relent. “I suppose you’d better come with us then.”

  Jonathon brightened. “Are you arresting me, Inspector?”

  “No – I’m taking you home.”

  Detective Sergeant Patterson was also on his way home, packing bits and pieces of personal items from the drawers of his office desk while Donaldson stood over him in silent anger.

  Several stone-faced detectives were busily counting floor tiles when D.C. Dowding, totally unaware of the unfolding drama, entered and bludgeoned his way across the room, lashing out at desks, chairs and people.

  “Serg. Any chance of a bed at your place for a night or two ...” he began, too wrapped up in a calamity of his own to notice the superintendent. “What’ye doing, Serg?”

  Donaldson stepped in. “Sergeant Patterson has been suspended from duty, Dowding.”

  “Suspended! Is this a wind up? What for?”

  “Do you want to tell him, Sergeant?”

  “Bliss stitched me up,” he mumbled to the desk.

  “Bollocks,” said Donaldson. “You stitched yourself up.”

  “Well Bliss bloody stitched me up,” yelled Dowding and all eyes switched to him.

  “Well, D.C. Dowding?” prompted Donaldson, breaking the heavy silence after a few seconds. “If you want to lay an official complaint against your new detective inspector you’d better tell us why?”

  Dowding caught the drift in the superintendent’s tone – D.I. Bliss was flavour of the month. In any case, what could he say? “My podgy wife, (thirty going on forty-five; stretch marks; cellulite; the works), up to her neck in snotty kids with shitty diapers, answers the door to a dish with big knockers in a nurse’s uniform.”

  “Mrs. Dowding?” Nurse Dryden had queried, her face as innocent as her uniform. “Is Bob home?”

  “No, he’s at work. Can I help? Do you want to come in?”

  “Are you his mother or his sister?” she chatted innocently as she picked up a toddler and waltzed into the living room like she owned the place, as though she wasn’t about to start a world war.

  “I’m his wife, actually,” said Mrs. Dowding with just a trace of unease.

  Nurse Dryden crumpled in a perfectly timed outburst of bawling, her hands flying to her face and churning it into a multi-coloured soup of midnight black mascara, sapphire eye-shadow, raspberry-cola lipstick, snot and tears.

  Bob Dowding’s wife flew to comfort the stranger fearing her three tots might catch the crying bug. “What is it? What’s the matter?” she asked, cradling the young woman’s head to her shoulder, offering sympathy, guessing it was man-related – wasn’t it always. “Men can be such pigs,” she muttered, without thinking for a moment it was her own pig she was talking about.

  Wait for it, thought nurse Dryden, sniffling loudly as she prepared to ignite the fuse, then with a few shoulder shaking sobs she struck the match. “Bob told me he was single.”

  “Bob?”

  “Yeah. Sergeant Dowding – Bob ... I said I wouldn’t sleep with him unless he crossed his heart and hoped to die ...”

  It was a slow fuse. “You slept with him ... my husband?”

  “He swore ...”

  “I bet he did.”

  Now for the dynamite. “I think I’m going to have his baby.”


  Bliss’s plan to take Dauntsey home took a detour before they reached the car park. Samantha tugged at his sleeve as they made for the rear exit of the Mitre.

  “You go ahead, Jonathon,” said Bliss. “We won’t be a second.”

  “I might run ... ” started Jonathon but Bliss’s cold stare warned him not to continue.

  “Don’t you want to know about the hairs on the duvet,” asked Samantha as soon as Jonathon was out of range.

  “Oh yes. I’d forgotten. Jonathon’s chronic addiction to confession is beginning to get on my nerves. I’ve never known anyone so determined to go to jail. Anyway, what did they find?”

  “You were right – hair, lots of it.”

  “And ... black; brown; grey – what?”

  “White.”

  “White. That makes sense. I thought he would have picked someone about the same age as his father – some white-haired old bum probably, looking for a warm hay barn to spend the night ...”

  “Have you finished?” cut in Samantha.

  “Sorry?” queried Bliss.

  “You didn’t let me finish, Dave. They said it was white hair ...”

  “That’s what I ...”

  “Shut up and listen. It was a white-haired animal, Dave.”

  Bliss fell against the corridor wall as if he’d been shot. “Oh no – don’t tell me. I don’t believe it – Yes I do. No wonder we couldn’t find a body. Short white hairs, animal ... four legs. I bet it was that damn goat.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well thank God for that. So, what the hell was it?”

  “You know what these scientific types are like,” she said, pulling out her notebook. “I had to write it down. They said it was almost certainly from a member of the Sus Scrofa family.”

  “Sus what?”

  “A common pig.”