Missing: Presumed Dead (21 page)

Donaldson caught on. “Good thinking, Dave.”

“I'll get someone to do a national search for all missing persons for the past couple of weeks and we'll take it from there.”

“We've got the blood on the duvet,” suggested Patterson, trying to redeem himself. “At least we'll be able to do a DNA match.”

The Vicar of St. Paul's was back, asking for Bliss personally, acting on a tip from the undertaker that the Major's body had turned up.

“Good morning, Inspector,” he called, catching him out in the open as he returned to his office. “I'm sorry to hear about the Major ...”

“And?” said Bliss in his mind, already figuring that this was not a visitation of commiseration.

“If there's anything the church can do …”

What had you in mind, wondered Bliss maliciously: checking up on your parishioners occasionally, perhaps, especially the sick and wounded, just to make sure that they haven't been bopped off in the past forty years or so. “I don't believe there is, not at this time, Vicar. But it's very thoughtful of you to enquire,” thinking, thoughtful my ass – he's after something.

“Only I have it on fairly good authority that the poor old fellow may have left a little something,” continued the vicar, cap in hand, “The church roof you know ... somewhat urgent I'm afraid, otherwise I wouldn't have mentioned it.”

Bet you wouldn't. “I'm not sure it will be that much but I assume the family will get whatever there is.”

“Don't you consider that to be somewhat anti-social, Inspector – passing wealth from one generation to the next? Surely each man should be a success or failure on his merits, not because some slave-trader or royal sycophant in his past accumulated a stash of money.”

Enough of the pussyfooting, thought Bliss, rounding on the other man. “Vicar, personally I might agree with you entirely, but, if I were you, I wouldn't say that too loud. I bet there aren't many bishops who grew up in council houses and went to the local comprehensive.”

Daphne was keeping her head down when Bliss returned to his office and continued busily vacuuming the corridor as if she'd not seen him standing in front of her.

“Everything alright, Daphne?” he shouted.

She turned a deaf ear and tried to clean behind the door. He pulled out the plug and she looked up in mock surprise. “Oh, it's you, Chief Inspector – you startled me.”

“It's Dave – remember.”

“Not on duty it's not.”

“Have it your own way,” he mumbled. “So, how is Andrew?”

“Alright,” she replied coldly, with a warning scowl.

He sensed an emotional minefield ahead. “How was dinner?”

“Dinner,” she spat.

He'd hit a mine. “Sorry, I ...”

“It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you, Chief Inspector. Not at all.”

“Blame me for what, Daphne?”

“For abandoning me with that wretched man, of course.”

“You seemed rather keen that I should leave.”

“I think it was the drink. It was stronger than it used to be. And that smooth talking ... I never did like him, but I suppose I thought he would have changed with age.”

“And he hadn't?”

“He's got worse. He gave me the old, ‘Golly, I've lost my wallet routine,' when the bill arrived. I should have guessed what he was like. One look at that stupid wig – he's as bald as a coot.”

“How do you know?”

She picked up the vacuum cleaner's plug and fiddled to get it back into the socket, her mind clearly churning in debate. Then she flung the plug down in disgust. “Do you know, Chief Inspector, that filthy pig actually tried it on, in the taxi – the one I paid for. He jumped me at my age without a bye-your-leave. I grabbed his hair to pull him off and thought for a minute that I'd ripped his head off ... you're laughing at me.”

“Not at you, Daphne – I'm just laughing.” He straightened his face. “Are you alright? I mean ... he didn't ...”

“Oh no. I hit him where it hurts. He soon let go.”

I bet he did, thought Bliss, controlling his face with difficulty. “I am sorry, Daphne, but let me make it up to you. Let me take you out tonight and I promise not to run out on you, if you promise to ignore any dodgy old friends.”

“It's Friday – have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten – what?”

“Aren't you going home? Surely you're not working all weekend.”

Home, what a lovely thought that should be – Home on Friday evening. Happy memories flickered across his eyes, memories too ancient to raise a smile: contented wife and smelly baby; home cooked halibut and chips; the aroma of baking apple pie with luck. “I'll give Samantha her bath and put her to bed while you're getting the dinner,” he'd murmur, his face nuzzled lovingly to her ear. And afterwards, a bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône, Brubeck or Beethoven, and a generous helping of Friday night delight.

“No. I'm not going home,” he said, feelings of loss dragging his words. Then he brightened, “And I'd love to take you out.”

“We can make it into something of a celebration I suppose.”

“Celebrating what?”

“Finding the Major, of course.”

What was there to celebrate? They had been better off without the body. At least Jonathon could have been convicted on the circumstantial evidence and his own confession.

“I'm not sure I've anything to celebrate to be honest, Daphne. We now have two murders instead of one. We're still minus one body and now were missing another murderer.”

Sergeant Patterson came round the corner unnoticed, pulled up short and was trying to back away when Bliss spotted him. “Ah, Sergeant Patterson. I wanted a word with you ... my office.”

Patterson turned with a hunted look. “I was just going to get that missing person search started.”

“It won't take a minute,” he said, turning to Daphne. “Let me plug that in for you, Miss Lovelace.”

The cleaner burst into life as Bliss shepherded the reluctant sergeant into his office. “Shut the door, Pat ... can't hear a bloody thing with that machine ... That's better. Sit down, there's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

By the look on Patterson's face he was wondering if Bliss intended extracting a few teeth without anaesthetic. “What, Guv?”

“I just wondered how you tracked me down at The Limes the other night.”

Patterson slumped in relief. “It was nothing, Guv,” he explained. “I called the Mitre, spoke to the girl with a strange accent. She said she didn't know where you were but that you'd left in a taxi. There's only two dispatchers in the whole place so it wasn't difficult. The first one I called said you'd gone to the Limes.”

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” said Bliss.

“That's why I'm a detective, Watson old chap,” replied Patterson, tipping an imaginary deerstalker and sliding out.

Daphne was still vacuuming outside the office and Patterson gave her an inquisitive glance, sorely tempted to pump her for information. “So Daphne, just who was that woman our detective inspector picked up from your house in a taxi on Wednesday?” he could have asked, but what would she have told Bliss?

So, who the hell was the woman? he wondered, as he had been wondering since Wednesday when the taxi driver had blabbed, “She was quite a looker – middle aged but real smart.” Had Bliss moved a mistress into the neighbourhood and lodged her with Daphne? Then a thought struck him and he poked his head back round the door, “By the way, Guv. Have you got your warrant card yet?”

“Yeah – came in the despatch this morning.”

“Oh – good. I'll get on with that misper search then.”

The phone rang. Bliss had another visitor vis-à-vis the Dauntsey case. A solicitor appropriately named Law, according to the receptionist, and he immediately recalled the words of the sergeant at his first posting. “There's nothing like a juicy body to bring the rats out of the woodwork,” he had said.

“Law & Law,” the solicitor introduced himself with an outstretched hand. “We represent Major Rupert Dauntsey – the deceased. We came as soon as we heard.”

Bliss looked behind the big man, expecting to see his partner in an equally loud herring-bone suit. The corridor was empty. “May I ask, just how did we hear?” he enquired, with more than a trace of mockery, ushering him into the room.

“It's common knowledge, Inspector – We understand there were quite a number of witnesses. The point is that the Major made a will on inheriting the estate from his father, the Colonel, whom we also represented.”

“As a matter of interest, can I ask when you last saw the Major?”

“We – that is I, personally, never had that pleasure. My father drew up the will and it has remained, unaltered, in our possession since 1946.”

“So who is the beneficiary? Who inherits the estate?”

“Inspector. You know we can't divulge that, not until death is confirmed. That's why we came actually, to find out who issued the death certificate, so we can lay our hands on a copy.”

Explaining that the body had yet to be formally identified, and wondering who was going to do it, Bliss assured the other man that he would keep him informed, then asked, “Do you know why his son Jonathon might have wanted him dead?”

Law pulled him closer and bent to his ear. “This is absolutely confidential, off the record. We'll deny ever saying anything. We've no idea – Jonathon Dauntsey doesn't stand to gain anything at all from the will.”

“That's interesting,” said Bliss, then he put in a word for the church. “I'm not asking you to betray any confidences but I've just had the Vicar of St. Paul's here. He seems to think he's going to get a new roof.”

The solicitor was shaking his head. “He might need to invest in an umbrella then – if you get my drift.”

Bliss sloped off at 4 pm. and returned to the Mitre – exhausted. He hadn't seen a proper bed for two nights and promised himself a nap before meeting Daphne for dinner. The excitement of discovering the body and the attendant work had edged Mandy to the corner of his mind and put her killer back in his box. Even the sight of the boarded up tea shop didn't disturb him – sleep was all that interested him. He stopped at the reception desk. The smiling Swede had been replaced by a friendly local girl with wavy dark hair.

“Any messages for me?” he asked tiredly, forgetting that she'd never met him.

“Your name, Sir?”

“Sorry. Bliss – 203.”

“Oh yes, Sir. Your hire car has been delivered. Here are your keys and the papers. I told them to leave it in the car park at the back.”

“Thanks,” he took the keys. “Nothing else?”

She checked the pigeon hole. “No – nothing there.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning away.

“Oh – someone was asking about you though.”

The Volvo was back. The killer was out of the box. Keep calm, he said to himself, trying desperately to sound conversational. “When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Don't be pushy, don't scare her. Shrug as if it doesn't matter. “A friend, I expect. Did he leave a name?”

“No. He said he'd catch up with you sometime.”

The veiled threat – he'd done it before, in the letters on the phone. “One day – when you least expect it ... I'll catch up with you.”

Bliss swallowed. “Was he tall?”

“No – very short. Funny little man ... sorry, I didn't mean to be rude ...”

“That's alright,” cut in Bliss, confused. “Old or young?”

“Thirtyish.”

Medium height and forties would have been nearer the mark – but she could have been mistaken. “Do you recall exactly what he said?”

“Well ... he said he thought he knew you. Wanted to know if you came from London.”

That's the clincher. “You didn't tell him did you?”

“No, Sir, I told him he'd have to leave a note for you – even offered him some paper and a pen, but he wanted to talk to the manager. I went into the office to ask Mr. Robbins but when I got back he'd gone.”

There was something she'd omitted. Bliss saw it in her face. The mental vacillation – to tell or not to tell – making her eyes repeatedly flick away, unable to hold his gaze for more than a blink. The hotel register, the divorce lawyers best friend or deadliest foe, had lain open on the desk as she had readied to invite the visitor to sign in.

“The register was closed when I got back – I was only gone a few seconds ...” she began nervously.

“And he could've looked ...?”

“Possibly.”

Thank God no-one ever checks for phoney addresses, he thought, only vaguely remembering the one he'd made up. But, combined with the Volvo, this was sobering news. “Never mind, Luv. Not your fault. Just let me know if anybody else asks for me or if you see him again would you?”

Bliss made his way to his room, his tiredness overcome by concern. Would the killer ever come into the open and put him out of his misery or would the torment continue
ad infinitum
unless he were caught and shipped back to jail? You will never escape this, he said to himself poking under the bed, then, in the dusty shadows, he saw the image of a man – a man forever scrabbling under beds, checking behind wardrobes and eyeing the postman with trepidation. This will be with you forever unless you get a new face and a new name. But a new face was out of the question, he'd already ruled that out. A new name was a possibility, although it certainly created problems, especially if he were to remain in the police force. How could he suddenly pop up as Inspector Joe Blow without a background; qualifications; a family; previous addresses; credit cards; driving licence? So many people would need to know that the risks outweighed the advantages.

Chapter Nine
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