Missing: Presumed Dead (22 page)

“W
ould you mind if we didn't go back to The Limes?” petitioned Daphne, fearing it to be Andrew's regular stalking ground. She needn't have worried. Land's End wouldn't have been far enough for Bliss.

“I thought we'd drive over to Marsdon,” he replied, chivalrously opening the hired car's passenger door and sweeping her in. Her sleek cocktail dress of the previous evening had given way to flouncy printed cotton, its huge tangy-yellow flowers crying out for a picnic on a grassy river bank. A parasol wouldn't have gone amiss, but she had stuck with the broad-rimmed straw hat, merely switching the crimson ribbon for lemon.

“It seems a long way to go for dinner.”

“Do you mind?”

“Oh no. Not at all. It's a lovely evening for a drive.”

It wasn't – not for him anyway. He was on the run again. Instead of the badly needed nap, he'd spent the first hour in his room at the Mitre poking into every conceivable hidey-hole and pacing with worry, and the next hour packing. Whoever had been making enquiries about him would be back – probably. But why hang about to find out. The strain, and the degree of powerlessness in the face of such an ethereal adversary, had worn him to the point where he was almost ready to bolt back to the safe house.

He had been sneaking out of the hotel when the Swedish receptionist spotted him loading suitcases in the car park. “Is it that you are leaving, Mr. Bliss?” she smiled, her glow-white teeth bringing a moment's brightness to an otherwise gloomy day.

“I've been called away.”

“But you have already paid have you not?”

He had – two weeks in advance, twenty percent discount. “It doesn't matter – I'll probably be back in a day or so.”

The High Street seemed jammed with blue Volvos, both driven by short, funny looking, thirty-year-olds, and he was glad to have got away from the Mitre hotel and his Rover. But was this the future? Trailing his suitcases around in the boot of a rented car – finding a different hotel and switching every couple of days. Was he being forced to follow the blueprint of retribution drawn up by the killer? Had the threatening letters and menacing phone calls been just a tightening of the screw, dragging out the agony in the torture chamber of his mind?

“I did eighteen years for my part,” the killer was telling him. “Now it's your turn.”

Even the bomb through the letterbox had been halfhearted – little more than a handful of powerful fireworks packed into a cardboard tube. If he'd wanted to kill me, couldn't he have done that already? Shoot a single bullet from a silenced .44, then walk calmly away and melt into the crowd before anyone has even realised what's happened.

“Marsdon,” said the sign, taking him unawares and making him question where his mind had been for the past twenty minutes.

He baulked at the first restaurant, a pushy place with fluorescent green shades and an egocentric sign plastered with recommendations and affiliations.

“Too busy,” he complained, with hardly more than a peep through the lace curtains. Too many nooks and crannies, was what he really meant; too many cozy romantic niches where who-knows-what could be going on under the tables, and who-knows-who could be hiding, waiting to pounce; too many candles and not enough light to spot a killer. Don't be ridiculous, he said to himself, how could he possible know you were coming here? He could have followed us ... The way you've had your head stuck in the mirrors – you must be crazy. You've smacked the kerb three times – good job it's a hire car.

“This looks different,” he said, driving on and catching sight of a gallows sign outside a barn-like building. “The Carpenter's Kitchen,” proclaimed the legend under a carved pictograph of a chef's hat surrounded by saws, mallets and unrecognisable implements.

The earthy odour of freshly milled wood hit them as Bliss opened the solid church-type door. Quickly stooping to avoid the rough-hewn beams at headache height, he ran his eye along the warped plank flooring. “It's like being below decks in an old Schooner,” he said with unmistakeable delight.

“Look at this,” replied Daphne dashing off to fondle a diminutive wooden replica of Michelangelo's
David
.

“'Tis all 'and carved,” said a buckled old man in workman's overalls and carpenter's apron, stepping from behind a sculpted pillar. “An' 'tis all for sale ...” he added, his head screwing awkwardly on a spine fixed by years of bending over a workbench.

“We wanted dinner actually,” queried Bliss. “This is a restaurant, isn't it?”

“Oh yeah, 'course 'tis – upstairs. You go on up. That boy o' mine'll look after you.”

Bliss was having second thoughts, fearful the food might have absorbed the characteristics of sawdust, but at least there were no Volvos in the car park.

“I think it's rather quaint,” said Daphne, dawdling to admire award-winning turnings and carvings. “Oh look at this cat,” she said, stroking the life-like carving. “It reminds me of my old tom – the General.”

Five minutes later the cat, elm with walnut inlay and bright glass eyes, sat alert on the dining table checking out the dozen or so other guests in the upstairs dining room.

“Sit where you like,” the old man's “boy” had said, and Daphne placed her purchase on a table sliced from the bole of an ancient tree, every growth ring clearly countable.

“Cinnamon,” she sniffed, then sat and picked a curled stick from a centrepiece of shaved rosewood, sandalwood and cedar. “I love cinnamon,” she added, running it under her nose. “It's so Christmassy, don't you think?”

Bliss frowned. “Would you mind if I sat there?” he said, holding out the other chair for her, inviting her to move.

She caught on. “I suppose you want your back to the wall, Chief Inspector – is that a man thing?”

He laughed it off. “No – it's a policeman thing.”

She moved and the “boy” came back with the menus. Fifty-five guessed Bliss, but Daphne put him in his late forties – he had young hands, she explained later.

The menus were in keeping with the general theme. “I hate this sort of thing,” said Bliss, turning up his nose at the contorted literary, culinary and carpentry amalgamations. “Listen to this – Oak-smoked joint of venison with sauce of wood mushrooms and potato logs.”

“Oh don't be so stuffy, it sounds rather good, and look they've got woodcock and wood grouse. Though I think I'd prefer something I can talk through – I don't want to have to concentrate, nothing finicky – no bones. And nothing awkward like lobster or spaghetti.”

“I think I'll have a steak,” said Bliss, reading aloud. “Grilled over charcoal burnt from Oak, Pine and Mesquite.”

“That sounds good,” muttered Daphne, though her face said she was still giving some thought to her selection. “You were very quiet in the car, Chief Inspector,” she said, looking up from the menu. “I guess you have something on your mind.”

Blue Volvos, funny little men snooping into hotel registers and untimely death. “The Major's face actually ...” he started, then paused. “It was pretty horrific. I don't want to put you off your dinner.”

“No – I'm interested. Carry on.”

“Well, it was only a skeleton but the jaw and cheek bones had been stitched together with silver wire. The surgeon had obviously done his best, but there simply wasn't enough bone. It reminded me of a horror movie. One of those low budget ones,
Frankenstein's Brother's
Monster
or something. Anyway, the plot was that Frankenstein's brother made an even more monstrous creature out of all the bits the doctor had left over when he'd finished his monster.”

“Are you making this up?”

“No – I don't think so … Anyway, that's what he looked like. And I thought it was significant that the pathologist had removed the face bones before showing the students the skull. I guess he didn't want anybody throwing up all over the mortuary floor.”

“That would be the Major alright,” said Daphne, her face puckering in awful memory of the mutilated face. “He looked a right mess when he came back ...”

The barman cut into their conversation. “Would you care for drinks while you're looking at the menu?”

“I think I need an aperitif – something to bolster me up, something with a bit of body,” mused Daphne. “A Dubonnet, I think, with just a twist of lemon to take the edge off the sweetness.”

“A scotch for me, please,” said Bliss.

“Anything with that, Sir – ice perhaps?”

“Neat, thanks.”

“We do something called a Scotch Pine ...”

“Just the whiskey – thank you,” he replied, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.

“That's why he got the D.S.O.,” continued Daphne, her mind still on Major Dauntsey. “They say that even though he was injured and under fire, he still managed to carry one of his wounded men more than three miles toward a first aid station. He wouldn't let anyone help – said it was his duty.”

“But I understood he could hardly speak.”

“That was after the explosion,” she nodded in agreement. “The man he was carrying literally blew up in his face and ripped off his arm. A grenade they think – on his belt or in his pocket. Either the pin jerked out or a sniper's bullet hit it. Anyway, the explosion killed the soldier and blew away half the Major.”

The drinks arrived. Bliss slugged his back. “I needed that. So what was Arnie talking about? He said the Major had got them all killed because he made them tidy up instead of retreat.”

“I heard the rumours,” said Daphne, taking a few thoughtful sips. “He was hailed as a hero at first; given the D.S.O. for the way he'd dragged the injured man out under fire. It was only later, when the few survivors got back, that they started telling a different story; that the whole thing was his fault. But you know what the Army's like. They'd never admit a mistake – especially when committed by a senior commissioned officer.”

“Sounds a bit like the police force,” muttered Bliss.

“Anyway, what were they going to do – court martial a one-eyed man who didn't have a right hand to hold a bible or a voice to speak the oath?”

“But was Arnie right? Did he make the men clear up the battlefield before retreating?”

“Who knows?” she shrugged. “It's the maxim of all peons worldwide. If anything goes wrong – blame the boss.”

“So you don't believe it then?”

“If he did do what Arnie said then he must have had a good reason. Only idiots set out deliberately to do the wrong thing.”

“But wasn't he an idiot? Arnie seemed to think so.”

“He went to university.”

“Money,” scoffed Bliss.

“And he became a Major,” she added.

“Influence, connections. Don't forget, his father was a Colonel. What were the recruiters going to say? Anyway, it was wartime – the ability to breathe was high on the list of selection criteria.”

The waiter was back with a wooden bowl overflowing with cheese sticks. Daphne was still undecided, torn between the wood-pigeon pie and the off-cuts of oak-smoked turkey, and asked for a few more minutes.

“So where do you go from here?” she asked Bliss as the waiter headed for another table.

“We're just spinning our wheels,” he replied, idly nibbling a stick. “We're checking for missing persons; waiting for blood tests on the duvet; pulling Jonathon's house to pieces and digging his garden – the other body has to be somewhere, but we're stumped until it turns up. I'll have to talk to Doreen again tomorrow. Somebody has to tell her that her husband's dead.”

“Well, I don't think it will come as much of a shock.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chief Inspector – if anybody knew where the body was you can be sure it would have been Doreen Dauntsey. Losing your husband isn't like leaving an umbrella on a bus.”

“I've been putting it off until we've confirmed his identity.”

“Is there some doubt ...?”

“No – not really. It's just that Jonathon was so adamant.”

“Well, personally, I've no doubt it was Rupert from the way you describe the wounds. Most people couldn't bear to look at him. Of course, he wasn't what you might call well-known in the town. He went away to one of them pricey prep schools, then onto Marlborough College – I think. And he spent most holidays in Scotland on the estate. And his father, the Colonel, was none too popular – crusty old bastard – thought he was still in the guards the way he'd order the locals about. And he seemed to think the police were his personal retainers from what I've heard.”

“No wonder Rupert turned out the way he did.”

“What way?”

Gay; queer; poof; fairy – he ran through the list in his mind searching for the word she had previously used to describe him and was struck by the incongruity of the situation. The woman in front of him was old enough to be his grandmother – at a stretch – yet enveloped in the wrinkled skin and white hair was a young imp. It was in her eyes – the daredevil look that said she would still take on the world, or a frisky con-artist. I bet Andrew's bollocks still ache from last night, he thought to himself. That'll teach him.

“What way did Rupert turn out, Chief Inspector?” she persisted.

Had he misinterpreted what she'd said about the Major. “You know ...” he began, suspecting she was teasing him, “ ... batting for the other side.”

She shrugged it off with a smile. “Like I told you – it was only a rumour, and I'm not sure I believed it myself, especially after he married Doreen.”

“Well, what if I told you I'm beginning to think that the Major wasn't Jonathon's father?”

“I could have told you that.”

“You could?”

“Yes, in fact I was going to tell you on Wednesday evening, then you dashed off and left me ...” her face soured at the thought of Andrew and she sweetened it with a slurp of Dubonnet. “Anyway, after our chat on Monday evening I got to thinking about what had happened, and one or two things just didn't make sense ...” She paused for a moment's deliberation, then admitted, “I've been a bit naughty, I'm afraid, but when I was polishing the custody officer's desk I couldn't help noticing Jonathon's custody record sort of sticking out of the filing cabinet. Anyway, his date of birth was the 4th of April, 1945.”