Missing: Presumed Dead (30 page)

“Police, eh? Why didn't you say so afore?”

“Can you just tell me where he is,” Bliss tried again.

“Gawd knows – the poor blighter never came back, did he? Missing in action, they said.”

“Oh. I thought you meant he was alive ...” started Bliss, formulating a further question when inquisitiveness got the better of the old man. “What's this all about? Mebbe you'd best come 'round here. I'm back of the old cattle market.”

“I'll take you, Guv,” said the sergeant when he asked for directions. “You'll never find it without a guide – unless you use your nose.”

Sergeant Jones was right about the nose – though it wasn't the market giving off the stink, it was the ancient clapboard house lurking behind it.

The old man took even longer to answer the door than the phone, but each time Bliss knocked anew, his crotchety voice drifted through the splintered woodwork. “Alright, alright, I'ze a coming.”

And, when the door finally creaked open, it revealed a Dickensian scene of poverty, together with a decayed man who fitted the setting perfectly. “Come in,” he said amidst a waft of hot stench which hit the two officers and had them scrabbling for handkerchiefs.

“'Tis the cats,” explained Tippen, a straggle-haired geriatric, sideswiping a ginger tom with his ivory-handled walking cane. “You'll get used t'it in a mo. Come along in – I were just 'aving me tea. I'll make ya a cuppa.”

“Not for us,” said Bliss sharply, remaining rooted to the doorstep as the old man shuffled back into the house, his shabby black clothing blending into the gloom.

“Well, don't just stand there,” he called, the pallor of his face showing up as he turned back to the door. But Bliss was having difficulty motivating himself to follow into the murky labyrinth of narrow corridors, looking, as far as he could tell, as if they had been tunnelled through mountains of newspapers and ceiling high heaps of rotten clothing. It was a hellish version of Alice in Wonderland, he realised, complete with black rabbit in a waistcoat. Sergeant Jones finally nudged him into action, and together they struggled forward against the tide of decay, grateful they had passed on the old man's invitation to his tea party.

The sergeant was still retching an hour later as he sat at the police canteen bar, slugging down a third whisky, shaking his head, muttering, “I can't believe it,” for the twentieth time. “I've never smelt anything like it. Did you see all that shit?”

“Everywhere,” replied Bliss, scrutinising his feet at maximum range. “I'll have to throw these shoes away. I'm not having them in my car.”

“I'm not sure it was all cat shit either,” said the sergeant, sniffing his jacket with care.

“I'd rather not think about it.”

“I'm gonna burn this uniform.”

“A good dry-cleaner will probably get it out.”

“Sulphuric acid wouldn't kill a smell like this.”

“I'd best be off,” said Bliss, rising. “I'll leave it to you to contact Social Services and make arrangements to get him out and cleaned up.”

“Thanks, Guv. They're gonna love me.”

“I bet you're glad you came with me now,” he laughed.

Sergeant Jones scowled in mock anger. “I'm just glad you got the information you needed.”

“Oh yes,” he said, picking up an envelope containing the tattered remains of a photograph which the old man had miraculously found amidst the garbage. “I think I've pretty much got the case wrapped up now.”

There were two uniformed men in the photo and Bliss had recognised them immediately: the Major and the Captain – two soldiers in battledress standing just a little too close; smiling just a little too much; and, fifty years on, their eyes still sparkling for each other. The picture had slotted into place in Bliss's mind the moment he took it from the grubby claws of the old man, and everything suddenly made perfect sense: Rupert's nancy-boy reputation; his whiny accent; his sudden marriage to Doreen; his retention of the dead man's dog tags. And, when he turned the photograph over, Captain David Tippen's neatly caligraphied hand spoke directly to him: “
This is me with my very best friend, Rupie
.”

“He should never 'ave gone in t'army,” the old man had said with nostalgic concern. “He didn't 'ave the constitution for it, he were too much of a mummy's boy ... Killed her it did, when he didn't come back.”

“Imagine Doreen,” Bliss had postulated to the sergeant on their way back to the police station. “She marries a bloke who gets shipped off to war before he has a chance to get his leg over, then he comes home looking like Dracula and announces his dick's been blown off. ‘But don't fret about it, my little turtle-dove,' he says, ‘'Cos I'm a poofter anyway.'”

“No wonder she bumped him off,” laughed Jones. “My missus would kill me if I told her that.”

Bliss closed his eyes in thought, “The only real problem I'm left with is – who did Jonathon kill
in
loco majoris
?”

“There's no shortage of candidates,” said Jones. “Have you any idea how many doddery old codgers are reported missing each week?”

“That's assuming it was a doddery old codger and not just someone who happened along at a convenient moment, and assuming whoever it was was missed. Just imagine if it was someone like old man Tippen.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, you know what I mean. Who would complain if he disappeared? He could've lain dead in that place we've just left for years without anybody caring.”

“Judging by the stink I think he had.”

Bliss laughed, “Did you hear what he said when I asked him where all the newspapers had come from. ‘I must've forgot to cancel them when me eyes went.'”

“I wonder how he paid for them?”

“Gawd knows – he probably nicked 'em.”

Parking at the rear of the Mitre hotel on his return to Westchester, Bliss couldn't help feeling a trifle foolish as he sneaked in the back way with his suitcase – feeling like a runaway lover slipping back home, red-faced, after vowing never to set foot in the house ever again, half expecting the door to be locked and another man in his bed. The smiling Swedish receptionist held the door for him and added to his discomfort by welcoming him back with professional effusiveness. “Oh. Good evening, Mr. Bliss, it is so nice that you are back – no?”

“No ... I mean, Yes, it's nice to be back.”

“There's a letter for you in reception,” she said, adding to his feeling of belonging. And, as he struggled his suitcases through the antique filled lounge and up the wide staircase to his room, he found himself soothed by the warm sensation of homeliness in the now familiar surroundings.

The letter intrigued him. Who knows I'm staying here apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and Daphne? But the prospect that Mandy's murderer could have located him barely touched his mind. The plain white envelope had a fresh clean smell, and was certainly too small to contain even a trace of explosive, but it certainly gave his heart an unexpected kick as he read the short note.

“Please give me a call – Kind regards: Samantha
Holingsworth.”
And a phone number.

“Did I leave my pen in your car, Dave?” she asked, recognising his voice immediately.

It sounded like an excuse, but he happily went along with it. “I don't think so, but I can check.”

“What about ... ” they started in unison.

“You go first,” he said.

“No ... after you.”

“I was going to ask – what about that dinner? Tomorrow perhaps?” He closed his eyes in mock pain, waiting for the crash of rejection – that's too soon – you'll scare her off.

“Sorry – I can't.”

See, I warned you.

“I start late shift tomorrow,” she continued. “I told you, I work lousy hours ...” she paused. “But I'm free this evening.”

“Oh – I can't. I promised a little old lady.”

“Oh yeah ... how old?” she asked, her voice full of tease.

“Positively ancient.”

“I guess that would mean around thirty, a busty blond with a Mercedes and an expense account,” she laughed. “It's alright, Dave, I know my limitations.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Do you like roast beef?”

They met in the reception area at the Mitre. The dragon he'd cautioned himself to expect had transformed into a sleek sable-haired feline with smooth round features, dark mysterious eyes and sensible white teeth set squarely behind full lips – nothing dangerously protrusive; no tombstones.

He pulled up, slack-mouthed, at the foot of the stairs, studying her profile as she chatted to the friendly Swede, and he froze – holding the moment – savouring the image.

Feeling the weight of his eyes she turned with a smile. “Hello, Dave.”

Move you prat, he said to himself. “You look very nice,” he said, cursing the inadequacy of polite conversation as he walked toward her.

“Thank you kind sir,” she curtsied gracefully, and he took her hand and kissed it theatrically.

“Come on,” he said, keeping hold, his eyes locked on hers. “Daphne will be waiting,” he continued but couldn't tear his eyes free – her right pupil had taken a life of its own and was drifting slowly southward. In an instant she pulled the lazy eye back into focus and looked embarrassingly away, but Bliss was already captivated by the charming imperfection and felt a tingle of excitement down his spine as they made a move out of the lobby.

“By the way, how did you know I was staying here?” he asked, on their way to his car.

“I traced your car number,” she blushed. “Mind I was a bit surprised when it came up as a hire car ...”

An implicit question hung in the air, but he chose to ignore it. He'd gone all day with barely a thought of the monkey on his back and had no intention of unnecessarily dredging up Mandy's killer and spoiling the evening.

“She's in love with you,” whispered a soft voice in his ear an hour later as he sat on Daphne's couch after dinner.

“What? Don't be silly. I've only known her a few days.”

“I'm a woman, Dave, believe me – I know these things. I can see it in her eyes.”

Daphne bustled in with a tray of coffees. “What are you two love-birds whispering about?” she chuckled, with an edge to her laugh.

“I was just saying to Dave, what a lovely dinner,” said Samantha, her face as innocent as her tone. “I can't believe you grew all the vegetables yourself.”

Daphne had pulled out all the stops. The sirloin had been exquisite, and her golden Yorkshire puddings had to be held to the plates with lashings of rich beef gravy. “The trick is not to pick the vegies when the sun's on them,” she explained, shrugging off the compliment.

“Well, it was really nice,” said Bliss, still luxuriating in the warmth of Samantha's breath on his cheek.

Placing the tray on a Butler's table at their feet, Daphne ignored the empty armchairs and squeezed onto the settee in between them.

“Budge over, Dave,” she said, giving his knee a playful nudge and Samantha shot him a cheeky smile behind her back, mouthing, “Told you so.”

Returning to The Mitre, Bliss parked only yards from the back wall, behind the lounge with its deep chintzy sofas, flickering candlelight and mood music. But they stayed in the car; exchanging soft words and tender touches; breathing gently through moistened lips; savouring each other's scent; basking in each other's warmth. It would be so easy to charge full-tilt into a sexual melee, he realised: a bottle of Dom Perignon in the lounge, an indecent proposal whispered tenderly with precise timing, and it would be all over bar the shouting. But he fought the urge with ease – hastily consummated relationships with as much staying power as the Titanic were a thing of his past.

Waltzing easily into the natural rhythm of romance they melted into each other arms and their eyes locked – midnight blue on burnt sienna in the shadowy light. They floated, lips poised, and drank in each other's beauty. Then a spark of light blazed in her eyes and Bliss spun around in time to catch the fading flare of a match, and the bright glow of a newly lit cigarette, behind him.

“There's someone out there,” he whispered. “Stay here,” he added, easing himself out of her arms and inching toward the door.

“Are you crazy?” she said, hopping out the other side and taking off after him.

Twenty minutes later, breathless and bedraggled, they were back, standing by Samantha's car, saying goodnight.

“I do wish you'd come up to my room and clean up,” he implored.

“No,” she said fiercely, then immediately backed off. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound like that. I don't mean to be ungrateful. I would just prefer to go home if you don't mind, only I'm covered in mud.”

“He went right through the river.”

“I know, I was behind him remember.”

“I thought you were magnificent.”

“Just doing my job, Sir,” she said in a policeman's voice, then sneezed.

“You really should come up and dry off. Look, here's my key. I'll stay in the bar if you don't trust me.”

“Dave, don't get me wrong, it's just too much of a cliché – Girl meets boy; girl falls in mud; girl catches cold; girl takes off wet clothes ... well you know the rest.

I've seen the movie, and read the soppy novel ... and they don't always have a happy ending.”

Feeling a pang of disappointment he asked, “Can I call you?”

“You'd better,” she laughed getting in and closing her door. “I can't afford to keep losing pens.”

The Volvo had got away from the car park moments before Bliss and Samantha returned. The driver, breathless and drenched, stood shivering in a phone booth a mile away.