Missing: Presumed Dead (5 page)

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“What's that?” called Bliss, pointing, having noticed a small blob with an unnatural shape.

“Just a lump of rock,” said Jackson slamming his shovel into it.

The “rock” sheared in two with a dull thud and took him by surprise. “It's soft, he said, bending. “It's metal I think, Guv,” he added brushing away some of the mud. “It's an old kid's toy. A mangled horse with a rider.”

“I think it's a tin soldier, Guv,” said Patterson, reaching into the pit and taking it from Jackson.

“Lead, I would say,” said Bliss, feeling the weight as he took it from the sergeant. “Where was it, Jackson?”

“Don't rightly know, Sir – under the duvet, I s'pose. I never noticed it 'til you mentioned it.”

“It was probably dropped by one of the kids that play in here,” suggested the vicar. “They're a bit of a nuisance to be honest. Or a grieving parent may have placed it in a child's coffin – favourite toy, that sort of thing.”

“Why was it flattened then?”

“Jackson and his clumsy boots probably did that,” said Patterson.

“Possibly,” mused Bliss. “Anyway, this doesn't help us. Where on earth is the Major's body?”

Chapter Two
_____________________________

T
he press officer at Headquarters was on the phone when Bliss and Patterson arrived back at the station. Pat Patterson picked up the call then, realising Bliss had strolled into the office, smiled in relief. Sticking his hand over the mouthpiece he held it out like a gift. “Just in time, Guv, the press are fishing for some sort of statement – want to know how come we solved this one so quickly.”

“You tell me,” said Bliss slinging his wet macintosh over a chair and flopping down, making it clear he wasn't anxious to seize the phone.

“It was pure bloody luck to be honest.”

“I'm not sure we should say that,” Bliss frowned with disapproval. “We wouldn't want to dispel the public perception that we actually know what we're doing.”

Daphne, rounding up dirty mugs, grunted, “You might know what you're doing, Chief Inspector, but this lot couldn't detect a bad smell in a sewage works.”

Patterson ignored the quip and held the phone away from him as if it were venomous. “Will you give a statement, Guv?”

Bliss shrank back into the chair, waffling about insufficient local knowledge; lack of information; inadequate material data, leaving Patterson no option other than to release his hand from the mouthpiece and shape his mouth ready to reply.

“Wait,” said Bliss, leaping forward, clamping his hand over the instrument. “I'd rather you didn't mention my name either.”

“If that's what you want,” Patterson said, his face clearly struggling with the intrigue of an ex-metropolitan police officer shunning publicity.

“Yeah, just stick to a few basic facts – suspect in custody – enquiries continuing – no names, no pack drill – you know the score.”

Feigning disinterest, Bliss wandered across the room and busied himself with a large-scale wall map of the area. The sergeant gave a series of carefully crafted “no comment” type remarks, then put down the phone, joined him and explained the strategy. “We're concentrating on the woods and fields around the Dauntsey place ... here,” he said, stabbing a finger at a spot on the outskirts of the town. “The Black Horse is just off the Market Square ... here, and the cemetery's about halfway between the two. The men we pulled off the search for the cemetery were doing the stables and outbuildings at Dauntsey's house but they'd been at it since six o'clock this morning and were pretty much finished.”

“I'm a bit concerned we might be putting too much focus on Dauntsey's place,” said Bliss, trying to keep his tone uncritical. “What makes you think he took the body back to his place? Surely it would make sense to get rid of it as far away as possible.”

“It would – but the Super figured it might be a question of familiarity. On the assumption it wasn't premeditated murder, he would have had to act quickly and take the body to the first place that came to mind; somewhere local; somewhere on or near his own turf probably.”

Bliss was nodding, “There's a degree of sense in that.”

“Even more so,” continued the sergeant, “Now we know where he took the duvet. The cemetery's on the flight path from the Black Horse to his place – he must have dropped it off en-route.”

“That would have taken him awhile, to stop, find the open grave, throw in the duvet, scoop a load of dirt back in – it all takes time – and he still had to get rid of the body.”

Patterson shrugged, “He probably knew there was an open grave.”

Bliss turned from the map with a throwaway remark, “I'm beginning to wonder if there is a body.”

“Of course there is – there's witnesses; blood on his clothes, the knife, the duvet; four people saw ...”

Bliss's eyes lit up with inspiration. “No!” he exploded. “What if the Major isn't dead – only wounded? It doesn't negate what the witnesses say – they heard a fracas; saw Jonathon dump him in the pick-up; found the knife and blood. But what if Jonathon stabbed him and has taken him somewhere ...”

“But, Guv ...”

“Have you checked the hospitals?” Bliss cut in.

“No ... we didn't think ...”

“That should have been routine.”

“Why, Guv? Jonathon said he'd killed his dad, not wounded him.”

“And what if he was lying?”

“Why on earth should he?” asked Patterson with a tired testiness bordering on insolence.

Bliss recoiled at the reproach and, feeling boxed in, felt compelled to come up with a reason. With his eyes firmly focused on the map he sifted determinedly through memories of past cases, even drifting into the realm of crime novels, seeking an explanation. “What if,” he began, an idea springing out of nowhere and slowly taking shape in his mind. “What if they got into a fight, the Major gets stabbed ... accident ... self-defence ... whatever. Then he refuses point blank to be taken to hospital. I can just imagine the crusty old Major saying, ‘I'm not having some snotty-nosed kid in a white coat digging needles into me. Anaesthetic – phooey – just get on with it. Didn't have anaesthetic in my day – In my day they'd stick a lump of wood between yer teeth and cut yer bloody leg orf.'”

Patterson was laughing at Bliss's impersonation. “You might be right, Guv. That would certainly explain why Jonathon isn't fazed; why he says he doesn't need a solicitor.”

“Because he knows his dad will pop up right as rain once his wound has healed ... ”

“Then sue the Chief Constable and all of us for unlawful arrest,” continued Patterson projecting the unlikely scenario forward.

“He'd be wasting his time,” said Bliss screwing up his nose and shaking his head. “All we have to show is reasonable cause – we have plenty of that.”

“O.K., but why bury the duvet?”

“It was covered in blood – he probably realised the dogs would easily scent it out. Wait ... There is another possibility – what if he took him to a hospital and registered him under a false name to save the old man's embarrassment, and avoid answering awkward questions.”

“But why?”

“I don't know – but try the hospitals anyway. Alive or dead, he has to be somewhere. Bodies don't just disappear into thin air.”

“This one has.”

Bliss ignored the comment. “Get onto it right away – All hospitals within 45 minutes – an hour to be on the safe side. Any males over sixty-five admitted since 9.30 last night. Better check all doctor's clinics as well. Shit. Why didn't we think of it before – as soon as the body couldn't be found? It explains everything.”

Patterson was less sure, “Maybe.”

“I'd better bring the Super up to date,” said Bliss feeling pleased with the progress they had made. Selecting a phone from one of the D.C.'s desks, he dialled Donaldson's home number and listened to the ring until a gravelly sleep-filled voice answered, “Donaldson.”

“D.I. Bliss, Sir.”

The superintendent catapulted himself awake. “You've found the body?”

“Not exactly, Sir.”

“Exactly what?”

“We found the duvet in a grave and we've got a tin soldier ...”

Excitement swung to annoyance at the other end of the line. “What are you babbling about. He didn't kill a tin soldier. He killed a real one. Tin soldiers don't bleed all over the place.”

“I just thought ...”

“I said call me when you've got the body, not when you've found something to play with.”

Bliss sensed that the superintendent's phone was angrily heading for its cradle. “Sorry, Sir ...”

“Click.”

“Shit,” he muttered, hurriedly adding. “Pat – you stay here and work on the hospitals, I'll go and see the widow.”

“Do you know where the place is?”

“No, but I'll pick up Dowding from the cemetery – I can find my way back there. Oh, and I'd like to interview the last person who saw the Major alive.”

“That'd be the suspect, Jonathon Dauntsey.”

Bliss scrunched his face in mock pain. “Use your loaf, Pat.”

“Sorry, Guv. – I don't think we know who saw him last, apart from those who saw him being dumped in the pick-up. I guess it was probably the landlady at the Black Horse.”

“I'll go there after I've seen the widow.”

Daphne was hovering in the foyer with half an eye on the rain as he made his way out.

“Still here, Daphne?” he called cheerily, heading for the door.

“Just look at that weather, Chief Inspector. It's getting worse and I didn't think to bring a brolly today.”

Was she angling for a lift? “I'm going back to St. Paul's churchyard, if that's any help. I could give you a ride.”

“If you're sure you don't mind ...”

“Not at all, Daphne. Actually I wanted a word with you,” he said, scooping her in an outstretched arm and shepherding her out under his umbrella.

“How is Jonathon?” she asked as soon as they drove off.

“He seems O.K. Remarkably calm, though not what would call happy.”

“Never has been, that one. Always sour. I remember him as a kid. Always sour – always walking around with a face like a smacked bum.”

The wrought iron lych-gates were under heavy guard. Two bulky uniformed policeman, grateful to be out of the drizzle, were determined no-one would get through without authority while ignoring the fact that almost anyone could simply step over the two foot high stone wall forming the remainder of the cemetery's perimeter. A few disgruntled mourners were clustered under a couple of black umbrellas close-by, discussing tactics, looking, thought Bliss, as if they were deciding whether or not to rush the gates and bury their dead anyway.

“D.I. Bliss,” he said, heading for the gap between the two uniformed men. They stood their ground and an arm closed the gap.

“Sorry, Sir. You can't ... this cemetery's closed today. Who did you say?”

“Detective Inspector Bliss.”

“I'm sorry ...”

“Oh, get out of the way you idiot,” snarled Daphne pulling off her plastic rain hood, pushing her way between them and opening the gate. “This is your new chief inspector.”

“Is that you, Daphne?” said one.

“Well, I ain't one of the Spice Girls, if that's what you were hoping?”

He turned to Bliss, “Sorry, Sir.”

“It's alright; you were only doing your job – and I'm the D.I., irrespective of any promotion Daphne may bestow on me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

With the gate swinging shut behind him, Bliss paused to look along the ancient ranks of lichen covered gravestones lolling about like disorganised soldiers waiting for a drill sergeant to shout, “Ten ... tion!” An aura of sadness hung about him as he spent a moment imagining all the suffering that had preceded the erection of each stone, and the pain in his expression caught Daphne's eye.

“What is it, Chief Inspector? Are you alright?”

“Ghosts, Daphne. Well, one particular ghost anyway.”

“I thought you hadn't been here before.”

“I haven't.”

“How d'ye know about the ghost then?”

“Whose ghost – what ghost?”

“The Colonel – Colonel Dauntsey.”

“I thought he was a major.”

“No. I'm not talking about him. Not Rupert Dauntsey – the Major. He's the one you're looking for now. I mean his father – the old Colonel. His grave's over there, look – that posh job with the fancy statue on the roof.”

A white marble blockhouse stood out against the back wall and appeared almost floodlit in the murk. “The mausoleum?” he enquired.

“Yes, that one, Chief Inspector – anyway his ghost is supposed ...”

Bliss wasn't listening as she steered him toward the mausoleum; he was reading the names off gravestones, half expecting to see “Mandy Richards” – knowing he wouldn't. Knowing Mandy inhabited a cemetery a world away. Not for her the tranquillity of a country churchyard with overhanging beeches and chatter of birdsong. Even the vicar's words at her funeral, “In the midst of life we are in death,” had been lost to the roar of a 747 struggling to escape the gravitational pull of Heathrow Airport.

They had reached The Colonel's resting place and Bliss stood back to admire the statue soaring above the sarcophagus – a white marble winged chariot drawn by a team of flying stallions.

“Very mythical,” said Daphne, following his eye-line.

“That's strange. Jonathon mentioned something about Homer's
Iliad.
I wonder if there's some connection?”

“What did he say?”

“It didn't make any sense to me – something about letting fate choose. I don't remember to be honest.”