Missing: Presumed Dead (8 page)

“So you don't deny it?”

“As I've already said, It would be foolish of me to do so, with so many witnesses.”

“So,” said Patterson clearly winding himself up to the pivotal question. “What was in the bundle?”

“I suspect you already know that, Sergeant,” said Dauntsey without any indication he was being anything other than as forthright and helpful as possible.

But Patterson's tone in response suggested he was getting near the end of his tether, even admitting later that he felt like strangling the confession out of the man opposite him. “Never-the-less, Mr. Dauntsey,” he continued, his voice now barely under control, “I would like you to tell me what was in the bundle, in your own words.”

Dauntsey didn't respond straight away, Bliss even took a quick glance at the little window on the machine to make sure it hadn't stopped.

“Don't you think its painful enough for me without having to spell it out?” he said eventually, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Painful or not, Mr. Dauntsey, I am asking you to state unequivocally ...”

“That the bundle contained my father's body. There, I've said it. Now are you satisfied?”

Patterson gave an audible sigh, “Thank you, Mr. Dauntsey. So you don't deny killing your father?”

“No, Sergeant. I don't deny it. It was stupid of me to think I wouldn't get caught.”

“Do you regret what you have done?”

“I can't help thinking it's what he would have wanted.”

“To be murdered by his son!”

“Well, we all have to go sometime, Sergeant. The sword of Damocles hangs over us all. Might it not be kinder to have the thread cut by a fellow rather than a foe?”

Bliss reached over and clicked off the machine. “Amazing – the pompous ass doesn't give a shit. It's not murder as far as he's concerned – it's nothing more than the involuntary euthanasia of an inconvenient parent.”

“My wife's incontinent old mother lives with us,” said Donaldson, trying hard to give the impression he was joking. “She can be fairly inconvenient at times; perhaps I should do the same.”

“Ah. But there you'd have an understandable motive. What was Jonathon Dauntsey's motive? From what I can gather the old Major had moved out some time ago.”

Donaldson flicked the tape back on but needn't have bothered, Jonathon Dauntsey had said all he was going to say.

“So where do we go from here?” asked Bliss, surveying the ceiling, speaking to himself.

Donaldson slumped back into his chair. “I suppose I should call in the Major Incident Unit, but I'll look a bit bloody stupid now. I turned them down last night – said we had everything under control. Now I'll have to crawl cap in hand – makes me look a right imbecile – Smilie Johnston will have a field day ...”

“Smilie?”

“Chief Super at H.Q. – a miserable sod.”

Bliss had other ideas. “I'm not sure we need more men; they'll just end up tripping over each other. Most of the evidence has been destroyed or contaminated so badly there's nothing to be gained by sifting through it again. Jonathon Dauntsey is banged up in the cells, and we'll have no problem getting the Beak to remand him in custody based on his confession. The Major's body is sure to surface in a day or two.”

“We can't just wait and hope ...”

“I agree,” said Bliss heading toward the door. “I'll have another pop at Master Jonathon – try a different tack; tell him how much he's upsetting his Mum by not letting on where the old boy is, that sort of thing. In the meantime we can give the troops a rest – there's no sense in them tearing around like headless chickens.”

“And if we can't find the body?”

Bliss, hand on the door, turned. “Let's keep our fingers crossed.” Then he paused, something on his mind. “The press are asking questions.”

“Naturally.”

“I don't want them printing my name.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I can see that – no problem. The editor at
The Gazette
is a fellow Rotarian. I'll give him a call ...”

“Don't mention anything about ...” cut in Bliss, but Donaldson waved him off.

“It's O.K., Dave. I won't say anything.”

Chapter Three
_____________________________

A
fragrant blast of humid air rolled softly over Bliss as Daphne opened the door in response to his knock.

“It's the stuffing,” she explained as he drank in the perfume with a deeply satisfying inhalation. “Fresh thyme and parsley from the garden,” she added. “Please come in.”

Daphne had exchanged her polka-dot day dress for a stately paisley one, with the frilliest of white aprons which fluttered as she gave a little shudder. “It's chilly for June – more like October or Oslo. You'll have to fight your way through,” she added, inching her way back down the cluttered hallway.

“Are you moving?” he asked, confronted by an upended double bed; an ancient mahogany sideboard that no-one would describe as an antique; several precariously balanced stacks of books, and a stuffed goat.

She turned, her forehead crinkled in confusion, “Moving? ... Oh no … Charity auction next Saturday – Women's Institute.” He stopped at the goat and slid his hand along the polished hairless back.

“It used to be in the butcher's,” she said, seeing the inquisitive look on his face. “All the children used to sit on him while their mothers waited in line. That back's been polished by thousands of bums over the years, mine included, but the kids today wouldn't find it fun; they only want noisy toys that shake the daylights out of them and have hundreds of buttons.” Pausing in remembrance, she gave the goat an affectionate pat. “It seems silly now, but sitting on that moth-eaten old thing was quite a treat in my day.”

“I nearly didn't find you,” said Bliss, moving on and squeezing into the dining room that seemed equally crammed.

“Jumble-sale ... Girl Guides,” Daphne indicated with a sweep, suggesting that some of the clutter was not her responsibility, though not indicating precisely which.

“I was wondering if you might get lost. It's fairly isolated out here, no through traffic, and there's only the fields behind.”

“Is that where you saw the lights?” he asked, taking in the view out of the back window and seeing the fresh green ripples of a cornfield lapping at the edge of her neatly cultivated vegetable garden.

“Yes – you can still see where the corn's been battered down if you know just where to look.” She pointed, he strained but couldn't see anything. “Anyway,” she said, turning away, “I never said they'd made circles, Chief Inspector. Dowding made that up.”

“I'm sure you didn't. He was only teasing.”

“He goes too far at times does that one.”

Bliss looked around for something to change the subject and seized on the piano. “What a beautiful instrument. Do you play?”

“Very badly – I had loads of lessons as a child but lacked dedication. What about you?”

“A little. But I've never played one like this.” He brushed his hand over the surface, “Just look at that veneer;” reverently lifted the lid and took in a sharp breath of awe, “And the keys – real ivory;” gently touched a few notes, “Perfect!”

“Quite a beauty, isn't it? Coincidentally, it came from the Dauntsey house. I bought it at an auction twenty odd years ago, and it still had the original receipt tucked inside. The old Colonel had bought it in 1903.” She paused with a vague expression.“Or was it 1905? Lift up the lid, Chief Inspector, I think it's still in there.”

The receipt was there as predicted. “1903,” Bliss said, reading it off the faded handwritten paper. “You were right the first time.” Then he sat down and started playing.

“Mozart?” she queried, recognising the theme.

“Uh-hum,” he nodded.

She closed her eyes in rapture. “Oh that's so beautiful. You could make love to this.” Her eyes popped open. “Oh now I've shocked you.”

“No – not at all.”

“There was a time, Chief Inspector ...” she cut herself off and listened for a while, her mind awash with romantic memories that softened her face and brought a touch of dampness to her eyes. “You do know that God only invented Mozart to make the rest of us feel incompetent, don't you?” she said.

“That's very clever, Daphne,” he laughed.

“Yes, it is – I only wish I'd been the first to say it.” Then she slipped into the kitchen, mouthing, “Keep playing.”

“So, where is Mrs. Bliss?” she called as he finished the piece.

“There's no Mrs. Bliss – not at the moment anyway.”

“There's hope for me yet then,” she said popping her head round the door and giving him a lascivious wink that threw him off guard. “Oh don't look so nervous, Chief Inspector,” she laughed, “I've no illusions about my eligibility in that direction.”

“Is this you?” he asked, hastily snatching a silver-framed portrait of an attractive young woman off the sideboard.

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I haven't always been a Mrs. Mop. I used to clean up quite nicely, didn't I?” Then she ducked modestly back into the kitchen.

She still has the same entrancing eyes he realised and, feeling her distance offered some protection, called, “Actually you haven't changed all that much.”

She stuck her head back round the door, “You wouldn't say that if you saw me in my birthday suit … the ravages of gravity, ” she added, before disappearing again.

Bliss looked closer at the fifty-year-old image. “Very attractive,” he breathed, then noticed the inscription. “It say's Ophelia on here,” he began, in a questioning tone.

“Oh really,” she replied, staying in the kitchen.

He wandered into the kitchen, picture in hand. “Ophelia Lovelace,” it says here. “Paris – September 1947.”

Daphne closely studied the saucepan of gravy atop the stove and stirred it firmly.

“Ophelia?” he inquired, noticing the pink glow to her cheeks, wondering if it were the heat from the Aga cooker.

She didn't look up from the pot. “The truth is my name is Ophelia – Ophelia Daphne Lovelace. I'm afraid we all lie a little at times, Chief Inspector.”

“That's not a lie. You can call yourself whatever you want.”

She wasn't listening, her eyes and mind seemed focused on the pan. “I loathed Ophelia,” she began with surprising vehemence. “Who'd want to be named after a week-willed nincompoop of a girl who drowned herself just because some bloke dumped her?”

“Suicide,” mused Bliss. “Was she a relative?”

Daphne laughed, “No –
Hamlet
– Shakespeare. Ophelia was the wilting lily who jumped in the river when she thought Hamlet didn't love her anymore.” Then, sticking her hands assertively on her hips, she spun on him, demanding, “Do I look like an Ophelia to you, Chief Inspector?”

“No,” he laughed. “You look like a Daphne, but I wish you'd call me Dave – off duty anyway.”

“I don't think I could – you're cast in the mould of a chief inspector. It suits you. There's a lot in a name you know. I actually think that some people become famous because of their names. Can you imagine what might have happened if Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill had been called Randy Longbottom – see, you're laughing already – I mean, who's going to sacrifice themselves for somebody called Randy or Matt?”

“ ... or Dave,” he suggested.

“Oh no. There's something very noble about David: King David, David and Goliath, David Lloyd George – Yes,” she added with an admiring glance, “David is very noble.”

“I don't know about that,” he replied, feeling a blush of warmth from the stove.

Daphne gave him an inquisitive look. “I couldn't help noticing, in the churchyard, you looked distracted, as though you had something on your mind.”

The shooting of Mandy Richards, he remembered instantly, then worked desperately hard to keep the memory from clouding his face again. “Just the death of the Old Major,” he lied, “There's something very puzzling about the case. I feel as though I've sneaked into a play halfway through the first act and can't pick up the plot because I've missed some crucial bit of the action.”

Daphne wasn't convinced, “And the ghost that's bothering you?”

“Just an old memory, graveyards have a way of bringing back old memories for me.”

“They do for everyone – that's the whole idea of graveyards surely. If we just wanted to dispose of our dead we'd take them to the dump ... Come on,” she said, brightening her tone and gathering the dishes together. “Stuffed pork chops with young broad beans, the tiniest new potatoes and a nice tender savoy. All out of my own garden – apart from the chops.”

“Wherever did you learn to cook like this?”

“My mother, of course, and in France. I lived there for a while.”

“Hence the portrait.”

“Yes,” she nodded, with a longing glance at the picture in his hand. “Hence the portrait.”

“Wine?” offered Daphne as Bliss seated himself at the head of the table. “This is rather a splendid Puligny Montrachet – I'm assuming you like a red with a bit of heart.”

“Oh, yes. Very much. But can you afford ...”

“Don't worry, Chief Inspector. Like I said, I haven't always been a cleaning lady; I'm not short of a few bob ...
Bon appetit
.”

“You were going to tell me about the Major,” he said, digging in.

“Was I? Oh yes, well I'm not sure if I have anything terribly useful to offer.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Difficult to say,” she started vaguely. “Time distorts time.” She looked at him across the table, “Is everything alright?”

“Absolutely delicious – this stuffing ... mmm.” He let a rapturous mask slide over his face then picked up where she'd left off. “Time – the Major – When?”