James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

As he got up to leave a hushed voice somewhere behind him murmured, “Bloody whore.”

“What?” he said, spinning around, fearing he’d misheard. No-one moved. The “dead” were as lifeless as ever. Had he heard it or was it extra sensory perception, a powerfully malicious thought pulsing through the ether and colliding with his brainwaves. Perhaps I dreamt it, he thought, seeking the eyes of those closest, hoping to establish contact, but the eyes were as lifeless as the bodies and he brushed it aside. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dauntsey.”

“Fucking whore — needs locking up.” There it was again. He hadn’t misheard this time, and the vehemence in the words stopped him in his tracks.

“Sorry — did you say something?” he asked one old lady, noticing her eyes open. She closed her eyes slowly, as if deliberately shunning him, and he turned back to Jonathon’s mother. There was nothing in her face to suggest she’d heard, although there was no doubt in his mind she was the target of the abuse. “I’ll probably have to come and see you again,” he said, listening carefully for the whisper, hearing nothing.

“I won’t be around a lot longer.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that …”

“Oh, don’t worry. I used to think I’d live forever, but I guess God has other plans.”

He mumbled, “Sorry,” though it sounded forced, and as he turned to find the matron sweeping across the room toward him, wondered if he was sorry she wouldn’t live forever, or sorry that God had let her down.

“Is there any hope for her?” he asked, his mind still spinning with the whispered accusations, as the matron guided him out onto a damp grey flagstone terrace having pointedly said, “You can get out this way, Inspector.” He got the message — she doesn’t want the police to be seen leaving by the front door — probably makes the undertaker carry the coffins out the back way as well.

“There’s always hope, Inspector,” she replied. “But whether or not one’s hopes are fulfilled is a matter of perspective.”

“I’m not with you.”

“Most of our patients hope to die quickly and painlessly, Mrs. Dauntsey’s no exception. It’s her son who can’t accept the inevitability of her passing.”

“It’s the one’s who are left behind who suffer the most, Matron,” he said, and felt the pain of the truth in his heart. “It’s very peaceful here,” he added conversationally to lighten the tone.

“Sunday afternoon is our noisy time — families coming to say goodbye to Gran or Gramps. If the kids aren’t wailing and crying, their parents are.”

“What about the Major? Did he ever come on a Sunday.”

“Like I said before, I’ve never seen him. I suspect this would have been his first visit, although I wouldn’t know for certain. But her son is here all the time — even when she’s asleep — the drugs you know — sits there holding her hands, crying silently. Nothing dramatic, just the odd tear, bleary eyes, occasional sniffle — pretends he has a cold. Keeps his Kleenex in a briefcase — thinks we don’t notice. It’s rather touching really and quite uncommon. You see this is just a dumping ground. By the time we get them most of the relatives have had enough.”

“Can anything be done for Mrs. Dauntsey?”

She shook her head with a finality that eclipsed any words. “Don’t tell her son though. He dotes on her. He’s got a notion into his head about some sanatorium in Switzerland — some quack making a fortune out of desperate people with elaborate claims of a cancer cure. He’s promised to take her there.”

“Could it help?”

“Might extend her life for a few weeks — if the journey doesn’t kill her, but if it did, it wouldn’t be anything to do with the drugs — purely psychosomatic — even with something as physical as cancer the patient’s will to survive can prolong life. Belief in a cure is often the only cure someone needs, but Mrs. Dauntsey’s cancer has metastasised throughout her body.”

“I reckon I could get a date with her,” muttered Dowding as the top-heavy nurse was closing the side-door behind them a few minutes later.

“Would that be alright with your missus then?” asked Bliss with a smirk.

Dowding, taking the hint, slunk to the car.

“You drive,” said Bliss throwing him the keys. “It’ll take your mind off naughty thoughts — anyway, I don’t know my way around yet.”

“Sergeant Patterson called on the radio while you was with Mrs. Dauntsey, Sir,” he said unlocking the door. “He’s checked all the hospitals — negative.”

Bliss was surprised to find the Black Horse open for business, and, by all appearances, doing a roaring trade — gawkers, he had no doubt.

“Who authorised this?” he demanded of the uniformed policeman hemmed against the bar by the throng of rumour driven drinkers.

“I did,” boomed the landlady from across the bar, her voice as brassy as her hair — a Michelin woman with spidery legs that threatened to collapse under the weight at every step. “What’s it got to do wiv you?”

Silence spread in a wave through the bar like a scene from, Showdown at the O.K. Corral.

Bliss introduced himself without pleasantries, saying, “Right. I want this bar closed immediately …”

“Oh no you don’t. You lot have caused enough inconvenience without costing me a day’s takings.”

“This is ridiculous. This is a murder scene — it should be entirely cordoned off …”

“Not fucking likely — who’s gonna pay me staff? You gonna pay ’em, are you? This is the biggest crowd I’ve had since Christmas.”

The constable threw up his eyebrows in exasperation as if to say, “See what I’ve had to deal with.”

“This is Mrs. Bentwhistle, Sir. She’s the landlady …”

“Bertwhistle … ” she corrected. “And before he gets the chance to stitch me up — I’m the one who cleaned up the mess they made here last night.”

“I want to speak to you about that,” said Bliss as coldly as he could.

“Don’t blame me — nobody told me not to clear up, and they’re bloody lying if they say different. All they said was, “Don’t let no-one go up there — and I didn’t, but I weren’t having those stains drying in. I only ’ad those carpets put down last year … or maybe the year before. It were the year our Diane got married …”

“The damage has been done …”

“Well, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do no damage; I didn’t ask him to do his old man in, not in my pub, I didn’t.”

“What time did the Major arrive last night?”

She turned away and threw down a large gin in disgust. “Gawd — how many more of you are goin’ to ask me that?”

“Sixish,” answered the constable. “That’s what she told me, Sir.”

“What did the Major say?”

“Nothing — not to me anyhow. I didn’t see him. He went straight up. Jonathon came to the bar and got the key; said his dad was tired.”

“So, he didn’t come through this way.”

She shook her head. “Went up the backstairs.”

“No-one saw him,” said the constable butting in. “We’ve asked everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Well — all those who were in the pub and outside at the time.”

Bliss was unmoved. “I still want this place closed, and all these people out until I’m satisfied there is no evidence.”

“You ought’a be out catching criminals,” grumbled a loudmouth as he was led from the bar. Bliss ignored him.

“Now,” he said, feeling he was getting somewhere. “Let’s begin again.”

An hour later, without a scrap of new evidence, Detective Inspector Bliss, feeling more cheated than unjustified, allowed the bar to re-open and retreated to the police station. Superintendent Donaldson was back in his office, according to the counter clerk, and was anxiously awaiting his arrival.