James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Happy childhood memories flooded back as Bliss surveyed the steaming little mountain of sponge with liquid gold dribbling down its sides. “You don’t have children then?”

Daphne took on a puzzled look as if the birth of a child was something that had to be calculated. “I lost the only one I had.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s not quite what you think,” she said, getting quickly up from the table and making a dash back to the kitchen, muttering that she had forgotten the custard.

“Were you married?” he asked on her return.

“I’d better put the coffee on,” she said, hurriedly slipping back out. “Not every story has a happy ending, Chief Inspector,” she called from the emotional safety of the kitchen. “He wasn’t what you would call a good man.”

“And there was no one else?”

She was back, shaking her head, “If you don’t learn from experience, how do you learn?”

The splash of a car’s headlights fell across the dining room window as they finished the coffee a little later.

“I wonder who that could be?” she said, stretching to peer past him out of the window.

“I’d better be going — it’s late,” he said, pushing back his chair.

“Would you come again tomorrow evening?”

“I can’t,” he started, saw the instant look of dismay on her face, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’d love to really, the dinner was wonderful and I’ve enjoyed your company, but I have to go up to London in the afternoon to pick up a few things and see a man about a dog — a horse to be exact. I’ll be back on Wednesday morning.”

“Wednesday evening then.”

“Alright — as long as nothing crops up. But only if you let me take you out to dinner one night — somewhere really posh, we could even have champagne.”

Her eyes flashed with excitement, “Would you?”

“I’d love to.”

“That would be wonderful. I’ve got an outfit picked out already.”

“Psst … Psst,” Detective Sergeant Patterson hissed at D.C. Dowding, catching his attention as he sauntered in the back door of the police station early Tuesday morning. “Loo,” he mouthed, steering him into the lower-rank’s toilets.

“What’s up, Serg?”

“Do me a favour,” Patterson started with a degree of sanguinity, opening his fly, aiming at the urinal and handing a note over his shoulder. “Find out who this motor’s registered to.”

Dowding took the proffered scrap and glanced at the typewritten number. “Sure, Serg — no problem. Whose is it?”

Patterson shot him a puzzled look. “I worry about you at times, Dowding. I wouldn’t be asking you to find out if I knew would I?”

“No, Serg. Sorry.”

“Thanks,” said Patterson walking away shaking his head.

“Hang on, Serg. You haven’t told me which case this is.”

“No, I haven’t, have I?” he replied, still walking, opening the door. “Use yer loaf, lad — make one up.”

Dowding stared at the registration number on the scrap of paper thinking it seemed familiar. “You’ve gotta give me some idea, Serg.”

“Know thine enemy, Dowding,” said Patterson darkly, “know thine enemy,” letting the door slam on its spring behind him.

Patterson was back at his desk in the C.I.D. office when D.I. Bliss walked in. “G’morning, Guv,” he called cheerfully, “What d’ye think of The Mitre?’

“Good morning, Pat — It’s alright. Any news on the body?”

Patterson screwed up his nose and gave his head a quick shake. “What’s the grub like? I hear they do a good dinner.”

Bliss was mentally moving ahead and shrugged off the enquiry. “It’s O.K. — I want a full briefing this morning at ten: all C.I.D personnel; dog-handlers; search commanders and scenes of crime boys.”

“Done,” said Patterson scribbling haphazardly on a note-pad.

“I’ll be in my office. Let me know when you’ve arranged it.”

“It’s already arranged,” grinned Patterson exposing protruding gums along with a mouthful of tobacco tinged teeth, more like a snarl than a smile, and leaving Bliss mentally betting that he wouldn’t be able to cram them all back into his mouth.

“Oh.”

The sergeant patted himself on the back. “I guessed you’d want a strategy session so I put out an order first thing.” He left the implication “Before you got out of your pit” unspoken.

“Thanks.”

“So how is Daphne?” fished Patterson.

“Daphne?” questioned Bliss, as if her name needed clarification.

Patterson obliged. “Yeah. Daphne. The cleaning lady.” Then he sat back, eyebrows raised questioningly, and left Bliss to wriggle.

What’s he driving at? wondered Bliss. Why not simply confess to having dinner with her? But something in Patterson’s tone held him back, a certain superciliousness — the tone of a blackmailer — hinting: “I know something about you that you wouldn’t want broadcast.”

Bliss let the silence build — though not intentionally, and was still deciding whether or not to reveal his visit to Daphne’s for dinner when Patterson let him off the hook. “Dowding says she bummed a ride to the churchyard yesterday.”

“Oh yes — I’d forgotten.”

“How old d’ye think she is, Guv?”

Bliss, feeling the stab of yet another barb, gave him a hard stare — He’s not suggesting there’s something going on between us is he? “I suppose she’s my mother’s age — sixties, sixty-five maybe,” he replied, feigning total disinterest in Daphne as he casually rooted through the morning’s sheaf of crime reports.

“Ugh — I bet she’s nearer seventy-five, Guv,” he said somewhat scornfully.

“How come she’s still working?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“I am,” said Bliss, putting down the reports and giving Patterson critical attention.

Clasping his hands behind his head, the sergeant thrust out his legs and stretched back in his chair. “They’ve tried to get rid of her several times. Last year they gave her a retirement party — dinner, bouquet, carriage clock — the works. Next day she comes in regular as All-Bran, plonks the clock on the Chief’s desk and says, “I won’t be needing this for a while, Sir.” He paused for a chuckle, all gums and teeth, then carried on. “They even stopped paying her at one time. She didn’t care — didn’t even know for a few months. They had to tell her in the end. “Never mind,” she says,

“Give it to the widow’s and orphan’s fund.”

“She seems harmless enough,” said Bliss feeling a defence, was called for. “What do you think?”

Patterson, needing time to consider, leant forward to pick up his coffee. “She a nosey old bat really. Not that I mind personally speaking — bit of entertainment. Though some of the youngsters don’t like it ’cos she knows so much of what goes on around here. I remember one case …” he slurped some coffee as he tried to assemble the facts, gave up, and generalised. ‘This’ll be a tricky one,’ I said once, and Daph overheard. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘Old so-and-so did it.’ ‘How the hell do you work that out?’ I said. ‘Because his father did exactly the same back in 1937,’ she said. And d’ye know,” he laughed, “She was absolutely right.”

Bliss slid into the chair opposite Patterson and gave him something to think about. “Did I hear she’s got some sort of title?”

“Title?” he queried, “Like ‘Lady’ — Oh yeah,” he scoffed, “I can just see it — Lady Daphne Lovelace — society dame and shithouse cleaner.”

“No. I was thinking more along the lines of a C.B.E., or O.B.E.?”

A mouthful of coffee splattered across the desk as Patterson exploded in laughter, “The O.B.E. Our Daphne — you are joking, Guv?”