James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Bliss was barely out of earshot when Dowding rounded on the sergeant in a venomous whisper. “What the hell’s going on, Serg?”

“What d’ye mean?”

“You’ve dropped me in the shit.”

“You wanna keep your mouth shut tight then.”

“Oh. Very funneee,” he sneered.

“So what’s your problem?”

“I did that vehicle search you asked for and it comes up no record. Then I get a very strange phone call from someone at Scotland Yard, asking me why I want to know. I says, ‘What’s it to do with you?’ He says, ‘Don’t give me no flannel,’ real nasty. ‘I wanna know who authorised that vehicle search and what for.’”

“Oh shit — you didn’t tell ’im did you?”

“How could I–I didn’t know — You didn’t tell me.”

“I meant — you didn’t give him my name did you?”

“No, I just said it were the Dauntsey case — checking all the vehicles anywhere near the scene. Must have got a wrong number.”

Patterson started to move away. “Good thinking, lad. Well done.”

“Wait a minute, Serg,” said Dowding grasping his arm, “I wanna know whose motor it is.”

Patterson shook his arm free with a scowl. “How the hell should I know? That’s why I asked you to run a check.”

The other detectives, sensing an approaching storm had scuttled out of the room. Dowding kicked the door shut and closed in on the sergeant, spitting a volley of abuse through clenched teeth. “Don’t give me that bollocks. I’m just a fucking prawn to you, aren’t I? You used me — you know damn well who that motor belongs to.”

Patterson turned his attention to some papers in his hand. “So what if I do?”

Dowding played what he hoped was his trump. “Well, maybe I should tell the new inspector you’re doin’ dodgy vehicle searches.”

Patterson rounded on him. “Are you threatening me?” Then he quickly backed off, softening his face, waving Dowding into a chair and slumping meditatively behind his desk. He sat silently for half a minute or more then spoke earnestly. “Keep this to yourself, but there’s something fishy going on. That car number I gave you belongs to our new D.I.”

“You ran a search on D.I. Bliss!” exclaimed Dowding incredulously. “What the hell for?”

“Like I said, something smells. It’s like this guy didn’t exist before he came here. I called Scotland Yard yesterday afternoon just to get a bit of background on him. I thought it was odd that a Met bloke would transfer down here. It’s not as though he’s from these parts, not judging by his accent.”

“So what did they say at the Yard?”

Patterson angrily pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and gave the “No Smoking” sign a filthy look, as if holding it responsible for all his woes. “I got the run-around,” he admitted finally. “‘Bliss,’ they said, ‘Never heard of him, wrong department — try F Division’ … ‘Sorry — give Training a call’ … ‘Can’t help, have you tried Admin?’ … ‘What’s his collar number?’ … ‘How the fuck should I know?’ I said. … ‘Can’t help you then.’ … ‘Just how many blokes have you got called David Bliss?’ I asked, and d’ye know what the cheeky sod said? ‘Sorry, Sergeant. That’s classified,’ as if I were some nosey civvy.”

D.C. Dowding’s forehead creased into a puzzled frown, “I smell a rat.”

“A mole more likely,” replied Patterson

“Undercover,” whistled Dowding. “Police Complaints Authority?”

“They haven’t got the brains to do that.”

“MI5 or MI6 then.”

“Military Intelligence — now there’s an oxymoron for you — but why? What have you been up to, Dowding?”

“Nothing, Serg. So, who is he? What’s he after?”

Patterson shook his head. “I knew something was up when he said I shouldn’t give his name to the papers — assuming that is his name … Like I said before, know thine enemy, lad.”

“Are you sure he is the enemy?”

“All senior officers are, lad — particularly ones that parachute in out of the blue.”

“Right, Pat,” said Bliss poking his head into the C.I.D. office on his return. “Let’s take a look at the house.”

“Did you get anything out of Dauntsey?” asked Patterson, stalling while he tried to think of some excuse not to escort him.

“Not much,” called Bliss, already retreating into the corridor.

The Dauntsey house radiated an air of neglect that had spread beyond its boundaries, even infecting the twisting lane that took them off the main road. Patterson had failed in his attempt to find a plausible excuse and they bumped their way toward the entrance gate as water-filled ruts snatched at the steering wheel under Bliss’s hands, flinging globs of liquid mud high into the hawthorn hedgerows either side.

A stockade of tall poplars and old oaks surrounded the garden, though a number had been pushed over in past storms and lay, still attached to roots, like guardsmen fainting on a parade ground. A couple of sandstone lions guarding the gates had succumbed to decades of damp and frost and their fierce features had softened like butter on a warm Sunday.

“Is this the right place?” enquired Bliss, fruitlessly searching the brick gate-pillars for a nameplate, correctly guessing that, like the Colonel, the house had no need of a name amongst the locals.

“Yup,” nodded Patterson, and Bliss pulled up just inside the gates to survey the sad looking building.

“Bit of a mess,” he said, summing up the peeled paintwork, spalled brickwork, dislodged slates and overgrown vegetation.

Patterson declined comment as he went off on foot in search of the constable who was supposedly guarding the property, leaving Bliss to insert the heavy iron key in the ancient lock and let himself into the entrance hall.

A treacly layer of combed brown varnish had stuck tenaciously to the woodwork since the 1930s and, as far as Bliss could tell, was the only thing keeping the place glued together. Weakened joists had sagged under the stress of age and screeched in pain as he tiptoed across the desolate hallway in search of the main rooms. Realising he was treading softly, he paused, and stood silently in the middle of the vacuous hall trying to pick up vibes, attempting to assimilate something, anything, from the house’s aura. But, with a slight shiver, he concluded that any warm memories of happier times had dissipated, leaving a physical coldness.

“What warm memories?” he laughed to himself as he moved forward into the house, recalling the few minutes he had just spent with Jonathon Dauntsey in the cell.

Dauntsey’s appearance had degenerated. Two days of stubble darkened his chin and the paper boiler suit had picked up the grubbiness of his cell. Nevertheless, Bliss still found himself ill at ease dealing with the man. It was, he reasoned, a bit like finding your accountant has taken a Saturday job clearing tables at McDonald’s. What on earth would you say? How much should you tip?

“We’d better get you some proper clothes,” started Bliss in a genuinely concerned tone, waving Dauntsey back onto the bare wooden bench.

“Are you trying to soften me up?”

“What?”

“You know the routine, Inspector, surely — good cop, bad cop.”

“You didn’t tell me your father was disabled,” he began, ignoring the jibe.

“Didn’t I?” replied Dauntsey. “I suppose I was always somewhat ashamed of the fact.”

“Ashamed?”

Jonathon Dauntsey buried his face in his hands as if shutting out disturbing memories, then he slowly spread his hands like drawn curtains and revealed a face which was shadowed in pain. “My father couldn’t speak,” he explained. “Not real words — animalistic grunts mainly. Mother seemed to understand him quite well, but it was more a question of mental telepathy and familiarity — like knowing when your dog wants to go for a walk or the cat’s thinking of spewing on the carpet.”