James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“Bar fight?”

“No — it was upstairs.” He paused, looked up and explained. “They let out a few rooms — bed and breakfast. Damn good breakfast it is too; you should give it a try — Bacon, sausage, mash …”

Bliss coughed pointedly. Donaldson caught his look of impatience and returned to the file, “At least twenty witnesses in the bar heard the commotion. Mind you, another twenty or so claimed to have been in the bog at the time — you know the deal — ‘Sorry, Guv — didn’t see nor ’ear nuvving.’ Four people came forward claiming they saw a body being dumped in the back of a pick-up truck behind the pub, then driven off like a bat out of hell. There were obvious signs of a struggle in the room: broken ornaments; smashed glasses; blood all over the shop; duvet missing off the bed.” He looked up again, “Used it to wrap the body we suspect. Bloody fingerprints on the door handle and more on the banister rail down the backstairs. We’ve recovered the weapon — steak knife, absolutely plastered in blood and dabs. The landlady identified it as one taken up to the room earlier.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“Not a suspect, Detective Inspector,” he said, rising in confidence, “we have the murderer. He’s made a full confession, on tape, properly cautioned. In fact the tape’s being transcribed right now. He is one: Jonathan Montgomery Dauntsey, 55 years, of this parish.”

“And the victim?”

“Believe it or not he stabbed his own father … sad that.” He paused and waited while his face took on a sad mien. “Tragic … It turns your stomach a bit to think someone’s own kid could do that.”

“It’s quite common actually.”

The superintendent brightened. “Oh I know — anyway it keeps the clear-up rate healthy. Where would we be without domestics, eh? We used to call ’em Birmingham murders you know.”

Bliss nodded, he knew, but the superintendent carried on anyway, “We used to reckon that the only murders the Birmingham City boys ever solved were domestics.”

“I know, Sir — but it’s a bit different today.”

“Oh yes, Dave — political correctness and all that. Gotta be careful we don’t upset anyone, eh,” he continued, his expression giving the impression that political correctness was fine — in its place. “Anyway,” he carried on cheerily, “Welcome to the division — and welcome to Hampshire. I’m pretty bushed after last night’s shenanigans so I’ve arranged for one of your sergeants to show you the ropes while I get a few hours kip this morning. Everything’s taken care of with the murder — just a few loose ends …”

“Loose ends?”

Superintendent Donaldson hesitated, deciding whether any of the loose ends were worthy of mention, even rifling through the slim folder as if hoping to find a missing clue. “Well, we haven’t found the body yet,” he finally admitted. “But,” he pushed on quickly, “that’s just a formality. It was a bit of a fiasco last night to be honest. Coppers rushing around in the dark bumping into each other, falling into ditches, that sort of thing.”

“You know where the body is though?”

He nodded tiredly and gave the Newton’s balls a gentle workout. “The general area — I’ll introduce you to your staff and they’ll fill you in. The deceased was a pongo by the way, at least he had been during the war, a Major Rupert Dauntsey. One of those who insisted on keeping his title after the war,” he continued, disapproval evident in his tone. “You know the type: pompous stuffed shirt, wouldn’t make a brothel bouncer in real life. Shove a swagger stick in his hand and poke a broomstick up his ass and bingo, an ex-C.O. with a snotty accent and a supercilious way of bossing the locals around and weaselling his way onto every committee going: golf club; church restoration; anti-this; anti-that; pro-this; pro-that.”

Bliss caught the drift, “Not one of your favourite …”

“Never met him,” cut in the superintendent shaking his head. “Although I probably bumped into him at the Golf Club Ladies Night or Rotary Dinner … I just know the type.” Then he spat, “Army,” as if it were a four letter word, pulled himself upright in the chair and punched a few numbers on the intercom. “I’ll get D.S. Patterson to brief you properly,” he said, studying the ceiling, listening to the distant buzz of the intercom, awaiting a response. “Sorry to throw you in at the deep end like this, but I’m sure you won’t find it heavy going.”

Ex-Royal Navy, thought Bliss, recognising the older officer’s vernacular and diction and found confirmation on one wall where a serious-faced young naval officer peered out of a row of rectangular portholes against a background of ships, dockyards and exotic landmarks.

No-one answered the intercom. “Might as well take you below decks — show you your office on the way,” he said, coming out from behind his desk. Then he paused with his hand on the brass doorknob and turned, his face taut with seriousness. “Dave, it’s only fair I put you in the picture … I know why you’ve been sent here. The chief has filled me in.” He caught the look of alarm on Bliss’s face, put on a reassuring smile and added quickly, “Don’t worry. No-one else knows and it’s entirely up to you what you tell them. But a word of warning — the other ranks will be watching to see how you perform. Keep an eye on them. There’s one or two not above putting a spanner in the works just to see how you handle yourself.”

“I understand, Sir,” replied Bliss, immediately knowing that the local detectives would undoubtedly find sport in trying to put one over on a new boss — especially an outsider, particularly one from London. “And I would really appreciate it if no-one else is told,” he added.

“You have my word, son. Your secret’s safe with me — just keep your head down for a while.”

“I intend to.”

Introductions were brief, the C.I.D. office had suffered a similar fate to the enquiry office. The previous evening’s shift had worked all night and gone home. The early shift had already taken their place, donned rubber boots and were forming search teams and fanning out into surrounding areas of woodland and wasteland. Only Detective Sergeant Patterson remained. He had been on duty for fifteen hours and it showed in his dreary eyes and slept-in appearance.

“How’s our murderer this morning, Pat?” said the superintendent, waving Patterson back into his chair as he languidly signalled his intention of rising.

“Sleeping like a bloody baby actually, Sir. It’s alright for him — some of us have been at it all night, tramping through the bloody woods — look at the state of my ruddy trousers … it’s not s’posed to be a mudbath in the middle of June.”

“No joy with the body, I guess …”

“Not yet — but we’ve got half a dozen more dog-handlers coming over from H.Q. They’ll soon sniff it out; he couldn’t have taken it far.”

“It,” thought Bliss, rolling the monosyllable round in his mind. “It” — the Major would have been a “Sir” yesterday, a man with a lifetime of knowledge and experience, a commissioned officer no less — a man of substance. One ill-tempered jab with a steak knife, and now he’s just an “It.”

Leaving Bliss cogitating on the frailty of human existence and the D.S. worrying about his trousers, Donaldson excused himself. “Call me at home as soon as the body turns up,” he added on his way out.

Bliss slipped into a convenient chair. “The Super tells me that apart from finding the body everything else is sewn up.”

Sergeant Patterson’s face screwed in mock pain, exposing prominent gums and yellowed teeth. “Actually, Guv, the scenes of crime boys have been on the blower — there’s been a bit of a fuck-up at the pub I’m afraid. Everyone was so excited running round after matey last night that no-one thought to tell the landlady to keep her hands off the crime scene. Apparently she’s cleaned and disinfected the whole place. Scrubbed the backstairs — ‘Not having people tramping blood in and out of the bar,’ she told the forensic guys. As if anyone’d notice.”