James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“But he was still your father …”

“Father,” Dauntsey echoed in a far-away tone. “He was never really a father. He was …” he paused, scouring the bare cell as if seeking somewhere to hide. “Never mind,” he said eventually and veered off on another tack. “They said he was a hero but you’d think he lost us the bloody war the way the locals treated him. No-one ever came to the house, only the postman and delivery boys. I’d sometimes catch them trying to peep in the windows like we were a freak show. I’d throw pebbles at them as they went down the driveway and make howling noises to scare them off — just revenge.”

“You still haven’t told me what you thought of your father.”

Dauntsey gave him a hard stare. “He was always very angry.”

“Wouldn’t you be if someone had blown half of you away?”

Dauntsey buried his face again.

“You made the reservations at the Black Horse,” said Bliss eventually, realising that Dauntsey had clammed up.

“Did I?”

“That’s what the landlady says.”

“I must have done then.”

“You’re playing games again. Yes or no, Jonathon?”

“Alright. Yes. I made the reservation — so what?”

Bliss bristled at the other man’s smug arrogance and swung on him viciously. “Come on, Jonathon, stop pissing us about. This isn’t a game of hide and seek. Where’s the body? Where is your father?”

“What are we, the bad cop now?”

Forget the decent clothes, thought Bliss, annoyed with himself for allowing Dauntsey to get under his skin. “If that’s the way you want to play it,” he said, then pulled the mangled mounted soldier out of his pocket. “Do you know anything about this?”

Dauntsey hardly glanced at it. “Inspector, there are times when the dead are best left buried. Digging up old skeletons only causes trouble.”

“Trouble or not. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

Jonathon rounded on him. “Well, go and dig up somebody else’s if you don’t mind.”

He’d had enough. “Are you going to tell us where your father’s body is?” he said, his face an inch from the other man’s.

“You really don’t need to know, Inspector. I am fully conversant with the law and I can assure you that the absence of a body does not preclude the successful prosecution of a murderer — go right ahead, charge me.”

Bliss was unprepared for the extent of desolation as he moved through the house. It was much less opulent than he had expected, certainly less than Daphne had led him to believe. Less grand, less stately, less imposing, almost as if it had shrunk with age. He had assumed that Dauntsey may have sold off some of the best pieces, but rectangular splodges of lightness hung on the walls and patterned the floors, poignantly marking the total absence of pictures and furniture. It was, he decided, not unlike visiting a neglected maiden aunt for the first time in years only to discover she’s lost everything — her mind, her looks, her deportment, even her teeth — and has become just a frazzled shell.

Leaning against the fireplace in the main room he ran his fingers meditatively along the ornately carved mantel, viewed the moulded ceilings and panelled walls, and wondered if they retained memories of the more affluent times in which they had been created. Then he circumnavigated the room, tapping the mahogany panelling, speculating on the possibility of hidden doorways or concealed priest’s holes where a body might lurk.

Only the huge old-fashioned kitchen displayed evidence of occupation, where a couple of armchairs, a small television and a nest of tables had been drawn up to the black range and a few other pieces of furniture lined the walls.

Returning to the entrance-hall, Bliss took the grand staircase, marvelling at the turned spindles of the balustrade and the width of the oak rail, but, as he reached the upper landing, he paused warily and checked back down the stairs. “Nothing there,” he said to himself, but couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched or followed.

A corridor stretched before him leading to the rear bedrooms and he strode purposefully forward. Reverberations of his footfalls echoed along the empty corridor and he paused mid-step, listening hard, almost expecting the echoing footsteps to continue, but they stopped. In that moment of deathly silence he felt more afraid than if they had continued and a mysterious energy oppressed him, urging him to get out.

Pulling himself together, he rounded a corner and walked slap-bang into a shadowy grey figure striding soundlessly toward him — a tall, erect man with fuzzy features, not six feet away. Immobilised by the rising panic, he felt his body tensing, ready to run, but the ghostly figure had also shuddered to a stop and now hovered a foot or so off the floor. Bliss feinted to his right as if making to slip past the spectre but the figure seemingly anticipated his move and went with him. Nanoseconds stretched into hours as his mind threatened to explode under the pressure of trying to fathom the unfathomable, then the clogs clicked into place. “It’s only a dusty mirror,” he breathed with utter relief, but the blood was still coursing through his temples with the beat of a drum.

Drained of energy, he supported himself against a doorframe, asking: What did you expect? What did you think it was — a ghost? No — not a ghost — a ghostly figure from the past. A man in a Maggie Thatcher mask with a sawn off shotgun — Mandy Richards’ killer. Frowning at his timidity he forced himself forward, telling himself that it was time to move on. You can’t do this. You can’t go through life frightened of every corner, every blind alleyway, every door that creaks open.

“Guv!”

He leapt in alarm at the shout.

“Guv. Are you there?” Patterson’s voice rang out again and he quickly headed back to the landing, steadied himself on the railing and replied in a cracked voice. “Up here.”

“We’ve got a visitor.”

Patterson was at the bottom of the staircase with a gnome-like figure — an ancient man with florid cheeks and a matching jacket, doubled over a knurl-headed walking stick. “What’ye after?” puffed the self-appointed guardian.

“We’re police,” explained Bliss, slipping quickly down the stairs.

The old man scrutinised them warily, twisting his bent head from side to side to bring them into view. “How da I know you ain’t a couple of burglars?”

Bliss got his hand halfway to his pocket before realising he still hadn’t picked up his warrant from headquarters. “Show him your warrant card, Sergeant,” he said to Patterson and caught the look of alarm on Patterson’s face that suggested an explanation was called for. “I’m still waiting for the photos,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth then turned to the old man. “You don’t know about the Major then?”

The old man took a few wheezy breaths, winding himself up for a lengthy reply, then blew out his cheeks. “I live over at Mile-bottom and I ain’t been out fer a day or so — me arfrightuous been playing up wiv the damp.”

“So what brings you here today?”

Arnie, as he introduced himself was, according to him, something of a family retainer. An unofficial arrangement that had existed since the death of his father who’d held a more formal position as gardener and general factotum to Colonel Dauntsey. “Me father did everything ’round here,” he explained as they left the house and stood under the cast iron front porch. “Now look at the bleedin’ mess,” he complained, scanning the surroundings and aiming his walking stick at fallen tree after fallen tree as if it were gun. “That lot came down ten years ago in the ’urricane.” He shook his head mournfully. “What a bleedin mess — Me old man planted ’em for the Colonel. The whole place ’as gone to rack an’ ruin,” he concluded, demonstrating his contempt by forcing a few harsh coughs, then he doubled over as a genuine coughing fit took hold.