James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Dauntsey cleared his throat affectedly, dropped his head deferentially and spoke in a soft clear tone, “I’m certain that you will make the right decision, Ma’am — I am in your hands.”

In your bed as well, thought Donaldson, if the gooey-eyed look on his face meant anything.

“Are you not applying for bail, Mr. Dauntsey?” she continued with an encouraging mien and a clear implication that he should.

Superintendent Donaldson leaned into the crown prosecutor and whispered. “What the hell is she playing at?”

The rotund little prosecutor barrelled to his feet and coughed loudly. “I feel I should remind your worship that this is a murder case, Ma’am.”

Her face hardened back to steel as she swung on him. “And you don’t have a body, do you?”

“No, Ma’am.”

The hearing had gone downhill from then on. A court solicitor had been appointed, bail applied for and, despite vociferous objections by the crown prosecutor whose bald head had turned apoplectic purple, it had been granted.

Detective Sergeant Patterson and his superintendent had hit the town centre at afternoon rush hour en-route back to the police station and Donaldson had pulled some papers from his briefcase to occupy himself, but Patterson was incensed by what had occurred and had whinged angrily about the magistrate from the moment they left the court. “It really pissed me off when she asked if he had any complaints about the way we’d treated him,” he moaned angrily. “What did she think — that we’d used thumbscrews?”

“Probably,” mumbled the superintendent without consideration.

“Did you hear her sweet-talking him?” continued Patterson, then he mimicked the old woman’s crackly voice. “‘Now then, Mr. Dauntsey. Are you going to tell the police what happened to your father’s body?’ And what did he say in that smarmy voice of his? ‘I feel it would be best if he is allowed to remain at peace.’ Huh! It’s enough to make you chuck-up.”

Donaldson was trying to concentrate on his work and his tone had a tinge of annoyance. “Just don’t chuck up in the car, Sergeant.”

Patterson wasn’t listening, his mind was still back in the court. “It got me the way she says, ‘In view of the fact that he won’t tell me, I see no reason why he should tell you.’ I do — If I had my way I’d put me boot in his bollocks — that’d make him squeal.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, Sergeant, but it’s purely academic. We still haven’t found the body and he’s been granted bail. Now … if you don’t mind …”

But Patterson was boiling and couldn’t resist grumbling. “I thought she was gonna give him twenty quid out of the poor box.”

Donaldson’s look of annoyance eventually shut him up but half a minute later a defective traffic light gave the sergeant time, and an excuse, to start talking again. “Bloody light’s broke,” he moaned, then abruptly changed the subject. “Mr. Bliss is gonna be pretty upset when he gets back.”

Donaldson ignored him. The silence sat heavily for a few seconds, then Patterson tried prodding, “He’s gone to London — It must have been something important.”

“’S’pect so.”

“He seems like a good man — our new D.I.”

“Uh — huh,” nodded Donaldson his head still buried in paperwork.

“I expect he’ll find it quiet here after the Met.”

“Probably.”

“I mean … It’s not always this busy. We don’t get a murder everyday.”

“Thank God.”

“So, was he actually at Scotland Yard? — our D.I. Bliss.”

“Guess so.”

“I jus’ wondered, ’cos I was talking to someone at the Yard yesterday and they didn’t know him.”

“It’s a big place.”

“Yeah — but you’d think they’d … ”

Donaldson looked up and protested. “Sergeant … Are you trying to drive this car or drive me round the bend?”

“Drive the car, Sir.”

“Well shut up and drive then.”

“Sorry, Sir.”

Bliss was still driving; still trying to get a look at the Volvo’s number plate and the face of the driver; still trying to remember the face beneath the mask.

It was the bank’s under-manager who had eventually steeled himself to unmask the robber, although it wasn’t concern for the lifeless man’s well-being that had overcome his reticence. The manager was at lunch and he had been left in charge. Having one dead body in the foyer was going to be difficult enough to explain, he didn’t want two, if he could avoid it.

Bliss, engrossed in his attempts to revive Mandy Richards, hardly noticed as Margaret Thatcher’s face was peeled away revealing an unconscious thug with blood oozing from his mouth, nose and scalp.

“Oh my God!” breathed the under-manager assuming the worst, but, freed of the mask, the robber soon began to stir.

“Tie him up,” shouted Bliss, but the youthful executive shook his head.

“He isn’t going anywhere — only the hospital.”

In the aftermath of the botched robbery Bliss had found himself caught up in a controversy and knew his colleagues were weighing up the odds between him receiving a commissioner’s commendation for bravery, a charge of attempting to murder the bank robber or the station “Tosspot” award for stupidity.

“You’ll get something for this,” everyone agreed, and in his own mind he wouldn’t have felt maligned if he’d been convicted of attempted murder, or, at a minimum, an offence of causing Mandy’s death by reckless over-enthusiasm.

The commissioner’s commendation won the day, but he had quickly squirrelled the vellum certificate into a rarely visited drawer.

With his mind agitated by the disturbing memories, Bliss had been letting the car drive itself and was horrified to find his speed had crept to more than a hundred miles an hour. Easing his foot off the accelerator he realised that subconsciously he had been trying to outpace the Volvo. And, once he’d slowed, he did his best to remember the bandit’s face and found himself replaying the trial in his mind. What had he claimed in his defence? “I never meant to hurt no-one. It were the copper’s fault. If he hadn’t shouted about having a gun I would never have shot.”

His assertion hadn’t saved him. “You have been found guilty of murder in the first degree,” the judge had said sagely, adding, “Life imprisonment is the only punishment which I am permitted by law to impose.” And, despite the seriousness of his words, he obviously took great satisfaction saying it.

Following the verdict Bliss had turned to the public gallery in time to see a light of triumph flash across Mrs. Richards’ face, then she crumpled under an emotional millstone and burst into tears, overcome by relief that she had finally laid her daughter to rest. But the drama wasn’t over. The prisoner’s dock erupted in violence as a couple of burly guards moved in on the convict.

“It’s that fuckin’ copper what should go down. Him and is big mouth,” he yelled as the jailers tried to take him from the dock. “He’s the one who should go down, not me. I’m innocent,” he screamed as he flailed his fists at the men. “I wouldn’t shoot no woman. What sort of scum do you think I am?”

The three bodies sank briefly beneath the dock’s parapet as the guards smothered the enraged prisoner, before dragging him to his feet, with his arms painfully up his back, as the judge added fourteen days loss of privileges to his sentence.

“Take him away,” ordered the judge and the prisoner shot Bliss a venomous look that penetrated his skull with a viciousness that hurt.

“I’ll get you for this … pig,” he screamed, then he screamed again as one of his elbows dislocated.

“Forget it,” everyone said afterwards, but the impact of the killer’s words had eaten away at Bliss for weeks. Forget what? That he’d been accused of murder or forget that he had caused Mandy’s death. He was innocent, everybody said so. But innocent of what? Innocent of crime. But what about impulsive behaviour and misjudgement — was he innocent of that.