James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“You make a very credible argument, Miss Lovelace,” he said as if he were an adjudicator, “and you sound as though you quite enjoyed the war.”

“I can’t deny it was exciting.”

“Surely the constant fear of being wounded or dying takes the gloss off it.”

“Haven’t you heard, Dave — it’s only the other chap who gets killed.”

“And what about those who survive?”.

She toyed with the olives, segregating the green from black and keeping those stuffed with pimento to one side. Finally, satisfied with her handiwork, she sat back and took a couple of sips of Pastis. “Survival is a question of relativity,” she said eventually, without taking her eyes off the olives. “I suppose that in one way or another no-one survives war, but then again, no-one survives life either.”

“But there are winners and losers in life, even if the end result is the same. Surely everyone loses in war.”

Popping a stuffed olive into her mouth she chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds before replying. “I suppose the really lucky ones were those who were wounded enough to be shipped home a hero, then recovered quickly and took advantage of the sympathy before the rest got back.”

“Would Major Dauntsey have been in that category?”

“I doubt it.”

“I know the rumour about how he got his regiment wiped out by the way,” he said as if he’d discovered some monumental secret. “Making his men tidy up the battlefield before they retreated.”

“Who told you?”

He thought about teasing her then changed his mind. “Someone called Arnie.”

“Agh,” she spluttered. “Dear old Arnie. Trust him.”

“Was he right? Is that what happened?”

“So they say, Chief Inspector,” she said non-committally, then tried to change the subject. “Talking of wounds …”

“Dave!”

“Alright. Have it your own way … Dave. How is the W.P.C.? The one who was hurt this morning?”

Bliss had visited the young woman in hospital, still irrationally feeling that the explosion could have been attributed to his adversary.

“Detective Inspector Bliss,” he introduced himself, “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, Sir,” she replied and struggled higher in the bed.

“Don’t get up,” he said kindly. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The ward sister sidled up to him. “Miss Jackson will be fine, Inspector.”

“Oh good. I’m pleased to hear that.”

“Mainly bruises and a few cuts,” continued the motherly figure, reaching in front of him and pulling back the sheet to expose the policewoman’s naked torso. “See.”

Later, he tried to decide who had blushed the most, him or the W.P.C., as the sister’s finger pointed with great precision to each of the tiny cuts the young woman had received from flying glass. “Look at this one,” she said as if Bliss were an intern. “Missed her nipple by a whisker.” Bliss looked, and the policewoman’s nipple stood stiffly to attention under his gaze.

Gallantly, he tried to look away but the sister wasn’t finished and she tenderly lifted the other breast saying, “The cut under here will be painful for a while — see.” He looked at the red welt under the fold of the breast and was flung back in time again — to the bank and Mandy Richards. To her dismembered breast.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said curtly, grabbing the sheet and tenderly covering the policewoman as he mumbled, “Sorry, Miss.”

“She’s fine,” he replied to Daphne. “They released her this afternoon. She’ll be back on duty in a few days.” But he couldn’t help thinking that, from now on, there would be an awkward moment every time they passed in a corridor or met in the mess room.

The head waiter was back for their order. Daphne said she would take a chance on the Escargot and, as she had already set her mind on lamb, would go for the cutlets campagnarde. Bliss was still undecided and was interrogating the waiter on the composition of Les Crudites when a bellboy interrupted.

“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Bliss, Sir?”

“Yes,” he answered warily.

“There’s a phone call for you, Sir, in the lobby.”

He started to rise automatically then froze. No-one knows I’m here, he said to himself and quizzed Daphne. “Did you tell anyone we were coming here tonight?”

She turned it into a joke, replying huffily. “Chief Inspector — I have my reputation to think of.”

“I thought so,” he said, sitting slowly, his mind in turmoil.

“They said it was urgent, Sir,” chimed in the bellboy, waiting impatiently to guide Bliss to the phone, and collect a tip.

Bliss didn’t budge. He was being jerked around by a demonic puppeteer from the past. Every time a phone rang it jangled his nerves — was it the killer: threatening; vowing; abusing; or was it a sad-sounding administrator from a hospital … “Mr. Bliss? … It’s your daughter … shot; stabbed; slashed.” Every hand that knocked on his door held a Smith amp; Wesson or a stiletto. Every letter or package was a bundle of death or disfigurement. And, if he didn’t pick up the phone or answer the door, and if he didn’t open the mail — the killer had won.

“Who is it?” he asked the bellboy with a crack in his voice. “Did they say?”

“They didn’t say, Sir. Just that it was urgent.”

Three pairs of eyes were on him, urging him to go and take the call.

“You don’t understand,” he wanted to scream. “There’s a madman with a gun or a knife just waiting for me to walk out into the lobby. No-one knew I was coming here tonight — it has to be him.”

“Chief Inspector — Dave,” said Daphne laying a hand on his arm. “Are you having a funny turn again?”

Bliss gave himself a shake. “Sorry — Yes,” then he pulled a note out of his wallet and offered it to the boy. “Find out who wants me will you — tell them I’ll call back.”

“Sure — I mean, of course, Sir.”

“That was ten pounds, Dave,” said Daphne with a note of surprise as the boy took off. He hadn’t noticed and didn’t care. He suddenly had a new and more serious worry. What if the killer had rigged the phone? What if he’d crammed a walnut-sized lump of plastic explosive and a high frequency trigger into the handset?

“Mr. Bliss?” the muffled voice on the other end would have asked.

“Yes,” he would have replied, pressing the handset tighter to his ear, trying to identify the voice. Then, with an inaudible beep from the other end, “Boom!” The handset would take off his head. But what if the killer doesn’t wait to identify his target? What if the bellboy picks up the phone again and says, “Hello?” Ten quid isn’t a lot to pay someone to be executed.

I’ve got to stop him, thought Bliss, starting to rise in panic, already hearing the “boom” of the blast in his mind, but he was too late. The boy was back. “It was the police station, Sir. They asked if you could you call straight back, it’s very important.”

Bliss slumped back in the chair and blew out a breath in relief, but he could still feel the blood pulsing through his temples. “Thanks, son,” he murmured, pulling out his mobile and calling the station.

Within seconds he was patched through to Patterson at the Dauntsey house. “What is it, Pat?”

“We’ve found the Major, Sir.” Then he paused just long enough to force Bliss’s hand.

“Alive or dead?” enquired Bliss obediently.

“Very dead, Sir.”

The intonation in the sergeant’s voice spoke volumes, leaving Bliss simultaneously confused and annoyed at having to follow up with a supplemental question.

“Sergeant, death is similar to pregnancy in at least one respect, as far as I know — you either are or not. Which applies to the Major?”