James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” said Bliss.

“That’s why I’m a detective, Watson old chap,” replied Patterson, tipping an imaginary deerstalker and sliding out.

Daphne was still vacuuming outside the office and Patterson gave her an inquisitive glance, sorely tempted to pump her for information. “So Daphne, just who was that woman our detective inspector picked up from your house in a taxi on Wednesday?” he could have asked, but what would she have told Bliss?

So, who the hell was the woman? he wondered, as he had been wondering since Wednesday when the taxi driver had blabbed, “She was quite a looker — middle aged but real smart.” Had Bliss moved a mistress into the neighbourhood and lodged her with Daphne? Then a thought struck him and he poked his head back round the door, “By the way, Guv. Have you got your warrant card yet?”

“Yeah — came in the despatch this morning.”

“Oh — good. I’ll get on with that misper search then.”

The phone rang. Bliss had another visitor vis-a-vis the Dauntsey case. A solicitor appropriately named Law, according to the receptionist, and he immediately recalled the words of the sergeant at his first posting. “There’s nothing like a juicy body to bring the rats out of the woodwork,” he had said.

“Law amp; Law,” the solicitor introduced himself with an outstretched hand. “We represent Major Rupert Dauntsey — the deceased. We came as soon as we heard.”

Bliss looked behind the big man, expecting to see his partner in an equally loud herring-bone suit. The corridor was empty. “May I ask, just how did we hear?” he enquired, with more than a trace of mockery, ushering him into the room.

“It’s common knowledge, Inspector — We understand there were quite a number of witnesses. The point is that the Major made a will on inheriting the estate from his father, the Colonel, whom we also represented.”

“As a matter of interest, can I ask when you last saw the Major?”

“We — that is I, personally, never had that pleasure. My father drew up the will and it has remained, unaltered, in our possession since 1946.”

“So who is the beneficiary? Who inherits the estate?”

“Inspector. You know we can’t divulge that, not until death is confirmed. That’s why we came actually, to find out who issued the death certificate, so we can lay our hands on a copy.”

Explaining that the body had yet to be formally identified, and wondering who was going to do it, Bliss assured the other man that he would keep him informed, then asked, “Do you know why his son Jonathon might have wanted him dead?”

Law pulled him closer and bent to his ear. “This is absolutely confidential, off the record. We’ll deny ever saying anything. We’ve no idea — Jonathon Dauntsey doesn’t stand to gain anything at all from the will.”

“That’s interesting,” said Bliss, then he put in a word for the church. “I’m not asking you to betray any confidences but I’ve just had the Vicar of St. Paul’s here. He seems to think he’s going to get a new roof.”

The solicitor was shaking his head. “He might need to invest in an umbrella then — if you get my drift.”

Bliss sloped off at 4 pm. and returned to the Mitre — exhausted. He hadn’t seen a proper bed for two nights and promised himself a nap before meeting Daphne for dinner. The excitement of discovering the body and the attendant work had edged Mandy to the corner of his mind and put her killer back in his box. Even the sight of the boarded up tea shop didn’t disturb him — sleep was all that interested him. He stopped at the reception desk. The smiling Swede had been replaced by a friendly local girl with wavy dark hair.

“Any messages for me?” he asked tiredly, forgetting that she’d never met him.

“Your name, Sir?”

“Sorry. Bliss — 203.”

“Oh yes, Sir. Your hire car has been delivered. Here are your keys and the papers. I told them to leave it in the car park at the back.”

“Thanks,” he took the keys. “Nothing else?”

She checked the pigeon hole. “No — nothing there.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning away.

“Oh — someone was asking about you though.”

The Volvo was back. The killer was out of the box. Keep calm, he said to himself, trying desperately to sound conversational. “When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Don’t be pushy, don’t scare her. Shrug as if it doesn’t matter. “A friend, I expect. Did he leave a name?”

“No. He said he’d catch up with you sometime.”

The veiled threat — he’d done it before, in the letters on the phone. “One day — when you least expect it … I’ll catch up with you.”

Bliss swallowed. “Was he tall?”

“No — very short. Funny little man … sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude …”

“That’s alright,” cut in Bliss, confused. “Old or young?”

“Thirtyish.”

Medium height and forties would have been nearer the mark — but she could have been mistaken. “Do you recall exactly what he said?”

“Well … he said he thought he knew you. Wanted to know if you came from London.”

That’s the clincher. “You didn’t tell him did you?”

“No, Sir, I told him he’d have to leave a note for you — even offered him some paper and a pen, but he wanted to talk to the manager. I went into the office to ask Mr. Robbins but when I got back he’d gone.”

There was something she’d omitted. Bliss saw it in her face. The mental vacillation — to tell or not to tell — making her eyes repeatedly flick away, unable to hold his gaze for more than a blink. The hotel register, the divorce lawyers best friend or deadliest foe, had lain open on the desk as she had readied to invite the visitor to sign in.

“The register was closed when I got back — I was only gone a few seconds …” she began nervously.

“And he could’ve looked …?”

“Possibly.”

Thank God no-one ever checks for phoney addresses, he thought, only vaguely remembering the one he’d made up. But, combined with the Volvo, this was sobering news. “Never mind, Luv. Not your fault. Just let me know if anybody else asks for me or if you see him again would you?”

Bliss made his way to his room, his tiredness overcome by concern. Would the killer ever come into the open and put him out of his misery or would the torment continue ad infinitum unless he were caught and shipped back to jail? You will never escape this, he said to himself poking under the bed, then, in the dusty shadows, he saw the image of a man — a man forever scrabbling under beds, checking behind wardrobes and eyeing the postman with trepidation. This will be with you forever unless you get a new face and a new name. But a new face was out of the question, he’d already ruled that out. A new name was a possibility, although it certainly created problems, especially if he were to remain in the police force. How could he suddenly pop up as Inspector Joe Blow without a background; qualifications; a family; previous addresses; credit cards; driving licence? So many people would need to know that the risks outweighed the advantages.

“Would you mind if we didn’t go back to The Limes?” petitioned Daphne, fearing it to be Andrew’s regular stalking ground. She needn’t have worried. Land’s End wouldn’t have been far enough for Bliss.

“I thought we’d drive over to Marsdon,” he replied, chivalrously opening the hired car’s passenger door and sweeping her in. Her sleek cocktail dress of the previous evening had given way to flouncy printed cotton, its huge tangy-yellow flowers crying out for a picnic on a grassy river bank. A parasol wouldn’t have gone amiss, but she had stuck with the broad-rimmed straw hat, merely switching the crimson ribbon for lemon.