James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“I think I need an aperitif — something to bolster me up, something with a bit of body,” mused Daphne. “A Dubonnet, I think, with just a twist of lemon to take the edge off the sweetness.”

“A scotch for me, please,” said Bliss.

“Anything with that, Sir — ice perhaps?”

“Neat, thanks.”

“We do something called a Scotch Pine …”

“Just the whiskey — thank you,” he replied, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.

“That’s why he got the D.S.O.,” continued Daphne, her mind still on Major Dauntsey. “They say that even though he was injured and under fire, he still managed to carry one of his wounded men more than three miles toward a first aid station. He wouldn’t let anyone help — said it was his duty.”

“But I understood he could hardly speak.”

“That was after the explosion,” she nodded in agreement. “The man he was carrying literally blew up in his face and ripped off his arm. A grenade they think — on his belt or in his pocket. Either the pin jerked out or a sniper’s bullet hit it. Anyway, the explosion killed the soldier and blew away half the Major.”

The drinks arrived. Bliss slugged his back. “I needed that. So what was Arnie talking about? He said the Major had got them all killed because he made them tidy up instead of retreat.”

“I heard the rumours,” said Daphne, taking a few thoughtful sips. “He was hailed as a hero at first; given the D.S.O. for the way he’d dragged the injured man out under fire. It was only later, when the few survivors got back, that they started telling a different story; that the whole thing was his fault. But you know what the Army’s like. They’d never admit a mistake — especially when committed by a senior commissioned officer.”

“Sounds a bit like the police force,” muttered Bliss.

“Anyway, what were they going to do — court martial a one-eyed man who didn’t have a right hand to hold a bible or a voice to speak the oath?”

“But was Arnie right? Did he make the men clear up the battlefield before retreating?”

“Who knows?” she shrugged. “It’s the maxim of all peons worldwide. If anything goes wrong — blame the boss.”

“So you don’t believe it then?”

“If he did do what Arnie said then he must have had a good reason. Only idiots set out deliberately to do the wrong thing.”

“But wasn’t he an idiot? Arnie seemed to think so.”

“He went to university.”

“Money,” scoffed Bliss.

“And he became a Major,” she added.

“Influence, connections. Don’t forget, his father was a Colonel. What were the recruiters going to say? Anyway, it was wartime — the ability to breathe was high on the list of selection criteria.”

The waiter was back with a wooden bowl overflowing with cheese sticks. Daphne was still undecided, torn between the wood-pigeon pie and the off-cuts of oak-smoked turkey, and asked for a few more minutes.

“So where do you go from here?” she asked Bliss as the waiter headed for another table.

“We’re just spinning our wheels,” he replied, idly nibbling a stick. “We’re checking for missing persons; waiting for blood tests on the duvet; pulling Jonathon’s house to pieces and digging his garden — the other body has to be somewhere, but we’re stumped until it turns up. I’ll have to talk to Doreen again tomorrow. Somebody has to tell her that her husband’s dead.”

“Well, I don’t think it will come as much of a shock.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chief Inspector — if anybody knew where the body was you can be sure it would have been Doreen Dauntsey. Losing your husband isn’t like leaving an umbrella on a bus.”

“I’ve been putting it off until we’ve confirmed his identity.”

“Is there some doubt …?”

“No — not really. It’s just that Jonathon was so adamant.”

“Well, personally, I’ve no doubt it was Rupert from the way you describe the wounds. Most people couldn’t bear to look at him. Of course, he wasn’t what you might call well-known in the town. He went away to one of them pricey prep schools, then onto Marlborough College — I think. And he spent most holidays in Scotland on the estate. And his father, the Colonel, was none too popular — crusty old bastard — thought he was still in the guards the way he’d order the locals about. And he seemed to think the police were his personal retainers from what I’ve heard.”

“No wonder Rupert turned out the way he did.”

“What way?”

Gay; queer; poof; fairy — he ran through the list in his mind searching for the word she had previously used to describe him and was struck by the incongruity of the situation. The woman in front of him was old enough to be his grandmother — at a stretch — yet enveloped in the wrinkled skin and white hair was a young imp. It was in her eyes — the daredevil look that said she would still take on the world, or a frisky con-artist. I bet Andrew’s bollocks still ache from last night, he thought to himself. That’ll teach him.

“What way did Rupert turn out, Chief Inspector?” she persisted.

Had he misinterpreted what she’d said about the Major. “You know …” he began, suspecting she was teasing him, “ … batting for the other side.”

She shrugged it off with a smile. “Like I told you — it was only a rumour, and I’m not sure I believed it myself, especially after he married Doreen.”

“Well, what if I told you I’m beginning to think that the Major wasn’t Jonathon’s father?”

“I could have told you that.”

“You could?”

“Yes, in fact I was going to tell you on Wednesday evening, then you dashed off and left me …” her face soured at the thought of Andrew and she sweetened it with a slurp of Dubonnet. “Anyway, after our chat on Monday evening I got to thinking about what had happened, and one or two things just didn’t make sense …” She paused for a moment’s deliberation, then admitted, “I’ve been a bit naughty, I’m afraid, but when I was polishing the custody officer’s desk I couldn’t help noticing Jonathon’s custody record sort of sticking out of the filing cabinet. Anyway, his date of birth was the 4th of April, 1945.”

Bliss laughed, “Just sort of sticking out was it? Although I must admit I didn’t check his birth date.”

“Well, you had no reason to, but I did a little calculation. I’m pretty sure that Doreen and the Major were married on the 27th of May 1944, it might have been the 26th but I think it was the 27th, Anyway, he went off to his regiment the following day, so, unless she was 10 months pregnant when Jonathon was born, he definitely isn’t a Dauntsey.”

Bliss added up the months in his head and laughed. “You’re absolutely right. Although … what about when he returned …”

Daphne blocked him with a hand. “The baby would already have been born. In any case, according to Doreen, his thingy was one of the bits which had been blown off.”

The thought set Bliss’s teeth on edge. “Ooh, painful … So who is Jonathon’s father?”

“You’d have to ask Doreen — but to be honest there’s a good chance she won’t know. Oh dear, that sounds so bitchy, doesn’t it — the sort of thing one of those Hollywood actresses would say.”

The waiter was hovering for their order and Bliss expressed intrigue in the Dovetail pate as a starter.

“Wood pigeons,” explained the waiter. “Though the chef uses the whole birds not just the tails.”

“Sounds interesting,” he said giving a nod.

“Compote of wood mushrooms for me, please,” said Daphne, adding sotto voce , “I do hope they use bolets du bois and not those tasteless white button things.” Once the waiter had moved off with their order, Daphne continued, “I came across the Major in France. After he was wounded, before he was shipped home.”