James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Bliss, realising that civility was unlikely to get the answer he required, briefly considered switching to something more assertive, even aggressive — “Look here you little … ” — but found his confidence draining in the face of a man with whom he’d prefer to be playing golf. He was still thinking about it when Dauntsey rose and waved him toward the door. “Now if that’s everything, Inspector — I’m sure you have many things to do.”

Dismissed! By a prisoner. “Now look here,” he began forcefully, then he let it go. “I’m just on my way to inform your mother. Do you wish me to tell her anything on your behalf?”

“There’s no need to distress my mother, Inspector. She’s sick enough without having to worry about all this.”

“Are you crazy? Are you asking me not to tell your mother that her husband’s dead, and her son did it?”

“All I’m saying is, she is so terribly ill that she might not understand that it was for the best; that it was just something I had to do.”

“You had to kill him?”

“Yes — Like I said in my statement, it was for the best all round. I’m sure you understand.”

“Is that your defence?”

“I don’t have a defence, Inspector — I don’t need a defence. Ultimately, there is only one judge to whom I have to answer; he will understand I am sure.”

“That may be so, but in the meantime you’ll have to explain yourself to twelve befuddled jurors and a cynical old judge, and they’ll take more convincing than you saying that it was something you just had to do.”

“Inspector. Have you ever read The Iliad ?”

Bliss paused to allow the spectre of deep thought to pass over his face then answered, “Not as far as I recall. No.”

“You wouldn’t understand then,” said Dauntsey turning away, leaving Bliss feeling somehow diminished. It’s not my fault, he wanted to explain, Homer wasn’t exactly flavour of the month at West Wandsworth Comprehensive School.

“Try me,” he said, unwilling to let Dauntsey think he was in control.

Dauntsey took in a slow breath. “Then the father held out the golden scales,” he began, speaking softly to the wall, “and in them he placed two fates of dread death.”

The silence held for a full minute before Bliss could stand the tension no longer. “Sorry — I don’t know …”

Dauntsey spun round accusingly. “I said you wouldn’t understand.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“Sometimes, however unpleasant it may seem, we are each confronted by impossible choices and, when that happens, all we can do is let fate take a hand in the outcome.”

“And you’re saying that the circumstances were so compelling you had no alternative.”

He nodded, “I believe the Americans call it being caught between a rock and hard place, Inspector.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“I think I’ve said enough — good morning, Inspector, and thank you for your understanding.”

“He’s round the twist.” Bliss’s voice echoed along the cell passage to Sergeant Patterson as he slammed the cell door behind him.

“Careful, Guv. Don’t give him a defence. He might get some high priced trick cyclist to declare him non compos mentis .”

“Yeah, and six months later pronounce him cured. Then he’d be out of the nuthouse and walking the streets the same as you and I.”

The sergeant nodded. “Apart from the fact he’d have a piece of paper declaring him sane — whereas you and I …”

They had reached the main cell block door. Patterson rattled the thick iron bars to catch the jailor’s attention and, as they waited, Bliss put two and two together and came up with four and half. “I’m sure we’re missing something important here, Pat,” he began, a fog of ideas swirling in his brain but failing to coalesce into anything tangible or sensible. “Dauntsey’s far too intelligent …” he paused and thought about his choice of words. “No, it’s more than intelligence: He’s too cunning to get caught like this. I mean, it’s pathetically incompetent to slit his old man’s throat in a public place with half the town listening.”

“It happened on the spur of the moment. No-one’s suggesting it was premeditated — just a sudden argument.”

“But what about the body, Pat? Just imagine if you were to kill me right now — no pre-planning, heat of the moment argument. What would you do with the body to ensure no-one found it?”

The sergeant put on his thinking face. “Concrete overcoat,” he suggested after a moment’s pause.

Bliss lit up. “Office block — new bridge, that sort of thing.”

Patterson nodded, though with little enthusiasm. “There’s plenty of buildings going up around here. But aren’t we forgetting something, Guv?”

“What?”

“Yesterday was Sunday, and it was pissing with rain. Who’s gonna be pouring wet concrete?”

Bliss got the message but was stuck on concrete. “What about cement boots — then dump him in the river.”

Patterson was already shaking his head. “The river ain’t deep enough, plus the fact that’d have to be preplanned. Where would he get a load of quick drying cement at half past nine on a Sunday night?”

“Wait a minute, Pat. You were the one who said it wasn’t premeditated. I’m still not convinced. I think he carefully plotted the whole thing. Like I said, he’s cunning.”

“What about all the witnesses in the pub then; who’s gonna be daft enough …?” He left the hypothesis unfinished, unwilling to waste his breath.

“Could be part of the plan,” mused Bliss, grateful that the arrival of the jailor saved him from having to explain his reasoning.

“Don’t worry, Guv. We’ll soon find the body, once the dog teams get going.”

“I’d like to agree with you, but I’m beginning to think that my money might be safer on Dauntsey.”

They wandered abstractly back to the CID office, both hoping to arrive at some earth-shattering explanation that would spectacularly solve the case of the Major’s missing body. Neither succeeded.

“I still don’t understand what they were doing at the pub,” Bliss said, throwing himself into a comfortable-looking moquette chair. “Did Dauntsey give a reason in his confession?”

Patterson raised his eyebrows at the chair. “That’s an exhibit, Guv,” he said apologetically.

“It should be in the property store then,” Bliss said, rising, giving the chair an accusatory stare.

“Sorry, Guv — I’ll get Dowding to deal with it. Anyway, Jonathon Dauntsey said he was visiting his father who had taken a room at the Black Horse.”

“Why? He had a perfectly good house up the road.”

“I assumed it had something to do with his mother being in the nursing home.”

“You can’t afford to assume anything in this game. You know that, Pat. Anyway, all is not lost; I’ll ask his mother. Easier still — Get someone at the pub to ask the landlady if she knows.”

Patterson picked up the phone and was listening to the br-r-ring as Bliss paced meditatively, throwing out his thoughts at random. “Doesn’t make sense … What’s the motive? … Why were they there?”

Someone at the pub answered the phone. “Let’s find out, shall we?” said Patterson asking to speak to one of the detectives.

The officer was back on the phone in less than a minute. “According to the landlady, the Major didn’t live down here — he ran the estate up in Scotland, and Jonathon Dauntsey told them his father preferred to stay at the pub because there was no-one at the big house to cook and clean — what with his wife being in the nursing home ’n all.”

“One mystery cleared up, Inspector,” said the sergeant replacing the receiver, relieved that the mystery had not been of his making.