James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“I’m working on the murder over at Westchester,” said Bliss as if to reassure her she wasn’t the only one dealing with gruesome scenes.

“The old Major?”

“The very old Major as it turned out.”

“I heard — been dead for years they say.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can,” she laughed. “But I’ll warn you, the last inspector who said that to me in a parked car ended up with a slapped face.”

“No. It’s nothing like that. I just wanted to know if you’ve ever believed something that you later realised wasn’t true.”

She laughed again, “Like all the slime-bags who’ve put on a soppy voice and said, ‘I love you, Samantha — of course I’ll leave my wife.’”

“That’s an occupational hazard.”

“Of being a W.P.C.?”

“No. Of being a woman.”

“I never thought of my gender as an occupation, Inspector.”

“Please — It’s Dave. At half-past three in the morning nobody can cling to a rank with any dignity … and don’t get huffy. A lot of women make careers out of being useless. ‘I can’t do this … can’t touch that … I’ll be sick …’ They say it in a girlish little voice and all the blokes go running. ‘Oh let me do that for you.’”

“I know the type. We’ve got a few,” she admitted.

“I meant — have you ever been convinced of something so fully, so absolutely, that when it unravels and you see the truth it leaves you totally gob-smacked.”

“I believed in Santa Claus when I was a kid …” she began, but he cut her off.

“That’s not the same — every child believes in Santa Claus, even those who never get anything at Christmas still cling to the belief for as long as they can.”

“But I still believed when I was about ten — my friends called me crazy, but I suppose I didn’t want to believe my parents would lie to me. So — why did you ask?”

“I did something a long time ago that went pear-shaped …”

“Pear-shaped?” she laughed questioningly.

“Yeah. It should have been as round and translucent as a crystal ball, but it got warped out of shape … Anyway, last night an incredible old lady, with more guts than I’ll ever have, made me realise that what I did was the right thing.”

“So you’ve been blaming yourself.”

“That’s very astute of you.”

“And why did you blame yourself?

“I suppose I confused regret with remorse.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes passing telepathic messages — shall I tell you; if you want to; I want to; then tell me; I don’t know if I should.

“Are you going to tell me?” she asked eventually, knowing that he would, that he was only waiting to be asked.

Thinking about it afterwards he realised there were many reasons why he had told her about Mandy’s murder after concealing it from so many others. Cocooned in the dark and comfortable car he’d felt secure; Samantha had a warm persuasive voice and she had filled the car with the clean scent of pure shampoo and honest soap — nothing fancy or expensive. The sort of woman you could trust, he thought.

“I can’t understand why you ever blamed yourself — I think you were very brave,” she said, after he described the imbroglio in the bank.

“It was nothing … ” he began, then quickly switched subjects, conscious he had not told her about Mandy’s pregnancy, nor the fact that he was being stalked by the killer. “What does your husband think of you working nights?”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh,” he said, confused, “I noticed the ring.”

“This?” she said, deftly slipping it off. “Just a curtain ring, it saves having to fight off a bar-full of drunks — they all want to marry me — so they say. ‘I’ll get my husband onto you,’ I tell ’em. It usually works.”

“That’s the trouble with pubs.”

“Actually,” she laughed, “I was talking about the blokes in the police canteen. What about you, Dave — married?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s have a look then,” she said, grabbing his left hand off the wheel and holding it against the faintly luminous dashboard. “Well there’s no ring mark, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“You don’t believe me,” he protested, aware she still had a tender hold on his hand.

“I’ve been shafted by married men too many times,” she said. They both laughed. “I didn’t mean that …” she cried, letting go and giving him the friendliest of nudges.

“I know what you meant. Anyway, believe it or not, I’m not married.”

“Divorced?”

“Correct.”

“And she got pissed off with the screwy hours; the week-ends; nights; bank-holidays …”

“How did you guess?”

“Why d’ye think I’m still single — how many spouses will put up with it?”

“My ex-wife used to tell people she’d been widowed by a murderer — I suppose it wasn’t entirely untrue — Anyway, I got some very funny looks from one or two people. ‘Are you Sarah’s second husband?’ one snooty woman asked, her eyes sort of scrunched in confusion. ‘No, I’m her lover,’ I said, straight-faced. Sarah was furious.”

An hour passed in no time: the wonders of London; the horrors of the country; the horrors of London; the wonders of the country.

“I’d best be going,” Samantha said eventually. “I’d better make sure there’s no frightful sights awaiting the grockles.”

“Grockles?” he questioned.

“Foreigners; out-of-towners; holidaymakers,” she explained. “It’s a local nickname.”

“Like me …” he began, then paused, struck by a thought. “I’ve just realised why you looked so concerned when you couldn’t wake me. You thought I was …”

“Dead,” he was going to say but she was ahead of his thoughts. “Well it happens. I’ve come across a couple of people who’ve swallowed a bottle of tablets and sat in the car waiting for them to start taking effect before braving the water. They doze off and … Anyway,” she said, getting out of the car. “Thank goodness you weren’t dead.”

“Don’t you believe it,” he muttered and was grateful that she didn’t hear as she shut the door. “Goodnight, Samantha,” he called, winding his window down.

“Good morning,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the bright patch above the eastern horizon. And as he looked at her, framed in early dawn light, he found a most pleasing shape.

It wasn’t until she was opening the door of her police car that he managed to get his mind in gear. “Samantha,” he called, with only a second to spare.

She looked back with a smile. “Yes?”

“Would you have dinner with me one night?”

“Maybe — try giving me a call. But I’ll warn you now — I work dreadful hours.”

Watching her drive away he questioned his motives. Just dinner, he said to himself. Don’t get involved with someone in the job — too many problems. She was certainly good looking. Wake up, Dave — most women look good at this time of night. Maybe a quick dip in the sea will cool you off and freshen you up — your trunks and towel are in one of the suitcases in the back.

A chilly blast of ozone laden air shocked him to life as he opened the car door. That’ll do, he thought, quickly slamming it shut and starting the engine, then he had to get out and scurry to a convenient bush for a morning pee.

Detective Sergeant Patterson was already in the office at Westchester police station when Bliss phoned at six-fifteen. “He’s here somewhere,” said the night telephonist. “I saw him come in.” He was there — ferreting through the papers on Bliss’s desk and digging through his drawers.

“I’ve put out a call for him, he’s not in his office,” continued the telephonist, but there’s a message here for you. A reporter from the Westchester Gazette was trying to get hold of you last evening — wants you to call him about the Dauntsey case.”