James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“Tell him to go through the press office.”

“I did, Sir, but he was quite insistent that he wanted to speak to you personally.”

“Did he have my name?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry, Sir — did you say something?”

“No, I sneezed. Did he leave a number?”

Giving him the number she finished by saying, “I’ve got D.S. Patterson now, Sir, I’ll transfer you.”

“Where are you, Guv?” queried Patterson coming on the line.

That’s a point — where am I? wondered Bliss, pulling himself upright on the steering wheel, reaching forward to clear a patch of windscreen. Seagulls, sand dunes, a couple of beach joggers and a host of happy childhood memories. But this was neither Southend or Brighton. “Ah …”

“Only I called the Mitre last night and that foreign girl said you’d left.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“No.” Idiot. “I meant, why did you want me?”

“Sorry, Guv. Well we’ve got the blood tests on the duvet — nothing special — O positive.”

“Is that it?”

“You sound disappointed, Guv.”

“With the way Jonathon’s been pissing us about I half expected cochineal or paint. I suppose a small part of me even began wondering if we were chasing a dead animal.”

“No — it’s definitely human.”

“Well I don’t know whether to say ‘Thank Christ’ or ‘Shit’ but at least we now know it wasn’t the Major’s blood.”

“You can’t get blood out of a bone,” sniggered Patterson.

“Very droll, Pat,” he groaned, then added, “I want you to get everyone together for two o’clock this afternoon. It’s time to hash this case out …”

Patterson butted in. “It’s Saturday, Guv. I won’t be very popular.”

“You’re not paid to be popular. I’ve got some theories I want to run past you and the others.”

“Whatever you say, Guv,” Patterson said. On your head be it, he meant, already formulating excuses in his mind — Don’t blame me for poxing up your weekend — blame Bliss. I just follow orders. “… Oh, Guv?”

“Yes.”’

“Have you got a new car?”

“Yes — why?”

“Oh nothing, Guv. It’s just that I need the details for the station car parking book, otherwise the bomb squad will blow it up.”

“Right — I forgot.”

“No problem. By the way, have you informed the widow about the Major yet, Guv?”

“That’s my purgatory for this morning, Pat. I’ll see you later.”

But Doreen Dauntsey could wait for the knock on her door, after all she’d waited forty years. He checked his watch, six-forty-five, Saturday morning. Let’s see how keen this reporter is.

The phone was answered at the second ring. “Peter White … G’morning.”

“D.I. Bliss, Westchester police,” he was curt. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

“Oh yes, Sir. Thanks for calling …” he began, a bounce of excitement in his voice. “I wonder — could we meet? Off the record.”

Bliss hesitated, “I’m not sure …”

“It’s all above board, Sir, I promise you.”

“Perhaps we could meet for breakfast in an hour or so. I’m staying at the Mitre.”

It was the journalist’s turn to hesitate. “Um … Would you mind if we met somewhere a bit more private — the Bacon Butty on the Marsdon Road does a good breakfast, and they open early?”

Bliss knew the place, having passed it en-route to The Carpenter’s Kitchen with Daphne the previous evening, and he found himself agreeing, despite the nagging feeling that fraternising with the press was probably contrary to regulations. “Seven-thirty, then.” he said, leaving no opportunity for dissent, retaining some control.

Bliss arrived early and sat for a few minutes, deliberating whether or not to go in, wishing he had a mini-cassette player with him, knowing that “off the record” had its limitations, and that reporters could be as gymnastic as policemen when it came to direct quotes.

The front door opened on a narrow passageway, the wallpaper flock erased at hip height, and Bliss followed a patternless groove in the lino into a smoky room with nicotine- yellowed walls covered in cheap prints; glitzy framed pictures oozing sickly sentimentality — fuzzy edged images of fat babies with snotty noses, a bloated cat with a budgie on its head and more sad-eyed puppies than a Disney cartoon.

“Mr. Bliss?” enquired the shrivelled occupant of a giant’s sports jacket and Bliss found himself staring at the sole diner, trying to make sense of the spectacle. Nothing fitted. The man had a size six head on a size four body; his oversize nose and glasses appeared to have been borrowed for the occasion from a joke shop and his hair seemed to be slipping off the back of his head.

“Why the secrecy?” asked Bliss, ignoring the outstretched hand and sitting on a chair with an artistically ripped vinyl seat — Stanley knife, he guessed.

“I wouldn’t call it secrecy, Inspector. It’s just not good form for the press to be seen feeding information to the police — though it can work in both directions, if you get my meaning.”

Bliss leant back in the chair, keeping his distance. “So you want to scratch my back, do you …?”

“Well, I must admit, when I heard they’d brought in a top Scotland Yard detective to lead the investigation, I realised there was more to this than just the death of an old Major.”

Bliss basked in the misplaced notoriety feeling no compunction to disillusion the scruffy little man. “And you are hoping for a scoop I take it.”

“Actually, no …” he paused to remove his spectacles for an enthusiastic clean, revealing a heavily drooped left eyelid that gave his face a lopsided appearance. “I say,” he continued, “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression.”

“Two full breakfasts was that Mr. White?” called a robust, amiable voice, above a cacophony of kitchen sounds. “Tea or coffee?” she demanded, taking the reply for granted.

“Coffee for me,” answered Bliss, deciding he’d wait until he saw the breakfast, and the state of the cook, before committing himself to eat anything. “And what would the wrong impression be Mr. White, and how did you get my name by the way?”

“I was making enquiries in the Black Horse on Monday when you closed it down,” said White after ordering tea. “And I can assure you I’m not here to pump you for information.”

“Good — you won’t be wasting your breath then,” said Bliss, harsher than intended.

White turned cool, but replaced his spectacles and pressed on. “My editor asked me to prepare a biography on Major Dauntsey to run the day of the funeral. It seemed simple enough, although, to be truthful, I would have preferred to run it today.”

“Why today?”

“The date, Inspector …” he said peering over the top of his spectacles.

“6th of June — Oh, I see. The anniversary of D-Day — I’d forgotten.” But then his nightmare of dead men and grey battleships suddenly had meaning, and he found himself questioning what had occurred as he had looked out over the dark sea during the night — the same sea that had swallowed thousands of screaming souls a generation ago. Was it a nightmare or had it been something more? he wondered; and his mind wandered, thinking of the ships and men steaming through the long night, arriving off the coast of France at dawn. Then what? A single shell from a strafing Stuka, or a burst of shrapnel from a mine or artillery shell, and it would all be over. Years of training, thousands of miles from home, for what — dead before you even got to the beach.

“Inspector?”

“Sorry … Yes, please go on.”