James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

White took off his glasses again and gave them a long and thoughtful polish before taking a photocopy of a newspaper cutting from his pocket. “This was what I found in the archives,” he said, handing it over.

Westchester Gazette and Herald

Thursday, July 23rd 1944

Local Major — Battlefield hero

by P.W.Mulverhill

Major Rupert W. Dauntsey,

Royal Horse Artillery, of The Coppings,

Westchester, Hampshire

A spokesperson at the War Office has confirmed to this correspondent that Major Dauntsey has been nominated for an award for gallantry, although could not confirm that a D.S.O. was in the offing.

Details are still sketchy about the action, but early reports suggest that Major Dauntsey’s troops were caught in murderous crossfire as the beleaguered Hun fought a desperate rear-guard action somewhere in northern France. All reports suggest that the Bosch are running faster than rats from a sinking ship, but some are still determined to take as many of our boys with them as they can.

Major Dauntsey’s wife, Doreen, (21 yrs.), married only days before “D” Day, was unaware of her husband’s heroic action when contacted by this newspaper, but she stated that she was not surprised to hear of his bravery — “It is just like him,” she said. “Putting other’s first.”

Unconfirmed reports suggest that Major Dauntsey was himself wounded in the action, but we are certain he will be pleased to learn that a hero’s welcome awaits him on his return. Well done, Major Dauntsey, and God speed your return.

This correspondent will be the first to congratulate the Major and bring our readers a full account from the Major’s own lips on his return.

“Sounds fair enough,” said Bliss handing the cutting back. “And what did the Major have to say when he got back?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, he had difficulty speaking I understand.”

“He may have done — but that isn’t the reason he didn’t say anything. I’ve spoken to Patrick Mulverhill, the reporter, he’s well into his eighties now, but he’s no fool. He went to Oxford with the Major and remembers the day he came back from the front — trussed up like a mummy, he said, and that was the last he ever saw of him. According to Patrick, Doreen Dauntsey kept her husband locked away tighter than a duck’s ass for the rest of his life — however long that may have been.”

If the implication in the journalist’s words left little doubt as to Doreen’s involvement in her husband’s demise, his tone spoke volumes. But Bliss refused to be drawn. “Thanks for your assistance, Mr. White, I appreciate it. Obviously I shall need to speak directly with Patrick Mulverhill …”

“You could …” he cut in, then left Bliss hanging.

“But?”

“Patrick is sort of old-fashioned about the independence of the press. He still clings to the notion that we can claim legal privilege. He probably won’t tell you anything, although he can be … shall we say undiplomatic … he’s just as likely to tell you to get lost.”

“I’ll take a chance,” said Bliss as the kitchen door burst open and the cook, as fat and friendly as she’d sounded, fought her way through with a groaning tray. “There we are, ducks,” she said. “This’ll put hairs on your chest.”

They ate in silence for a while, the steaming food fogging the reporter’s spectacles until he removed them and looked uneasily across the table. “There is something else, Mr. Bliss,” he began, then betrayed his nervousness by ferociously polishing the spectacles with a handkerchief. “I also came across this,” he said eventually, taking another cutting from his pocket.

With one quick glance Bliss felt his face greying, felt himself sliding back into the miasma of concern.

“You must have trodden on some pretty important toes,” continued the reporter unaware of Bliss’s discomfort, quoting snippets from the cutting. “Bomb explodes at detective’s home — Death threats — Underworld hit-man …”

“I know what it says,” fumed Bliss. “Where’d d’ye get it?”

White swallowed, “ London Evening Post …”

“I know that. I meant why … who gave it to you? Who set you up?”

“Set me up … I don’t understand.”

Calm down … calm down. How can I calm down? He’s tipped off the local press. He knows he’s got me cornered — I bet he thought they’d just carry the story then I’d be on the run again. “What was it, an anonymous phone-call, or did he mail it?”

“I’m sorry … I really don’t know …”

I thought you were going to stop this — remember — wave your knickers in the air and all that. That didn’t last long did it? “Sorry — what were you saying?”

“I … I don’t know what you mean — who mailed what?”

Him … The killer. Winding me up again. Letters and words clipped from newspapers and magazines: “You’re DEAD Bliss.” “I’ve done my time — your next.”

“Who gave that to you?” he demanded, jumping up, still trying to get away, as if the cutting were explosive.

“No-one,” shouted White; on the defensive, not knowing why. “It was just a routine search. We usually do a little piece ‘New inspector on the beat,’ that sort of thing, when a new police officer is appointed, and I came across your name and thought I’d root around for a bit of background.”

What’s this — everybody checking up on me today. First Samantha, now you. LEAVE ME ALONE.

He sat, consternation furrowing his brow, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just a bit touchy about it.”

“I can imagine,” responded White, trying to modify his expression from alarm to concern.

“I’d rather you didn’t print anything about it,” Bliss continued. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t use my name at all.”

White muttered non-committally, cleaning his glasses again.

The atmosphere was so heavy as they continued their meal that Bliss checked his watch at a politic moment and announced his departure. “Must dash,” he said, laying a ten pound note next to his partly finished plate. “No — don’t get up. Thanks again for the information.”

Bliss drove idly for a while, a cassette of Handel’s Watermusic calming him, then he headed into Westchester and parked next to the senior’s home. Now for the merry widow, he thought, heading for the front door.

The bulbous breasted nurse whom D.C. Dowding had targeted on their first visit greeted him proudly. “Matron’s off today, Sir, I’m in charge. Unless anything serious happens, then I can call her.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” said Bliss condescendingly. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. I’m here to see Mrs. Dauntsey again.”

But Doreen Dauntsey had donned the veil of widowhood and sought reclusion. Nurse Dryden’s face clouded. “Mrs. Dauntsey’s in her room, Sir.”

“That’s ideal. I wanted some privacy.”

“No, you don’t understand, Sir, that won’t be possible — she is in her room.”

What is this, a euphemism for saying she’s in the toilet? “I can wait.”

“I doubt she’ll be out today, Sir.”

Not the toilet apparently. “I’m not with you …”

“Do not disturb,” she whispered, making the rectangular shape of a sign with her hands.

“Oh. I understand. Well, I’m sure she’ll want to see me.”

She should have been a traffic warden, he thought ten minutes later when the nurse was still blocking his attempt to see Doreen Dauntsey — the maximum enforcement of minimum authority. “Rules is rules,” she had reminded him at least ten times. “Do not disturb means do not disturb.”