James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“But I need to tell her that we’ve found her dead husband,” he finally told her in frustration.

“Oh — she knows that, Sir. Everybody knows about the Major in the attic. Bob was telling me all about it last night …”

“Bob? Bob who?”

“Bob — you know, your sergeant. The one you was with on Monday.”

“Dowding?” he queried. “Bob Dowding?”

She nodded enthusiastically, setting her breasts in spirited motion.

So, Detective Constable Dowding, he said to himself. Been promoted have you? Been playing away from home have you? Been toying with little girls with big tits?

“You’d better call the matron,” he continued, without trace of conciliation.

An hour later he gave up. Doreen Dauntsey wasn’t receiving visitors and, short of smashing down the door with a fire axe, he had no way to get into her room. The matron, looking veritably unmatronly in Saturday jeans and clinging T-shirt, had been empathetic to a fault, although, somewhat implausible in refusing to acknowledge the existence of a pass key. “We are very conscious of our guest’s privacy,” she had said, as if she were the major domo of a ritzy hotel, but she had allowed him to tap respectfully on Doreen’s door.

“Go away,” she had cried, and he had been forced to do so.

She’s hiding, like a kid who’s got into the jam, he thought. “I would have come earlier,” he told the matron as they walked downstairs, “but we had to wait to get proper identification.” It sounded reasonable, but was baloney. You knew it was him the minute you saw what was left of the face, he inwardly admitted.

“I think she’s still in mourning.” explained the matron as she saw him out. Nurse Dryden hung back behind the door and contemptuously poked out her tongue. “See — I told you.”

It was only ten-thirty and Bliss found himself tossing up between returning, tail between legs, to the Mitre, or heading back to the police station and listening to Patterson moan about the spoilt weekend. In the end he ducked the question, deciding instead to visit Daphne to make sure she was alright.

A driverless blue Volvo, with a front-seat passenger reading Thursday’s newspaper, sat near the end of Daphne’s road. Bliss ignored it, not even bothering to note the number. Driving confidently by he congratulated himself — that’s the way, Dave — wave those knickers.

Daphne was pleased to see him, and bustled around in the kitchen making tea, leaving him to stare out over the cornfield and wonder why he’d confided in Samantha when he’d kept Mandy’s death from Daphne. That reminds me, he thought, I must give Samantha a call, though not too soon. I mustn’t appear too keen. Surprised by the strength of his feeling, he tried to rationalise — it was dark, she was a good listener …

“I’m glad you came round, Chief Inspector,” said Daphne breaking into his thoughts. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to give me a hand in a minute. I’ve got to load a few things in the butcher’s van, the stuff for the Women’s Institute auction. George is taking it to the Town hall — Oh, that’ll be him now.”

The van was manoeuvring up to the front gate as they emerged with the stuffed goat.

“Will you be able to manage at the other end, George?” called Daphne.

“Yeah — the ladies are all waiting, Mrs. L,” replied George, opening the back doors.

“Mrs?” queried Bliss in a whisper.

“Shh — I’ll explain in a minute.”

“Ahh, the old goat,” he said, a crack of nostalgia in his voice. “I gave Mrs. L. this,” he continued, blowing out his cheeks in pride. “And I reckon it’ll fetch a pretty penny. What say you, Mrs. L?”

“What’s that, George?”

“I were just sayin’ to this young man as how the old goat’ll be quite a ’traction at the auction today.”

Daphne winked at Bliss. “I wouldn’t doubt that, George. In fact I shall have my hand up for a few quid, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Bliss is keen — isn’t that so, Dave?”

“Oh. Yes … Very keen.”

George beamed.

“So what’s the Mrs. thing?” smiled Bliss as George drove away with the contents of Daphne’s front hall.

“Oh,” she chuckled, “just our joke really. I always buy enough meat for two, me and the cat, so George has his bit of fun. ‘How’s the General today, Mrs. L?’ he always calls when I go in the shop.”

“He had me worried for a minute,” teased Bliss.

“Get on with you,” she laughed, then added, “Come in a minute, I’ve got something for you.”

“I’ve got a meeting …” he started, examining his watch, but she talked over him. “Oh don’t worry, it won’t take a second. It’s just that when I was going through the attic this morning, digging things out for the auction, I came across something that might interest you.”

The black and white photograph had faded to a wash of tonal greys but the front porch of the Dauntsey house and the stiffly composed wedding group were instantly recognisable.

“Well. Do you recognise anyone?” Daphne asked, giving him a few seconds.

“You,” he said, immediately pointing to a slender beautiful woman in a body-hugging dress that made him wish, really wish, he’d been more than just a teenager’s lustful thought at the time.

“Very good, and …?”

“This must be Doreen …”

“Oh I remember that terrifying hat?” screeched Daphne. “It was baby-shit brown. They should have sent her to France wearing that — who needs knickers with a hat like that. If that wouldn’t scare ’em off, nothing would.”

“The old Colonel,” laughed Bliss, pointing to the old man, ram-rod straight in his guardsman’s ceremonial uniform. “And this must be Major Dauntsey, when he still had a face worth looking at.”

“That’s right. It wasn’t much though was it?” She turned up her nose.

“What happened to his chin?”

“God knows.”

“And who’s this by his side?”

Daphne leaned closer for a better look. “Oh that was his best man,” she sneered. “Now he was a nancy-boy if ever I saw one. He was the Major’s aide-de-camp, and “camp” was the just about the right word for him. He fussed over Rupert worse than a debutante’s mother. Look …” she started, then rushed off in search of a magnifying glass. She was back in a flash, peering deep into the picture. “I thought so,” she said, giving Bliss the glass. “Look in his right hand.”

“What is it?” he asked, unable to recognise the object that had caught the glint of the flashbulb.

“Silver-backed clothes brush,” said Daphne, clearly remembering the article. “It was very swish, chased silver with inlaid rubies. He drove me crazy with it — every two minutes brushing the Major down like he was a prize poodle at Cruft’s. He was the sort who’d have creases in his underwear.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head, and by her tone was uninterested in recalling. “A Captain somebody-or-other.”

“Could it have been Captain Tippen?” asked Bliss, remembering the dog-tags in the Major’s trunk, trying a long-shot.

“I don’t know … ” She screwed her eyes in thought. “Yes I do!” she exclaimed joyfully. “His name was David … Oh my goodness — I’m not as senile as I thought I was.”

“David Tippen?” queried Bliss.

“Oh, now that would be stretching the grey matter too far, but it was definitely David.”

“I bet it was,” he said, staring into the picture, trying to communicate with the characters. That would explain how Major Dauntsey got the tags — good friends; best man at wedding; dying words as he lies on the battlefield. “Give these to my mother — tell her I loved her to the end.”