James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“Can I borrow this?” he asked, knowing the answer. “Daphne, you’re a whiz.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector … are you going to kiss me again?”

He did, on the cheek, and she held onto his arm as he made his way out with the picture.

“By the way, you didn’t tell me what happened after the war,” he said as they neared the gate.

“I stayed in France …” she began, the inflection saying there was more, much more, and all of it spun around in her mind until she settled on the salient feature. “Hugo, he called himself. He was an artist.”

“The portrait?”

She nodded with a melancholic smile, “I thought he loved me, but, there again, I suppose I thought I loved him.”

“And Hugo?”

“Hugo … ” her voice faded and her eyes drifted into the distance. “Hugo loved painting.”

The road out of Westchester hummed soothingly beneath the tyres of Bliss’s liberated Rover, and the frenzied bustle of London offered the prospect of a peaceful haven after the stormy Saturday afternoon meeting.

“The men aren’t very happy about this meeting,” Superintendent Donaldson had snapped, catching Bliss on his way up the front steps of the police station. And the men weren’t happy. Patterson had seen to that, polishing his truncheon amidst the disgruntled throng at the pre-conference moaning session.

“I’m really sorry about this folks,” he had whined, smarmily. “Only this new D.I. wouldn’t listen to me. He thinks he’s still in the effing Met.” Adding, sotto voce , “If he ever was in the Met. I told him you deserved the weekend off but did he care? Did he fuck!”

Bliss was still trying to puzzle out what had happened an hour later as he made for London, driving fast, trying to put the meeting behind him.

It had started badly — feigned illnesses and hastily arranged weddings accounted for the absence of more than half the officers. Detective Constable Dowding’s truancy was especially notable.

“His wife seemed confused when I called,” explained Patterson. “She said he’d already left — said you’d given him a special assignment to work on.”

“I expect he’s following up on a couple of things we came across earlier in the week,” said Bliss, tongue in cheek, nurse Dryden’s mammary assets in mind. “I’ll discuss it with him later.”

“Good afternoon,” Bliss greeted the twenty or so officers as he entered the conference room, and someone ripped the air with a noisy belch.

“Afternoon,” grumbled a few, leaving feet on the desks in a conspiracy of disdain.

“Sorry to spoil your weekend,” he commenced, noticing the intentionally varied assortment of sport and leisurewear and feeling the glare of hostility. “Only, this case is a week old and we don’t seem to be any further ahead really.”

Patterson winced, visibly, but with his mind the way it was, he would have taken a congratulatory pat on the shoulder as a rabbit punch. “So, we’ve done absolutely fuck-all this week,” he grumbled, stabbing himself in the back. “That’s what you’re implying, Guv, isn’t it?” he continued, neatly planting the stiletto in Bliss’s hand. “You’re saying that getting a confession out of Dauntsey, gathering all the evidence, and finding his father’s body was nothing,” he snarled, his enormous fangs drawn. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that, Sergeant …” Bliss protested, stung by the criticism, but, with their sergeant’s blood on the floor, several of the men jumped into the fray.

“I found the bloody duvet,” blared Jackson, “and ruined me trousers in that damn grave.”

“And I walked fuckin’ miles doin’ house to house enquiries,” shouted another.

“And what about …”

“Alright, that’s enough,” roared Bliss. “I didn’t say you hadn’t done anything …”

“Sounded like it to me,” muttered Patterson, twisting the blade one more time.

Bliss spun on him, enraged. “Sergeant Patterson, I said that’s enough. All I meant was … we haven’t succeeded in solving this case — either case, despite all the work you and the men have put into it. That’s not a criticism, it’s just a statement of fact. Now, if you’ll let me finish …” Pausing, he stared the men back into their seats, then started again, this time defensively. “I called this meeting because I have some new information that may assist us. I also want to get your input on what’s occurred so that I can spend tomorrow formulating a strategy, while you lot have the day off.”

Although the motorway was now speeding Bliss away from the town, he was still smarting from Patterson’s assault and couldn’t help thinking there was more to the antagonism than an interrupted Saturday afternoon.

“This is the man we were looking for,” he had said, producing the Dauntsey’s wedding photograph, and Patterson had immediately jumped on him.

“It’s pretty useless showing us that now we’ve found him.”

“This man … ” continued Bliss, ignoring Patterson while pointing to the Major’s aide-de-camp. “This man may have been Captain David Tippen, something of a Gay Cavalier, if you get my meaning. Anyway, who checked him out?”

“Sergeant Dobson, Guv.”

Dobson rose, shaking his head. “Sorry, Guv, bad news I’m afraid. According to the Ministry of Defence, Tippen’s body was never found, he was listed as missing — presumed dead.”

“Where? What battle? When?”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

“Do you think it might be important?”

“Doubt it, Guv.”

“I was being sarcastic, Sergeant. Of course it’s important — find out please.”

Patterson had his doubts and sneered, “What possible relevance could that have?”

Sensing another insurrection, Bliss quickly stepped in to quash it. “We know Tippen’s dead, we’ve got his tags, but what about his family — don’t they have a right to know?”

“I thought this was supposed to be a murder enquiry,” grumbled Patterson.

I’m going to belt you in a minute, thought Bliss. “Dauntsey obviously knew where the body was,” he explained. “How else could he have got the dog tags. And if he knew, how come he didn’t tell the Army administration, or the man’s family?”

“I still don’t see what that’s got to do with us,” griped Patterson. “I still don’t see the connection.”

Bliss was still trying to work out the possible connection for himself when he drove into the motorway service area where he had escaped from the Volvo earlier in the week. The nutcase was still there, sitting in the same seat, still regressing, bending the ear of some other unsuspecting traveller. “Helen of Troy was my aunty, you know?”

Bliss chuckled as he went past in search of a coffee and sandwich, then he took a nearby seat and tried to take his mind off the meeting by watching her snare unwitting listeners. “Have you ever been here before …?”

“So what’s this great theory of yours, Guv?” Patterson had asked, still in a snit.

“Personally, I think that flighty, fun-loving, Doreen Dauntsey soon got fed up living with a cabbage, especially an ugly one, so she lured him into the attic and shot him. Then she told everyone he’d gone to stay on the estate in Scotland.”

“That’s not much of a theory,” scoffed Patterson. “Why would he go into the attic? How would he get into the attic — he only had one arm?”

Bliss looked past him again, he had no answer and was becoming increasingly aware of the disgruntled murmuring from the other officers. He needed a juicy morsel to throw at them that wouldn’t be seized on by Patterson.

“What about Jonathon’s victim?” asked a spiky-featured officer, giving him a seconds breathing space. “If the Major was already dead in the attic, who did Jonathon kill?”