James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Does he mean — apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and half the C.I.D.? he wondered, then answered cagily. “Not that I know of. I was just calling to see if … Why?”

The voice was guarded — circumspect. “Well … were you expecting a delivery of any sort?”

Oh God — another bomb. Try to sound normal. “No, I wasn’t expecting anything at all.”

“We thought so, Guv. Well, somebody’s playing a nasty joke on you.”

“What is it? What’s happened?” It has to be explosive, or something really disgusting like a box of cow-shit. Damn — they will have instigated full anti-terrorist procedures: evacuation; bomb disposal teams, robotic disarming devices. . this has got to stop — one way or another.

“Guv — Are you still there?”

“Yes — Sorry, I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”

“I said it were a moth eaten old goat.”

“A what?”

“Some butcher delivered it this morning — reckoned it had come from an auction. I’ve had it put in the isolation cell. He wanted to put it in your office. ‘Not bloody likely,’ I said, ‘You never know what it might have inside.’”

“Daphne!” he swore under his breath but he couldn’t help laughing in relief. “Do you mean it could be a sort of a Trojan goat?”

“A what, Guv?”

“Never mind — it’s O.K., just a mistake I expect. I’ll deal with it. Anything else?”

“Three phone calls for you, Guv.”

“Who?”

“Three women,” he said, the suggestion of impropriety in his tone. “None of ’em would leave a message, said they’d call back, though one of ’em sounded very much like our Daphne — the cleaner.”

Directory enquiries located her number in seconds. “Daphne — this is D.I. Bliss. . did you phone me this morning?”

“Oh yes, Chief Inspector,” she started, wielding formality as a shield. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.” She paused for the words to sink in, then added excitedly, “You bought the goat.”

“I did what?”

“Now, you needn’t be cross. I didn’t know what to do and I knew you wouldn’t mind. I bid twenty pounds myself but nobody else seemed interested, then George caught my eye and he looked so downhearted. ‘I thought that friend of yorn were keen,’ he said, his face as miserable as a wet weekend. ‘He was , George,’ I said. ‘He most certainly was .’ ‘Well where is he then?’ he said, forlorn. What could I do, Dave? I didn’t want you getting a bad reputation for welching on your promises, so I bid fifty quid for you.”

“How much?”

“Oh don’t be so ungrateful. I did it for you. Anyway, you were lucky. I thought about bidding against you and pushing the price up to a hundred, but the auctioneer was quick off the mark. “Going, going, gone,” he said, and knocked it down before I could get my hand up, so I saved you fifty quid. George was so thrilled he said he would deliver it personally — he thinks you’re wonderful.”

“A wonderful idiot.”

She pretended not to hear. “Anyway, Dave, that wasn’t why I was calling really — I’ve got some more good news. D’you remember asking me about that Captain at Doreen’s wedding?”

“The Major’s aide-de-camp.”

“Yes. His best man — the one with the clothes brush. Well, I thought afterwards, we were very silly.”

“We were?”

“Oh yes. Very silly. You see, when I thought about it, I remembered he was Rupert’s witness at the wedding. I was Doreen’s …”

“And his name will be on the marriage certificate,” burst in Bliss, catching on immediately. “I’m in London, I can go to the records office tomorrow …”

“That won’t be necessary, Dave. I went to St. Paul’s church this morning.

Sunday — “Communion?”

“No — to look in the parish register of course. The vicar found it in a flash. I’ve got it here. His name was Tippen. David Tippen, just like you said, and he gave an address in Guildstone.

“I know the place, I drive through it.”

“You’ll have to go there then,” she said, giving him the address. “I’ve tried directory enquiries and they don’t have a number.”

“Thanks, Daphne — you’re great,” he said and was about to put down the phone when she announced that there was even more good news. Apparently, George, the butcher, had been so impressed by his generosity in buying the taxidermal goat he had personally delivered a joint of sirloin to her, with a request that it should be passed on. “Knowing you haven’t got a place of your own,” she said, “I thought perhaps I could make Sunday dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, say about 7.30 tonight. If you can forgive me by then.”

“I couldn’t, Daphne, really.”

Her voice cracked with pain. “You won’t forgive me.”

“Of course I’ll forgive you — already have. It’s just that I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

“Oh I see.” But she wouldn’t be beaten. “I’ll cook anyway, and if you’re not here by eight I’ll go ahead and eat on my own. I can always heat yours up later — Bye.”

Putting down the phone, shaking his head at Daphne’s impudence, he suddenly realised why he was still running from a would-be assassin while she had boldly walked through the German lines. She was a woman. Even Mandy’s killer had shown his prejudice — “I wouldn’t shoot no woman — what sort of scum do you think I am?” Why? he wondered. What’s the difference — is it more horrifying for a woman to die than a man. But what if the person in the bank had been Andy instead of Mandy? Would the killer still be trying to exact revenge? At least Andy wouldn’t have been pregnant.

Laying back with his eyes closed, he drifted in thought, realising it was the ethereal nature of the threat that made it so much more frightening — he’d had no problem tackling the killer head-on in the bank, and needed both hands to count the number of armed villains he’d taken down over the years. But he had been able to see them.

“I hope you’re going to pay my phone bill,” said Samantha, bleary eyed, sliding unheard into the room and jumping him out of thoughts.

“Well, I was going to,” he said with a serious face. “But I don’t know if I can afford it now.”

“Why not?” she cried, instantly wide awake.

He kept the straight face. “Well, I’ve just bought a goat.”

“A what?”

“That’s what I said when I found out.”

“Dad, it’s too early to piss about …” then her face clouded in concern. “Aren’t you taking this country thing a bit far?”

“It’s alright, Luv,” he said, unable to control his mirth, and, sweeping her into his arms, kissed her forehead. “Of course I’ll pay your bill. Although,” he paused and looked to the ceiling as if in deep thought, “perhaps you can help me out with the feed bill.”

“What!”

Daphne, George and the goat were explained with a laugh. “I’ve just one more quick call,” he added as she headed to the kitchen mumbling, “Coffee.”

The brusqueness of the model’s dealer suggested that he had stood to attention to answer the phone. “The Toy Soldier — Sunday — Closed to the public,” he said, though a buzz of background voices suggested otherwise.

“Oh … I was hoping to have a word …”

“Call back tomorrow then.”

“It’ll only take a second — I was in your shop earlier in the week …”

“Peter …” a voice called. “I’ve just taken out your tank, old boy, you’d better pull your socks up.”

“Blast … Well, what is it? What d’ye want?” he questioned in a tone that said, “Get on with it man.”