James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“No wonder she bumped him off,” laughed Jones. “My missus would kill me if I told her that.”

Bliss closed his eyes in thought, “The only real problem I’m left with is — who did Jonathon kill in loco majoris ?”

“There’s no shortage of candidates,” said Jones. “Have you any idea how many doddery old codgers are reported missing each week?”

“That’s assuming it was a doddery old codger and not just someone who happened along at a convenient moment, and assuming whoever it was was missed. Just imagine if it was someone like old man Tippen.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, you know what I mean. Who would complain if he disappeared? He could’ve lain dead in that place we’ve just left for years without anybody caring.”

“Judging by the stink I think he had.”

Bliss laughed, “Did you hear what he said when I asked him where all the newspapers had come from. ‘I must’ve forgot to cancel them when me eyes went.’”

“I wonder how he paid for them?”

“Gawd knows — he probably nicked ’em.”

Parking at the rear of the Mitre hotel on his return to Westchester, Bliss couldn’t help feeling a trifle foolish as he sneaked in the back way with his suitcase — feeling like a runaway lover slipping back home, red-faced, after vowing never to set foot in the house ever again, half expecting the door to be locked and another man in his bed. The smiling Swedish receptionist held the door for him and added to his discomfort by welcoming him back with professional effusiveness. “Oh. Good evening, Mr. Bliss, it is so nice that you are back — no?”

“No … I mean, Yes, it’s nice to be back.”

“There’s a letter for you in reception,” she said, adding to his feeling of belonging. And, as he struggled his suitcases through the antique filled lounge and up the wide staircase to his room, he found himself soothed by the warm sensation of homeliness in the now familiar surroundings.

The letter intrigued him. Who knows I’m staying here apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and Daphne? But the prospect that Mandy’s murderer could have located him barely touched his mind. The plain white envelope had a fresh clean smell, and was certainly too small to contain even a trace of explosive, but it certainly gave his heart an unexpected kick as he read the short note.

“Please give me a call — Kind regards: Samantha Holingsworth.” And a phone number.

“Did I leave my pen in your car, Dave?” she asked, recognising his voice immediately.

It sounded like an excuse, but he happily went along with it. “I don’t think so, but I can check.”

“What about … ” they started in unison.

“You go first,” he said.

“No … after you.”

“I was going to ask — what about that dinner? Tomorrow perhaps?” He closed his eyes in mock pain, waiting for the crash of rejection — that’s too soon — you’ll scare her off.

“Sorry — I can’t.”

See, I warned you.

“I start late shift tomorrow,” she continued. “I told you, I work lousy hours …” she paused. “But I’m free this evening.”

“Oh — I can’t. I promised a little old lady.”

“Oh yeah … how old?” she asked, her voice full of tease.

“Positively ancient.”

“I guess that would mean around thirty, a busty blond with a Mercedes and an expense account,” she laughed. “It’s alright, Dave, I know my limitations.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Do you like roast beef?”

They met in the reception area at the Mitre. The dragon he’d cautioned himself to expect had transformed into a sleek sable-haired feline with smooth round features, dark mysterious eyes and sensible white teeth set squarely behind full lips — nothing dangerously protrusive; no tombstones.

He pulled up, slack-mouthed, at the foot of the stairs, studying her profile as she chatted to the friendly Swede, and he froze — holding the moment — savouring the image.

Feeling the weight of his eyes she turned with a smile. “Hello, Dave.”

Move you prat, he said to himself. “You look very nice,” he said, cursing the inadequacy of polite conversation as he walked toward her.

“Thank you kind sir,” she curtsied gracefully, and he took her hand and kissed it theatrically.

“Come on,” he said, keeping hold, his eyes locked on hers. “Daphne will be waiting,” he continued but couldn’t tear his eyes free — her right pupil had taken a life of its own and was drifting slowly southward. In an instant she pulled the lazy eye back into focus and looked embarrassingly away, but Bliss was already captivated by the charming imperfection and felt a tingle of excitement down his spine as they made a move out of the lobby.

“By the way, how did you know I was staying here?” he asked, on their way to his car.

“I traced your car number,” she blushed. “Mind I was a bit surprised when it came up as a hire car …”

An implicit question hung in the air, but he chose to ignore it. He’d gone all day with barely a thought of the monkey on his back and had no intention of unnecessarily dredging up Mandy’s killer and spoiling the evening.

“She’s in love with you,” whispered a soft voice in his ear an hour later as he sat on Daphne’s couch after dinner.

“What? Don’t be silly. I’ve only known her a few days.”

“I’m a woman, Dave, believe me — I know these things. I can see it in her eyes.”

Daphne bustled in with a tray of coffees. “What are you two love-birds whispering about?” she chuckled, with an edge to her laugh.

“I was just saying to Dave, what a lovely dinner,” said Samantha, her face as innocent as her tone. “I can’t believe you grew all the vegetables yourself.”

Daphne had pulled out all the stops. The sirloin had been exquisite, and her golden Yorkshire puddings had to be held to the plates with lashings of rich beef gravy. “The trick is not to pick the vegies when the sun’s on them,” she explained, shrugging off the compliment.

“Well, it was really nice,” said Bliss, still luxuriating in the warmth of Samantha’s breath on his cheek.

Placing the tray on a Butler’s table at their feet, Daphne ignored the empty armchairs and squeezed onto the settee in between them.

“Budge over, Dave,” she said, giving his knee a playful nudge and Samantha shot him a cheeky smile behind her back, mouthing, “Told you so.”

Returning to The Mitre, Bliss parked only yards from the back wall, behind the lounge with its deep chintzy sofas, flickering candlelight and mood music. But they stayed in the car; exchanging soft words and tender touches; breathing gently through moistened lips; savouring each other’s scent; basking in each other’s warmth. It would be so easy to charge full-tilt into a sexual melee, he realised: a bottle of Dom Perignon in the lounge, an indecent proposal whispered tenderly with precise timing, and it would be all over bar the shouting. But he fought the urge with ease — hastily consummated relationships with as much staying power as the Titanic were a thing of his past.

Waltzing easily into the natural rhythm of romance they melted into each other arms and their eyes locked — midnight blue on burnt sienna in the shadowy light. They floated, lips poised, and drank in each other’s beauty. Then a spark of light blazed in her eyes and Bliss spun around in time to catch the fading flare of a match, and the bright glow of a newly lit cigarette, behind him.

“There’s someone out there,” he whispered. “Stay here,” he added, easing himself out of her arms and inching toward the door.

“Are you crazy?” she said, hopping out the other side and taking off after him.