James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Twenty minutes later, breathless and bedraggled, they were back, standing by Samantha’s car, saying goodnight.

“I do wish you’d come up to my room and clean up,” he implored.

“No,” she said fiercely, then immediately backed off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I would just prefer to go home if you don’t mind, only I’m covered in mud.”

“He went right through the river.”

“I know, I was behind him remember.”

“I thought you were magnificent.”

“Just doing my job, Sir,” she said in a policeman’s voice, then sneezed.

“You really should come up and dry off. Look, here’s my key. I’ll stay in the bar if you don’t trust me.”

“Dave, don’t get me wrong, it’s just too much of a cliche — Girl meets boy; girl falls in mud; girl catches cold; girl takes off wet clothes … well you know the rest.

I’ve seen the movie, and read the soppy novel … and they don’t always have a happy ending.”

Feeling a pang of disappointment he asked, “Can I call you?”

“You’d better,” she laughed getting in and closing her door. “I can’t afford to keep losing pens.”

The Volvo had got away from the car park moments before Bliss and Samantha returned. The driver, breathless and drenched, stood shivering in a phone booth a mile away.

“They nearly caught me,” he was bleating into the phone. “I had to run through the effin’ river — got soaked.”

“They? Who are they?”

“Him and the woman. The one I told you about. He picked her up again at that same house. I’m sure this guy knows you’re onto him, he’s real slippery. He’s switched cars again … did I tell you what he did the other night? … He was at that house again — the woman’s house, dropping her off late, then he took off, and when I started to follow he did a U-turn and left me standing. I waited at the Mitre but he didn’t show up all night.”

“Well don’t worry about him anymore,” said the voice at the other end. “It’s time I turned up the heat. Time we said goodbye to Mr. Bliss.”

Peter Marshall, the owner of The Toy Soldier, was as enthusiastic as a new recruit and reported early, arriving at The Mitre at seven-thirty on Monday morning.

“First stop: the police station,” said Bliss, coming downstairs and marching him out of the door and up the High Street at eight o’clock precisely.

Marshall hung back. “I don’t understand … Police?”

“All will become clear,” said Bliss, stepping off and refusing to give anything away.

Ten minutes later, in his office, Bliss leaned his elbows onto his desk, closely studied the man in front of him, and fired a surprise salvo. “So tell me, Mr. Marshall, just why would anyone be prepared to offer a thousand pounds simply to discover the whereabouts of a murdered man’s lead soldiers?”

“I want to buy them … What murdered man? I don’t know anything about that. I just want to buy the Horse Artillery set, there’s nothing sinister in that.”

“That’s it? That’s all? You want to buy it?”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to believe that you were prepared to offer me a thousand pounds and drive all the way down here at some ungodly hour for a few bits of old lead.”

“Yes. I do expect you to believe me. That ‘old lead,’ as you call it, happens to be fine miniature replicas …”

“They’re just kids toys …” he cut in, then paused. “Hold on a minute — How much?”

“I don’t see how that concerns you.”

“Oh, I see. You won’t tell me in case I get the idea I can make more than a thousand if I buy them myself. But, wait a minute …” Bliss tilted his head and scratched his chin. “If you’re prepared to offer me a thousand, they must be worth a fair bit more than that.”

“Not without the major,” replied Marshall with a note of triumph. “And you don’t have the major, not in recognisable form.”

True on both counts, thought Bliss, looking at him askance, still wondering if he knew more about the soldiers than the value. “And you do have a major, I suppose?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I do. I have a single major.”

“But that’s all you’ve got,” Bliss guessed. “And I’ve got the rest of the set.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me, Inspector?”

Bliss laughed, “Far from it. I’m trying to protect the assets of a dying old lady, though I’m not sure she deserves to be protected. Anyway, stop beating about the bush — how much?”

Marshall put on his military haughtiness. “The last set to come on the market sold for more than twelve thousand pounds.”

“Phew! — Twelve thousand quid for a toy.”

“Not a toy, Inspector. Assuming your identification is correct, only the fifth set of its kind known to be in existence in the world today — a rare find indeed.”

Bliss was still shaking his head, “Twelve thousand …”

“That was a few years ago. Today, in a New York auction room, it could easily sell for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The phone rang, it was a woman — unwilling to leave her name, according to the telephonist. “Tell her to call back … ” he started, then thinking — hoping — it might be Samantha, he politely ushered Marshall out of the office and took the call.

The voice was muffled and indistinct — Samantha with pneumonia he was thinking — then he realised it was not her, it was Doreen Dauntsey, her voice cracking emotionally, “I believe you wanted to see me, Inspector.”

“Yes — that’s correct,” he replied. “This morning please,” he added, leaving little room for dissension.

“I shall be waiting for you,” she said, her voice laden with resignation.

Sergeant Patterson was on the warpath over the goat and had by-passed the chain of command to take his complaint straight to the top. “Superintendent Donaldson wants to see you,” he said to Bliss, spying him and Peter Marshall on their way to the evidence store.

“Tell him I’ll be half an hour, Pat, would you please.”

“He said it was very urgent,” said Patterson, emphasising the “very.”

“Sorry about this,” apologised Bliss, leaving Marshall dancing in anticipation in the public waiting room.

He found Donaldson in his office furiously spinning a gyroscope. “What the hell’s going on, Dave?”

“Sir?”

“What’s this nonsense about you keeping a goat in the cells?”

Bliss smiled and tried to make light of it. “Don’t tell me it’s crapped on the floor.”

“We’re going to have to fumigate the whole place,” he complained, whipping the little silver gyroscope again.

“What?” Bliss screwed his nose in confusion. “Wait a minute, Guv. Is somebody winding you up? Has someone told you it’s a real goat — a live goat?”

“No — I know what it is,” he shouted. “It’s stuffed — and so will you be if you don’t get it out of there PDQ.”

Bliss’s confusion deepened. “I’m sorry but I don’t see the problem, Guv.”

“You don’t, eh! Well, what about Standing Orders?” He grabbed the huge book of rules and stabbed a finger at the open page — the page Patterson had found for him. “It says here,” he read, “‘Whenever a dead animal has been stored or conveyed on police premises, such premises, (or conveyance), shall be thoroughly cleansed by way of fumigation before any further use is made of such premises, (or conveyance).’”

“But it was nothing to do with me, Sir …”

“I understood it was your goat.”

Bliss conceded the point. “But it’s been dead for ages.”

“All the more reason I would say.”

With both Marshall and Doreen Dauntsey waiting, he decided against arguing the point further. “I’ll put it in the garage as soon as I have a minute.”