James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“Forget it, Guv.”

“What do you mean — forget it. Forget what?”

“I know what you’re thinking — please forget I mentioned it.”

“I can’t do that, Dave …” his voice trailed off.

“Why not? … Oh. I get it,” he said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Silly me. Of course you can’t forget it — You’ve been told to keep an eye on me, haven’t you?”

“Dave …”

“No — it’s alright, Guv, you needn’t give me the bullshit. I should’ve guessed. Transferring me here had nothing to do with the threats, did it? Somebody upstairs thought it would be a good idea to tuck me away in some godforsaken hole where I couldn’t do a lot of damage; where it would be easy to keep an eye on me — Didn’t they?”

Donaldson, caught off guard, mumbled something in the way of a platitude but Bliss’s mind was elsewhere, recalling the sceptical stares of his London colleagues, together with their insidious whispers: “Maybe his nerve’s gone; maybe his mind’s gone; maybe he wrote those letters and made those phone calls himself.” … “Why would he do that?” … “Guilt of course, for causing Mandy’s death,” or, as the more cynical had suggested, “He’s angling for a whacking compensation package and early retirement.”

As Bliss shook off old memories and brought himself back to the present, Donaldson, conscious of his own red-face, was still scrambling to placate him. “It’s not like that, Dave, honestly. People are very concerned about you that’s all.”

“Concerned,” mused Bliss. Concerned about the reputation of the force and their own necks most likely; concerned that a rogue cop with a mental problem might rock the boat; concerned that if — and it was only “if” — if the murderer were hell-bent on revenge, an innocent bystander could be caught in the crossfire.

“Dave,” continued Donaldson seriously, “I’m not disputing what you’re saying — I just wonder how on earth he could have got in here.”

“He got into my bank accounts and cleaned them out …” he started, then his voice petered out as he remembered the snide suggestion from the investigating officer at the time, that maybe he’d done that himself as well, stashing away a nice little nest egg while expecting the force and the bank to club together to make up the loss — as in fact they had done.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea how he got in, Guv, all I know is he did.”

“Have you the slightest intention of telling me what’s going on?” asked Samantha tetchily, still awaiting some response as he stared dejectedly out to sea. “Dave … are you listening to me?”

“Sorry,” he said pulling himself out of the trance.

“I said — Are you going to tell me why you dragged me out here after a hard day’s work?”

He wanted to explain, but couldn’t get his mouth working as his thoughts went back to the computerised death threat and reminded him of the bombing. “Thank God for the bomb,” he remembered saying when it had happened, at a time when conversations withered whenever he walked into a room. At least the bomb had silenced the most vociferous rumour mongers, particularly as the chief superintendent himself had provided him with an alibi, sitting conveniently next to him at the annual widows and orphans fundraising dinner when it had exploded.

Samantha tugged at his sleeve, asking, “Dave — Are you listening to me?” — growing concern supplanting her earlier aggravation.

“Yes,” he said, responding reflexively, but his mind was still stuck on the threatening message and Donaldson’s obvious scepticism.

“I just can’t see it, Dave,” he had said, his implication clear despite the unintentional pun.

“Right, Guv,” Bliss had shot back angrily. “If that’s the way you want to play it. But I expect you to make it perfectly clear in your report, whoever you report to, that Detective Inspector Bliss was absolutely one hundred percent adamant that the words appeared on his computer screen.”

“But, Dave — you know what our security is like..?” he paused seeing the determination on Bliss’s face, and relented. “O.K. I’ll get the fingerprint boys to dust around …”

“Waste of time, Guv,” Bliss cut him off with the shake of his head. “This guy’s a professional. Do you think he’d be stupid enough to leave prints?”

Donaldson bit the inside of lip as he wandered to the window, and he idly fingered the catch as he tried to fathom out the modus operandi . “How would you get in?” he asked, looking down at the car park two stories below, challenging himself for an answer as much as he was challenging Bliss.

“He probably strolled in with a toolbox, like he owned the place,” suggested Bliss. “‘Your whirly thingumajig’s broken down again,’ he calls to the girl on reception, as if he’s fixing it every other day, and she flicks the switch to let him in without a second glance.”

“Alright. Let’s say I believe you …” he started positively, turning back from the window. “There are security cameras on all external doors. All we have to do is pull the tapes and put a couple of men to go through them. I’ll get someone on it right away — satisfied?”

“Yes. Thank you, Sir,” said Bliss. “And in the meantime, I’m damned if I’ll let him get to me. Doreen Dauntsey’s waiting to confess to murdering her old man, and I’m bloody determined to finish this case if it’s the last thing I do.”

Samantha had waited long enough. “Well, let me guess why you dragged me here,” she said, angrily turning the ignition, preparing to leave. “You’re married and you’re worried your wife will find out about last night …”

“No. No. No,” he shouted, gathering his thoughts and panicking at the prospect of losing her.

She revved the engine threateningly.

“That’s not it at all. I told you the truth — I’m divorced. Please don’t leave. I need to talk to you … please.”

“Well, for God’s sake, what is it, Dave?” she asked, switching off, her impatience suddenly muted by concern. “You look like a man facing a life sentence. Is it something to do with the Major Dauntsey case?”

“His wife did it,” he replied, neatly avoiding the issue of the death threats again. “I’m certain she wanted to confess this morning but her son, and the matron at the nursing home, kept me from seeing her.”

“Let’s lie on the sand,” she said, grabbing a thick wool car blanket from the back seat. “And you can tell me all about it while we stare up at the stars.”

“O.K.,” he surrendered, wondering where to start as they walked the few yards to the beach and spread the blanket just beyond the ribbon of flotsam which marked the tide’s reach.

“D.C. Dowding drove me to the nursing home,” he explained as they lay listening to the gently swishing surf. “I didn’t want to drive my car after what had happened. Anyway, Donaldson thought I should have backup just in case.”

“ What had happened?” she demanded anxiously.

He froze again, still reluctant to involve her, then he carried on as if she’d not spoken. “Jonathon and the matron were in her office when I got there, working on a scheme to keep me out I guess.”

Nurse Dryden had answered the bell, opening the highly lacquered front door and searching beyond him for a recognisable figure. “Is Bob with you today?”

“Bob,” said Bliss vacantly, having instructed Dowding to remain with the car, forgetting that the nursing home held attractions for the detective beyond the purely professional. “Bob who?”

“Sergeant Dowding — you know, the one who was with you last week.”

“Oh that Bob,” he shook his head. “Day off — gone shopping with his wife I expect — probably getting something for the kiddies. You know how it is.”