James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Their goodnight kiss had been full of promise, and Bliss floated back to Westchester at midnight with Pavarotti pumping out Puccini on the stereo and God at the wheel. The High Street was as busy as a Christmas Saturday on his arrival and, in his exhuberation, he couldn’t grasp the possibility that the commotion wasn’t anything other than a summer festival. Abandoning his car at one end of the street, he flowed with the throng toward the Mitre, where flashing lights and costumed players seemed to be entertaining a crowd, then an electrified voice smashed him in the solar plexus: “I bet it was a bomb.”

“What — what was that? What did you say?” he turned on the young man demandingly.

“I don’t know mate, somebody said it was a bomb in the hotel — that’s all I know.”

Craning over the heads of the crowd he looked ahead, recognised the flashing lights and variously hued blue costumes and went cold: police, fire and ambulance. This was the Mitre — there was no mistake this time — this wasn’t an explosion in a tea shop down the road. He stopped dead and several of the scurrying rubber-neckers crashed into him, forcing him to shelter in a shop doorway. This was not part of the plan — not his plan. What had the computer screen said? he asked himself, wringing his hands in consternation. “Bang — your time is up.”

What now? he mused, but knew what he wanted to do: run back to Samantha and sink into the comfort of her arms; sink into her body.

White, the Westchester Gazette ’s reporter, caught his attention; flashing away at the crowd with a camera. He’ll just love this — “London cop bombed out for the second time.” Probably sell copy to Associated Press or one of the nationals. It’s a wonder none of the TV new-shounds are here, he thought, then scouted around and spotted a microphone wielding bimbo with big hair and teeth chasing reactions from bystanders.

Keeping his head down, and wrapping his coat protectively around him, he hustled through the crowd and sidled up to the fire chief, introducing himself in a barely controlled voice. “D.I. Bliss — we met the other morning at the tea shop blast. What’s happened?”

The fireman gave a nod of recognition. “Fire in the car park at the back.”

The words “Oh Shit — a car bomb, the worst” went through his mind and married up with images of devastation from Tel Aviv and Armagh. Wait a minute, he questioned himself, fighting aside the carnage of dismembered bodies. Did he say fire? “Did you say fire or explosion?”

“Fire — just a fire, mind it was pretty fierce.”

He paused for a breath and relaxed a notch, “That’s the trouble with cars — gas tank goes up like a rocket.”

“No — it wasn’t a car.”

“I thought someone said it was a car …” he queried, his mind disorientated. He’d got it caught in a Mobius loop and couldn’t get out. Every explosion was a bomb, every bomb had the signature of Mandy’s murderer, and every one was directed at him whichever way he twisted or turned.

“No — it’s not a car,” repeated the fire chief. “It was an animal.”

“What animal?”

“A goat, we think, a stuffed one by the looks of it — horsehair probably — tinder dry, although it’s badly incinerated. Someone set fire to it right in the middle of the car park — probably a joke that misfired.”

“A joke,” screamed Bliss. “A joke — That was no joke,” and he raced back to his car and headed for the police station.

Daphne was in early Tuesday morning and made a beeline for Bliss’s office. “I was so sorry to hear about the old goat,” she said, drifting in and sitting down without as much as a tap.

Bliss cocked his head, intrigued, “How did you hear?”

“Mavis Longbottom, you know, the cook at the Mitre, she called me late last night. She’s the treasurer of the Women’s Institute and says you’re not to worry about the fifty pounds.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Yes — she says you can just pay half, twenty-five pounds, because you didn’t have a lot of enjoyment out of the poor old creature.”

Shall I throttle her or kiss her? Bliss wondered, then dug into his wallet and extracted a ten pound note. “Tell Mavis if she wants more she’ll have to sue,” he said, handing it over.

“Have you any ideas who might have done it?”

“One or two,” he mumbled, burying his head in the daily incident log, hinting he’d rather forget.

Daphne missed the cue. “My guess is somebody doesn’t like you … or maybe they don’t like goats.”

“Actually, I wanted to speak to you,” he said, rising to shut the door, feeling the goat was not only passe but that it had already received far more attention than it deserved. He had been right about the daily newspapers. “It’s a flamin’ goat,” declared the caption under the picture on the front page of the Sun, although the details were sketchy — little beyond the fact that a spokesperson for Westchester fire brigade assumed it to be a prank.

A grinning uniformed inspector was passing as he reached the doorway. “Are you alright, Dave?” he called.

“Fine, thanks.”

“Oh that’s good,” he sniggered. “Only I understood someone had got your goat,” and went off down the corridor in stitches.

“Very droll,” Bliss shouted after him and slammed the door.

“Have you thought of visiting Doreen Dauntsey?” he asked, softening his face and turning back to Daphne.

“Yes, I have, to tell you the truth — I feel I should.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, only a friend of mine would like to go with you. Samantha — you remember her from the other night.” Pausing, he put on a smile and offered flattery as an incentive. “By the way, she’s still talking about that wonderful dinner. She thinks you’re marvellous.”

The flattery failed, Daphne’s face fell. “You’ve seen her again then, have you?”

The temptation to tell her to mind her own damn business wasn’t easily overcome, but he straightened his face understandingly. “Well, she is just about my age, Daphne.”

It worked. “Yes — of course she is, how silly of me, but why does she want to visit Doreen?”

Because Samantha had come up with the plan, he would have told her had he felt either the wisdom or necessity of explaining, but as he didn’t, he merely pushed on as if she had agreed. “It might be best if you didn’t say she was a policewoman. Maybe you could say she was your companion.”

Daphne bristled. “Chief Inspector. Do I look like a pathetic old witch who has to pay some withered flunky to talk to me? Haven’t you ever heard them? ‘Oh — this is my companion,’ they say, all lah-di-dah, and you know jolly well it’s only a tarted up cleaning lady putting on airs and graces. No, I shall say she’s my niece, visiting from some unheard place, and if anybody starts asking awkward questions, I’ll give them the illegitimate-royal routine.”

“The what?”

“You lean in really close and say, ‘She’s actually Prince Phillip’s bastard daughter. I was his chambermaid you know, but for God’s sake don’t let on.’ It works wonders.”

“That’s very good,” laughed Bliss. “You sound as if you’ve done this before.”

Daphne fidgeted uncomfortably and coloured up, and Bliss gave her a critical stare as he tried to figure out what she was thinking. “You have done this before, haven’t you?” he said, astounded, reading her mind.

The mental vacillation between admission and denial tortured her face for several long seconds before she finally plunged in. “Well, just how do you think I got the Order of the British Empire, Chief Inspector?”

“I assumed it was because of the way you crossed the line in France and wiped out the Germans …” he began, but she was shaking her head from the start. “You don’t get an O.B.E for that. That was wartime service.” Then she clammed up, her face suggesting her mind was somewhere else.