James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

Bliss, worried, dashed out of the living room into the narrow hallway. “What is it?”

“How long have you been here?”

He looked at his watch, confused. “About nine hours, I guess.”

“Nine hours,” she echoed. “Nine fuckin’ hours and already I’m apologising to you for being an hour late getting home from work.”

“Sorry …”

She caught the disappointment on his face. “No — it’s alright, Dave. It’s not you. It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe I should go …” he started, half-heartedly, but she flung her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

“I said it was my fault,” she said and clamped her lips on his until he was struggling for breath.

“I’ll stay,” he gave in without a fight. “Anyway, I made dinner for you.”

“You cook?”

“Of course.”

“You can definitely stay.”

“You haven’t tried it yet.”

“Food’s food — and it can’t be worse than mine.”

She rushed to the kitchen — chicken schnitzel with creamy mushroom sauce on a bed of rice. “You cooked this!”

“It didn’t cook itself.”

“Wow!”

“Well?” he said, dancing in anticipation. “What did you find out?”

It was the ownership of the blue Volvo that interested him. He’d spotted it behind the Mitre Hotel following the coffee house encounter with Jonathon and his mother.

“What is it, Dave?” Samantha had asked, sensing him trying to shrink behind a parked car as she, Bliss and Daphne were trying to figure out how to get at his belongings without running into an ambush of Superintendent Donaldson’s men.

“Blue Volvo at ten o’clock,” Bliss had said from the corner of his mouth, seeing it disappearing out of the far end of the car park.

“That’s the car what’s been hanging around my place a lot recently,” said Daphne.

Bliss, wide-eyed in surprise, asked, “I don’t suppose you got the number?”

“Of course I have,” she replied, squirrelling into her handbag and coming up with a neat little diary. “Times, dates and places,” she said. “Six times — seven with today — in a little over a week.”

Samantha stared at the sprightly old lady in disbelief as she used the little gold pen from her diary to write the number on a scrap of paper.

“Do me a favour …” said Bliss, not recognising the number, passing it to Samantha, “See what you can find out.”

“No problem, Dave. I’m on duty at two.”

“Well?” he said, still desperate to know if it was the killer himself or a hired assassin in the Volvo. But Samantha tortured him with procrastination as she insisted on trying a bite of everything from the pot.

“Orgasmic,” she cried, over a mouthful of the mushroom sauce, “Mason’s his real name — string of aliases … Is this asparagus frozen?”

“Fresh — just wait a minute.”

“Can’t … Wow! … Petty villain … How d’ye get chicken this tender?”

“You smack it around. Mason what?”

“Bomber is his street name … Bomber Mason.”

Alarms went off in his mind. His front door imploded again. “A plastics man?”

“No, just a nickname; bit of a piss artist as a youngster; bombed out of his brains most of the time. Nothing recent on the sheet — done time for burglaries; taking without consent; handling stolen goods … I can’t get over this chicken … He’s been in the frame for a couple of small bank jobs — got off.”

“Why?”

“Gawd knows … this rice is terrific … You’d have to ask Patterson — he’s nicked him three or four times recently.”

“Will you sit down … red or white? I didn’t know which you preferred so I got one of each.”

“Wine as well. You certainly know how to impress a girl … ummh — a Grand Cusinier … Yes please, the red. What did you do about Donaldson?”

“I called in sick — left a message with the civvy on the enquiry desk.”

“You didn’t say where you were staying?” her voice rose anxiously.

“Of course not,” he said, pouring the wine. “No-one knows I’m here.”

It was a little after midnight. The dinner had been superb — he’d even made the chocolate mousse. Keep busy, he had told himself, take your mind off everything. And the corner supermarket had been surprisingly well stocked.

“Do you still think Doreen shot Tippen?” asked Samantha sitting next to him on the guest bed, toying with his nose as he lay back on the pillow.

“You’re tickling … She seems the only one with a motive and he meant nothing to her, neither did Rupert come to that. According to Daphne, Doreen was the town bike before Rupert swept her off her back.”

“Dave … that’s not nice.”

“Well … that’s according to Daphne. Anyway, she obviously liked the idea of being the Major’s wife, even if it meant marrying a frog.”

“But the frog’s supposed to turn into a prince, not a toad.”

“Now who’s being unkind? But, seriously, she must’ve thought she’d won the lottery — big house; nice clothes; estate in Scotland.”

“And the world’s ugliest toad.”

“Is that why they say you should be careful what you wish for?”

Samantha reached with her lips and kissed him lusciously.

“What was that for?” he asked dreamily.

“I could tell what you were wishing for,” she laughed.

“What I can’t understand is why she waited ten years to bump him off,” said Bliss, his mind still absorbed by the Dauntsey case despite a stirring in his groin. “She’d got what she wanted, even if it came with more strings than the Berlin Philharmonic. Surely it didn’t take that long to work out that nobody would care if he disappeared.”

“But why leave him in the attic?” she asked, quivering at the thought.

Bliss hugged her warmly and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, wondering what was above it, in her attic. “I suppose she thought it was the safest place. If she’d buried him in the garden she risked being seen.”

The ceiling still held his attention — battleship grey. Unusual colour, he decided critically, but it matched the rest of the room: mid-Atlantic green — jade with the warmth washed out — highlighted with azure trim and accentuated by navy blue bed linen. The ensemble had a nautical, masculine feel, he concluded.

“How come I slept on the couch last night?” he asked, looking around. “You didn’t tell me you had guest room.”

Samantha coloured up, muttering, “I didn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

“You didn’t believe me, did you?” he said, catching on and sitting up to emphasise his point.

“Well,” she stroked his arm placatingly. “You’ve got to admit it was a pretty lame chat-up line: Someone left me a death threat on my computer; broke into the police garage; incinerated my stuffed goat. Ergo, I need a bed for the night. Would you have believed it?”

“It was true,” he protested. “I couldn’t go back to the Mitre …”

“I believe you, Dave. I just wasn’t too sure at one o’clock this morning.”

Soothing him down with another kiss she lay next to him, fully clothed, and teased his hair. “Like I said, Dave, I didn’t want you to get too comfortable.”

“I could pay for the room.”

“You will not,” she shot back. “I’m not having you, or anyone else, having rights. As long as you’re a guest I can boot you out anytime I get fed up with you … Oh don’t look so hurt. I’m just making sure you behave yourself, that’s all.”

“I’ll behave,” he said.

It was close to twelve-thirty. The barman in the lounge of the Mitre Hotel dimmed the lights suggestively, took off his bow tie and yawned with histrionic exaggeration. Detective Sergeant Patterson had worn out the carpet in front of the bar and was taking a circuit around the largely empty room.