Missing: Presumed Dead Read online

  “Shit – what about the weapon?”

  “We’ve got that alright. One of the uniformed lads marked and bagged it.”

  “Thank Christ for a woolly with a brain.”

  “A woolly, Guv’nor?”

  “Metspeak for uniformed officer, Pat. I’m surprised you’ve never heard it before. Woolly ... woollen uniform?”

  Patterson sloughed off the information with a grunt then returned to the investigation in hand. “It’s a good job we got the confession.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “We haven’t told the old boy’s wife yet. She’s in a nursing home ... Cancer,” he mouthed the word with due reverence. “She’s not got long by all accounts. We went to tell her last night but the matron said the shock might kill her so it’d be best if we left it ’til about ten this morning when the doctor does his rounds.” He checked his watch. “You’ll have plenty of time to get there.”

  “Thank you very bloody much.”

  “Tea – Sergeant Patterson.”

  Bliss, still jumpy, jerked around in his chair and was disturbed to find that a diminutive grandmother figure in a blue polka dot dress had crept up behind him.

  “Are you the new ...” she began.

  “Detective Inspector – Yes.” Bliss finished the sentence for her. A delicate hand shot out in greeting, and Bliss found himself rising in response.

  “Daphne does a bit of cleaning up around here,” explained the detective sergeant.

  “A lot of cleaning up, if you don’t mind,” said Daphne in a manicured voice, straight out of a 1940s Ealing Studio movie.

  Bliss took the hand and was surprised at its softness – none of the bony sharpness of old age he’d expected.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the murder last night,” she said, peering deeply into his eyes, keeping his hand a few seconds longer than necessary. “Awful business – killing the old Major like that.”

  “You knew him.”

  “’Course I did – everyone round here knew him – well, did know him – if you take me meaning. I could tell you one or two ...”

  “You wanna watch our Daphne, Guv,” butted in a young detective wandering into the room and perching himself against a nearby desk. “She’ll have you here all day ... Tell him about your UFO, Daph.”

  “Shut up, you,” she said, bashing him playfully with a hastily rolled Daily Telegraph, forcing him to retreat from desk to desk.

  Bliss smiled, amused at an elderly woman behaving like a playful adolescent.

  “No respect,” she panted, returning. “Would you care for a cuppa, Sir?” she asked, looking up at him with smiling eyes, not at all embarrassed by her youthful exertion. She looks exhilarated, thought Bliss, noticing the slight blush in her cheeks, although there was no doubt that overall Daphne was fading – her skin, her hair, even her clothes, had a washed-out look, though her eyes were as sharp as her tongue. Despite the fact she was old enough to be his mother, Bliss found himself attracted by her eyes. She’s still got teenage eyes, he thought to himself, entranced by the sharp contrast between the burnt sienna pupils and almost perfect whites.

  “Wouldn’t have the tea if I were you, Guv,” called Detective Dowding from across the room. “She makes it from old socks.”

  “Don’t listen to him, chief inspector,” she said making eye contact, crinkling her crows feet into laughter lines.

  “Inspector ... Daphne,” he reminded her. “I’m only a lowly detective inspector.”

  “You look like a Chief Inspector to me,” she said, then amused herself and the others by summing up her reasoning as she closely inspected him. “Distinguished, greying a bit around the edges; chiselled nose with an intriguing kink in the middle, puts me in mind of a boxer I dated once – he became a politician, ended up in the Lords – never stopped fighting.” She paused as an obviously pleasurable memory flitted across her face, then returned to Bliss. “Well-spoken, not like this crowd ...”

  “Bit of a beer belly,” interjected Bliss with an embarrassed laugh.

  “Um,” Daphne sized up his midriff with an approving eye. “Comfortable, I’d say. Well fed – good home cooking – doting wife, I suspect – plenty of steak and kidney pies and rice puddings.”

  He wasn’t going in that direction. “So what was this UFO?”

  The detective constable laughed from a safe distance and put on a suitably alien voice. “It was real spooky, Guv – Ooooooh. Go on, Daph. Tell the boss.”

  Indignation sharpened her tone. “I didn’t say it was a UFO. All I said was there were some strange lights in the field.”

  “It was an extra-terrestrial abduction,” continued the detective, still in alien character, clearly enjoying tormenting her. “They grabbed an earthling and right now they’re dissecting his brain somewhere on another planet.” Pausing to laugh, he went on, “And the aliens made crop circles, didn’t they, Daph?”

  “I didn’t say they were circles,” she shouted, “I just said the corn had been trampled, that’s all.” Then she stomped out muttering fiercely about how in her day people were taught to be polite to little old ladies.

  “What’s that all about?” laughed Bliss.

  “Somebody nicked a pig from the farm at the back of her place and drove it through the cornfield,” explained the sergeant. “She must have seen the bloke’s torches.”

  “Pig rustling?” queried Bliss with surprise.

  “Yeah, Guv. You ain’t in London now. They used to go for cattle, but too many people are scared of mad cow disease.”

  “And chickens,” chimed in the detective across the room. “Then there was the sheep over ...”

  “Alright,” shouted the sergeant. “This ain’t All Creatures Great and Small, Dowding; we’ve got work to do. And you’d better start by getting Inspector Bliss and me some tea, seeing as how you’ve pissed Daphne off.”

  “Daphne’s always pissed off, and always nosing and ferreting around in other people’s business.”

  “You don’t like her ’cos she solves more crimes than you do,” laughed Patterson.

  “That ain’t true.”

  “What about that fraud job?”

  “I could see it were a forgery.”

  “Funny, you never mentioned it until Daph pointed it out.”

  Ten minutes later, fully briefed on the murder, Bliss found himself in the cells being politely, though firmly, told to mind his business by a rather serious man with a gold-plated accent. A man who, in any other circumstances, would have been placed as a bank manager or gentleman farmer.

  “Mr. Dauntsey, Sir,” Bliss had begun deferentially once he’d introduced himself. “I’m simply asking you to be reasonable. It must be obvious to you that we will find your father’s remains eventually. Wouldn’t it be sensible to tell me where we should look?”

  Bliss sat back on the wooden bench studying the government grey walls – wondering how long it would take for the blandness to drive you crazy – awaiting a reply, realising the incongruity of the situation, realising that in past similar situations, confronted with obstinate prisoners holding back crucial bits of evidence, his language and demeanour had been entirely different.

  “I’m afraid I really can’t tell you that, Inspector. I’m sure you understand,” said Dauntsey as if he were a lawyer claiming the information was privileged.

  “But you’ve admitted slaughter ...” he started in a rush, then paused, slowed down, and sanitised his words. “You’ve confessed to a homicide. What possible difference would it make if you were to tell us where to find the body?”

  “None – probably. But, as I’ve already made perfectly clear to the superintendent and the sergeant, I cannot tell you.”

  Bliss, realising that civility was unlikely to get the answer he required, briefly considered switching to something more assertive, even aggressive – “Look here you little ... ” – but found his confidence draining in the face of a man with whom he’d prefer to be playing golf. He
was still thinking about it when Dauntsey rose and waved him toward the door. “Now if that’s everything, Inspector – I’m sure you have many things to do.”

  Dismissed! By a prisoner. “Now look here,” he began forcefully, then he let it go. “I’m just on my way to inform your mother. Do you wish me to tell her anything on your behalf?”

  “There’s no need to distress my mother, Inspector. She’s sick enough without having to worry about all this.”

  “Are you crazy? Are you asking me not to tell your mother that her husband’s dead, and her son did it?”

  “All I’m saying is, she is so terribly ill that she might not understand that it was for the best; that it was just something I had to do.”

  “You had to kill him?”

  “Yes – Like I said in my statement, it was for the best all round. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Is that your defence?”

  “I don’t have a defence, Inspector – I don’t need a defence. Ultimately, there is only one judge to whom I have to answer; he will understand I am sure.”

  “That may be so, but in the meantime you’ll have to explain yourself to twelve befuddled jurors and a cynical old judge, and they’ll take more convincing than you saying that it was something you just had to do.”

  “Inspector. Have you ever read The Iliad?”

  Bliss paused to allow the spectre of deep thought to pass over his face then answered, “Not as far as I recall. No.”

  “You wouldn’t understand then,” said Dauntsey turning away, leaving Bliss feeling somehow diminished. It’s not my fault, he wanted to explain, Homer wasn’t exactly flavour of the month at West Wandsworth Comprehensive School.

  “Try me,” he said, unwilling to let Dauntsey think he was in control.

  Dauntsey took in a slow breath. “Then the father held out the golden scales,” he began, speaking softly to the wall, “and in them he placed two fates of dread death.”

  The silence held for a full minute before Bliss could stand the tension no longer. “Sorry – I don’t know …”

  Dauntsey spun round accusingly. “I said you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me then.”

  “Sometimes, however unpleasant it may seem, we are each confronted by impossible choices and, when that happens, all we can do is let fate take a hand in the outcome.”

  “And you’re saying that the circumstances were so compelling you had no alternative.”

  He nodded, “I believe the Americans call it being caught between a rock and hard place, Inspector.”

  “Could you elaborate?”

  “I think I’ve said enough – good morning, Inspector, and thank you for your understanding.”

  “He’s round the twist.” Bliss’s voice echoed along the cell passage to Sergeant Patterson as he slammed the cell door behind him.

  “Careful, Guv. Don’t give him a defence. He might get some high priced trick cyclist to declare him non compos mentis.”

  “Yeah, and six months later pronounce him cured. Then he’d be out of the nuthouse and walking the streets the same as you and I.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Apart from the fact he’d have a piece of paper declaring him sane – whereas you and I ...”

  They had reached the main cell block door. Patterson rattled the thick iron bars to catch the jailor’s attention and, as they waited, Bliss put two and two together and came up with four and half. “I’m sure we’re missing something important here, Pat,” he began, a fog of ideas swirling in his brain but failing to coalesce into anything tangible or sensible. “Dauntsey’s far too intelligent ...” he paused and thought about his choice of words. “No, it’s more than intelligence: He’s too cunning to get caught like this. I mean, it’s pathetically incompetent to slit his old man’s throat in a public place with half the town listening.”

  “It happened on the spur of the moment. No-one’s suggesting it was premeditated – just a sudden argument.”

  “But what about the body, Pat? Just imagine if you were to kill me right now – no pre-planning, heat of the moment argument. What would you do with the body to ensure no-one found it?”

  The sergeant put on his thinking face. “Concrete overcoat,” he suggested after a moment’s pause.

  Bliss lit up. “Office block – new bridge, that sort of thing.”

  Patterson nodded, though with little enthusiasm. “There’s plenty of buildings going up around here. But aren’t we forgetting something, Guv?”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday was Sunday, and it was pissing with rain. Who’s gonna be pouring wet concrete?”

  Bliss got the message but was stuck on concrete. “What about cement boots – then dump him in the river.”

  Patterson was already shaking his head. “The river ain’t deep enough, plus the fact that’d have to be preplanned. Where would he get a load of quick drying cement at half past nine on a Sunday night?”

  “Wait a minute, Pat. You were the one who said it wasn’t premeditated. I’m still not convinced. I think he carefully plotted the whole thing. Like I said, he’s cunning.”

  “What about all the witnesses in the pub then; who’s gonna be daft enough ...?” He left the hypothesis unfinished, unwilling to waste his breath.

  “Could be part of the plan,” mused Bliss, grateful that the arrival of the jailor saved him from having to explain his reasoning.

  “Don’t worry, Guv. We’ll soon find the body, once the dog teams get going.”

  “I’d like to agree with you, but I’m beginning to think that my money might be safer on Dauntsey.”

  They wandered abstractly back to the CID office, both hoping to arrive at some earth-shattering explanation that would spectacularly solve the case of the Major’s missing body. Neither succeeded.

  “I still don’t understand what they were doing at the pub,” Bliss said, throwing himself into a comfortable-looking moquette chair. “Did Dauntsey give a reason in his confession?”

  Patterson raised his eyebrows at the chair. “That’s an exhibit, Guv,” he said apologetically.

  “It should be in the property store then,” Bliss said, rising, giving the chair an accusatory stare.

  “Sorry, Guv – I’ll get Dowding to deal with it. Anyway, Jonathon Dauntsey said he was visiting his father who had taken a room at the Black Horse.”

  “Why? He had a perfectly good house up the road.”

  “I assumed it had something to do with his mother being in the nursing home.”

  “You can’t afford to assume anything in this game. You know that, Pat. Anyway, all is not lost; I’ll ask his mother. Easier still – Get someone at the pub to ask the landlady if she knows.”

  Patterson picked up the phone and was listening to the br-r-ring as Bliss paced meditatively, throwing out his thoughts at random. “Doesn’t make sense ... What’s the motive? ... Why were they there?”

  Someone at the pub answered the phone. “Let’s find out, shall we?” said Patterson asking to speak to one of the detectives.

  The officer was back on the phone in less than a minute. “According to the landlady, the Major didn’t live down here – he ran the estate up in Scotland, and Jonathon Dauntsey told them his father preferred to stay at the pub because there was no-one at the big house to cook and clean – what with his wife being in the nursing home ’n all.”

  “One mystery cleared up, Inspector,” said the sergeant replacing the receiver, relieved that the mystery had not been of his making.

  “I wonder what did happen then.”

  “We’ll know as soon as the body turns up.”

  “If it turns up,” said Bliss, reflecting uneasily on the prisoner’s supreme confidence. “What about a motive, Pat? Have you any ideas?”

  “He says he had his reasons ... and don’t forget, Guv, we’ve got the confession.”

  “I’ve had at least three murder cases where innocent people have confessed.”

  “Why?”

 
; “Just to get their fifteen minutes I suppose. But this one’s different – I’ve always started with the body before – two bodies in one case. Anyway, enough speculating. I guess we’d better go and see his wife; it’s nearly ten.”

  The enquiry counter was under siege as they headed out the door. “Bloody vandals ... trampled flower beds ... tyre tracks in the grass ... half-filled a grave ...” A balloon-nosed madman in a dog collar was blasting away at the clerk with a pew-side manner he’d honed as a prison chaplain.

  “What do you mean, young man – ‘it’s not a crime’?” griped the vicar, “I’d like to speak to someone in authority ...”

  “Serg,” the clerk caught them with a look of relief, “is it a crime to fill in a hole?”

  “Not as far as I know, lad – never has been. Now digging one ...”

  “What about the Ecclesiastical Courts Jurisdiction Act?” demanded the vicar.

  Patterson flipped through his memory of legislation but couldn’t place anything relevant. “Sorry, Sir, I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  “Wait,” said Bliss, half out the door. “What did he say, Pat?”

  “Something about a ... shit!” he turned. “When was this, Sir?”

  “Last night ... sometime after evensong. I was ...”

  “Where?” Bliss demanded hastily.

  “St Paul’s. In the churchyard, of course. It took three days to dig, what with all the rain. The funeral’s in less than two hours. The family will be furious. They had to get special dispensation from the diocese. Officially the churchyard’s been closed to new internments for the past ten years ... no ... I tell a lie, longer, probably twelve or more ...”

  “Sir,” Bliss tried butting in again, but the vicar, having got an ear, was unwilling to relent.

  “All recently departed are supposed to go to the town cemetery,” he continued. Then added, “Or the crematorium,” with a little shudder and a face that said he felt that if God approved of cremation he would have equipped humans with an ignition cord.