Missing: Presumed Dead ib-1 Page 9

  Patterson shook his head. “I knew something was up when he said I shouldn’t give his name to the papers — assuming that is his name … Like I said before, know thine enemy, lad.”

  “Are you sure he is the enemy?”

  “All senior officers are, lad — particularly ones that parachute in out of the blue.”

  “Right, Pat,” said Bliss poking his head into the C.I.D. office on his return. “Let’s take a look at the house.”

  “Did you get anything out of Dauntsey?” asked Patterson, stalling while he tried to think of some excuse not to escort him.

  “Not much,” called Bliss, already retreating into the corridor.

  Chapter Five

  The Dauntsey house radiated an air of neglect that had spread beyond its boundaries, even infecting the twisting lane that took them off the main road. Patterson had failed in his attempt to find a plausible excuse and they bumped their way toward the entrance gate as water-filled ruts snatched at the steering wheel under Bliss’s hands, flinging globs of liquid mud high into the hawthorn hedgerows either side.

  A stockade of tall poplars and old oaks surrounded the garden, though a number had been pushed over in past storms and lay, still attached to roots, like guardsmen fainting on a parade ground. A couple of sandstone lions guarding the gates had succumbed to decades of damp and frost and their fierce features had softened like butter on a warm Sunday.

  “Is this the right place?” enquired Bliss, fruitlessly searching the brick gate-pillars for a nameplate, correctly guessing that, like the Colonel, the house had no need of a name amongst the locals.

  “Yup,” nodded Patterson, and Bliss pulled up just inside the gates to survey the sad looking building.

  “Bit of a mess,” he said, summing up the peeled paintwork, spalled brickwork, dislodged slates and overgrown vegetation.

  Patterson declined comment as he went off on foot in search of the constable who was supposedly guarding the property, leaving Bliss to insert the heavy iron key in the ancient lock and let himself into the entrance hall.

  A treacly layer of combed brown varnish had stuck tenaciously to the woodwork since the 1930s and, as far as Bliss could tell, was the only thing keeping the place glued together. Weakened joists had sagged under the stress of age and screeched in pain as he tiptoed across the desolate hallway in search of the main rooms. Realising he was treading softly, he paused, and stood silently in the middle of the vacuous hall trying to pick up vibes, attempting to assimilate something, anything, from the house’s aura. But, with a slight shiver, he concluded that any warm memories of happier times had dissipated, leaving a physical coldness.

  “What warm memories?” he laughed to himself as he moved forward into the house, recalling the few minutes he had just spent with Jonathon Dauntsey in the cell.

  Dauntsey’s appearance had degenerated. Two days of stubble darkened his chin and the paper boiler suit had picked up the grubbiness of his cell. Nevertheless, Bliss still found himself ill at ease dealing with the man. It was, he reasoned, a bit like finding your accountant has taken a Saturday job clearing tables at McDonald’s. What on earth would you say? How much should you tip?

  “We’d better get you some proper clothes,” started Bliss in a genuinely concerned tone, waving Dauntsey back onto the bare wooden bench.

  “Are you trying to soften me up?”

  “What?”

  “You know the routine, Inspector, surely — good cop, bad cop.”

  “You didn’t tell me your father was disabled,” he began, ignoring the jibe.

  “Didn’t I?” replied Dauntsey. “I suppose I was always somewhat ashamed of the fact.”

  “Ashamed?”

  Jonathon Dauntsey buried his face in his hands as if shutting out disturbing memories, then he slowly spread his hands like drawn curtains and revealed a face which was shadowed in pain. “My father couldn’t speak,” he explained. “Not real words — animalistic grunts mainly. Mother seemed to understand him quite well, but it was more a question of mental telepathy and familiarity — like knowing when your dog wants to go for a walk or the cat’s thinking of spewing on the carpet.”

  “But he was still your father …”

  “Father,” Dauntsey echoed in a far-away tone. “He was never really a father. He was …” he paused, scouring the bare cell as if seeking somewhere to hide. “Never mind,” he said eventually and veered off on another tack. “They said he was a hero but you’d think he lost us the bloody war the way the locals treated him. No-one ever came to the house, only the postman and delivery boys. I’d sometimes catch them trying to peep in the windows like we were a freak show. I’d throw pebbles at them as they went down the driveway and make howling noises to scare them off — just revenge.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you thought of your father.”

  Dauntsey gave him a hard stare. “He was always very angry.”

  “Wouldn’t you be if someone had blown half of you away?”

  Dauntsey buried his face again.

  “You made the reservations at the Black Horse,” said Bliss eventually, realising that Dauntsey had clammed up.

  “Did I?”

  “That’s what the landlady says.”

  “I must have done then.”

  “You’re playing games again. Yes or no, Jonathon?”

  “Alright. Yes. I made the reservation — so what?”

  Bliss bristled at the other man’s smug arrogance and swung on him viciously. “Come on, Jonathon, stop pissing us about. This isn’t a game of hide and seek. Where’s the body? Where is your father?”

  “What are we, the bad cop now?”

  Forget the decent clothes, thought Bliss, annoyed with himself for allowing Dauntsey to get under his skin. “If that’s the way you want to play it,” he said, then pulled the mangled mounted soldier out of his pocket. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Dauntsey hardly glanced at it. “Inspector, there are times when the dead are best left buried. Digging up old skeletons only causes trouble.”

  “Trouble or not. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

  Jonathon rounded on him. “Well, go and dig up somebody else’s if you don’t mind.”

  He’d had enough. “Are you going to tell us where your father’s body is?” he said, his face an inch from the other man’s.

  “You really don’t need to know, Inspector. I am fully conversant with the law and I can assure you that the absence of a body does not preclude the successful prosecution of a murderer — go right ahead, charge me.”

  Bliss was unprepared for the extent of desolation as he moved through the house. It was much less opulent than he had expected, certainly less than Daphne had led him to believe. Less grand, less stately, less imposing, almost as if it had shrunk with age. He had assumed that Dauntsey may have sold off some of the best pieces, but rectangular splodges of lightness hung on the walls and patterned the floors, poignantly marking the total absence of pictures and furniture. It was, he decided, not unlike visiting a neglected maiden aunt for the first time in years only to discover she’s lost everything — her mind, her looks, her deportment, even her teeth — and has become just a frazzled shell.

  Leaning against the fireplace in the main room he ran his fingers meditatively along the ornately carved mantel, viewed the moulded ceilings and panelled walls, and wondered if they retained memories of the more affluent times in which they had been created. Then he circumnavigated the room, tapping the mahogany panelling, speculating on the possibility of hidden doorways or concealed priest’s holes where a body might lurk.

  Only the huge old-fashioned kitchen displayed evidence of occupation, where a couple of armchairs, a small television and a nest of tables had been drawn up to the black range and a few other pieces of furniture lined the walls.

  Returning to the entrance-hall, Bliss took the grand staircase, marvelling at the turned spindles of the balustrade and the width of the oak rail, but, as he reached th
e upper landing, he paused warily and checked back down the stairs. “Nothing there,” he said to himself, but couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched or followed.

  A corridor stretched before him leading to the rear bedrooms and he strode purposefully forward. Reverberations of his footfalls echoed along the empty corridor and he paused mid-step, listening hard, almost expecting the echoing footsteps to continue, but they stopped. In that moment of deathly silence he felt more afraid than if they had continued and a mysterious energy oppressed him, urging him to get out.

  Pulling himself together, he rounded a corner and walked slap-bang into a shadowy grey figure striding soundlessly toward him — a tall, erect man with fuzzy features, not six feet away. Immobilised by the rising panic, he felt his body tensing, ready to run, but the ghostly figure had also shuddered to a stop and now hovered a foot or so off the floor. Bliss feinted to his right as if making to slip past the spectre but the figure seemingly anticipated his move and went with him. Nanoseconds stretched into hours as his mind threatened to explode under the pressure of trying to fathom the unfathomable, then the clogs clicked into place. “It’s only a dusty mirror,” he breathed with utter relief, but the blood was still coursing through his temples with the beat of a drum.

  Drained of energy, he supported himself against a doorframe, asking: What did you expect? What did you think it was — a ghost? No — not a ghost — a ghostly figure from the past. A man in a Maggie Thatcher mask with a sawn off shotgun — Mandy Richards’ killer. Frowning at his timidity he forced himself forward, telling himself that it was time to move on. You can’t do this. You can’t go through life frightened of every corner, every blind alleyway, every door that creaks open.

  “Guv!”

  He leapt in alarm at the shout.

  “Guv. Are you there?” Patterson’s voice rang out again and he quickly headed back to the landing, steadied himself on the railing and replied in a cracked voice. “Up here.”

  “We’ve got a visitor.”

  Patterson was at the bottom of the staircase with a gnome-like figure — an ancient man with florid cheeks and a matching jacket, doubled over a knurl-headed walking stick. “What’ye after?” puffed the self-appointed guardian.

  “We’re police,” explained Bliss, slipping quickly down the stairs.

  The old man scrutinised them warily, twisting his bent head from side to side to bring them into view. “How da I know you ain’t a couple of burglars?”

  Bliss got his hand halfway to his pocket before realising he still hadn’t picked up his warrant from headquarters. “Show him your warrant card, Sergeant,” he said to Patterson and caught the look of alarm on Patterson’s face that suggested an explanation was called for. “I’m still waiting for the photos,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth then turned to the old man. “You don’t know about the Major then?”

  The old man took a few wheezy breaths, winding himself up for a lengthy reply, then blew out his cheeks. “I live over at Mile-bottom and I ain’t been out fer a day or so — me arfrightuous been playing up wiv the damp.”

  “So what brings you here today?”

  Arnie, as he introduced himself was, according to him, something of a family retainer. An unofficial arrangement that had existed since the death of his father who’d held a more formal position as gardener and general factotum to Colonel Dauntsey. “Me father did everything ’round here,” he explained as they left the house and stood under the cast iron front porch. “Now look at the bleedin’ mess,” he complained, scanning the surroundings and aiming his walking stick at fallen tree after fallen tree as if it were gun. “That lot came down ten years ago in the ’urricane.” He shook his head mournfully. “What a bleedin mess — Me old man planted ’em for the Colonel. The whole place ’as gone to rack an’ ruin,” he concluded, demonstrating his contempt by forcing a few harsh coughs, then he doubled over as a genuine coughing fit took hold.

  “You knew the Colonel?” enquired Bliss when the coughing subsided.

  “An’ ’is boy — that little twerp Rupert,” he snorted noisily.

  “You would know what happened to him in the war then. We understand he was badly wounded.”

  “No more than what ’e deserved, I dare say.”

  Strange reply, thought Bliss. “Why do you say that?”

  “Talkin’ be thirsty work,” Arnie said pointedly, clearing his throat and spitting drily.

  Bliss got the message and checked his watch. “I guess it’s lunchtime, Sergeant,” he said with exaggerated meaning. “Perhaps Arnie would like to join us for a drink.” He paused, looked to the old man for a response and saw the flabby cheeks puff into a toothless smile. “That’s settled then,” he continued without awaiting Patterson’s reply. “We might as well go to the Mitre.”

  “I’ll just ’ave a jar a’ Guinness to start. I enjoys me jar,” said Arnie, his eyes roaming the opulent fixtures of the lounge bar in the hotel.

  Bliss found himself straining to understand the thick country accent devoid of the “h” sound. “Sit down then,” he said, noticing the way the old man was suspiciously eyeing the deeply padded wing chairs, “The sergeant will get the drinks.”

  Arnie wandered a little, gently scuffing the carpet for depth while surreptitiously inspecting his surroundings with the reverent intrigue of someone finding themselves taking tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Apparently satisfied, he cleared his throat, tested the squab of a chair with his stick and lowered himself into it. “I usually drink in the public bar,” he explained, obviously believing an explanation was required.

  The drinks arrived and Bliss kicked off by playing up to Arnie’s obvious dislike of Major Rupert Dauntsey. “I’ve heard Rupert, the Major, was a bit of an idiot. What did he do?”

  “I were at Amiens meself, but we ’eard all ’bout it,” started Arnie, unaware that his moustache of white beer foam made a comical addition to his red nose and florid cheeks. “The Major were a laffin stock, though t’weren’t nuffin to laff ’bout fer the poor blighters unner ’im.”

  “What happened?” asked Bliss barely controlling his mirth at the wizened clown-like face.

  Arnie was in no rush to reach the climax of his account, willing audiences needed as much savouring as a good pint, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his story could run to two or even three pints. Wiping his sleeve across his face, he offered some background information as a filler. “If it ’adn’t bin that ’is old man wuz a Colonel ’e’d ’ave bin canon fodder like t’rest of us,” he said, took a long pull on his drink, then spat, “Toffee nosed little twerp.”

  “So,” started Bliss again, glancing at his watch, “what can you tell us about the Major, or the old Colonel?”

  “A proud man was the Colonel,” Arnie replied, noticeably stiffening his back in respect. “’E were in the life-guards … Paschendale, Ypres, Mons … all the mudbaths. Got gassed in the trenches but wouldn’t come back without ’is men … so they say. But that boy of ’is, Rupert — the Major, were a big disappointment. ’E wuz nowt but a little runt. Failed the h’university they say. The guards wouldn’t ’ave ’im, even with ’is old man being the Colonel and all. So ’e does the next best and joins the Royal ’orse Artillery.” The old man paused for a short cough and lubricated his throat with the remains of his first pint. “Good stuff that,” he said, then stared wistfully at the empty glass until Bliss gave in.

  “Another?”

  Patterson scuttled off to the bar without waiting to be asked and Arnie, considering it respectful to await his return, fussed around with his pipe until the second pint sat in front of him. “It were a little after D-Day when it ’appened,” he continued after a short slurp. “They wuz dug in outside Paris when the Major got the order to retreat — the ’igh command had got wind of a counter attack.” He paused and stared out of the window with glazed eyes as he relieved the horror of war. “Massacred they wuz,” he continued, his gaze, his thoughts and voice all very far
away.

  “Massacred?” echoed Bliss, probing gently.

  Arnie turned from the window, his face suddenly pale, his cheeks sunken. “The Jerries was on ’em in a flash,” he explained. “Damn near wiped ’em out. Only an ’andful got away an’ they wuz all pretty badly shot-up, the Major included.”

  “So they didn’t have a chance to retreat.”

  Arnie flashed him such a dirty look that Bliss realised immediately he had missed the point.

  “’Course they ’ad time to retreat, plenty of bloomin’ time,” he spat. “But the Major was such a prissy-ass ’e weren’t gonna leave the place in a such a state. Didn’t want the bloody Boche accusing ’em of being scruffy so-an-so’s, ’e said. So ’e ’ad all ’is troops running round tidying the place up, even made ’em pick up all the shell casings and put ’em in neat piles.”

  Patterson, who had been stewing in silent contemplation since Dowding’s revelation about Bliss’s registration number, couldn’t contain himself. “You’re joking.”

  Arnie looked offended and crossed himself, saying, “As God is my witness — ’e made ’is men pick up every last bit of rubbish — even filled in the latrines — an’ all the time the Jerries were picking ’em off. Everyone hereabouts knows what ’appened — ask any of ’em. That’s why when ’e come back no-one would ’ave anything to do wiv him, only old Doc Fitzpatrick. An’ rumour ’as it as how the old Doc only treated ’im ’cos ’e went private an’ always paid cash.”

  Bliss cogitated on the ridiculous spectacle of troops tidying up the battlefield under fire and, despite Arnie’s invocation of the Supreme Commander, put it down to the sort of outlandish rumour that would be spread about any unpopular officer. “You’ll have to carry on here,” he said to Patterson, feeling he’d heard enough. “I’ve got some business to attend to in London this afternoon. I’ll be back before nine for the re-enactment.”

  Patterson gave him a jaundiced look then bobbed out of his seat. “I’d better get back to the station,” he said quickly, then mumbled about the need to supervise the house-to-house enquiries.