Missing: Presumed Dead ib-1

by James Hawkins

“They had the reception at the big house,” continued Daphne, the memories flooding back. “I’d never been in there before, I don’t think any of us had. I’d never seen furnishings like it — the sort of things you’d find in a stately home or a museum. Massive ancestral portraits; fig-leaved statues; settees you could hide under; and the carpets — we had linoleum and a lot of people thought we were posh, but the big house had carpets everywhere, even on the walls. Persians and Afghans, although I didn’t know it at the time. Back then I wouldn’t have known a Wilton from a Woolworth’s Boxing Day special. Doreen was flitting around in her new home with the excitement of a bluebottle who’s landed in a dung heap. ‘Look at this!’ she’d scream, or ‘Look at this!’ jumping from one enormous painting to the next, or from one statue to another …” Daphne paused as a smile spread over her face. “I recall one statue, probably a copy of Michelangelo’s David — Oh, there’s another noble David for you — anyway, it didn’t have a fig leaf, and we all giggled and dared each other to touch its thingy …”

  “Did you?” Bliss teased.

  “I think I’ll refuse to answer that question on the grounds I may incriminate myself,” she laughed, then carried on, still with a smile. “You should have seen the food. We’d had five years of rationing, and I’d never seen so much food. There was a huge baron of beef and a mound of smoked salmon — I didn’t know what it was, I’d only heard rumours. And they had a wedding cake — it was real cake! Most people had a measly Victoria sponge stuck under a beautifully iced tin that could be used for any number of weddings, but they had real cake with real cherries and real sultanas. And champagne, not the fizzy sugar water with plastic corks you get at weddings today. Real champagne.” Pausing to pick up the Parisian portrait, she stared into it and sighed wistfully. “Champagne — that was my life at one time. Difficult to imagine it now. La vie en rose. I sometimes wonder if it was real.”

  “Was it real?”

  “Who knows, Chief Inspector?” she replied, laying her head back in the chair, letting her eyes drift over the ceiling as if searching for images of her past. “Maybe I’ve just read too many novels and watched too many movies … Anyway,” she pulled her thoughts back to Major Dauntsey’s wedding day. “The strangest thing was the old Colonel himself. Doreen wasn’t what you would call a good catch in anybody’s book, in fact she had something of a reputation, if you get my meaning, but the Colonel treated her as if she were a princess.”

  “So, she was a sort of Cinderella.”

  Daphne gave herself time to digest the thought along with a forkful of beans. “I would have difficulty imagining Doreen as a Cinderella figure,” she said after careful consideration. “Put it this way: If you try to imagine Cinderella in the nude she always has the naughty bits air-brushed, whereas Doreen Mason … well, from what I can gather, half the boys in the town wouldn’t have needed any imagination.”

  “So what did she see in the Major?”

  “It wasn’t his looks, that’s for sure.”

  “His money?”

  Daphne let her raised eyebrows do the talking.

  “Well, what did he look like?” continued Bliss. “Mrs. Dauntsey didn’t have a photo. I found that a bit strange.”

  “I don’t …” She paused and picked up the wine bottle. “More?” she asked but didn’t wait for a response before pouring. “If Rupert Dauntsey was a bit of a poor specimen before he went to war, when he came back …” she shook her head in sorrow, “I didn’t recognise him — no-one did.” A chill shuddered through her. “Half his face was blown off; he’d lost an arm and the one he was left with wasn’t a lot of use. He looked like a horror movie monster.”

  “Couldn’t they do anything for him — plastic surgery?”

  “Today they could, but not then. It was wartime. Doctors used to pray that men with injuries like his would die quickly, that way they wouldn’t have to face their inadequacies. Can you imagine unwinding the bandages, holding up a mirror and saying, ‘Congratulations, this is your new face — scary isn’t it?’”

  “It must be a bit like seeing a ghost.”

  “Like the one you saw in the churchyard?”

  “Mandy Richards,” he said inwardly, and suddenly found himself falling into a black hole. “Stop! Stop! You’re going to hit something,” he was shouting inside.

  Dark images of the dead young woman were swirling through a dirty fog and he tried telling himself, “There’s nothing there. Stop this! Stop this! You can stop this. Change the picture. Re-focus your mind. It wasn’t your fault.” But he was still racing onwards into the blackness, his heart pounding to keep up, and beads of sweat bursting out of his brow.

  “Is there something the matter, Chief Inspector?” A voice from outside broke through the blue haze. Daphne’s voice.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” he told himself.

  “Are you alright?”

  Alright — Alright. What’s alright? Somebody’s blown Mandy Richard’s heart out with a shotgun — IS THAT ALRIGHT?

  That was eighteen years ago.

  No, it was only yesterday … for her parents; her husband-to-be; her brother; it’s still yesterday. It will always be yesterday. How can you move forward when Mandy can’t? Mandy’s still dead. It’s still a week before her wedding for her. Still the day she went to get her savings out of the bank to pay for her honeymoon. Still the most joyous, expectant day of her life — and still the very last day of her life.

  “Chief Inspector,” a note of serious concern in Daphne’s voice got through the images of Mandy and shook him back to the present.

  “Oh — Sorry. I was miles away,” he said, disentangling himself from the nightmarish memories.

  “I thought you were having a panic attack,” she said, scooping the empty crockery toward her, chattering away as if nothing had happened. “I get them sometimes. Shakes you up a bit. Makes you want to run, but you can’t get away from your own ghosts.”

  “I was just thinking about the Major’s ghost …” he lied again.

  “No — that’s was the old Colonel,” she cut in. “It’s Colonel Dauntsey who’s supposed to ride around the churchyard on his chariot. Some reckon he’s still trying to get back to his regiment. He was invalided out after the first war — chlorine gas poisoning — and some say he was miserable as sin until the second one came along. But when they wouldn’t let him go, he pined. I heard he died soon after Rupert was brought home — suicide some reckon, although it was never proved.

  “Suicide?”

  “So they say,” she said, scuttling into the kitchen with the dirty crockery.

  Still trying to escape the memories of Mandy Richards, Bliss got up and weaved his way around the clutter, mentally apportioning artefacts to Daphne and the Girl Guides as he went. Then he poked behind a tall umbrella stand, thinking — Girl Guides, and came upon a parchment citation in a plain wooden frame.

  “What’s this?” he called.

  She peeked round the door and her face fell. “Oh dear. I meant to put that away.”

  He read from the citation, only half comprehending, “His Majesty King George VI … Order of The British Empire … Miss Ophelia Daphne Lovelace.”

  He looked up. “The O.B.E?” he questioned disbelievingly. “You’ve got the O.B.E.”

  Stepping in front of him she plucked the frame off the wall and slid it behind the sideboard, “Like I said, I should have put it away — I don’t know why I leave it out … silly pride I suppose … It’s nothing really.”

  “Daphne. The O.B.E. is not ‘nothing.’ How did you get it?”

  “You don’t want to hear that,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

  “On the contrary.”

  She hesitated, hovering indecisively by the kitchen door, clearly torn between disclosing her past and fetching the next course. “Like I said,” she said eventually, seeming to plump for disclosure. “I haven’t always been a cleaning lady.”

  “Obviously.”

  She gave hi
m a sharp look. “No, not obviously. Quite a few cleaning ladies have been recognised for their services over the years. Just think of the mess we’d be in without them.

  “You’re avoiding the question, Daphne.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am … I don’t want to appear rude but …” she started to drift into the kitchen, “I’m sure you understand.”

  He didn’t understand, had no idea why someone with such an important honour should be reluctant to discuss it, but she forestalled further questioning with a call from the kitchen.

  “Treacle sponge and custard alright for desert?” she enquired breezily, letting him know that the subject of the O.B.E. was closed. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve enjoyed having someone to cook for,” she continued, bustling in with a silver tray, not waiting for his reply. “As you get older, you realise why people go through all the trouble of having children,” setting down the tray and not giving him a chance to resurrect the question of the award. “Treacle pudding for one just isn’t worth the effort, and those tinned things are awful.”

  Happy childhood memories flooded back as Bliss surveyed the steaming little mountain of sponge with liquid gold dribbling down its sides. “You don’t have children then?”

  Daphne took on a puzzled look as if the birth of a child was something that had to be calculated. “I lost the only one I had.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh no, it’s not quite what you think,” she said, getting quickly up from the table and making a dash back to the kitchen, muttering that she had forgotten the custard.

  “Were you married?” he asked on her return.

  “I’d better put the coffee on,” she said, hurriedly slipping back out. “Not every story has a happy ending, Chief Inspector,” she called from the emotional safety of the kitchen. “He wasn’t what you would call a good man.”

  “And there was no one else?”

  She was back, shaking her head, “If you don’t learn from experience, how do you learn?”

  The splash of a car’s headlights fell across the dining room window as they finished the coffee a little later.

  “I wonder who that could be?” she said, stretching to peer past him out of the window.

  “I’d better be going — it’s late,” he said, pushing back his chair.

  “Would you come again tomorrow evening?”

  “I can’t,” he started, saw the instant look of dismay on her face, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’d love to really, the dinner was wonderful and I’ve enjoyed your company, but I have to go up to London in the afternoon to pick up a few things and see a man about a dog — a horse to be exact. I’ll be back on Wednesday morning.”

  “Wednesday evening then.”

  “Alright — as long as nothing crops up. But only if you let me take you out to dinner one night — somewhere really posh, we could even have champagne.”

  Her eyes flashed with excitement, “Would you?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “That would be wonderful. I’ve got an outfit picked out already.”

  Chapter Four

  “Psst … Psst,” Detective Sergeant Patterson hissed at D.C. Dowding, catching his attention as he sauntered in the back door of the police station early Tuesday morning. “Loo,” he mouthed, steering him into the lower-rank’s toilets.

  “What’s up, Serg?”

  “Do me a favour,” Patterson started with a degree of sanguinity, opening his fly, aiming at the urinal and handing a note over his shoulder. “Find out who this motor’s registered to.”

  Dowding took the proffered scrap and glanced at the typewritten number. “Sure, Serg — no problem. Whose is it?”

  Patterson shot him a puzzled look. “I worry about you at times, Dowding. I wouldn’t be asking you to find out if I knew would I?”

  “No, Serg. Sorry.”

  “Thanks,” said Patterson walking away shaking his head.

  “Hang on, Serg. You haven’t told me which case this is.”

  “No, I haven’t, have I?” he replied, still walking, opening the door. “Use yer loaf, lad — make one up.”

  Dowding stared at the registration number on the scrap of paper thinking it seemed familiar. “You’ve gotta give me some idea, Serg.”

  “Know thine enemy, Dowding,” said Patterson darkly, “know thine enemy,” letting the door slam on its spring behind him.

  Patterson was back at his desk in the C.I.D. office when D.I. Bliss walked in. “G’morning, Guv,” he called cheerfully, “What d’ye think of The Mitre?’

  “Good morning, Pat — It’s alright. Any news on the body?”

  Patterson screwed up his nose and gave his head a quick shake. “What’s the grub like? I hear they do a good dinner.”

  Bliss was mentally moving ahead and shrugged off the enquiry. “It’s O.K. — I want a full briefing this morning at ten: all C.I.D personnel; dog-handlers; search commanders and scenes of crime boys.”

  “Done,” said Patterson scribbling haphazardly on a note-pad.

  “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when you’ve arranged it.”

  “It’s already arranged,” grinned Patterson exposing protruding gums along with a mouthful of tobacco tinged teeth, more like a snarl than a smile, and leaving Bliss mentally betting that he wouldn’t be able to cram them all back into his mouth.

  “Oh.”

  The sergeant patted himself on the back. “I guessed you’d want a strategy session so I put out an order first thing.” He left the implication “Before you got out of your pit” unspoken.

  “Thanks.”

  “So how is Daphne?” fished Patterson.

  “Daphne?” questioned Bliss, as if her name needed clarification.

  Patterson obliged. “Yeah. Daphne. The cleaning lady.” Then he sat back, eyebrows raised questioningly, and left Bliss to wriggle.

  What’s he driving at? wondered Bliss. Why not simply confess to having dinner with her? But something in Patterson’s tone held him back, a certain superciliousness — the tone of a blackmailer — hinting: “I know something about you that you wouldn’t want broadcast.”

  Bliss let the silence build — though not intentionally, and was still deciding whether or not to reveal his visit to Daphne’s for dinner when Patterson let him off the hook. “Dowding says she bummed a ride to the churchyard yesterday.”

  “Oh yes — I’d forgotten.”

  “How old d’ye think she is, Guv?”

  Bliss, feeling the stab of yet another barb, gave him a hard stare — He’s not suggesting there’s something going on between us is he? “I suppose she’s my mother’s age — sixties, sixty-five maybe,” he replied, feigning total disinterest in Daphne as he casually rooted through the morning’s sheaf of crime reports.

  “Ugh — I bet she’s nearer seventy-five, Guv,” he said somewhat scornfully.

  “How come she’s still working?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “I am,” said Bliss, putting down the reports and giving Patterson critical attention.

  Clasping his hands behind his head, the sergeant thrust out his legs and stretched back in his chair. “They’ve tried to get rid of her several times. Last year they gave her a retirement party — dinner, bouquet, carriage clock — the works. Next day she comes in regular as All-Bran, plonks the clock on the Chief’s desk and says, “I won’t be needing this for a while, Sir.” He paused for a chuckle, all gums and teeth, then carried on. “They even stopped paying her at one time. She didn’t care — didn’t even know for a few months. They had to tell her in the end. “Never mind,” she says,

  “Give it to the widow’s and orphan’s fund.”

  “She seems harmless enough,” said Bliss feeling a defence, was called for. “What do you think?”

  Patterson, needing time to consider, leant forward to pick up his coffee. “She a nosey old bat really. Not that I mind personally speaking — bit of entertainment. Though some of the youngsters don’t like it ’cos
she knows so much of what goes on around here. I remember one case …” he slurped some coffee as he tried to assemble the facts, gave up, and generalised. ‘This’ll be a tricky one,’ I said once, and Daph overheard. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘Old so-and-so did it.’ ‘How the hell do you work that out?’ I said. ‘Because his father did exactly the same back in 1937,’ she said. And d’ye know,” he laughed, “She was absolutely right.”

  Bliss slid into the chair opposite Patterson and gave him something to think about. “Did I hear she’s got some sort of title?”

  “Title?” he queried, “Like ‘Lady’ — Oh yeah,” he scoffed, “I can just see it — Lady Daphne Lovelace — society dame and shithouse cleaner.”

  “No. I was thinking more along the lines of a C.B.E., or O.B.E.?”

  A mouthful of coffee splattered across the desk as Patterson exploded in laughter, “The O.B.E. Our Daphne — you are joking, Guv?”

  “Shush — she obviously doesn’t broadcast it, but no, I’m quite serious.”

  “Did she tell you that?” he queried, but didn’t wait for a response. “I reckon she’s having you on. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s got a bit of an imagination — I mean, that story about crop circles and UFO’s …”

  “Possibly,” said Bliss thoughtfully.

  “Possibly my foot. I’d bet my pension on it.”

  “You’re probably right. It was just something I overheard. I probably got it wrong.”

  “I would say so — Daphne — O.B.E.,” he guffawed.

  Bliss laughed along with him.

  “The Major’s body?” enquired Donaldson, with more than a trace of hope, as Bliss stuck his head into the chief superintendent’s office a few minutes later. Bliss strolled in, sat heavily and gave his head a negative shake.

  The senior officer took on a crestfallen look. “Shit, I knew I should have called in the Major Incident Unit … Oh,” his face brightened, “I guess that’s a pun … Major Incident — searching for a major.”

  “Very funny,” said Bliss noticing that the packet of chocolate digestives had taken a serious mauling since the previous day. “May I?” he asked rhetorically, reaching out for one of the last two.