Missing: Presumed Dead ib-1

by James Hawkins

  What is this? he asked himself. A competition? My ghosts are more frightful than yours. Would it make her feel better? Would it make me feel better?

  What would she say? One look at her sorry face gave him the answer: You’ll never escape completely.

  A wooden cuckoo popped out of a clock and jump started the time.

  “So, I suppose you’re gearing up for the auction tomorrow,” he said, enthusiastically digging into his gateau.

  Chapter Ten

  The driver of the blue Volvo shrank quickly out of sight as Bliss drove past on his way up the quiet street to deliver Daphne home.

  “I can manage,” Daphne said, as he started to get out to escort her to the door. Ignoring her, he opened the gate and accompanied her up the front path, waited while she flicked on the light and turned the key, then brushed her cheek with a chaste kiss.

  “Ooh, Chief Inspector,” she giggled.

  “Thank you, Daphne,” he said with a depth of meaning way beyond her comprehension. Thank you for your courage, your sacrifice, your modesty. Thank you for making me realise the insignificance of my fears.

  “No … Thank you, Chief Inspector,” she replied, letting herself in. “And I hope I didn’t spoil your evening,”

  “I learnt a great deal,” he said, heading back to the car and driving off without noticing the Volvo — too many other considerations occupying his mind, too many plans to make, too many demons to slay.

  He had intended returning to the Mitre and set off in that direction, but fate snatched the wheel out of his hands and spun him around in a U-turn, leaving the driver of the following Volvo no choice but to dive for cover up a side street. By the time he re-emerged, Bliss had gone — speeding recklessly down dark narrow lanes, inspiration weighing his foot on the accelerator, feeling that, if he drove fast enough, he might somehow break through the time barrier and go back eighteen years. But if he could go back to the bank and fall dead in place of Mandy — would he?

  The road became a switchback as he raced headlong into the night and he allowed the car to choose its own path — tearing through villages, laughing at speed limits and screeching at corners. Deep down he knew where he was headed and he finally knew he had run out of road when the tyres scrunched on the sand-swept tarmac of a beach-side car park. The English Channel lay ahead, and, beyond the narrow choppy sea, France.

  Two cars, sinisterly dark, sat at either end of the car park and his first instinct was to seek somewhere more solitary, more remote for his deliberations, but, as he rolled to a stop, his lights picked up a flurry of activity on the beach and two figures scurried in opposite directions. Twenty seconds later the two cars burst simultaneously to life and crept away into the night without lights. “Oops,” he said to himself, but isn’t that the thrill of adultery — the risk of being caught.

  The beach turned inky black as he switched off his lights and cut the engine, then gradually came back to life as his eyes and ears acclimatised, and he sank in his seat, exhausted, letting the gentle swishing of the surf wash over him and erase his stress. Ahead, over the ocean, a couple of hazy lights flickered hypnotically and held his attention, then an armada of grey shadows steamed sluggishly out of the mist and rolled over him. He fought off the drowsiness for a few seconds, swimming back to consciousness a couple of times before surrendering to the waves.

  A thousand battleships drifted slowly out of the haze and sailed through his mind as he floated weightlessly on the sea. Above him, the deck rails of the silent ships were lined by grey lifeless men — men with faces pulled gaunt by fear. Silent men, immobile men, dead men. Men who had beaten the bullet and found death before it had found them. Wasn’t it easier that way — less painful for all concerned. Wasn’t it better that each sombre faced man had already accepted his destiny and said his last goodbye. “Don’t worry — I’ll make it back,” he would have said with a forced smile, his own obituary already written and in his pocket ready for the burial party to find. “My Dearest One — I expect you’ve heard the bad news by now …” or, more often, “Dear Mum and Dad …”

  Where were the happy cheering hordes that filled the Pathe newsreels at the Saturday Matinee? Where were the happy-go-lucky Yanks, Canucks and Aussies who always had a kitbag on one arm and a girl on the other as they headed for the gangplanks?

  Endless fleets of ships with countless dead-pan faces sailed by and disappeared slowly over the dark horizon, then he slipped beneath the black oily surface; exhaustion dragging him deeper than dreams, beyond the depths of even the darkest nightmares.

  An hour later the cold sea-breeze bit into his bones, rousing him sufficiently to fire up the engine and turn on the heater. Waves of warmth soon lulled him back to sleep and he picked up the dream as Daphne, (or maybe it was Mandy), rode a bicycle up a sun-soaked beach at the head of a column of dead men. Daphne — surely it was Daphne — enthusiastically waved her frilly knickers in the air, and in her basket, the wicker basket slung on the handlebars, was a skull — a grotesque skull, a skull with bulging eyes and a gaping fleshless mouth shouting encouragement.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” The staccato rattle of automatic fire burst through the dream. Margaret Thatcher with a machine gun leapt out of the scrub firing from the hip.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Daphne crashed off the bike, blood pumping out of her chest, her skirt up around her waist, her knickers still in her hand — still waving.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” The Major’s skull, still screaming orders, rolled along the beach.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Bliss cringed as a searchlight picked him out and Margaret Thatcher turned the machine gun in his direction.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” Get down — get down. I can’t, Daphne’s behind me.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Sir … Are you alright?”

  The searchlight beat into his brain and Margaret Thatcher faded in its glare.

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Open the door.”

  “Rat-ta-ta-tat.” “Open the door, Sir, or I’ll have to force it.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Police — Open the door, Sir, and turn off the ignition please.”

  A few seconds later the policewoman eyed both him and his newly issued warrant card carefully, while he eyed her. Low forties, he estimated; jet-black hair; dark eyes with a hint of the orient; a complexion with a touch of Mediterranean warmth; and a trace of smile not entirely masked by her official face.

  “Detective Inspector Bliss …” She queried suspiciously, inviting him to jog her memory. “I can’t say I remember you, Sir.”

  “Ex — Met,” he explained. “Look at the date on the card. I only transferred last week.”

  She looked. “Oh I see — that explains it. Well, I’m sorry to disturb you … ” then she wavered. “Are you sure everything’s alright, Sir?”

  “Just tired.” Tired of running; tired of hiding.

  “You should go home then.”

  “Yes — I will, Miss. Thanks.”

  Go home, he thought, as she crunched noisily back to her car across the sand-strewn car park, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, as soon as I’ve cleared up the case of the dead Major.

  And what about Mandy’s murderer?

  What about him? He pulled the trigger on Mandy and her baby — not me. He’s the one who should feel guilty — not me. For the past year I’ve been scared shitless by a two-bit hoodlum …

  Where the hell did that come from?

  I’ve been watching too many American movies. What else was there to do in the safe house — six months solitary in a video library.

  Anyway, don’t change the subject, he’s been killing you — strangling you with fear — you’re no more alive than a soldier going to war with his obituary in his pocket. Take control — take a leaf out of Daphne’s book — pedal through life waving your knickers in the air.

  “Sir?”

  He leapt out of his thoughts. “Oh! You made me jump.”

  It was the policewoman again. “Sorry,
Sir, only there’s a couple of messages waiting for you at Westchester station, if you’d like to give them a call.”

  “How d’ye know …” he began, then smiled, “So — you checked me out then?”

  “Umm …”

  “That’s O.K. — Absolutely right in fact. I would have done exactly the same thing. You can’t be too careful nowadays … what’s your name by the way?”

  “Sergeant Holingsworth, Sir.”

  “Sergeant?” he said teasingly. “Funny name for a girl.”

  “It’s Samantha, Sir.”

  “My daughter’s Samantha …” he began, then asked, concernedly. “Are you on your own?”

  “This isn’t London, Sir. Anyway, I’m a Sergeant — obviously there are some places I wouldn’t go without back-up, but …”

  “Here … get in a minute,” he said opening the passenger door. “It’s chilly with the window open.”

  The graveyard shift, he thought as she walked round the back of the car, recalling his years as a uniformed constable when he’d been glad of almost anyone’s company to help pass the night.

  “Thanks,” she replied slipping in beside him. “I’m on suicide patrol — this is a favourite place along here,” she continued, wiping a patch of fog off the windscreen and sweeping her eyes along the dark beach as if expecting to discover a body. “We usually find the car in the morning, a pile of clothes, an empty pill bottle and a note. The corpse washes ashore in a day or so when the crabs and dogfish have chewed off a few bits. The sea gulls usually get the eyes once the body’s on the beach. We’ve had half a dozen this year already — not good for the tourist trade.”

  “I’m working on the murder over at Westchester,” said Bliss as if to reassure her she wasn’t the only one dealing with gruesome scenes.

  “The old Major?”

  “The very old Major as it turned out.”

  “I heard — been dead for years they say.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You can,” she laughed. “But I’ll warn you, the last inspector who said that to me in a parked car ended up with a slapped face.”

  “No. It’s nothing like that. I just wanted to know if you’ve ever believed something that you later realised wasn’t true.”

  She laughed again, “Like all the slime-bags who’ve put on a soppy voice and said, ‘I love you, Samantha — of course I’ll leave my wife.’”

  “That’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Of being a W.P.C.?”

  “No. Of being a woman.”

  “I never thought of my gender as an occupation, Inspector.”

  “Please — It’s Dave. At half-past three in the morning nobody can cling to a rank with any dignity … and don’t get huffy. A lot of women make careers out of being useless. ‘I can’t do this … can’t touch that … I’ll be sick …’ They say it in a girlish little voice and all the blokes go running. ‘Oh let me do that for you.’”

  “I know the type. We’ve got a few,” she admitted.

  “I meant — have you ever been convinced of something so fully, so absolutely, that when it unravels and you see the truth it leaves you totally gob-smacked.”

  “I believed in Santa Claus when I was a kid …” she began, but he cut her off.

  “That’s not the same — every child believes in Santa Claus, even those who never get anything at Christmas still cling to the belief for as long as they can.”

  “But I still believed when I was about ten — my friends called me crazy, but I suppose I didn’t want to believe my parents would lie to me. So — why did you ask?”

  “I did something a long time ago that went pear-shaped …”

  “Pear-shaped?” she laughed questioningly.

  “Yeah. It should have been as round and translucent as a crystal ball, but it got warped out of shape … Anyway, last night an incredible old lady, with more guts than I’ll ever have, made me realise that what I did was the right thing.”

  “So you’ve been blaming yourself.”

  “That’s very astute of you.”

  “And why did you blame yourself?

  “I suppose I confused regret with remorse.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes passing telepathic messages — shall I tell you; if you want to; I want to; then tell me; I don’t know if I should.

  “Are you going to tell me?” she asked eventually, knowing that he would, that he was only waiting to be asked.

  Thinking about it afterwards he realised there were many reasons why he had told her about Mandy’s murder after concealing it from so many others. Cocooned in the dark and comfortable car he’d felt secure; Samantha had a warm persuasive voice and she had filled the car with the clean scent of pure shampoo and honest soap — nothing fancy or expensive. The sort of woman you could trust, he thought.

  “I can’t understand why you ever blamed yourself — I think you were very brave,” she said, after he described the imbroglio in the bank.

  “It was nothing … ” he began, then quickly switched subjects, conscious he had not told her about Mandy’s pregnancy, nor the fact that he was being stalked by the killer. “What does your husband think of you working nights?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Oh,” he said, confused, “I noticed the ring.”

  “This?” she said, deftly slipping it off. “Just a curtain ring, it saves having to fight off a bar-full of drunks — they all want to marry me — so they say. ‘I’ll get my husband onto you,’ I tell ’em. It usually works.”

  “That’s the trouble with pubs.”

  “Actually,” she laughed, “I was talking about the blokes in the police canteen. What about you, Dave — married?”

  “Nope.”

  “Let’s have a look then,” she said, grabbing his left hand off the wheel and holding it against the faintly luminous dashboard. “Well there’s no ring mark, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You don’t believe me,” he protested, aware she still had a tender hold on his hand.

  “I’ve been shafted by married men too many times,” she said. They both laughed. “I didn’t mean that …” she cried, letting go and giving him the friendliest of nudges.

  “I know what you meant. Anyway, believe it or not, I’m not married.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Correct.”

  “And she got pissed off with the screwy hours; the week-ends; nights; bank-holidays …”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Why d’ye think I’m still single — how many spouses will put up with it?”

  “My ex-wife used to tell people she’d been widowed by a murderer — I suppose it wasn’t entirely untrue — Anyway, I got some very funny looks from one or two people. ‘Are you Sarah’s second husband?’ one snooty woman asked, her eyes sort of scrunched in confusion. ‘No, I’m her lover,’ I said, straight-faced. Sarah was furious.”

  An hour passed in no time: the wonders of London; the horrors of the country; the horrors of London; the wonders of the country.

  “I’d best be going,” Samantha said eventually. “I’d better make sure there’s no frightful sights awaiting the grockles.”

  “Grockles?” he questioned.

  “Foreigners; out-of-towners; holidaymakers,” she explained. “It’s a local nickname.”

  “Like me …” he began, then paused, struck by a thought. “I’ve just realised why you looked so concerned when you couldn’t wake me. You thought I was …”

  “Dead,” he was going to say but she was ahead of his thoughts. “Well it happens. I’ve come across a couple of people who’ve swallowed a bottle of tablets and sat in the car waiting for them to start taking effect before braving the water. They doze off and … Anyway,” she said, getting out of the car. “Thank goodness you weren’t dead.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” he muttered and was grateful that she didn’t hear as she shut the door. “Goodnight, Samantha,” he called, winding his w
indow down.

  “Good morning,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the bright patch above the eastern horizon. And as he looked at her, framed in early dawn light, he found a most pleasing shape.

  It wasn’t until she was opening the door of her police car that he managed to get his mind in gear. “Samantha,” he called, with only a second to spare.

  She looked back with a smile. “Yes?”

  “Would you have dinner with me one night?”

  “Maybe — try giving me a call. But I’ll warn you now — I work dreadful hours.”

  Watching her drive away he questioned his motives. Just dinner, he said to himself. Don’t get involved with someone in the job — too many problems. She was certainly good looking. Wake up, Dave — most women look good at this time of night. Maybe a quick dip in the sea will cool you off and freshen you up — your trunks and towel are in one of the suitcases in the back.

  A chilly blast of ozone laden air shocked him to life as he opened the car door. That’ll do, he thought, quickly slamming it shut and starting the engine, then he had to get out and scurry to a convenient bush for a morning pee.

  Detective Sergeant Patterson was already in the office at Westchester police station when Bliss phoned at six-fifteen. “He’s here somewhere,” said the night telephonist. “I saw him come in.” He was there — ferreting through the papers on Bliss’s desk and digging through his drawers.

  “I’ve put out a call for him, he’s not in his office,” continued the telephonist, but there’s a message here for you. A reporter from the Westchester Gazette was trying to get hold of you last evening — wants you to call him about the Dauntsey case.”

  “Tell him to go through the press office.”

  “I did, Sir, but he was quite insistent that he wanted to speak to you personally.”

  “Did he have my name?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Shit.”

  “Sorry, Sir — did you say something?”

  “No, I sneezed. Did he leave a number?”

  Giving him the number she finished by saying, “I’ve got D.S. Patterson now, Sir, I’ll transfer you.”

  “Where are you, Guv?” queried Patterson coming on the line.