Missing: Presumed Dead ib-1

by James Hawkins

  “I want to buy them … What murdered man? I don’t know anything about that. I just want to buy the Horse Artillery set, there’s nothing sinister in that.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? You want to buy it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you expect me to believe that you were prepared to offer me a thousand pounds and drive all the way down here at some ungodly hour for a few bits of old lead.”

  “Yes. I do expect you to believe me. That ‘old lead,’ as you call it, happens to be fine miniature replicas …”

  “They’re just kids toys …” he cut in, then paused. “Hold on a minute — How much?”

  “I don’t see how that concerns you.”

  “Oh, I see. You won’t tell me in case I get the idea I can make more than a thousand if I buy them myself. But, wait a minute …” Bliss tilted his head and scratched his chin. “If you’re prepared to offer me a thousand, they must be worth a fair bit more than that.”

  “Not without the major,” replied Marshall with a note of triumph. “And you don’t have the major, not in recognisable form.”

  True on both counts, thought Bliss, looking at him askance, still wondering if he knew more about the soldiers than the value. “And you do have a major, I suppose?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact I do. I have a single major.”

  “But that’s all you’ve got,” Bliss guessed. “And I’ve got the rest of the set.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me, Inspector?”

  Bliss laughed, “Far from it. I’m trying to protect the assets of a dying old lady, though I’m not sure she deserves to be protected. Anyway, stop beating about the bush — how much?”

  Marshall put on his military haughtiness. “The last set to come on the market sold for more than twelve thousand pounds.”

  “Phew! — Twelve thousand quid for a toy.”

  “Not a toy, Inspector. Assuming your identification is correct, only the fifth set of its kind known to be in existence in the world today — a rare find indeed.”

  Bliss was still shaking his head, “Twelve thousand …”

  “That was a few years ago. Today, in a New York auction room, it could easily sell for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  The phone rang, it was a woman — unwilling to leave her name, according to the telephonist. “Tell her to call back … ” he started, then thinking — hoping — it might be Samantha, he politely ushered Marshall out of the office and took the call.

  The voice was muffled and indistinct — Samantha with pneumonia he was thinking — then he realised it was not her, it was Doreen Dauntsey, her voice cracking emotionally, “I believe you wanted to see me, Inspector.”

  “Yes — that’s correct,” he replied. “This morning please,” he added, leaving little room for dissension.

  “I shall be waiting for you,” she said, her voice laden with resignation.

  Sergeant Patterson was on the warpath over the goat and had by-passed the chain of command to take his complaint straight to the top. “Superintendent Donaldson wants to see you,” he said to Bliss, spying him and Peter Marshall on their way to the evidence store.

  “Tell him I’ll be half an hour, Pat, would you please.”

  “He said it was very urgent,” said Patterson, emphasising the “very.”

  “Sorry about this,” apologised Bliss, leaving Marshall dancing in anticipation in the public waiting room.

  He found Donaldson in his office furiously spinning a gyroscope. “What the hell’s going on, Dave?”

  “Sir?”

  “What’s this nonsense about you keeping a goat in the cells?”

  Bliss smiled and tried to make light of it. “Don’t tell me it’s crapped on the floor.”

  “We’re going to have to fumigate the whole place,” he complained, whipping the little silver gyroscope again.

  “What?” Bliss screwed his nose in confusion. “Wait a minute, Guv. Is somebody winding you up? Has someone told you it’s a real goat — a live goat?”

  “No — I know what it is,” he shouted. “It’s stuffed — and so will you be if you don’t get it out of there PDQ.”

  Bliss’s confusion deepened. “I’m sorry but I don’t see the problem, Guv.”

  “You don’t, eh! Well, what about Standing Orders?” He grabbed the huge book of rules and stabbed a finger at the open page — the page Patterson had found for him. “It says here,” he read, “‘Whenever a dead animal has been stored or conveyed on police premises, such premises, (or conveyance), shall be thoroughly cleansed by way of fumigation before any further use is made of such premises, (or conveyance).’”

  “But it was nothing to do with me, Sir …”

  “I understood it was your goat.”

  Bliss conceded the point. “But it’s been dead for ages.”

  “All the more reason I would say.”

  With both Marshall and Doreen Dauntsey waiting, he decided against arguing the point further. “I’ll put it in the garage as soon as I have a minute.”

  “I doubt if there’s room,” gloated Donaldson, not concealing the fact he was being deliberately obstructive.

  “It’s a goat not a woolly mammoth,” he said stomping out.

  “Well, you’d better get it moved right now,” Donaldson yelled after him. “I don’t want any more complaints, and you might have to pay for the fumigation as well.”

  The goat seemed to have put on weight as he half carried, half dragged it, across the car park to the garage, cursing Daphne at every step. I shall have to get a pick-up to take it away, he was thinking as he rammed the old animal into a convenient corner.

  “You can’t leave that there,” called a gangly youth in a mechanic’s overall.

  “Do you want a bet?” me mumbled walking away.

  “Oy. I said …”

  Bliss tuned him out and set his sights on Daphne who was emptying her vacuum cleaner into a garbage bin.

  “I want to talk to you about that damn goat …” he barked but she dropped the cleaner in disgust and turned on him.

  “It’s going to take me all day to disinfect that cell. And have you seen all that hair? It’s shedding faster than a cheap paintbrush.”

  Bliss stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”

  “I said there’s hair everywhere, look at your suit — you’re covered.”

  He looked, then grabbed her and kissed her wetly on the forehead. “You’re a whiz, Daph old girl.”

  “Here, less of the old.”

  “Sorry,” he said, rushing off along the corridor.

  Detective Sergeant Patterson was shooting the breeze in the C.I.D. office when Bliss burst in.

  “Yes, Guv?” he queried, as if Bliss had blundered into the women’s toilets by mistake.

  “The duvet in the Dauntsey case, Pat — did we have it checked for hair?”

  “Not yet — we ain’t got any suspects, so there’s not much point.”

  “Do it anyway, will you please?”

  “Why?”

  “Just a hunch — at least we’ll know if we’re looking for a white-haired old faggot, or a purple haired pansy with a ring in his nose.”

  Patterson looked unconvinced and said so, “Waste of bloody time if you ask me.”

  “I’m not asking, Sergeant. Now have we got the results from the lab on that syringe yet?”

  “Not yet, Guv,” he said. “It’ll take a week or so at least,” thinking it might take considerably longer if he didn’t get round to sending it.

  “Well get onto them — I want it yesterday — understood?”

  “Will do, Guv,” he said, and slid lethargically back in his chair. “Anything you say, Guv. You’re the boss.”

  “Thank you,” muttered Bliss as he left, adding, “Now to make a modeler’s day.”

  The Royal Horse Artillery gun carriage set, complete with original box, had not made Marshall’s day, or his week — it had been the moment he’d waited for most of his life.
“He was bawling like a kid,” Bliss explained excitedly to a barely interested Donaldson half an hour later. “He stood with one of the tiny horseman in his hands, eyes closed, quivering in delight — like he was having an orgasm — then these tears started pouring down his cheeks.”

  “Humph,” grunted Donaldson as he helped himself to a biscuit from a packet concealed under his desk.

  “Anyway, Guv, it seems that Major Dauntsey left quite a legacy — one of the rarest sets of model soldiers in the world.”

  “So where does that leave us with the murder, Inspector?” he asked coldly, and Bliss heard the snap of the biscuit under the desk as Donaldson prepared for his departure.

  “Nothing changes. In fact I’m just off to see Doreen Dauntsey — she called saying she wanted to talk to me. With any luck, I’ll have the Major’s case sewn up in an hour or so.”

  “And Jonathon?”

  “Patterson’s working on that at the moment.”

  “Right — And have you got rid of the goat?”

  “I’m working on that.”

  He could have left for the nursing home immediately, but he hesitated at the front door and decided that he should take a copy of the pathologist’s report with him — after all he was going to officially notify a woman of her widowhood. Returning to his office he flicked on his computer to pull up the report, then slumped as the blood drained from his face and his legs gave way.

  In a daze, he picked up the phone, dialled Samantha’s number, then found himself wondering why.

  “Samantha … is that you?” he squeaked as she came on the line.

  “Dave, are you alright? You sound dreadful.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were O.K.”

  “Just a sniffle — all I needed was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Thanks for asking.”

  “Oh good — I’m glad.”

  “Dave — there is something the matter, I can sense it.”

  “Remind me never to lie to you. Can you meet me tonight? … It’s rather important, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, of course — I finish at ten but we could meet earlier …”

  “No, ten’s fine …” he said, quickly adding, “But don’t come here. Meet me at the beach again.”

  “Alright …” she replied inquisitivel, “I will, but something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll explain later,” he said, slowly putting the phone down, and he sat mesmerised by the words on the computer screen in front of him.

  “Your time is up — BANG! — Ha-ha-ha.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Samantha Holingsworth waited with uneasy anticipation at the beach-side car park as arranged, and was surprised to spy Bliss’s lonely shadow skulking along the beach in front of her.

  “Over here, Dave,” she shouted, assuming he’d missed her in the gloom, and he froze, like startled prey, silhouetted against the grey ocean and star-peppered sky.

  “Here, Dave,” she tried again, leaning out of the car window, and he straightened up and oriented himself toward her.

  They sat in her car for a while, their conversation stilted by his anxieties sitting between them like an ugly little creature with halitosis.

  “So, how are you?”

  “Fine … and you?” The creature’s presence kept them to niceties … the weather … his hotel … her car…

  “Very smart,” he said, meaning, “Wow!”

  “Where’s your car?” Samantha asked, craning around.

  “Further up the beach,” he said, without explanation.

  And so it had continued: … movies seen … books read … Daphne’s dinner … the weather again.

  “It was really warm today.”

  “It’s still warm now.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Dave,” she exploded, unable to stand the suspense any longer. “Are you going to tell me why you needed to see me so urgently or not?”

  He was having second thoughts — had been having second thoughts all afternoon — second thoughts from the moment he and Superintendent Donaldson had rushed back to his office to find the threatening message had evaporated from the computer screen.

  “It was here,” breathed Bliss, “I swear it was here.”

  You are going mad, he had told himself, searching the screen frantically, seeking some trace of the message — anything — even a single lingering pixel.

  Donaldson laid a kindly hand on his arm. “Dave — you’ve been under a lot of stress …”

  “Don’t give me that psycho babble, Guv,” he spat, wrenching his arm away. “I know what I saw … It was here. It said …” he paused and buried his head in his hands. “It said … ‘Ha, ha, Bang — you’re dead,’ or something like that, I swear it did.”

  “Well where is it now?”

  Looking up, blankly, he caught the superintendent unawares and saw his face pinched in scepticism. And behind the perplexed frown creasing his brow his mind was an open book. “First he buys a flea-ridden goat — Now this — What next?”

  “Forget it, Guv.”

  “What do you mean — forget it. Forget what?”

  “I know what you’re thinking — please forget I mentioned it.”

  “I can’t do that, Dave …” his voice trailed off.

  “Why not? … Oh. I get it,” he said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Silly me. Of course you can’t forget it — You’ve been told to keep an eye on me, haven’t you?”

  “Dave …”

  “No — it’s alright, Guv, you needn’t give me the bullshit. I should’ve guessed. Transferring me here had nothing to do with the threats, did it? Somebody upstairs thought it would be a good idea to tuck me away in some godforsaken hole where I couldn’t do a lot of damage; where it would be easy to keep an eye on me — Didn’t they?”

  Donaldson, caught off guard, mumbled something in the way of a platitude but Bliss’s mind was elsewhere, recalling the sceptical stares of his London colleagues, together with their insidious whispers: “Maybe his nerve’s gone; maybe his mind’s gone; maybe he wrote those letters and made those phone calls himself.” … “Why would he do that?” … “Guilt of course, for causing Mandy’s death,” or, as the more cynical had suggested, “He’s angling for a whacking compensation package and early retirement.”

  As Bliss shook off old memories and brought himself back to the present, Donaldson, conscious of his own red-face, was still scrambling to placate him. “It’s not like that, Dave, honestly. People are very concerned about you that’s all.”

  “Concerned,” mused Bliss. Concerned about the reputation of the force and their own necks most likely; concerned that a rogue cop with a mental problem might rock the boat; concerned that if — and it was only “if” — if the murderer were hell-bent on revenge, an innocent bystander could be caught in the crossfire.

  “Dave,” continued Donaldson seriously, “I’m not disputing what you’re saying — I just wonder how on earth he could have got in here.”

  “He got into my bank accounts and cleaned them out …” he started, then his voice petered out as he remembered the snide suggestion from the investigating officer at the time, that maybe he’d done that himself as well, stashing away a nice little nest egg while expecting the force and the bank to club together to make up the loss — as in fact they had done.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea how he got in, Guv, all I know is he did.”

  “Have you the slightest intention of telling me what’s going on?” asked Samantha tetchily, still awaiting some response as he stared dejectedly out to sea. “Dave … are you listening to me?”

  “Sorry,” he said pulling himself out of the trance.

  “I said — Are you going to tell me why you dragged me out here after a hard day’s work?”

  He wanted to explain, but couldn’t get his mouth working as his thoughts went back to the computerised death threat and reminded him of the bombing. “Thank God for the bomb,” he remembered saying when it had happened, at
a time when conversations withered whenever he walked into a room. At least the bomb had silenced the most vociferous rumour mongers, particularly as the chief superintendent himself had provided him with an alibi, sitting conveniently next to him at the annual widows and orphans fundraising dinner when it had exploded.

  Samantha tugged at his sleeve, asking, “Dave — Are you listening to me?” — growing concern supplanting her earlier aggravation.

  “Yes,” he said, responding reflexively, but his mind was still stuck on the threatening message and Donaldson’s obvious scepticism.

  “I just can’t see it, Dave,” he had said, his implication clear despite the unintentional pun.

  “Right, Guv,” Bliss had shot back angrily. “If that’s the way you want to play it. But I expect you to make it perfectly clear in your report, whoever you report to, that Detective Inspector Bliss was absolutely one hundred percent adamant that the words appeared on his computer screen.”

  “But, Dave — you know what our security is like..?” he paused seeing the determination on Bliss’s face, and relented. “O.K. I’ll get the fingerprint boys to dust around …”

  “Waste of time, Guv,” Bliss cut him off with the shake of his head. “This guy’s a professional. Do you think he’d be stupid enough to leave prints?”

  Donaldson bit the inside of lip as he wandered to the window, and he idly fingered the catch as he tried to fathom out the modus operandi. “How would you get in?” he asked, looking down at the car park two stories below, challenging himself for an answer as much as he was challenging Bliss.

  “He probably strolled in with a toolbox, like he owned the place,” suggested Bliss. “‘Your whirly thingumajig’s broken down again,’ he calls to the girl on reception, as if he’s fixing it every other day, and she flicks the switch to let him in without a second glance.”

  “Alright. Let’s say I believe you …” he started positively, turning back from the window. “There are security cameras on all external doors. All we have to do is pull the tapes and put a couple of men to go through them. I’ll get someone on it right away — satisfied?”