Missing: Presumed Dead

by James Hawkins

  MISSING:

  PRESUMED DEAD

  MISSING:

  PRESUMED DEAD

  James Hawkins

  A Castle Street Mystery

  Copyright © James Hawkins, 2001

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Copy-Editor: Julian Walker

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Printer:

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  1 2 3 4 5 05 04 03 02 01

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program, The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

  Dundurn Press

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  For those who have brought sunshine into my life

  For those I love, and have loved

  For those I have lost

  For my Mother and my Children

  For the memory of my Father

  For Sunshine

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  _____________________________

  The chill of emptiness unnerved Detective Inspector Bliss the moment he strolled into the foyer of his new station. The public enquiry desk seemed abandoned: not simply unoccupied; not merely devoid of the usual mob of whiners – seeking or leaking information. It was, he thought, more like the Marie Celeste – hurriedly deserted. An early morning cup of Orange Pekoe still steamed; a ledger, opened, had been neglected mid-entry; a gold Waterman fountain pen, nib exposed, ink drying, lay across the page.

  David Bliss tested the air carefully, almost fearing something noxious, but found only the familiar scent of pine disinfectant and floor wax. He sniffed harder and the sound of his snort echoed off the bare walls and subsided to silence, absolute silence. A tingle of unease rippled his spine and prickled hairs on the nape of his neck. A sudden inexplicable wave of fear told him to run, but the same fear nailed his feet to the floor and made him suck in a sharp breath. What’s happening? he puzzled, spinning nervously around.

  Then a vivid memory came flashing back – a memory of his early days in the police, working a shift on a similar public enquiry counter at a station in the leafy suburbs: fender benders between Jaguars and Rolls Royces; stock market fraudsters and bent C.E.O.’s; shoplifters nicking Foie Gras and bottles of Veuve Clicquot from the Deli.

  A disgruntled queue had formed as he patiently took a detailed description of a missing cat from a faded old dame, her few remaining teeth as green as her blouse, but her pearls still gleamed. “This is the sixth time in two weeks,” she admitted, making P.C. Bliss wonder why he should bother. Behind her, an Andy Capp figure in tweed jacket and flat cap stood patiently in line and, when his turn came, he slung a jute sack on the counter.

  “What d’ye make of that then, Guv? Found it in me garden when I wuz diggin spuds.”

  Young P.C. Bliss, unthinking, mainly concerned at getting the grubby bag off his desk, quickly picked it up and unleashed an unexploded twenty pound WWII bomb which rolled across the desk and dropped to the floor with an almighty bang.

  “It’s a bomb,” breathed Bliss, and all twenty people crammed into the office froze in a moment of absolute terror. Waiting – for what? The police to do something? An explosion?

  “Everybody out!” he had yelled, coming to his senses, and had never forgotten the sight of a dozen people piled in an untidy heap at the foot of the station steps.

  “Yes?” said a face peering round a door, startling him out of his memory and breaking the tense silence. “What d’ye want?” the face continued with irritation. Why irritated? wondered Bliss, aggravated by the sharpness of the man’s tone. Had he interrupted some important police business? More likely, he guessed, he had put a temporary brake on the morning rumour mill that was just getting steamed up for the day over a coffee in the back room – who’s screwing who; who’s in the shit; who’s been passed over for promotion. He let it go, thinking it pointless to make enemies the first day in a new job; a new force, and, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers he carefully controlled his voice. “I’m the new detective inspector. Is Superintendent Donaldson in his office yet?”

  The counter clerk’s expression metamorphosed from annoyance to deference and a body emerged round the door to support the face. “Sorry, Sir. I didn’t recognise you.”

  “No reason why you should, lad – I’ve never been here before. Just transferred from the Met. Now where do I find the Super?”

  “Come,” called a muffled voice a few seconds later as a half packet of chocolate digestive biscuits disappeared into a drawer marked “confidential.” Bliss wiped his sweaty palm down his trousers again, preparing for a handshake, and swung open the door.

  “Breakfast,” mumbled the senior officer, turning away, dusting crumbs off his shirt, ignoring the outstretched hand. “You must be D.I. Bliss,” he said, picking up a file, using it to wave Bliss to a deeply buttoned leather armchair. “I hope this has nothing to do with your arrival.”

  “Sorry, Sir,” said Bliss, dropping his six-foot frame into the proffered chair, smoothing the creases out of his new suit. “I’m not quite with you.”

  “Bit of a coincidence,” continued Superintendent Donaldson with a trace of maliciousness, his head buried in the file. “God sends us a hot-shot detective from the hallowed halls of New Scotland Yard, and we get our first murder in six months.” By the time he looked up, he had found a welcoming smile to mask the sarcastic smirk.

  Bliss let the jibe go. “Murder,” he breathed as his pulse quickened again. So that’s it, that’s the reason for the unnatural quietitude. A murder in a small town – enough to wipe a Royal scandal off the front page of the local rag and fill the marketplace tea shops with a knot of nattering spinsters who, on other occasions, might sit silently aloof, absorbed in the Church Times or Victorian Gardens.

  “You didn’t arrange this, did you?” added Donaldson, tapping the folder, now smirking. “You Scotland Yard types have a reputation for pulling clever stunts ...”

 
“Actually, Sir. I was never at the Yard. I kept my distance – too many chiefs and not enough Indians for my liking.”

  The superintendent lowered himself behind his desk, studying the newcomer with a censorious glance and toying with one of a number of stainless steel stress relievers that littered the leather surface. “So how do you feel now you are one of the chiefs?”

  Brilliant start, thought Bliss, feeling the sting of the remark, “I didn’t mean ...” He paused as the other man raised a hand.

  “It’s O.K., Inspector, I know what you meant,” said Donaldson, speculatively teasing a silvery ball on Newton’s Cradle, as if deliberating whether or not it would crash into the other balls on release – almost daring it not to cause an equal and opposite reaction. “Felt the same myself at times,” he continued, “Still do on occasions. But you’ll soon discover, if you haven’t already, that however far up the ladder you go, there’s always another bastard above waiting to kick you down – chiefs have other chiefs on their backs you know.” Then he released the ball, flinging it forcefully against the pack and smiling as the silvery balls swung and smashed back and forth in gradually decreasing reverberations.

  There’s no answer to that, thought Bliss, refusing to be drawn. “What’s this about a murder, Sir?” he said, easing himself forward in the chair.

  The superintendent smoothed his moustache thoughtfully, loosening a flurry of biscuit crumbs. “It happened yesterday, last night ... I tried to get hold of you ...”

  “I was up in town tidying up a few bits and pieces – if I’d known ...”

  “Oh, don’t apologise, you weren’t due here ’til today; I just thought you’d like to get your feet wet as soon as possible, but I’m winding you up really.”

  “You mean there wasn’t a murder.”

  “Oh no, au contraire. There was certainly a murder, but even us country bumpkins could solve this one.” He flicked open the file as if needing to check details, but the bags under his eyes confirmed he’d been up half the night keeping his finger on the pulse. “I’m getting too old for this lark.”

  You look it, thought Bliss, guessing he might find a copy of the pension regulations uppermost in the other officer’s desk.

  “About 9.30 pm. Disturbance in the Black Horse public house on Newlyn Road,” began the superintendent, skimming the page.

  “Bar fight?”

  “No – it was upstairs.” He paused, looked up and explained. “They let out a few rooms – bed and breakfast. Damn good breakfast it is too; you should give it a try – Bacon, sausage, mash ...”

  Bliss coughed pointedly. Donaldson caught his look of impatience and returned to the file, “At least twenty witnesses in the bar heard the commotion. Mind you, another twenty or so claimed to have been in the bog at the time – you know the deal – ‘Sorry, Guv – didn’t see nor ’ear nuvving.’ Four people came forward claiming they saw a body being dumped in the back of a pick-up truck behind the pub, then driven off like a bat out of hell. There were obvious signs of a struggle in the room: broken ornaments; smashed glasses; blood all over the shop; duvet missing off the bed.” He looked up again, “Used it to wrap the body we suspect. Bloody fingerprints on the door handle and more on the banister rail down the backstairs. We’ve recovered the weapon – steak knife, absolutely plastered in blood and dabs. The landlady identified it as one taken up to the room earlier.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “Not a suspect, Detective Inspector,” he said, rising in confidence, “we have the murderer. He’s made a full confession, on tape, properly cautioned. In fact the tape’s being transcribed right now. He is one: Jonathan Montgomery Dauntsey, 55 years, of this parish.”

  “And the victim?”

  “Believe it or not he stabbed his own father ... sad that.” He paused and waited while his face took on a sad mien. “Tragic ... It turns your stomach a bit to think someone’s own kid could do that.”

  “It’s quite common actually.”

  The superintendent brightened. “Oh I know – anyway it keeps the clear-up rate healthy. Where would we be without domestics, eh? We used to call ’em Birmingham murders you know.”

  Bliss nodded, he knew, but the superintendent carried on anyway, “We used to reckon that the only murders the Birmingham City boys ever solved were domestics.”

  “I know, Sir – but it’s a bit different today.”

  “Oh yes, Dave – political correctness and all that. Gotta be careful we don’t upset anyone, eh,” he continued, his expression giving the impression that political correctness was fine – in its place. “Anyway,” he carried on cheerily, “Welcome to the division – and welcome to Hampshire. I’m pretty bushed after last night’s shenanigans so I’ve arranged for one of your sergeants to show you the ropes while I get a few hours kip this morning. Everything’s taken care of with the murder – just a few loose ends ...”

  “Loose ends?”

  Superintendent Donaldson hesitated, deciding whether any of the loose ends were worthy of mention, even rifling through the slim folder as if hoping to find a missing clue. “Well, we haven’t found the body yet,” he finally admitted. “But,” he pushed on quickly, “that’s just a formality. It was a bit of a fiasco last night to be honest. Coppers rushing around in the dark bumping into each other, falling into ditches, that sort of thing.”

  “You know where the body is though?”

  He nodded tiredly and gave the Newton’s balls a gentle workout. “The general area – I’ll introduce you to your staff and they’ll fill you in. The deceased was a pongo by the way, at least he had been during the war, a Major Rupert Dauntsey. One of those who insisted on keeping his title after the war,” he continued, disapproval evident in his tone. “You know the type: pompous stuffed shirt, wouldn’t make a brothel bouncer in real life. Shove a swagger stick in his hand and poke a broomstick up his ass and bingo, an ex-C.O. with a snotty accent and a supercilious way of bossing the locals around and weaselling his way onto every committee going: golf club; church restoration; anti-this; anti-that; pro-this; pro-that.”

  Bliss caught the drift, “Not one of your favourite ...”

  “Never met him,” cut in the superintendent shaking his head. “Although I probably bumped into him at the Golf Club Ladies Night or Rotary Dinner ... I just know the type.” Then he spat, “Army,” as if it were a four letter word, pulled himself upright in the chair and punched a few numbers on the intercom. “I’ll get D.S. Patterson to brief you properly,” he said, studying the ceiling, listening to the distant buzz of the intercom, awaiting a response. “Sorry to throw you in at the deep end like this, but I’m sure you won’t find it heavy going.”

  Ex-Royal Navy, thought Bliss, recognising the older officer’s vernacular and diction and found confirmation on one wall where a serious-faced young naval officer peered out of a row of rectangular portholes against a background of ships, dockyards and exotic landmarks.

  No-one answered the intercom. “Might as well take you below decks – show you your office on the way,” he said, coming out from behind his desk. Then he paused with his hand on the brass doorknob and turned, his face taut with seriousness. “Dave, it’s only fair I put you in the picture ... I know why you’ve been sent here. The chief has filled me in.” He caught the look of alarm on Bliss’s face, put on a reassuring smile and added quickly, “Don’t worry. No-one else knows and it’s entirely up to you what you tell them. But a word of warning – the other ranks will be watching to see how you perform. Keep an eye on them. There’s one or two not above putting a spanner in the works just to see how you handle yourself.”

  “I understand, Sir,” replied Bliss, immediately knowing that the local detectives would undoubtedly find sport in trying to put one over on a new boss – especially an outsider, particularly one from London. “And I would really appreciate it if no-one else is told,” he added.

  “You have my word, son. Your secret’s safe with me – just keep your head down for a whil
e.”

  “I intend to.”

  Introductions were brief, the C.I.D. office had suffered a similar fate to the enquiry office. The previous evening’s shift had worked all night and gone home. The early shift had already taken their place, donned rubber boots and were forming search teams and fanning out into surrounding areas of woodland and wasteland. Only Detective Sergeant Patterson remained. He had been on duty for fifteen hours and it showed in his dreary eyes and slept-in appearance.

  “How’s our murderer this morning, Pat?” said the superintendent, waving Patterson back into his chair as he languidly signalled his intention of rising.

  “Sleeping like a bloody baby actually, Sir. It’s alright for him – some of us have been at it all night, tramping through the bloody woods – look at the state of my ruddy trousers ... it’s not s’posed to be a mudbath in the middle of June.”

  “No joy with the body, I guess ...”

  “Not yet – but we’ve got half a dozen more dog-handlers coming over from H.Q. They’ll soon sniff it out; he couldn’t have taken it far.”

  “It,” thought Bliss, rolling the monosyllable round in his mind. “It” – the Major would have been a “Sir” yesterday, a man with a lifetime of knowledge and experience, a commissioned officer no less – a man of substance. One ill-tempered jab with a steak knife, and now he’s just an “It.”

  Leaving Bliss cogitating on the frailty of human existence and the D.S. worrying about his trousers, Donaldson excused himself. “Call me at home as soon as the body turns up,” he added on his way out.

  Bliss slipped into a convenient chair. “The Super tells me that apart from finding the body everything else is sewn up.”

  Sergeant Patterson’s face screwed in mock pain, exposing prominent gums and yellowed teeth. “Actually, Guv, the scenes of crime boys have been on the blower – there’s been a bit of a fuck-up at the pub I’m afraid. Everyone was so excited running round after matey last night that no-one thought to tell the landlady to keep her hands off the crime scene. Apparently she’s cleaned and disinfected the whole place. Scrubbed the backstairs – ‘Not having people tramping blood in and out of the bar,’ she told the forensic guys. As if anyone’d notice.”