Missing: Presumed Dead. James Hawkins

      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.

      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?”