Missing: Presumed Dead. James Hawkins
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 while.”
“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.”
“Shit – what about the weapon?”
“We’ve got that alright. One of the uniformed lads marked and bagged it.”
“Thank Christ for a woolly with a brain.”
“A woolly, Guv’nor?”
“Metspeak for uniformed officer, Pat. I’m surprised you’ve never heard it before. Woolly ... woollen uniform?”
Patterson sloughed off the information with a grunt then returned to the investigation in hand. “It’s a good job we got the confession.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“We haven’t told the old boy’s wife yet. She’s in a nursing home ... Cancer,” he mouthed the word with due reverence. “She’s not got long by all accounts. We went to tell her last night but the matron said the shock might kill her so it’d be best if we left it ’til about ten this morning when the doctor does his rounds.” He checked his watch. “You’ll have plenty of time to get there.”
“Thank you very bloody much.”
“Tea – Sergeant Patterson.”
Bliss, still jumpy, jerked around in his chair and was disturbed to find that a diminutive grandmother figure in a blue polka dot dress had crept up behind him.
“Are you the new ...” she began.
“Detective Inspector – Yes.” Bliss finished the sentence for her. A delicate hand shot out in greeting, and Bliss found himself rising in response.
“Daphne does a bit of cleaning up around here,” explained the detective sergeant.
“A lot of cleaning up, if you don’t mind,” said Daphne in a manicured voice, straight out of a 1940s Ealing Studio movie.
Bliss took the hand and was surprised at its softness – none of the bony sharpness of old age he’d expected.
“I suppose you’ve heard about the murder last night,” she said, peering deeply into his eyes, keeping his hand a few seconds longer than necessary. “Awful business – killing the old Major like that.”
“You knew him.”
“’Course I did – everyone round here knew him – well, did know him – if you take me meaning. I could tell you one or two ...”
“You wanna watch our Daphne, Guv,” butted in a young detective wandering into the room and perching himself against a nearby desk. “She’ll have you here all day ... Tell him about your UFO, Daph.”
“Shut up, you,” she said, bashing him playfully with a hastily rolled Daily Telegraph, forcing him to retreat from desk to desk.
Bliss smiled, amused at an elderly woman behaving like a playful adolescent.
“No respect,” she panted, returning. “Would you care for a cuppa, Sir?” she asked, looking up at him with smiling eyes, not at all embarrassed by her youthful exertion. She looks exhilarated, thought Bliss, noticing the slight blush in her cheeks, although there was no doubt that overall Daphne was fading – her skin, her hair, even her clothes, had a washed-out look, though her eyes were as sharp as her tongue. Despite the fact she was old enough to be his mother, Bliss found himself attracted by her eyes. She’s still got teenage eyes, he thought to himself, entranced by the sharp contrast between the burnt sienna pupils and almost perfect whites.
“Wouldn’t have the tea if I were you, Guv,” called Detective Dowding from across the room. “She makes it from old socks.”
“Don’t listen to him, chief inspector,” she said making eye contact, crinkling her crows feet into laughter lines.
“Inspector ... Daphne,” he reminded her. “I’m only a lowly detective inspector.”
“You look like a Chief Inspector to me,” she said, then amused herself and the others by summing up her reasoning as she closely inspected him. “Distinguished, greying a bit around the edges; chiselled nose with an intriguing kink in the middle, puts me in mind of a boxer I dated once – he became a politician, ended up in the Lords – never stopped fighting.” She paused as an obviously pleasurable memory flitted across her face, then returned to Bliss. “Well-spoken, not like this crowd ...”
“Bit of a beer belly,” interjected