“Can anything be done for Mrs. Dauntsey?”
She shook her head with a finality that eclipsed any words. “Don’t tell her son though. He dotes on her. He’s got a notion into his head about some sanatorium in Switzerland – some quack making a fortune out of desperate people with elaborate claims of a cancer cure. He’s promised to take her there.”
“Could it help?”
“Might extend her life for a few weeks – if the journey doesn’t kill her, but if it did, it wouldn’t be anything to do with the drugs – purely psychosomatic – even with something as physical as cancer the patient’s will to survive can prolong life. Belief in a cure is often the only cure someone needs, but Mrs. Dauntsey’s cancer has metastasised throughout her body.”
“I reckon I could get a date with her,” muttered Dowding as the top-heavy nurse was closing the side-door behind them a few minutes later.
“Would that be alright with your missus then?” asked Bliss with a smirk.
Dowding, taking the hint, slunk to the car.
“You drive,” said Bliss throwing him the keys. “It’ll take your mind off naughty thoughts – anyway, I don’t know my way around yet.”
“Sergeant Patterson called on the radio while you was with Mrs. Dauntsey, Sir,” he said unlocking the door. “He’s checked all the hospitals – negative.”
Bliss was surprised to find the Black Horse open for business, and, by all appearances, doing a roaring trade – gawkers, he had no doubt.
“Who authorised this?” he demanded of the uniformed policeman hemmed against the bar by the throng of rumour driven drinkers.
“I did,” boomed the landlady from across the bar, her voice as brassy as her hair – a Michelin woman with spidery legs that threatened to collapse under the weight at every step. “What’s it got to do wiv you?”
Silence spread in a wave through the bar like a scene from, Showdown at the O.K. Corral.
Bliss introduced himself without pleasantries, saying, “Right. I want this bar closed immediately ...”
“Oh no you don’t. You lot have caused enough inconvenience without costing me a day’s takings.”
“This is ridiculous. This is a murder scene – it should be entirely cordoned off ...”
“Not fucking likely – who’s gonna pay me staff? You gonna pay ’em, are you? This is the biggest crowd I’ve had since Christmas.”
The constable threw up his eyebrows in exasperation as if to say, “See what I’ve had to deal with.”
“This is Mrs. Bentwhistle, Sir. She’s the landlady ...”
“Bertwhistle ... ” she corrected. “And before he gets the chance to stitch me up – I’m the one who cleaned up the mess they made here last night.”
“I want to speak to you about that,” said Bliss as coldly as he could.
“Don’t blame me – nobody told me not to clear up, and they’re bloody lying if they say different. All they said was, “Don’t let no-one go up there – and I didn’t, but I weren’t having those stains drying in. I only ’ad those carpets put down last year ... or maybe the year before. It were the year our Diane got married ...”
“The damage has been done ...”
“Well, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do no damage; I didn’t ask him to do his old man in, not in my pub, I didn’t.”
“What time did the Major arrive last night?”
She turned away and threw down a large gin in disgust. “Gawd – how many more of you are goin’ to ask me that?”
“Sixish,” answered the constable. “That’s what she told me, Sir.”
“What did the Major say?”
“Nothing – not to me anyhow. I didn’t see him. He went straight up. Jonathon came to the bar and got the key; said his dad was tired.”
“So, he didn’t come through this way.”
She shook her head. “Went up the backstairs.”
“No-one saw him,” said the constable butting in. “We’ve asked everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“Well – all those who were in the pub and outside at the time.”
Bliss was unmoved. “I still want this place closed, and all these people out until I’m satisfied there is no evidence.”
“You ought’a be out catching criminals,” grumbled a loudmouth as he was led from the bar. Bliss ignored him.
“Now,” he said, feeling he was getting somewhere. “Let’s begin again.”
An hour later, without a scrap of new evidence, Detective Inspector Bliss, feeling more cheated than unjustified, allowed the bar to re-open and retreated to the police station. Superintendent Donaldson was back in his office, according to the counter clerk, and was anxiously awaiting his arrival.
Some serious bloodletting on my first day, he thought as he trod the superintendent’s corridor for a second time that day. Just what I need. And, with a readied apology he tapped gingerly on Donaldson’s door. “You wanted ...”
“Bliss ... Dave ... Come in. Sorry I snapped at you earlier ... tired you know ... lot of strain. Chocolate digestive?” he added, holding out the packet as a peace offering.
Bliss relaxed with a “Thanks.”
“So, I understand from Patterson that we’ve made some progress even if we haven’t found the body.”
“Just the duvet really. His mother says he didn’t do it but she’s in a wheelchair in a ...” he paused, finding himself on the verge of saying, “concentration camp,” reconsidered and said, “She’s in an old folk’s home.”
“She was bound to say it wasn’t him.”
Bliss nodded in agreement. “The complexion of this case is changing ...” he started.
“Rapidly going down the toilet if you ask me,” broke in the superintendent. “Initially, I thought we’d get the whole thing sewn up in a few hours, now we’ve got blokes running round in circles just bumping into each other. So what precisely have we got?”
“It might be easier to analyse what we haven’t got – no body, no motive and very little physical evidence.”
“No, I disagree. We’ve got plenty of evidence ...”
Bliss, sensing Donaldson was about to catalogue the evidence at the Black Horse, held up a hand to stop him making a fool of himself. “Patterson hasn’t told you about the balls-up at the pub then?”
“What balls-up, Inspector?” The superintendent’s eyes demanded a response and his entire demeanour darkened as Bliss explained how the landlady had sterilised every inch of the crime scene; wiping out footprints, fingerprints and blood stains; vacuuming up every trace of fibre and hair; even spraying disinfectant everywhere to mask scents that the dogs may have picked up.
Donaldson deflated into his chair like a punctured inflatable doll. “Oh my God, Dave. How did this happen?”
“I’m assuming everyone dashed off after the suspect, or were tied up taking statements from the witnesses.”