“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