“We’ll be sorry to lose old Mr. Davies,” said the matron, answering the door herself having spotted their arrival from her office window and guessing their identity.
“Is he leaving?”
“In a manner of speaking, Inspector ...” she said, leaving the words to find their own meaning. “Now I suppose you’ve come to see the Major’s wife,” she continued, her voice as starchy as her uniform. “You do realise this could kill her,” she added, as if it were his fault.
“Perhaps you could give me a bit of background information first,” he half whispered anxious to be discreet.
“Like what?” she boomed, as if he’d made a smutty suggestion.
“Oh,” said Bliss, taken aback. “I just wondered what you know about the Major and his wife – were they close?”
A teenaged girl, her unrealistically large bosom encased tightly in an all-white nurse’s outfit, had drifted into the hallway and was hovering. The matron looked at her queryingly, as if expecting her to provide the answer, but was apparently disappointed in the blankness of the response. Am I missing something? wondered Bliss, and waited while the matron re-arranged her apron, her hair, and her face, while considering the prudence of her reply. “From what I understand Mrs. Dauntsey had been separated from the Major for sometime,” she answered with obvious disapproval. “She never spoke of him, not to me anyhow. Young Mr. Dauntsey said there was a distance between them.”
“So she wasn’t excited at the prospect of his visit?”
“I got the impression she never really expected to see him again. I’m not aware she was expecting a visit. She certainly never said anything to me about it. Not that she would. Not her – not that one. Thinks she’s too good for us does Mrs. Dauntsey.”
“Has her husband visited her since she’s been here?”
“Not as far as I know ... There’s no need to look at me like that, Inspector. This isn’t a prison, you know. Our guests don’t have to get visiting orders; unlike yours.”
“No, no, I wasn’t being critical. I was just wondering why he should suddenly decide to visit. Maybe he was hoping to get a mention in her will.”
“Oh no. Mrs. Dauntsey doesn’t have much. That’s why she’s in here – if she had money she’d be in Golden Acres over at Fylingford.” She lowered her tone reverently, “That’s where all the moneyed people go – this is a council home. No – I think you’ll find it is the Major who has the money, not her.”
“She’s got cancer, I’m told.”
“Mrs. Dauntsey has Invasive Ductal Carcinoma,” she said with her nose in the air. “Nurse Dryden will take you to her in the day lounge, although I think it would be wise if only one of you should visit her – two hulking great men might be too much for her – scare her to death.”
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked the nurse on the way to the day room.
“Not really. It’s just that saying ‘cancer’ round here is a bit like calling a refuse disposal officer a ‘bin-man’ We try to avoid the word as far as possible – it frightens people.”
“I see.”
“Mrs. Dauntsey will be in her usual place,” continued the nurse, opening the door and steering Bliss toward a frail woman with parchment skin and white hair who immediately demonstrated her determination to guard her territory by picking her handbag off the floor and cradling it to her chest. “I’ll leave you to it,” whispered the nurse, implying that she wished him luck.
Dowding, slicking back his hair, slipstreamed the young nurse toward the kitchen with the promise of a hot coffee and the hope of something more stimulating, leaving Bliss to approach the newly widowed old woman. “Mrs. Dauntsey ...” he enquired with an overly patronising air.
She viewed him warily. “What are you going to stick in me now?”
“No. I’m not a doctor. I’m a policeman ... I wonder if we could go somewhere private,” he added, aware of the anticipatory hush his presence had caused among the twenty or so inhabitants.
“Private – in here?”
“Do you have a room?”
“Don’t worry about this lot,” she swept a frail arm around the room. “They’re all dead.”
He looked: most were immobile, heads flopped, mouths agape. Some were staring at him – desperately hoping to find the eyes of a husband, brother or son, then looking ashamedly away as his eyes met theirs. He felt like the grim reaper, and some of them looked fearfully at him as if he were.
“What d’ye mean – dead?” he questioned.
“Dead is what I mean, Inspector,” she said, making no attempt to keep her voice down. “No longer part of life. Oh, they all eat and sleep; most of ’em stink; some even talk sometimes – rubbish usually, but this is just a holding pen. They’re just waiting for a plot at the cemetery or a slot at the crematorium.” She pulled him closer with the crook of a bony finger. “Just waiting for their fifteen minutes of flame,” she said, without a trace of humour.
Bliss smiled briefly then fought to select a suitable expression to presage his doom-laden message, but his face blanked while an eighteen-year-old memory came flooding back: a memory of Mrs. Richard’s quizzical face, incapable of comprehending the disaster, incapable of absorbing the horror of young Constable Bliss’s words – “I’m very sorry Mrs. Richards but your daughter has been shot and killed.”
“Dead?” she had queried.
“I’m afraid so.”
“She can’t be dead; she’s getting married next week,” she shot back defiantly, as if he were deluded.
She’s dead – and I killed her, he wanted to scream, his conscience trying to drag the admission out of him. Then a policewoman with a bush of red hair bubbling out from under her little blue hat had stepped in front of him and forestalled his confession. “Mrs. Richards,” she said, softly, “there’s been a terrible accident in the bank ...”
It was no accident, thought Bliss, biting back his anger. It was some petty mobster with a sawn-off shotgun.
“There’s been a shooting, and unfortunately your daughter, Mandy ...”
“She’s just gone to the bank to get the money for her honeymoon. She’ll be back in a minute ...” said Mrs. Richards, still uncomprehending, but at least beginning to accept that the police visit was somehow connected to her daughter.
Bliss shook his head and quickly dislodged the old memory. “Mrs. Dauntsey,” he started, biting the bullet, “I’m afraid I have some really bad news ... Your husband has been killed.”
The news stunned her, leaving her head twitching repeatedly from side to side like a malfunctioning automaton and her mouth stuttering, “N ... N ... No.”
Deciding there was never going to be a good time to tell her about Jonathon, Bliss pushed on. “I’m also sorry to have to inform you Jonathon has told us he did it.” A strange look of confusion swept over her and, too late, he realised he had on the wrong face. He still had on his “This tragedy causes me as much pain as it does you” countenance, when he probably should have switched to an expression of “Your son is really in the shit.”
“Jonathon couldn’t have done it,” she retorted with a degree of positiveness that made him realise he would have an uphill struggle persuading her any different. Every mother feels that way, he thought. The prisons are full of men unjustly convicted, in their mother’s eyes. But she was still shaking her head fiercely, “Jonathon did not and could not have killed his father.”
“Do