“You haven’t questioned her yet?”
“I haven’t even told her we’ve found him ...”
“That I found him,” muttered Patterson.
“Alright, Pat – you found him – that reminds me. How did you find him? What made you rip that ceiling down?”
“There was a faint stain – very difficult to see – could’ve been a trick of the light. Just a ghostly smudge on the ceiling. It must have been where the juices came through when the body was still fresh, but it had been painted over – several times probably. Then, when I couldn’t find a trap door, I became really suspicious.”
“So what happens to Jonathon now?” asked Donaldson. “He confessed to killing someone.”
“He confessed to killing his father ...” started Bliss, then paused, his mind swirling with possibilities. “Wait a minute ... what if Rupert Dauntsey wasn’t his father? I think I’ve got it. What if he killed his real father, whoever that may have been, and we just assumed he was talking about the Major ...?”
“That makes sense,” Donaldson jumped in, thinking through the confession. “I don’t believe he was ever asked if he’d killed Major Dauntsey.” Then he turned accusingly to Sergeant Patterson. “You never asked him, did you?”
“I ... I don’t remember.”
Donaldson’s blood was rising. “I do – You never bloody asked him. You just took it for granted ...”
“I think we all did,” said Bliss, stepping in quickly to defend his sergeant.
Donaldson smacked the Newton’s balls and slumped back in his seat. “So where the hell do we go from here?”
“We can hardly re-arrest him on the strength of further evidence,” said Bliss. “The only evidence we’ve got exonerates him. But whoever he killed has disappeared.”
Donaldson reached for another biscuit. “We know that. That’s why we can’t find the body.”
“No, Sir, you’re missing the point. What I mean is, the living man must be missing. Someone, somewhere must be saying, ‘Where’s my husband, father or brother?’”
Donaldson caught on. “Good thinking, Dave.”
“I’ll get someone to do a national search for all missing persons for the past couple of weeks and we’ll take it from there.”
“We’ve got the blood on the duvet,” suggested Patterson, trying to redeem himself. “At least we’ll be able to do a DNA match.”
The Vicar of St. Paul’s was back, asking for Bliss personally, acting on a tip from the undertaker that the Major’s body had turned up.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he called, catching him out in the open as he returned to his office. “I’m sorry to hear about the Major ...”
“And?” said Bliss in his mind, already figuring that this was not a visitation of commiseration.
“If there’s anything the church can do …”
What had you in mind, wondered Bliss maliciously: checking up on your parishioners occasionally, perhaps, especially the sick and wounded, just to make sure that they haven’t been bopped off in the past forty years or so. “I don’t believe there is, not at this time, Vicar. But it’s very thoughtful of you to enquire,” thinking, thoughtful my ass – he’s after something.
“Only I have it on fairly good authority that the poor old fellow may have left a little something,” continued the vicar, cap in hand, “The church roof you know ... somewhat urgent I’m afraid, otherwise I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
Bet you wouldn’t. “I’m not sure it will be that much but I assume the family will get whatever there is.”
“Don’t you consider that to be somewhat anti-social, Inspector – passing wealth from one generation to the next? Surely each man should be a success or failure on his merits, not because some slave-trader or royal sycophant in his past accumulated a stash of money.”
Enough of the pussyfooting, thought Bliss, rounding on the other man. “Vicar, personally I might agree with you entirely, but, if I were you, I wouldn’t say that too loud. I bet there aren’t many bishops who grew up in council houses and went to the local comprehensive.”
Daphne was keeping her head down when Bliss returned to his office and continued busily vacuuming the corridor as if she’d not seen him standing in front of her.
“Everything alright, Daphne?” he shouted.
She turned a deaf ear and tried to clean behind the door. He pulled out the plug and she looked up in mock surprise. “Oh, it’s you, Chief Inspector – you startled me.”
“It’s Dave – remember.”
“Not on duty it’s not.”
“Have it your own way,” he mumbled. “So, how is Andrew?”
“Alright,” she replied coldly, with a warning scowl.
He sensed an emotional minefield ahead. “How was dinner?”
“Dinner,” she spat.
He’d hit a mine. “Sorry, I ...”
“It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you, Chief Inspector. Not at all.”
“Blame me for what, Daphne?”
“For abandoning me with that wretched man, of course.”
“You seemed rather keen that I should leave.”
“I think it was the drink. It was stronger than it used to be. And that smooth talking ... I never did like him, but I suppose I thought he would have changed with age.”
“And he hadn’t?”
“He’s got worse. He gave me the old, ‘Golly, I’ve lost my wallet routine,’ when the bill arrived. I should have guessed what he was like. One look at that stupid wig – he’s as bald as a coot.”
“How do you know?”
She picked up the vacuum cleaner’s plug and fiddled to get it back into the socket, her mind clearly churning in debate. Then she flung the plug down in disgust. “Do you know, Chief Inspector, that filthy pig actually tried it on, in the taxi – the one I paid for. He jumped me at my age without a bye-your-leave. I grabbed his hair to pull him off and thought for a minute that I’d ripped his head off ... you’re laughing at me.”
“Not at you, Daphne – I’m just laughing.” He straightened his face. “Are you alright? I mean ... he didn’t ...”
“Oh no. I hit him where it hurts. He soon let go.”
I bet he did, thought Bliss, controlling his face with difficulty. “I am sorry, Daphne, but let me make it up to you. Let me take you out tonight and I promise not to run out on you, if you promise to ignore any dodgy old friends.”
“It’s Friday – have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten – what?”
“Aren’t you going home? Surely you’re not working all weekend.”
Home, what a lovely thought that should be – Home on Friday evening. Happy memories flickered across his eyes, memories too ancient to raise a smile: contented wife and smelly baby; home cooked halibut and chips; the aroma of baking apple pie with luck. “I’ll give Samantha her bath and put her to bed while you’re getting the dinner,” he’d murmur, his face nuzzled lovingly to her ear. And afterwards, a bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône, Brubeck or Beethoven, and a generous helping of Friday night