“Who gave that to you?” he demanded, jumping up, still trying to get away, as if the cutting were explosive.
“No-one,” shouted White; on the defensive, not knowing why. “It was just a routine search. We usually do a little piece ‘New inspector on the beat,’ that sort of thing, when a new police officer is appointed, and I came across your name and thought I’d root around for a bit of background.”
What’s this – everybody checking up on me today. First Samantha, now you. LEAVE ME ALONE.
He sat, consternation furrowing his brow, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just a bit touchy about it.”
“I can imagine,” responded White, trying to modify his expression from alarm to concern.
“I’d rather you didn’t print anything about it,” Bliss continued. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t use my name at all.”
White muttered non-committally, cleaning his glasses again.
The atmosphere was so heavy as they continued their meal that Bliss checked his watch at a politic moment and announced his departure. “Must dash,” he said, laying a ten pound note next to his partly finished plate. “No – don’t get up. Thanks again for the information.”
Bliss drove idly for a while, a cassette of Handel’s Watermusic calming him, then he headed into Westchester and parked next to the senior’s home. Now for the merry widow, he thought, heading for the front door.
The bulbous breasted nurse whom D.C. Dowding had targeted on their first visit greeted him proudly. “Matron’s off today, Sir, I’m in charge. Unless anything serious happens, then I can call her.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” said Bliss condescendingly. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. I’m here to see Mrs. Dauntsey again.”
But Doreen Dauntsey had donned the veil of widowhood and sought reclusion. Nurse Dryden’s face clouded. “Mrs. Dauntsey’s in her room, Sir.”
“That’s ideal. I wanted some privacy.”
“No, you don’t understand, Sir, that won’t be possible – she is in her room.”
What is this, a euphemism for saying she’s in the toilet? “I can wait.”
“I doubt she’ll be out today, Sir.”
Not the toilet apparently. “I’m not with you ...”
“Do not disturb,” she whispered, making the rectangular shape of a sign with her hands.
“Oh. I understand. Well, I’m sure she’ll want to see me.”
She should have been a traffic warden, he thought ten minutes later when the nurse was still blocking his attempt to see Doreen Dauntsey – the maximum enforcement of minimum authority. “Rules is rules,” she had reminded him at least ten times. “Do not disturb means do not disturb.”
“But I need to tell her that we’ve found her dead husband,” he finally told her in frustration.
“Oh – she knows that, Sir. Everybody knows about the Major in the attic. Bob was telling me all about it last night ...”
“Bob? Bob who?”
“Bob – you know, your sergeant. The one you was with on Monday.”
“Dowding?” he queried. “Bob Dowding?”
She nodded enthusiastically, setting her breasts in spirited motion.
So, Detective Constable Dowding, he said to himself. Been promoted have you? Been playing away from home have you? Been toying with little girls with big tits?
“You’d better call the matron,” he continued, without trace of conciliation.
An hour later he gave up. Doreen Dauntsey wasn’t receiving visitors and, short of smashing down the door with a fire axe, he had no way to get into her room. The matron, looking veritably unmatronly in Saturday jeans and clinging T-shirt, had been empathetic to a fault, although, somewhat implausible in refusing to acknowledge the existence of a pass key. “We are very conscious of our guest’s privacy,” she had said, as if she were the major domo of a ritzy hotel, but she had allowed him to tap respectfully on Doreen’s door.
“Go away,” she had cried, and he had been forced to do so.
She’s hiding, like a kid who’s got into the jam, he thought. “I would have come earlier,” he told the matron as they walked downstairs, “but we had to wait to get proper identification.” It sounded reasonable, but was baloney. You knew it was him the minute you saw what was left of the face, he inwardly admitted.
“I think she’s still in mourning.” explained the matron as she saw him out. Nurse Dryden hung back behind the door and contemptuously poked out her tongue. “See – I told you.”
It was only ten-thirty and Bliss found himself tossing up between returning, tail between legs, to the Mitre, or heading back to the police station and listening to Patterson moan about the spoilt weekend. In the end he ducked the question, deciding instead to visit Daphne to make sure she was alright.
A driverless blue Volvo, with a front-seat passenger reading Thursday’s newspaper, sat near the end of Daphne’s road. Bliss ignored it, not even bothering to note the number. Driving confidently by he congratulated himself – that’s the way, Dave – wave those knickers.
Daphne was pleased to see him, and bustled around in the kitchen making tea, leaving him to stare out over the cornfield and wonder why he’d confided in Samantha when he’d kept Mandy’s death from Daphne. That reminds me, he thought, I must give Samantha a call, though not too soon. I mustn’t appear too keen. Surprised by the strength of his feeling, he tried to rationalise – it was dark, she was a good listener ...
“I’m glad you came round, Chief Inspector,” said Daphne breaking into his thoughts. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to give me a hand in a minute. I’ve got to load a few things in the butcher’s van, the stuff for the Women’s Institute auction. George is taking it to the Town hall – Oh, that’ll be him now.”
The van was manoeuvring up to the front gate as they emerged with the stuffed goat.
“Will you be able to manage at the other end, George?” called Daphne.
“Yeah – the ladies are all waiting, Mrs. L,” replied George, opening the back doors.
“Mrs?” queried Bliss in a whisper.
“Shh – I’ll explain in a minute.”
“Ahh, the old goat,” he said, a crack of nostalgia in his voice. “I gave Mrs. L. this,” he continued, blowing out his cheeks in pride. “And I reckon it’ll fetch a pretty penny. What say you, Mrs. L?”
“What’s that, George?”
“I were just sayin’ to this young man as how the old goat’ll be quite a ’traction at the auction today.”
Daphne winked at Bliss. “I wouldn’t doubt that, George. In fact I shall have my hand up for a few quid, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Bliss is keen – isn’t that so, Dave?”
“Oh. Yes ... Very keen.”
George beamed.
“So what’s the Mrs. thing?” smiled Bliss as George drove away with the contents of Daphne’s front hall.
“Oh,” she chuckled, “just our joke really. I always buy enough meat for two, me and the cat, so George has his bit of fun. ‘How’s the General today, Mrs. L?’ he always calls when I go in the shop.”
“He had me worried for a minute,” teased Bliss.