Missing: Presumed Dead (29 page)

“No problem, Guv.”

“I could do some instant coffee ...” he started, then realised he'd have to turn on the water and scare up some mugs. In any case they were shaking their heads – buckets of beer looked to be more in their line. “I really hadn't planned on coming back today,” he continued, “but I was in the area and I thought I'd see what the old place looked like.”

“You're not staying then?”

“No,” he said easily. Thinking – I was going to until I stood by that door not knowing who was outside – waiting for the bullets. Sorry, Daphne old girl – guess I haven't got the bottle. “No, I'm not staying – I think I'll go to my daughter's.”

“Thank Christ for that.”

“Why?”

“'Cos we would have had to park outside all night if you'd been stopping.”

“I'll only be ten minutes or so,” he said, letting the officers out and closing the heavy door. Then he stood, fixated by the door, seriously debating whether he was inside or outside – not inside or outside the house; inside or outside the door – a mental perspective of a physical presence. With the realisation that he wanted to be the other side of the door he concluded he was actually outside, and left the house as soon as he'd rounded up one or two belongings.

“Don't wake me up too early,” Samantha, his daughter, had warned, throwing a clean sheet over the guest bed. “Tomorrow's Sunday – just forget you're in the police for once.”

“Roger, Sam,” he had said, thinking – you sound more like your mother every day. “Don't worry, I'm so exhausted I'll probably sleep all day.”

A swathe of sunlight cut through a gape in the curtains and roused him a little after nine. As he woke, “Samantha” was on his lips and he fought with his soporific memory to retrace the dregs of his last dream.

Sketchy images appeared – cozy memories: a warm dark car; moonlight on a tropical beach; a dark-haired native with an alluring body. Samantha, the sergeant, he fathomed, then realised that despite all the aggravations of the previous day she had been slinking in the back of his mind throughout.

Balancing himself on the brink of wakefulness, he played with the images until she was gambolling naked in the surf. Then the shiploads of dead men started drifting in again and spoiled the picture. Waking himself to escape the nightmare, he was annoyed to discover that Samantha had also dissolved. Be sensible, he told himself. Don't get carried away. It was 4 am and you were tired and lonely. In the clear light of day she'll be an absolute dragon. Anyway, she didn't seem overly keen.

But she said she'd have dinner.

“Maybe,” was what she said. “Maybe.”

“Call me,” she said.

But did she give me a number? – No. Did she tell me where she was stationed?

That's easy enough to find out – you're just trying to duck out of it. What are you frightened of?

I told you – she's probably a dragon, works nights so as not to scare the horses during the day.

You're frightened of rejection – again.

Ha – ha, very funny.

“Have you upset somebody, Guv?” asked the control room officer at Westchester police station when Bliss called a little after ten.

Does he mean – apart from Superintendent Donaldson, Sergeant Patterson and half the C.I.D.? he wondered, then answered cagily. “Not that I know of. I was just calling to see if ... Why?”

The voice was guarded – circumspect. “Well ... were you expecting a delivery of any sort?”

Oh God – another bomb. Try to sound normal. “No, I wasn't expecting anything at all.”

“We thought so, Guv. Well, somebody's playing a nasty joke on you.”

“What is it? What's happened?” It has to be explosive, or something really disgusting like a box of cow-shit. Damn – they will have instigated full anti-terrorist procedures: evacuation; bomb disposal teams, robotic disarming devices . . . this has got to stop – one way or another.

“Guv – Are you still there?”

“Yes – Sorry, I wasn't listening. What did you say?”

“I said it were a moth eaten old goat.”

“A what?”

“Some butcher delivered it this morning – reckoned it had come from an auction. I've had it put in the isolation cell. He wanted to put it in your office. ‘Not bloody likely,' I said, ‘You never know what it might have inside.'”

“Daphne!” he swore under his breath but he couldn't help laughing in relief. “Do you mean it could be a sort of a Trojan goat?”

“A what, Guv?”

“Never mind – it's O.K., just a mistake I expect. I'll deal with it. Anything else?”

“Three phone calls for you, Guv.”

“Who?”

“Three women,” he said, the suggestion of impropriety in his tone. “None of 'em would leave a message, said they'd call back, though one of 'em sounded very much like our Daphne – the cleaner.”

Directory enquiries located her number in seconds. “Daphne – this is D.I. Bliss. . . did you phone me this morning?”

“Oh yes, Chief Inspector,” she started, wielding formality as a shield. “I'm glad you called. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.” She paused for the words to sink in, then added excitedly, “You bought the goat.”

“I did what?”

“Now, you needn't be cross. I didn't know what to do and I knew you wouldn't mind. I bid twenty pounds myself but nobody else seemed interested, then George caught my eye and he looked so downhearted. ‘I thought that friend of yorn were keen,' he said, his face as miserable as a wet weekend. ‘He
was
, George,' I said. ‘He most certainly
was
.' ‘Well where is he then?' he said, forlorn. What could I do, Dave? I didn't want you getting a bad reputation for welching on your promises, so I bid fifty quid for you.”

“How much?”

“Oh don't be so ungrateful. I did it for you. Anyway, you were lucky. I thought about bidding against you and pushing the price up to a hundred, but the auctioneer was quick off the mark. “Going, going, gone,” he said, and knocked it down before I could get my hand up, so I saved you fifty quid. George was so thrilled he said he would deliver it personally – he thinks you're wonderful.”

“A wonderful idiot.”

She pretended not to hear. “Anyway, Dave, that wasn't why I was calling really – I've got some more good news. D'you remember asking me about that Captain at Doreen's wedding?”

“The Major's aide-de-camp.”

“Yes. His best man – the one with the clothes brush. Well, I thought afterwards, we were very silly.”

“We were?”

“Oh yes. Very silly. You see, when I thought about it, I remembered he was Rupert's witness at the wedding. I was Doreen's ...”

“And his name will be on the marriage certificate,” burst in Bliss, catching on immediately. “I'm in London, I can go to the records office tomorrow ...”

“That won't be necessary, Dave. I went to St. Paul's church this morning.

Sunday – “Communion?”

“No – to look in the parish register of course. The vicar found it in a flash. I've got it here. His name was Tippen. David Tippen, just like you said, and he gave an address in Guildstone.

“I know the place, I drive through it.”

“You'll have to go there then,” she said, giving him the address. “I've tried directory enquiries and they don't have a number.”

“Thanks, Daphne – you're great,” he said and was about to put down the phone when she announced that there was even more good news. Apparently, George, the butcher, had been so impressed by his generosity in buying the taxidermal goat he had personally delivered a joint of sirloin to her, with a request that it should be passed on. “Knowing you haven't got a place of your own,” she said, “I thought perhaps I could make Sunday dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, say about 7.30 tonight. If you can forgive me by then.”

“I couldn't, Daphne, really.”

Her voice cracked with pain. “You won't forgive me.”

“Of course I'll forgive you – already have. It's just that I don't know what time I'll be back.”

“Oh I see.” But she wouldn't be beaten. “I'll cook anyway, and if you're not here by eight I'll go ahead and eat on my own. I can always heat yours up later – Bye.”

Putting down the phone, shaking his head at Daphne's impudence, he suddenly realised why he was still running from a would-be assassin while she had boldly walked through the German lines. She was a woman. Even Mandy's killer had shown his prejudice – “I wouldn't shoot no woman – what sort of scum do you think I am?” Why? he wondered. What's the difference – is it more horrifying for a woman to die than a man. But what if the person in the bank had been Andy instead of Mandy? Would the killer still be trying to exact revenge? At least Andy wouldn't have been pregnant.

Laying back with his eyes closed, he drifted in thought, realising it was the ethereal nature of the threat that made it so much more frightening – he'd had no problem tackling the killer head-on in the bank, and needed both hands to count the number of armed villains he'd taken down over the years. But he had been able to see them.

“I hope you're going to pay my phone bill,” said Samantha, bleary eyed, sliding unheard into the room and jumping him out of thoughts.

“Well, I was going to,” he said with a serious face. “But I don't know if I can afford it now.”

“Why not?” she cried, instantly wide awake.

He kept the straight face. “Well, I've just bought a goat.”

“A what?”

“That's what I said when I found out.”

“Dad, it's too early to piss about ...” then her face clouded in concern. “Aren't you taking this country thing a bit far?”

“It's alright, Luv,” he said, unable to control his mirth, and, sweeping her into his arms, kissed her forehead. “Of course I'll pay your bill. Although,” he paused and looked to the ceiling as if in deep thought, “perhaps you can help me out with the feed bill.”

“What!”

Daphne, George and the goat were explained with a laugh. “I've just one more quick call,” he added as she headed to the kitchen mumbling, “Coffee.”

The brusqueness of the model's dealer suggested that he had stood to attention to answer the phone. “The Toy Soldier – Sunday – Closed to the public,” he said, though a buzz of background voices suggested otherwise.

“Oh ... I was hoping to have a word ...”

“Call back tomorrow then.”

“It'll only take a second – I was in your shop earlier in the week …”

“Peter ...” a voice called. “I've just taken out your tank, old boy, you'd better pull your socks up.”

“Blast ... Well, what is it? What d'ye want?” he questioned in a tone that said, “Get on with it man.”

“The Royal Horse Artillery gun carriage – you asked me ...”

“Have you got the set?” he demanded, his enthusiasm running away with his mouth.

“Peter ...”

“Not now ... Have you got it?”

These boys are keen, thought Bliss. “Yes, I think so.”

“When can I see it?”

It's only a toy – not the crown jewels. “Well ...”

“I'm here all day or I can come to you.”

“It's in Westchester, Hamp ...”

“I know the place – it's eleven now, I can be there by two, one-thirty at a pinch.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Bliss. “There's no rush. Anyway, I haven't asked the owner yet ...” then he paused, thinking, who is the owner? Doreen, I suppose.

“I was only calling to let you know – you seemed rather keen ...”

“Look, I must see it ...” the dealer hesitated for a second then seemingly made up his mind. “I'll give you five hundred pounds if you tell me where it is and keep quiet about it.”

Bliss's throat tightened to a squeak, “How much?”

“O.K. ... Seven hundred and fifty, as long as it's genuine and no-one else knows.”

Samantha was back with the coffee and a puzzled frown. “What is it, Dad?”

He clasped his hand over the mouthpiece and took a deep breath. “I'm missing something here – hold on a minute.” Then he spoke questioningly back to the phone. “We are talking about the same thing I hope. The seven hundred and fifty pounds ... that's not for buying the set?”

“No, no. That's just for telling me where it is.”

Bliss held his breath and spoke slowly. “Would you consider making that a thousand pounds?”

Chapter Twelve
_____________________________

C
aptain David Tippen's house had gone. Even the street had gone – bulldozed into the foundations of a mega-store and a leisure complex. The duty sergeant at Guildstone police station remembered the street, “Crumbly old hovels – good riddance, I said. It were a bloomin' rat-hole.”

There were only eight Tippens in the phone book, none David or D, but Bliss decided it was worth a few minutes of his time. The first two had left machines in charge of their phones. Three, four and five turned a deaf ear, and number six rang forever. “Hallo,” said a thin voice, just as Bliss had decided to quit.

“Is this Mr. Tippen?”

“You'll 'ave to speak up.”

“I said ...”

“Yeah. I heard ya. What'ye want?”

“I'm looking for relatives of a David Tippen.”

“Yeah, I knows him,” he replied, with a confusing use of the present tense. “He's me uncle's boy.”

“No – I'm looking for a man who was a Captain in the Royal Horse Artillery during the war.”

“Aye, that'd be 'im alright.”

“Unbelievable,” breathed Bliss.

“Who are ya anyhow?” queried the old man.

“Police – Detective Inspector Bliss.”