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 Cotes-du-Rhone, Brubeck or Beethoven, and a generous helping of Friday night delight.
“No. I’m not going home,” he said, feelings of loss dragging his words. Then he brightened, “And I’d love to take you out.”
“We can make it into something of a celebration I suppose.”
“Celebrating what?”
“Finding the Major, of course.”
What was there to celebrate? They had been better off without the body. At least Jonathon could have been convicted on the circumstantial evidence and his own confession.
“I’m not sure I’ve anything to celebrate to be honest, Daphne. We now have two murders instead of one. We’re still minus one body and now were missing another murderer.”
Sergeant Patterson came round the corner unnoticed, pulled up short and was trying to back away when Bliss spotted him. “Ah, Sergeant Patterson. I wanted a word with you … my office.”
Patterson turned with a hunted look. “I was just going to get that missing person search started.”
“It won’t take a minute,” he said, turning to Daphne. “Let me plug that in for you, Miss Lovelace.”
The cleaner burst into life as Bliss shepherded the reluctant sergeant into his office. “Shut the door, Pat … can’t hear a bloody thing with that machine … That’s better. Sit down, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
By the look on Patterson’s face he was wondering if Bliss intended extracting a few teeth without anaesthetic. “What, Guv?”
“I just wondered how you tracked me down at The Limes the other night.”
Patterson slumped in relief. “It was nothing, Guv,” he explained. “I called the Mitre, spoke to the girl with a strange accent. She said she didn’t know where you were but that you’d left in a taxi. There’s only two dispatchers in the whole place so it wasn’t difficult. The first one I called said you’d gone to the Limes.”
“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” said Bliss.
“That’s why I’m a detective, Watson old chap,” replied Patterson, tipping an imaginary deerstalker and sliding out.
Daphne was still vacuuming outside the office and Patterson gave her an inquisitive glance, sorely tempted to pump her for information. “So Daphne, just who was that woman our detective inspector picked up from your house in a taxi on Wednesday?” he could have asked, but what would she have told Bliss?
So, who the hell was the woman? he wondered, as he had been wondering since Wednesday when the taxi driver had blabbed, “She was quite a looker — middle aged but real smart.” Had Bliss moved a mistress into the neighbourhood and lodged her with Daphne? Then a thought struck him and he poked his head back round the door, “By the way, Guv. Have you got your warrant card yet?”
“Yeah — came in the despatch this morning.”
“Oh — good. I’ll get on with that misper search then.”
The phone rang. Bliss had another visitor vis-a-vis the Dauntsey case. A solicitor appropriately named Law, according to the receptionist, and he immediately recalled the words of the sergeant at his first posting. “There’s nothing like a juicy body to bring the rats out of the woodwork,” he had said.
“Law amp; Law,” the solicitor introduced himself with an outstretched hand. “We represent Major Rupert Dauntsey — the deceased. We came as soon as we heard.”
Bliss looked behind the big man, expecting to see his partner in an equally loud herring-bone suit. The corridor was empty. “May I ask, just how did we hear?” he enquired, with more than a trace of mockery, ushering him into the room.
“It’s common knowledge, Inspector — We understand there were quite a number of witnesses. The point is that the Major made a will on inheriting the estate from his father, the Colonel, whom we also represented.”
“As a matter of interest, can I ask when you last saw the Major?”
“We — that is I, personally, never had that pleasure. My father drew up the will and it has remained, unaltered, in our possession since 1946.”
“So who is the beneficiary? Who inherits the estate?”
“Inspector. You know we can’t divulge that, not until death is confirmed. That’s why we came actually, to find out who issued the death certificate, so we can lay our hands on a copy.”
Explaining that the body had yet to be formally identified, and wondering who was going to do it, Bliss assured the other man that he would keep him informed, then asked, “Do you know why his son Jonathon might have wanted him dead?”