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be more than happy to pay ...”

      “This is nonsense, Dave,” said Donaldson, rising to give strength to his words.

      “I know – I’m just thinking out loud. Just saying: What if the jury aren’t convinced – not beyond the threshold of doubt? What if they find him ‘Not guilty’? Once acquitted, he can’t be re-tried. I’ve just got a feeling the smug little bastard’s laughing at us.”

      “You’re suggesting a good lawyer would get him off.”

      “I’m suggesting any lawyer would get him off. I’m suggesting that even a pox-doctor’s malpractice lawyer would get him off. If you ask me we’re missing something really important.”

      Donaldson deflated himself slowly back into his seat as if exhausted by the effort of attempting to compute an explanation for Jonathon Dauntsey’s behaviour. “We are missing something – One body: Major for the use of.”

      “What do you make of this?” asked Bliss reaching into his briefcase and picking out a small plastic evidence bag containing the mangled mounted soldier. “This was in the grave with the duvet,” he explained. “The vicar seemed to think it may have been buried with a child but ...”

      Donaldson took the figurine with interest. “You told me about it on the phone. A soldier on horseback – what happened to it?”

      “Dowding put his spade through it, but it was already flattened.”

      Donaldson shrugged and dropped it on the desk, “No idea – ask Dauntsey, see what sort of reaction you get.”

      Bliss retrieved the small figure. “I understand you searched Dauntsey’s house, I hear it’s stuffed with antiques.”

      “Hardly. The whole place has been stripped, apart from a couple of rooms. It almost looks as though they were moving out. They probably had to sell stuff off to pay death duties after the Colonel died. Anyway, like I said, Jonathon’s never made much of himself. The three of them were living on the Major’s army pension from what I can gather.”

      “What does Jonathon do for a living?”

      “Not much – he tried writing books but didn’t make a lot of money.”

      “How many authors do?”

      The conversation hit a lull as both men sought something positive to say and Bliss wandered around the room idly setting a few of the executive toys in gentle motion. “The matron seemed to think that the Major and his wife were separated,” he said, spinning a gyroscope.

      “That’s possible. It could explain why he’d taken a room at the pub.”

      “Not really – she’s in the nursing home.”

      “Maybe it was a symbolic act – distancing himself from the family home.”

      “I have another source who suggests the Major may not have lived here for years.”

      “You are well informed, Inspector, but if he wasn’t living here where the hell was he?”

      “Scotland.”

      Donaldson digested the information slowly but then dismissed it as irrelevant. “It doesn’t matter a great deal where he was living, all we want to know is where he is now. That reminds me – the marine unit are chomping at the bit to search the rivers and ponds.”

      Bliss cocked his head as if he’d missed something. “Is there some suggestion he dumped the body in water.”

      “No ... but you know what these special operations blokes are like – any excuse to put on their rubber suits and piss about on company time.”

      “I suppose the bloody choir will be demanding extra practice time next, so they can give him a good send off.”

      Donaldson acknowledged the humour with a wry smile. “What should I tell the marine unit?”

      Bliss shrugged, “It’s your decision boss, but I think we’re jumping the gun. I reckon the body will turn up.”

      “And if it doesn’t?”

      “We’ll have to make an appeal for information in the local press.”

      The mention of the press had Donaldson extricating the packet of digestives from his drawer. “Some bloody newshound who’s had his nose snubbed by us in the past will have a field day,” he exploded. “I can just see it ... banner headlines ...” he carried on, and used a biscuit as a baton to write imaginary letters in the air. “‘Major loss for Hampshire Police – Anyone in possession of the body should hand it in at their nearest found-property office’...”

      “Wait a minute, Sir,” cut in Bliss, leaping up as an important notion struck him. “Assuming the Major came down from Scotland to stay at the Black Horse – where are his clothes; his suitcase; his overnight bag?”

      Donaldson paused long enough to take a chunk out of the biscuit. “Good point, Dave – get onto it.”

      Sergeant ‘Pat’ Patterson was herding the men and women into the briefing room, sending out scouts to drag smokers away from their habit in the prisoner’s exercise yard.

      Patterson watched the newcomers settling while letting his feelings leak. “You’re late. The new D.I. will think we’re a bunch of carrot crunchers. You know what these Big City coppers are like – think we spend our time rounding up stray sheep …”

      “Or shagging sheep in your case, Serg,” called D.C. Spillings from the back of the room.

      A burst of laughter split the expectant air, but quickly fizzled as D.C. Dowding thundered in, his face black with anger, and he rounded on Patterson with clenched teeth and a tight tone. “I wanna word wiv you, Sergeant.”

      Spillings heard. “What’s up, Dowding?” he laughed. “Has the Serg shagged your sheep as well?”

      David Bliss marched into the room, stifling the last of the laughter, leaving Dowding scrabbling for a seat.

      Patterson rattled off a preliminary assessment of the current situation, not that any of the officers needed to be reminded, and quickly handed the floor to Bliss.

      “The man we are searching for only had half a face and one arm,” he began after thanking them for their attendance, implying they’d had a choice. “Did we know this?” A sea of blank faces stared at him as if he were an alien. “Well, someone – anyone. Did we?”

      A youngish policewoman with sparkly chocolate eyes, frizzy black hair and a smoky voice, finally caved in under his gaze and answered, “No, Sir.”

      Bliss homed in on her. “Do you think that this is something that we should have found out – maybe – perhaps? I mean, it does explain certain things – why he didn’t go into the bar at the Black Horse to pick up the key. Why he slipped in the back way. It may also explain why he may have been living on the estate in Scotland.” He glanced at Patterson. “Have we confirmed that by the way?”

      Patterson’s face was as blank as the sea around him and he quickly threw the spotlight on Spillings. “Have we confirmed that?”

      “No, Serg.”

      Patterson suddenly bristled with enthusiasm, as if it had been his idea from the beginning. “Well, get onto it then. Find out where the estate is and get the locals to check it out. How long has he lived there? When he left? Who looks after him?”

      Quickly rifling through his notepad Bliss added to the list. “We also need details of his doctor and dentist up there. We’re still trying to establish who saw him last and we need to start putting together a full picture of this man. Talking of pictures – do we have any?”

      “I’ll get someone to check out the local paper,” said Patterson, still bubbling with enthusiasm. “He’s the sort of man who’s bound to get his mug in the press from time-to-time; local elections, charity do’s, that sort of

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