LITMIR.BIZ

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face, feeling a certain satisfaction in the obvious fact that none of them had uncovered such basic information. “Well, what have you got? What do you know? When was he seen last?”

      This is getting boring, thought Bliss, with no-one even intimating they might have a snippet of information. “Do any of you know anything about the man you’re searching for?” he asked eventually, realising that the silence was becoming embarrassing.

      “He’s an old dead major,” said one, though it was more a question than a statement.

      “And ...?”

      “And nothing, Sir.”

      “Do you mean to say that’s all you know about the victim?”

      D.C. Spillings had a twist of sarcasm in his voice as he answered on behalf of the group. “You’ll probably reckon we’re pretty stupid, Guv, but I s’pose we was working on the assumption we weren’t likely to find two dead old majors on the same day.”

      You asked for that, thought Bliss and waited while the laughter died down. “O.K. Spillings – I take your point, but that was yesterday. As time goes on, assuming the body doesn’t surface, it will become very important to know precisely who we’re looking for.”

      Most of the meeting was consumed with practical arrangements for conducting house-to-house enquiries and interviewing everyone who had been at the Black Horse during the disturbance, but a few constructive ideas were bounced around. Spillings, still seemingly fixated on the paranormal, came up with a half-serious suggestion that the Major’s body may have been used for some sort of satanic ritual.

      The smoky voiced policewoman swung on him sarcastically. “What? You think they’re using crippled old squaddies now in place of beautiful young virgins – I doubt it.”

      “No,” shouted Spillings above the laughter, “I just reckon there might be some religious reason why he flung the duvet in the grave, that’s all.”

      Even Dowding, his mind troubled by some greater dilemma, managed to come up with a proposal that merited attention. “We could do a re-enactment at the same time tonight – see if anyone’s hanging about the churchyard who might remember seeing Dauntsey on Sunday. We’d get some idea how long he had to get rid of the body as well.”

      Arrangements were made for a re-enactment and Daphne breezed in, rounding up discarded coffee cups and stray Kit Kat wrappers, as the meeting broke up. “Good morning, Chief Inspector. How was the Mitre?” she enquired, with a curiously intimate expression.

      “Fine thanks,” Bliss replied guardedly, breaking off a conversation with Patterson and praying she would say nothing about their dinner engagement.

      “I hope they’re feeding you well,” she added with a wink, obviously taking innocuous delight in having a shared secret.

      Thank God, he thought. “Fine, thanks. Yes.”

      Dowding was prowling around in the background, just out of range, waiting for an opening. Bliss finally caught on. “Do you want something, lad?”

      “I wanna speak to Sergeant Patterson.” The words “in private” hung unspoken and Bliss obliged, saying he needed to ask Jonathon Dauntsey some further questions.

      Bliss was barely out of earshot when Dowding rounded on the sergeant in a venomous whisper. “What the hell’s going on, Serg?”

      “What d’ye mean?”

      “You’ve dropped me in the shit.”

      “You wanna keep your mouth shut tight then.”

      “Oh. Very funneee,” he sneered.

      “So what’s your problem?”

      “I did that vehicle search you asked for and it comes up no record. Then I get a very strange phone call from someone at Scotland Yard, asking me why I want to know. I says, ‘What’s it to do with you?’ He says, ‘Don’t give me no flannel,’ real nasty. ‘I wanna know who authorised that vehicle search and what for.’”

      “Oh shit – you didn’t tell ’im did you?”

      “How could I – I didn’t know – You didn’t tell me.”

      “I meant – you didn’t give him my name did you?”

      “No, I just said it were the Dauntsey case – checking all the vehicles anywhere near the scene. Must have got a wrong number.”

      Patterson started to move away. “Good thinking, lad. Well done.”

      “Wait a minute, Serg,” said Dowding grasping his arm, “I wanna know whose motor it is.”

      Patterson shook his arm free with a scowl. “How the hell should I know? That’s why I asked you to run a check.”

      The other detectives, sensing an approaching storm had scuttled out of the room. Dowding kicked the door shut and closed in on the sergeant, spitting a volley of abuse through clenched teeth. “Don’t give me that bollocks. I’m just a fucking prawn to you, aren’t I? You used me – you know damn well who that motor belongs to.”

      Patterson turned his attention to some papers in his hand. “So what if I do?”

      Dowding played what he hoped was his trump. “Well, maybe I should tell the new inspector you’re doin’ dodgy vehicle searches.”

      Patterson rounded on him. “Are you threatening me?” Then he quickly backed off, softening his face, waving Dowding into a chair and slumping meditatively behind his desk. He sat silently for half a minute or more then spoke earnestly. “Keep this to yourself, but there’s something fishy going on. That car number I gave you belongs to our new D.I.”

      “You ran a search on D.I. Bliss!” exclaimed Dowding incredulously. “What the hell for?”

      “Like I said, something smells. It’s like this guy didn’t exist before he came here. I called Scotland Yard yesterday afternoon just to get a bit of background on him. I thought it was odd that a Met bloke would transfer down here. It’s not as though he’s from these parts, not judging by his accent.”

      “So what did they say at the Yard?”

      Patterson angrily pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and gave the “No Smoking” sign a filthy look, as if holding it responsible for all his woes. “I got the run-around,” he admitted finally. “‘Bliss,’ they said, ‘Never heard of him, wrong department – try F Division’ ... ‘Sorry – give Training a call’ ... ‘Can’t help, have you tried Admin?’ ... ‘What’s his collar number?’ ... ‘How the fuck should I know?’ I said. ... ‘Can’t help you then.’ ... ‘Just how many blokes have you got called David Bliss?’ I asked, and d’ye know what the cheeky sod said? ‘Sorry, Sergeant. That’s classified,’ as if I were some nosey civvy.”

      D.C. Dowding’s forehead creased into a puzzled frown, “I smell a rat.”

      “A mole more likely,” replied Patterson

      “Undercover,” whistled Dowding. “Police Complaints Authority?”

      “They haven’t got the brains to do that.”

      “MI5 or MI6 then.”

      “Military Intelligence – now there’s an oxymoron for you – but why? What have you been up to, Dowding?”

      “Nothing, Serg. So, who is he? What’s he after?”

      Patterson shook his head. “I knew something was up when he said I shouldn’t give his name to the papers – assuming that is his name ... Like I said before, know thine enemy, lad.”

      “Are you sure he is the enemy?”

      “All senior officers are, lad – particularly ones that parachute in out of the blue.”

      “Right, Pat,” said Bliss poking his head

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