LITMIR.BIZ

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with inspiration. “No!” he exploded. “What if the Major isn’t dead – only wounded? It doesn’t negate what the witnesses say – they heard a fracas; saw Jonathon dump him in the pick-up; found the knife and blood. But what if Jonathon stabbed him and has taken him somewhere ...”

      “But, Guv ...”

      “Have you checked the hospitals?” Bliss cut in.

      “No ... we didn’t think ...”

      “That should have been routine.”

      “Why, Guv? Jonathon said he’d killed his dad, not wounded him.”

      “And what if he was lying?”

      “Why on earth should he?” asked Patterson with a tired testiness bordering on insolence.

      Bliss recoiled at the reproach and, feeling boxed in, felt compelled to come up with a reason. With his eyes firmly focused on the map he sifted determinedly through memories of past cases, even drifting into the realm of crime novels, seeking an explanation. “What if,” he began, an idea springing out of nowhere and slowly taking shape in his mind. “What if they got into a fight, the Major gets stabbed ... accident ... self-defence ... whatever. Then he refuses point blank to be taken to hospital. I can just imagine the crusty old Major saying, ‘I’m not having some snotty-nosed kid in a white coat digging needles into me. Anaesthetic – phooey – just get on with it. Didn’t have anaesthetic in my day – In my day they’d stick a lump of wood between yer teeth and cut yer bloody leg orf.’”

      Patterson was laughing at Bliss’s impersonation. “You might be right, Guv. That would certainly explain why Jonathon isn’t fazed; why he says he doesn’t need a solicitor.”

      “Because he knows his dad will pop up right as rain once his wound has healed ... ”

      “Then sue the Chief Constable and all of us for unlawful arrest,” continued Patterson projecting the unlikely scenario forward.

      “He’d be wasting his time,” said Bliss screwing up his nose and shaking his head. “All we have to show is reasonable cause – we have plenty of that.”

      “O.K., but why bury the duvet?”

      “It was covered in blood – he probably realised the dogs would easily scent it out. Wait ... There is another possibility – what if he took him to a hospital and registered him under a false name to save the old man’s embarrassment, and avoid answering awkward questions.”

      “But why?”

      “I don’t know – but try the hospitals anyway. Alive or dead, he has to be somewhere. Bodies don’t just disappear into thin air.”

      “This one has.”

      Bliss ignored the comment. “Get onto it right away – All hospitals within 45 minutes – an hour to be on the safe side. Any males over sixty-five admitted since 9.30 last night. Better check all doctor’s clinics as well. Shit. Why didn’t we think of it before – as soon as the body couldn’t be found? It explains everything.”

      Patterson was less sure, “Maybe.”

      “I’d better bring the Super up to date,” said Bliss feeling pleased with the progress they had made. Selecting a phone from one of the D.C.’s desks, he dialled Donaldson’s home number and listened to the ring until a gravelly sleep-filled voice answered, “Donaldson.”

      “D.I. Bliss, Sir.”

      The superintendent catapulted himself awake. “You’ve found the body?”

      “Not exactly, Sir.”

      “Exactly what?”

      “We found the duvet in a grave and we’ve got a tin soldier ...”

      Excitement swung to annoyance at the other end of the line. “What are you babbling about. He didn’t kill a tin soldier. He killed a real one. Tin soldiers don’t bleed all over the place.”

      “I just thought ...”

      “I said call me when you’ve got the body, not when you’ve found something to play with.”

      Bliss sensed that the superintendent’s phone was angrily heading for its cradle. “Sorry, Sir ...”

      “Click.”

      “Shit,” he muttered, hurriedly adding. “Pat – you stay here and work on the hospitals, I’ll go and see the widow.”

      “Do you know where the place is?”

      “No, but I’ll pick up Dowding from the cemetery – I can find my way back there. Oh, and I’d like to interview the last person who saw the Major alive.”

      “That’d be the suspect, Jonathon Dauntsey.”

      Bliss scrunched his face in mock pain. “Use your loaf, Pat.”

      “Sorry, Guv. – I don’t think we know who saw him last, apart from those who saw him being dumped in the pick-up. I guess it was probably the landlady at the Black Horse.”

      “I’ll go there after I’ve seen the widow.”

      Daphne was hovering in the foyer with half an eye on the rain as he made his way out.

      “Still here, Daphne?” he called cheerily, heading for the door.

      “Just look at that weather, Chief Inspector. It’s getting worse and I didn’t think to bring a brolly today.”

      Was she angling for a lift? “I’m going back to St. Paul’s churchyard, if that’s any help. I could give you a ride.”

      “If you’re sure you don’t mind ...”

      “Not at all, Daphne. Actually I wanted a word with you,” he said, scooping her in an outstretched arm and shepherding her out under his umbrella.

      “How is Jonathon?” she asked as soon as they drove off.

      “He seems O.K. Remarkably calm, though not what would call happy.”

      “Never has been, that one. Always sour. I remember him as a kid. Always sour – always walking around with a face like a smacked bum.”

      The wrought iron lych-gates were under heavy guard. Two bulky uniformed policeman, grateful to be out of the drizzle, were determined no-one would get through without authority while ignoring the fact that almost anyone could simply step over the two foot high stone wall forming the remainder of the cemetery’s perimeter. A few disgruntled mourners were clustered under a couple of black umbrellas close-by, discussing tactics, looking, thought Bliss, as if they were deciding whether or not to rush the gates and bury their dead anyway.

      “D.I. Bliss,” he said, heading for the gap between the two uniformed men. They stood their ground and an arm closed the gap.

      “Sorry, Sir. You can’t ... this cemetery’s closed today. Who did you say?”

      “Detective Inspector Bliss.”

      “I’m sorry ...”

      “Oh, get out of the way you idiot,” snarled Daphne pulling off her plastic rain hood, pushing her way between them and opening the gate. “This is your new chief inspector.”

      “Is that you, Daphne?” said one.

      “Well, I ain’t one of the Spice Girls, if that’s what you were hoping?”

      He turned to Bliss, “Sorry, Sir.”

      “It’s alright; you were only doing your job – and I’m the D.I., irrespective of any promotion Daphne may bestow on me.”

      “Yes, Sir.”

      With the gate swinging shut behind him, Bliss paused to look along the ancient ranks of lichen covered gravestones lolling about like disorganised soldiers waiting for a drill sergeant to shout, “Ten ... tion!” An aura of

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