Missing: Presumed Dead by James Hawkins Page A

Inspector,” she said, making no attempt to keep her voice down. “No longer part of life. Oh, they all eat and sleep; most of ’em stink; some even talk sometimes – rubbish usually, but this is just a holding pen. They’re just waiting for a plot at the cemetery or a slot at the crematorium.” She pulled him closer with the crook of a bony finger. “Just waiting for their fifteen minutes of flame,” she said, without a trace of humour.
    Bliss smiled briefly then fought to select a suitable expression to presage his doom-laden message, but his face blanked while an eighteen-year-old memory came flooding back: a memory of Mrs. Richard’s quizzical face, incapable of comprehending the disaster, incapable of absorbing the horror of young Constable Bliss’s words – “I’m very sorry Mrs. Richards but your daughter has been shot and killed.”
    â€œDead?” she had queried.
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    â€œShe can’t be dead; she’s getting married next week,” she shot back defiantly, as if he were deluded.
    She’s dead – and I killed her, he wanted to scream, his conscience trying to drag the admission out of him. Then a policewoman with a bush of red hair bubbling out from under her little blue hat had stepped in front of him and forestalled his confession. “Mrs. Richards,” she said, softly, “there’s been a terrible accident in the bank ...”
    It was no accident, thought Bliss, biting back his anger. It was some petty mobster with a sawn-off shotgun.
    â€œThere’s been a shooting, and unfortunately your daughter, Mandy ...”
    â€œShe’s just gone to the bank to get the money for her honeymoon. She’ll be back in a minute ...” said Mrs. Richards, still uncomprehending, but at least beginning to accept that the police visit was somehow connected to her daughter.
    Bliss shook his head and quickly dislodged the old memory. “Mrs. Dauntsey,” he started, biting the bullet, “I’m afraid I have some really bad news ... Your husband has been killed.”
    The news stunned her, leaving her head twitching repeatedly from side to side like a malfunctioning automaton and her mouth stuttering, “N ... N ... No.”
    Deciding there was never going to be a good time to tell her about Jonathon, Bliss pushed on. “I’m also sorry to have to inform you Jonathon has told us he did it.” A strange look of confusion swept over her and, too late, he realised he had on the wrong face. He still had on his “This tragedy causes me as much pain as it does you” countenance, when he probably should have switched to an expression of “Your son is really in the shit.”
    â€œJonathon couldn’t have done it,” she retorted with a degree of positiveness that made him realise he would have an uphill struggle persuading her any different. Every mother feels that way, he thought. The prisons are full of men unjustly convicted, in their mother’s eyes. But she was still shaking her head fiercely, “Jonathon did not and could not have killed his father.”
    â€œDo you know why he would want to kill your husband?”
    â€œBut I don’t understand ... He couldn’t have … It’s not possible ... Not my Jonathon ...”
    â€œIs there any reason why Jonathon might have killed your husband?” he tried again, rephrasing his question, convinced she was able to comprehend what was happening.
    â€œTake it from me, Inspector, he didn’t do it.”
    â€œHe says he did.”
    â€œYou just bring him in here. I’ll soon get at the truth.”
    You’re probably right, he thought, guessing she was not above giving him a clip around the ear. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
    Bliss left Mrs. Dauntsey and her living mortuary after a few minutes. “I’m feeling rather tired,” she had said somewhat