The detective constable laughed from a safe distance and put on a suitably alien voice. “It was real spooky, Guv – Ooooooh. Go on, Daph. Tell the boss.”
Indignation sharpened her tone. “I didn’t say it was a UFO. All I said was there were some strange lights in the field.”
“It was an extra-terrestrial abduction,” continued the detective, still in alien character, clearly enjoying tormenting her. “They grabbed an earthling and right now they’re dissecting his brain somewhere on another planet.” Pausing to laugh, he went on, “And the aliens made crop circles, didn’t they, Daph?”
“I didn’t say they were circles,” she shouted, “I just said the corn had been trampled, that’s all.” Then she stomped out muttering fiercely about how in her day people were taught to be polite to little old ladies.
“What’s that all about?” laughed Bliss.
“Somebody nicked a pig from the farm at the back of her place and drove it through the cornfield,” explained the sergeant. “She must have seen the bloke’s torches.”
“Pig rustling?” queried Bliss with surprise.
“Yeah, Guv. You ain’t in London now. They used to go for cattle, but too many people are scared of mad cow disease.”
“And chickens,” chimed in the detective across the room. “Then there was the sheep over ...”
“Alright,” shouted the sergeant. “This ain’t All Creatures Great and Small, Dowding; we’ve got work to do. And you’d better start by getting Inspector Bliss and me some tea, seeing as how you’ve pissed Daphne off.”
“Daphne’s always pissed off, and always nosing and ferreting around in other people’s business.”
“You don’t like her ’cos she solves more crimes than you do,” laughed Patterson.
“That ain’t true.”
“What about that fraud job?”
“I could see it were a forgery.”
“Funny, you never mentioned it until Daph pointed it out.”
Ten minutes later, fully briefed on the murder, Bliss found himself in the cells being politely, though firmly, told to mind his business by a rather serious man with a gold-plated accent. A man who, in any other circumstances, would have been placed as a bank manager or gentleman farmer.
“Mr. Dauntsey, Sir,” Bliss had begun deferentially once he’d introduced himself. “I’m simply asking you to be reasonable. It must be obvious to you that we will find your father’s remains eventually. Wouldn’t it be sensible to tell me where we should look?”
Bliss sat back on the wooden bench studying the government grey walls – wondering how long it would take for the blandness to drive you crazy – awaiting a reply, realising the incongruity of the situation, realising that in past similar situations, confronted with obstinate prisoners holding back crucial bits of evidence, his language and demeanour had been entirely different.
“I’m afraid I really can’t tell you that, Inspector. I’m sure you understand,” said Dauntsey as if he were a lawyer claiming the information was privileged.
“But you’ve admitted slaughter ...” he started in a rush, then paused, slowed down, and sanitised his words. “You’ve confessed to a homicide. What possible difference would it make if you were to tell us where to find the body?”
“None – probably. But, as I’ve already made perfectly clear to the superintendent and the sergeant, I cannot tell you.”
Bliss, realising that civility was unlikely to get the answer he required, briefly considered switching to something more assertive, even aggressive – “Look here you little ... ” – but found his confidence draining in the face of a man with whom he’d prefer to be playing golf. He was still thinking about it when Dauntsey rose and waved him toward the door. “Now if that’s everything, Inspector – I’m sure you have many things to do.”
Dismissed! By a prisoner. “Now look here,” he began forcefully, then he let it go. “I’m just on my way to inform your mother. Do you wish me to tell her anything on your behalf?”
“There’s no need to distress my mother, Inspector. She’s sick enough without having to worry about all this.”
“Are you crazy? Are you asking me not to tell your mother that her husband’s dead, and her son did it?”
“All I’m saying is, she is so terribly ill that she might not understand that it was for the best; that it was just something I had to do.”
“You had to kill him?”
“Yes – Like I said in my statement, it was for the best all round. I’m sure you understand.”
“Is that your defence?”
“I don’t have a defence, Inspector – I don’t need a defence. Ultimately, there is only one judge to whom I have to answer; he will understand I am sure.”
“That may be so, but in the meantime you’ll have to explain yourself to twelve befuddled jurors and a cynical old judge, and they’ll take more convincing than you saying that it was something you just had to do.”
“Inspector. Have you ever read The Iliad?”
Bliss paused to allow the spectre of deep thought to pass over his face then answered, “Not as far as I recall. No.”
“You wouldn’t understand then,” said Dauntsey turning away, leaving Bliss feeling somehow diminished. It’s not my fault, he wanted to explain, Homer wasn’t exactly flavour of the month at West Wandsworth Comprehensive School.
“Try me,” he said, unwilling to let Dauntsey think he was in control.
Dauntsey took in a slow breath. “Then the father held out the golden scales,” he began, speaking softly to the wall, “and in them he placed two fates of dread death.”
The silence held for a full minute before Bliss could stand the tension no longer. “Sorry – I don’t know …”
Dauntsey spun round accusingly. “I said you wouldn’t understand.”
“Enlighten me then.”
“Sometimes, however unpleasant it may seem, we are each confronted by impossible choices and, when that happens, all we can do is let fate take a hand in the outcome.”
“And you’re saying that the circumstances were so compelling you had no alternative.”
He nodded, “I believe the Americans call it being caught between a rock and hard place, Inspector.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“I think I’ve said enough – good morning, Inspector, and thank you for your understanding.”
“He’s round the twist.” Bliss’s voice echoed along the cell passage to Sergeant Patterson as he slammed the cell door behind him.
“Careful, Guv. Don’t give him a defence. He might get some high priced trick cyclist to declare him non compos mentis.”
“Yeah, and six months later pronounce him cured. Then he’d be out of the nuthouse and walking the streets the same as you and I.”
The sergeant nodded. “Apart from the fact he’d have a piece of paper declaring him sane – whereas you and I ...”
They had reached the main cell block door. Patterson rattled the thick iron bars to catch the jailor’s attention and, as they waited, Bliss put two and two together and came up with four and half. “I’m sure we’re missing something important here, Pat,” he began, a fog of ideas swirling in his brain but failing to coalesce into anything tangible or sensible.