Free Missing: Presumed Dead by James Hawkins Page B

Mozart to make the rest of us feel incompetent, don’t you?” she said.
    â€œThat’s very clever, Daphne,” he laughed.
    â€œYes, it is – I only wish I’d been the first to say it.” Then she slipped into the kitchen, mouthing, “Keep playing.”
    â€œSo, where is Mrs. Bliss?” she called as he finished the piece.
    â€œThere’s no Mrs. Bliss – not at the moment anyway.”
    â€œThere’s hope for me yet then,” she said popping her head round the door and giving him a lascivious wink that threw him off guard. “Oh don’t look so nervous, Chief Inspector,” she laughed, “I’ve no illusions about my eligibility in that direction.”
    â€œIs this you?” he asked, hastily snatching a silver-framed portrait of an attractive young woman off the sideboard.
    â€œUh-huh,” she nodded. “I haven’t always been a Mrs. Mop. I used to clean up quite nicely, didn’t I?” Then she ducked modestly back into the kitchen.
    She still has the same entrancing eyes he realised and, feeling her distance offered some protection, called, “Actually you haven’t changed all that much.”
    She stuck her head back round the door, “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me in my birthday suit … the ravages of gravity, ” she added, before disappearing again.
    Bliss looked closer at the fifty-year-old image. “Very attractive,” he breathed, then noticed the inscription. “It say’s Ophelia on here,” he began, in a questioning tone.
    â€œOh really,” she replied, staying in the kitchen.
    He wandered into the kitchen, picture in hand. “Ophelia Lovelace,” it says here. “Paris – September 1947.”
    Daphne closely studied the saucepan of gravy atop the stove and stirred it firmly.
    â€œOphelia?” he inquired, noticing the pink glow to her cheeks, wondering if it were the heat from the Aga cooker.
    She didn’t look up from the pot. “The truth is my name is Ophelia – Ophelia Daphne Lovelace. I’m afraid we all lie a little at times, Chief Inspector.”
    â€œThat’s not a lie. You can call yourself whatever you want.”
    She wasn’t listening, her eyes and mind seemed focused on the pan. “I loathed Ophelia,” she began with surprising vehemence. “Who’d want to be named after a week-willed nincompoop of a girl who drowned herself just because some bloke dumped her?”
    â€œSuicide,” mused Bliss. “Was she a relative?”
    Daphne laughed, “No – Hamlet – Shakespeare. Ophelia was the wilting lily who jumped in the river when she thought Hamlet didn’t love her anymore.” Then, sticking her hands assertively on her hips, she spun on him, demanding, “Do I look like an Ophelia to you, Chief Inspector?”
    â€œNo,” he laughed. “You look like a Daphne, but I wish you’d call me Dave – off duty anyway.”
    â€œI don’t think I could – you’re cast in the mould of a chief inspector. It suits you. There’s a lot in a name you know. I actually think that some people become famous because of their names. Can you imagine what might have happened if Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill had been called Randy Longbottom – see, you’re laughing already – I mean, who’s going to sacrifice themselves for somebody called Randy or Matt?”
    â€œ ... or Dave,” he suggested.
    â€œOh no. There’s something very noble about David: King David, David and Goliath, David Lloyd George – Yes,” she added with an admiring glance, “David is very noble.”
    â€œI don’t know about that,” he replied, feeling a blush of warmth from the stove.
    Daphne gave him an inquisitive look. “I couldn’t help noticing, in the churchyard, you looked distracted, as though you had something on your