No Cherubs for Melanie (12 page)

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I was representing you and would advise you accordingly.”

“And your advice would be?”

“Are you going to pay me for this?”

“Samantha…”

”OK, Dad. But maybe you should consider going back. They're just worried, that's all. After what you've been through recently they were worried you might flip and…”

“And I did. Is that what they're saying?”

“Dad. You broke his wrist for fuck's sake,”

“Samantha!”

“I know, I know, don't swear. But is it true? Did you?”

“Possibly,” Bliss admitted grudgingly. “But he deserved it.”

“He's still at the hospital shouting his mouth off about charging you.”

“All I want is justice.”

“You know as well as I do that justice is an intellectual concept unrelated to the truth.”

“Jesus,” he blurted. “Where the hell did you get that?”

She laughed. “Law school probably, but it's true Dad.”

A faint buzzing alerted his already heightened senses. “What was that?”

“I didn't hear anything.”

Bliss slammed the receiver down and walked quickly away from the payphone, slipping back into the pub where his half consumed drink still sat under the watchful eye of the barman. “Thanks,” he said, sinking the rest of the double scotch in a single gulp, then slinking out of the bar with his head down. Twenty minutes later he was back on the phone. Another call box outside another pub. This time he called her mobile phone.

“It's me.” he whispered, before she could even say who she was.

“Where are you?”

“Not telling.”

“Don't be so childish.”

“You might be working for the enemy.”

“I'm not.”

“I need you to do me a favour. Several actually.”

She was very noncommittal. “What?”

“I need clothes, money, and my passport.”

Genuine concern filled her voice. “Look, Dad. Why not just talk to Peter Bryan? It's not too late, it can all be sorted out. I don't think Edwards will press charges.”

“Samantha, I'm not fleeing the country, I've just got to sort out a few things.”

“Dad,” she started crying. “It's OK. Everyone understands. You've been through a lot.”

“Sam, I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me. I think Edwards set me up deliberately. He wants me out for some reason. Do what I ask, please. Clothes, money, and passport in a suitcase. I'll call you in a couple of hours, OK?”

“I don't know, Dad,” she replied, her tone suggesting it was unlikely — that she didn't think it was a good idea.

“Please,” he begged.

“I'll think about it, but I'm not making any promises,” she said as she slowly put down the phone and wiped a droplet from her cheek.

“What did he say?” enquired DCI Bryan, creeping up from behind and causing her to physically leap.

“How the hell did you get in my house?” she screamed, more in fright than anger.

“You left the door open. I said I'd be back.”

“How long were you… ? What did you…? How dare you…? she said, starting three questions consecutively without expecting a reply to any of them.

“I knocked,” he protested weakly, then continued without giving her room for contradiction. “Anyway, you shouldn't leave the door open. So, what did your father say?”

Samantha pulled herself together and lied calmly. “He said he'd be in your office at nine tomorrow morning.”

Bryan smiled in relief. “Thank God for that.”

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready. I have a date.”

“Nine o'clock?”

“That's what he said.”

Bryan looked serious again. “Make sure he's there Sam.”

“Roger Wilco,” she replied, putting on her best impression of a colonel and throwing a salute.

He called again less than thirty minutes later, his impatience fuelled by nervousness. Samantha reacted angrily, refusing to help, citing her reputation, her career, even her freedom.

“They won't be watching my place,” he assured her.

“Why don't you go yourself then?” she responded forcefully.

She had a point, he conceded, but persisted anyway. “Well, they might be—”

She cut him short. “Dad. I still think you should give yourself up and plead insanity.”

She was joking, wasn't she? He laughed, but wasn't altogether sure why. Maybe she was right, he thought, maybe he was insane. Quickly dismissing the notion he was nevertheless left with a nagging thought buzzing in his mind. Does a crazy man know he is crazy?

An hour later a tartily dressed young mother manoeuvred her rummage-sale pram through the street doors of Bliss's apartment block and shrieked at the sight of a
man, all in black, crouching under the concrete stairwell, the pram's usual parking spot.

“Police,” he said quietly, pointing to the badge on his shirt. Another officer was creeping up behind her.

“What's going on,” she demanded loudly, hoping to attract someone's attention.

“Shhh,” the officer behind her shushed soothingly. She leapt round with a start. “There's nothing to be worried about, Madam,” he said, but the fear in her eyes told him that she thought differently. “Just come with me,” he added, gently placing his hand on her arm.

Ripping her arm from his grasp she started backing away, pram in tow. “I ain't going nowhere wiv you…” she started, but he blocked her path, all six-feet-two-inches of his frame filling the doorway.

“What's going on?” she repeated.

He smiled reassuringly. “You can't go in at the moment.”

“Why not? What about the kid's tea?”

The kid's tea would have to wait, he explained, then frightened her half to death by telling her the place was surrounded by armed policemen.

She agreed to go, to her mother's she said, just around the block, and no, she didn't need any help with the pram. “Bloody coppers,” she mumbled as she passed another darkly clad figure squatting behind a rubbish bin in the backyard. Then she paused, struck by the unusual peacefulness: no screaming kids, no revving motorcycles, no traffic — not on their street anyway. And in the stillness she heard the cooing of a pigeon and mistook it for a cuckoo.

The plan for a stakeout of Bliss's apartment had been hatched by Superintendent Edwards and was being
orchestrated from his hospital room. Despite his injuries he had insisted on taking command, his adrenalin overcoming the grogginess from the painkillers, and he was like a tornado, whipping up a storm, flattening everything in his path. A tactical support unit, a plainclothes surveillance team, and a dog handler had already been dispatched to back up the three detectives initially posted to watch the apartment.

Now a small gathering of unit supervisors and commanders shuffled awkwardly around the end of Edwards' bed, staring at the pastel walls, inhaling the aroma of disinfectant and floor wax, trying to ignore the performance of pitiable suffering that Edwards was putting on for them. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut and caught their attention with a woeful, though distinctly masculine, whimper.

“Thank you for coming,” he exhaled, in a voice shot through with anguish. “It is essential that Bliss be found quickly, for his own safety,” he continued, in a voice now loaded with sympathy. Many in the small group nodded knowingly, although DCI Bryan kept his head up and his face straight, determined not to be railroaded into anything that did not involve fair play for Bliss. The divisional commander, Edwards' immediate superior and usually a reflective, considered man, found himself being swept up and hauled along in the scheme without good reason to resist.

Embarrassment was another consideration, and Edwards sought agreement in the face of the divisional commander as he gravely intoned, “It is also essential for the good of the force that we find Bliss and keep the bloody press from becoming involved.” Edwards naturally failed to mention that it was also in his personal best interest to stop Bliss from talking publicly. Tabloid headlines screaming, “Inspector Bops His Boss,” would,
he might have guessed, cause a great deal of sniggering behind his back.

Finally, deflecting the spotlight from himself completely, Edwards shone it directly on DCI Bryan. “Adverse publicity could seriously damage DCI Bryan's career,” he said, staring straight at the other officer but talking as if he were persona non grata. “After all, it was DCI Bryan who encouraged Bliss to return to duty and assigned him to the Gordonstone case.”

Bryan went beet red. Was he supposed to be grateful? Did Edwards expect to be thanked for trying to protect him from the media? He started to protest, but Edwards waved him away with a flick of his good hand, then reached across to the bedside table to pick up his radio.

“Where is Inspector Bliss now?” he asked one of the detectives at the scene.

“There's no change, sir,” a female voice replied. “He went into his flat about half an hour ago and he's still there.”

Edwards turned back to the small group. “He's violent, psychologically disturbed, and he may have suicidal tendencies.”

This was too much for DCI Bryan. His jaw dropped. “Sir, I don't think we should go overboard. It's not as though he's a dangerous offender.”

Edwards glowered at him. “You mightn't think so Chief Inspector, but look what he did to me.” The plaster cast on his wrist and the inflamed swelling on his forehead certainly seemed to back up his assertion.

Bryan found himself feebly defending his own words. “He's been under a lot of stress recently, that's all.”

Edwards rolled his eyes for the benefit of the others and continued with his impromptu briefing. “He may be armed —” Bryan, exasperated, tried again. “Sir, I don't think there is any evidence of that.”

“You also thought he was fit to return to duty.” Edwards hissed.

“The psychologist said —”

Edwards cut him short. “Shut up and listen for once. I warned you he wasn't fit. I told you it would be your fault if anything went wrong. Well it bloody well has gone wrong, so I suggest you leave this to me.”

Bryan's resolve more or less collapsed, but he made one last attempt. “I still don't think he'll be armed,” he mumbled.

“Well, I'm not going to take any chances.” And, pausing for effect, Superintendent Edwards added solemnly, “We don't know what he might do.”

Twenty minutes later the early evening gloom had faded to darkness. A small bank of floodlights faced the apartment building but remained unlit, waiting, like everyone else, for the right moment. Darkly clad figures scuffled around the unkempt grounds seeking a clearer view of Bliss's third floor apartment window, where shadowy movements behind the curtains signalled the presence of life. Others sought somewhere secluded for a snatched cigarette.

A classroom at the back of the infant's school had been hastily turned into an evacuation centre. One disgruntled resident, forced out of his home for the evening, chose the local pub instead of the school and tipped off the local newspaper with an anonymous call. A press cordon of orange crime scene tape, patrolled by a few tight-lipped uniformed bobbies, was set up half a block away. Another of the evacuees had escaped from the school and was blabbing to a small contingent of scribbling journalists. “There's coppers swarming everywhere,” said the publicity seeker, but he could offer no
further explanation. Neighbours in nearby apartments were quickly hunted down, cameras and microphones stuck in their faces. They knew nothing either.

The remaining evacuees, lounging reminiscently on desks, leafing through books with once familiar stories about naïve pigs and grumpy billy goats, rediscovered a sense of childhood camaraderie. Neighbours who had only ever nodded suspiciously, or complained about each other's kids, discovered commonalities transcending their racial and social backgrounds. Their petty grumbles temporarily forgotten, if not altogether forgiven, they conversed freely, anxiously debating what was happening. Told little, they imagined a lot. A fundamentalist's bomb factory was a favourite explanation, but the rumour evaporated with the arrival of the apartment building's only Muslim family. Attention switched to the ‘dirty old man' who lived on the top floor, but no one gave any thought to the reclusive man from the third floor who, it was rumoured, was a policeman.

A dozen children, uncaring and largely unaware of what was happening, tore around the classroom, playing noisily and happily together, irrespective of colour or beliefs. They always had. They weren't old enough to be frightened of each other.

Outside, in the street, DCI Bryan informally briefed a huddle of sergeants under a streetlamp, well away from the frustrated press, and re-iterated his own beliefs forcefully. “We're concerned for DI Bliss's welfare, that's all.”

“He is suicidal then?” suggested one, in the form of a question.

“I don't think so.”

“Why are we here then?” asked another, his tone making it clear he had made other plans for the evening.

Don't ask me lad, Bryan felt like saying, but merely shrugged off the question with a blank face and an open-handed gesture.

“What if he starts shooting?” enquired a sergeant, mindful of Edwards' warning.

“He won't,” said Bryan with a scornful laugh.

The sergeant, a stickler for protocol, wouldn't be fobbed off and insisted on knowing the rules of engagement. “But what if he does?”

DCI Bryan wouldn't be drawn. “Nonsense,” he replied, refusing to consider such a possibility, but then he slipped quickly into the mobile incident van to avoid further awkward questions.

The converted van, sprouting antennae and buzzing with radios, phones, and computers, offered Bryan no haven; half a dozen pairs of eyes turned questioningly in his direction. Ignoring them, he tuned out the buzz, blanked his eyes, and thought: What if he does start shooting? What was Bliss waiting for? he wondered. Was he waiting for someone to shout, “Come on out with your hands up!” An old memory brought half a smile to Bryan's face. He had once used those exact words, in a public toilet in the middle of the night. Just for fun, for the amusement of a new recruit. “Here's how it's done lad,” he had called, and marched straight into the vestibule shouting, “Come on out with your hands up!” To his utter amazement a stall door slowly opened and a renegade wanted for murdering his wife shuffled out, hands held high, crying, “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” Bryan didn't shoot — he couldn't shoot, he didn't have a gun. But now half a dozen guns were trained on Bliss's windows and door. What if…?