No Cherubs for Melanie (28 page)

A stick-man hiding inside a shredded raincoat and clutching a large carrier bag obligingly interrupted as he shuffled fussily into an adjacent booth. His vulture-like head protruded forward and his watchful hooded eyes surveyed the floor as if seeking prey. He ordered a drink without a word, just an upward flick of his chin in response to the waitress's shouted proposal: “Tea?” Then he animatedly leapt up and stormed around, probing
for treasure, seizing a used wooden stir-stick off the floor with the delight of a herring-gull swooping down on a half-eaten salmon sandwich. He snatched tidbits off an uncleared table, picked through the litter bin, and came up with a find so rewarding he squirrelled it into his bag with a twitter of laughter.

Samantha chuckled briefly in response, but caught herself as her mind substituted her father for the demented man. Anxiety pulled her to her feet. “I've got to go,” she said to Bryan, starting to pace like a four-year-old desperate for the toilet.

“Hang on. You asked to meet me, have you forgotten? I haven't got a clue what you've been talking about.”

She was headed toward the door. “I've got to go.”

“Where?”

She hovered. “I don't know.”

“Stop stressing and sit down then.”

She half-sat then leapt up again. “I can't… You don't understand.”

“Understand what?”

“He's in trouble, I know he is.”

Bryan caught her hand and eased her to a standstill. “Let me help… I mean it.”

She sensed the flow of sincerity through his touch and let him guide her back to her seat. “Tell me where he is and I promise to help him,” he said.

“Canada.”

She could see the cogs clicking into place. “The daughter?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “He said he'd got the evidence he needed and was on his way back as soon as he got the money. It's Sunday, he should have been here by now.”

“You're worrying unnecessarily… What money?”

She let go with a sudden burst of aggression directed at the ceiling. “I bet Edwards has got him.
Had him arrested at the airport. Whisked him off to some secret dungeon.”

“Now you're being ridiculous,” he said, glancing around the room disconcertedly. “And you're causing a scene.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she continued shouting. “You couldn't cause a scene in here if you tried. Only posh places have scenes. You could have a fuck on the floor here and nobody would take any notice.” She spun around, feeling the f-word had attracted some attention. She was right, several men were leering at her, obviously considering the possibility of testing her theory. With a snort of disgust she bent over the table toward Bryan and peered accusingly into his face. “You said Edwards wanted him killed.”

“That's going a bit far. I only said it was possible. But anyway, how could he? He didn't know where your dad was any more than I did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Edwards calls me at least four times a day asking if I've found out.”

“And you didn't tell him?”

“How could I? I've only just found out myself.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I suppose you think I'm being paranoid?”

“Let's go somewhere half decent and think about this logically. We could check the bank again. I could put some official pressure on them to hurry their enquiries along.”

She flicked her wristwatch pointedly in front of his face, as if it gave the day as well as the time. “It's bloody Sunday.”

Samantha felt better as she drained her coffee and rose to leave. Venting at Bryan had released some of her pent-up concern. It was the second explosion in a day. Her mother had caught the blast from the first when
she adamantly refused to lend Samantha the money to hop on a plane to Toronto in search of her father. “Don't you give him any more either,” Sarah had shouted. “If you've got some spare you can repay what he owes me.”

They left the café in the midst of deliberating strategy.

“What about the place in Canada where you sent the money?” Bryan enquired. “I know it's Sunday but someone might be there.” He checked his watch. “They must be three or four hours behind us.

“Five, I think,” she said, remembering her last conversation with her father.

“Right. Your place or mine?”

“Mine,” she replied. “Just in case he's phoned.”

“Maybe we should go to his place first, just to make sure he hasn't slipped home without telling anyone.”

Their eyes signalled agreement. “I've still got his key,” said Samantha.

“So have I,” said Bryan, and produced one from his pocket.

Puzzled, she probed, “How did you get a key?” She held hers up to his; they were different.

“Come on.” He left no room for discussion. “My car or yours?”

“My car's a 79 bus or a taxi.”

“Mine then,” he said, grabbing her arm and guiding her to his Porsche, not allowing her to protest. Who was going to protest?

An ethnically diverse huddle of teenagers scattered like rats as Peter Bryan climbed from the car outside the apartment block. Everyone in the neighbourhood had been jumpy since the raid on Bliss's flat the previous week. “Fuzz,” rang through the air. Little wads of dubious substances
disappeared into cracks and crevices where few would venture to explore.

The door, a flashy new door, had a new lock — bright and brassy. Samantha's eyes, drawn to his sensuously long fingers, watched in horror as he slid his key into the keyhole and she felt the blood drain from her face. It was as though someone had pulled a plug in her neck and let the blood out of her head. She seemed to be looking down at herself and watching it happen. Close to fainting she grasped his hand. “Don't.” It was the cat, she convinced herself as her head swam. Memories of Balderdash prevented her from going in.

“What's the matter?” Bryan asked, pausing long enough for her to explain, if she wanted to. If she could.

“You'll think I'm being stupid,” she replied, her slurred voice sounding muffled to her ears, like an old tape recording.

“No.”

“You will.”

“Try me.”

She told him it was the death of the cat — she feared its spirit. But it wasn't the cat that caused her fright, and she knew it wasn't. She'd had a sudden premonition that her father, not the cat, was dead. When else would you enter your dad's place without knocking? Why else would you turn up on his doorstep with a policeman?

“Why are you looking at me as though I'm an imbecile?” she asked, then felt angry at herself for being upset with him.

“I'm not.”

“Knock then,” she said and, feeling as though she were regaining control, removed her hand from his.

He started to turn the key. “Don't be silly. He's not here.”

Her hand shot back and her nails bit into his fingers in terror. “Knock.” It wasn't a request.

He didn't say, “This is stupid,” but she saw it on his face.

“Out of the way,” she ordered, pushing him roughly aside. “Dad, are you there?” she called, banging loudly, then she stuck her ear to the door.

The key turned easily a few seconds later and they entered a different world, one she barely recognized. The apartment, redecorated beyond recognition and refurbished beyond capacity, was palatial compared to its former self. “He'll love it,” said Bryan, proud of the way he'd got things moving in the twelve days since Bliss's disappearance.

Samantha was unsure. “He probably won't even notice,” she said, awed by the newly papered walls and the abundance of matching furniture, but knowing her father better than anyone. “There's no television,” she added, noting immediately the one deficiency that would bother him.

“Surprise,” said Bryan, flashing a memorandum authorizing the purchase of both a television and a video cassette recorder.

“Dad didn't have a VCR…” she started.

“Shhhhh. Do you want to get me shot?”

They laughed, then her face straightened. The television — the bills under the television, she had completely forgotten them. She looked around hopefully. “I don't suppose you noticed some bills under his old telly did you? I was supposed to take care of them.”

He glanced around with little hope. “Nope, I can't say that I did.”

“What's that smell?” she asked, catching a whiff of something strange.

“New paint,” he suggested.

She snuffled around noisily, “No. It's cat — dead cat.”

He sniffed, as loudly as he could, just to ensure she would know he was taking her seriously, then gave her a shrug accompanied by a blank expression.

But she was determined to find something wrong, illogically annoyed with the police for trying to wriggle out of their responsibilities by putting everything right before she could sue the pants off them. “It's cat shit,” she announced with triumph in her voice.

He scented around. “Impossible. We had the carpet replaced professionally.”

She dropped to all fours, sticking her bottom in the air and her nose to the floor. “I bet the poor old bugger shit himself when your copper kicked him to death.”

“Don't exaggerate,” he said, his eyes glued to her backside.

She looked up, and caught him. Inwardly she smiled, but managed to put a scowl on her face. “I bet you'd shit yourself if someone kicked you to death.” She looked around for something else to moan about, knowing she wouldn't get far with a vague complaint about an odour. “Where are his boxes?”

Bryan tried getting his own back. “That stinking load of junk…” but he got no further.

Scenting the brush, she adopted a tone long practised for her Old Bailey debut. “Chief Inspector. That junk, as you describe it, contained many valuable personal belongings, heirlooms — ”

It was his turn to cut in, mockingly: “It's in protective custody. You don't think I would have left his ‘valuable' belongings unattended in this neighbourhood?”

“Protective custody?”

“My place.”

She readied herself for another attack, but he saw what was coming. “Don't worry, I haven't pried,” he said, blocking her with the wave of an outstretched hand, and added, “I wouldn't want to catch anything.”

She knew when to quit and graciously allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Samantha,” he crooned. “Can we stop fighting, please? I'm not the enemy.”

“Pax,” she said, holding out a hand.

He laughed at her childlike gesture but stuck out his hand anyway. “Pax.”

Their hands met for a brief shake then Bryan headed toward the door. “Back in a jiff. Gotta get something from the car,” he said, leaving her perplexed as he disappeared out of the apartment. He returned in seconds, slipping her a manilla folder. “I shall deny ever seeing this,” he said, his eyes roaming the ceiling.

“What is it?”

“I've no idea. I've just told you, I've never seen it before it my life.”

Her face was a picture as she gingerly opened the folder. She looks as though a tarantula might leap out, Bryan thought.

It was the Betty-Ann Gordonstone suicide file. “Where did you get it?” she breathed.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he called from the newly decorated kitchen as he wandered around pretending to admire the handiwork.

She slid up behind him. “Liar,” she said with so much laughter in her voice it bubbled over and infected him.

“OK. But not a word, promise?”

She promised.

“From the Coroner's Court archives. When I discovered Edwards had destroyed the original, I thought someone was bound to have a copy, and I was right.”

He took the file back from her and shuffled through it. “It's not all here. Only the copies of statements lodged with the coroner. The original file would probably have a lot more, statements from the casualty doctor… Oh, correction,” he said, “there is a statement from the doctor.” He quickly ran his eye down the witness list. “That's interesting, there's no statement from her daughter.”

“Margaret,” Samantha suggested.

“Yeah. The one in Canada.”

“What is in there?” she enquired excitedly, straining to look, temporarily forgetting the loss of her father.

“I'm not sure. I only picked it up this morning.”

“Sunday morning?”

“Well, it's not exactly kosher,” he said, weighing the file in deliberation. “But as long as my contact gets it back tonight, no one will know. Now, if your dad is right and Gordonstone did kill his wife we're going to have to find something in here to justify going over Edwards' head.”

She snuggled up to him as he opened the file. “You really are on Dad's side aren't you?”

“He's going to need any help he can get when he gets back.”

“What are we looking for?” she asked. “Something absolutely bizarre like a tiny RIP tattooed on her left breast by the murderer using a rusty hatpin?”

“You're just being fanciful.”

“OK. What about a piece of ripped thumbnail embedded in her right earlobe, or… or… or…” she clutched herself round her throat and gasped, theatrically, “or one of his hairs stuck in her throat as she struggles for a final breath.”

“Oh come on, Samantha, you know better than that. ‘Bizarre' usually happens only in novels. Anyway, if there was something obviously pointing to third party involvement Edwards would never have got the coroner to bring in a suicide verdict. No, I would prefer to find something more down-to-earth.”

“Like what?”

He didn't know. He couldn't know what he was looking for without finding it, so he turned the joke on himself. “Like a death threat penned in blood and pinned to her petticoat.”

“Now you're being facetious.”

“I know, but sometimes it isn't what you find that matters. It's what isn't there that's important.”