No Cherubs for Melanie (3 page)

“What do you mean?”

Trying to think beyond the tenacious image of the dead little girl, Bliss closed his eyes and sank back into his chair, leaving the other man with his backside propped against the windowsill. “Gordonstone never really pushed; he was always happy to accept that it was an accident, that she just fell in. If she'd been my six-year-old, I'd have been jumping up and down demanding explanations. I'd have been at the police station every day, banging on doors, shouting my mouth off, wanting to know what was happening, wanting action, wanting answers.”

“And he wasn't demanding answers?”

“No,” Bliss shook his head with earnestness. “He took it all too calmly for my liking, and I'll always remember him saying, ‘Well officer, these things happen.' I think I was more upset than he was.” He took a slow swig, changing his rhythm, buying time to deliberate before deciding to reveal his trump card. “Then there was the sexual thing.” The DCI raised an eyebrow interestedly, and waited.

“The pathologist couldn't be certain but he thought she may have been interfered with — somebody playing doctors and nurses, mommies and daddies, you know the sort of thing.”

“And you think it was the father?”

“Who else?”

“You tell me.”

“According to the parents they never let her out of their sight except for when she was at school, and even then the mother took her and picked her up.”

“It could have been the mother,” the DCI chipped in, his voice loaded with experience. “It's not without precedent, although they usually go for boys. And the parents must have let her out of their sight sometimes or she wouldn't have drowned.” Bliss massaged his forehead with both hands trying to work the knots out of his mind. “According to them she was supposed to be with her big sister, Margaret. The two girls had gone exploring together, and the pond was just behind the house. They'd rented the place for the summer holidays to get the kids out of the city. They'd just arrived and the girls went off to explore while they unpacked.”

“So what did the big sister say?”

Bliss hesitated, staring into his drink and searching for an answer; but all he could see was the little six-year-old cherub with long dark hair and a white marble face.

Peter Bryan prodded, “Well?”

Bliss made a performance of finishing his drink, lighting a cigarette, and checking out a small rip in the knee of his trousers. Finally he threw the empty cigarette packet toward an overflowing rubbish bin and admitted, “I didn't interview her.”

“Who did?”

Bliss didn't answer right away, knowing there was no satisfactory answer, and that his brain would always shut down altogether whenever he tried to fabricate something plausible out of nothing.

“Dave, it's not too difficult. All I've got to do is dig up the file.” Bliss held up his hand to silence the other officer and then, in a barely audible whisper, said, “No one interviewed her.”

The DCI dropped his cup onto the windowsill, splintering the atmosphere with an audible
crack
, then leaned closer to Bliss, his face screwed into a blend of curiosity and confusion. “But surely she was the prime witness. You said the two girls were together.
Someone
must've interviewed her.” The old cat shrank into the carpet again and held its breath as Bliss tried to conjure an image of the elder sister out of thin air and came up in the middle of an impenetrable fog. The chief inspector was still waiting for him when he came out the other side with no sign of relief on his face, and the senior officer picked up the vibes.

“What's that look for?”

“What look?” said Bliss, trying hard to take the pain out of his face.

“That look that says, ‘Can I trust you?'”

“OK. Can I?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on what you say.”

“In that case I ain't saying nothing.”

DCI Bryan pushed himself off the windowsill and took up a headmaster's stance, hands knotted behind back, head craned forward questioningly. “Dave, if you want to get something off your chest, particularly if it might affect this case, you may as well tell me. It happened more than twenty years ago so I don't suppose anybody will be too worried about it now.”

Bliss feared the sting of the cane hidden behind the encouraging words and appealed to the other officer with eyes wide. “I didn't do anything wrong, but I'll be honest I've had something on my conscience ever since that case. It might have something to do with Martin Gordonstone's murder, it might not. I really don't care anymore so I may as well tell you.”

“Oh, shit. Don't tell me Gordonstone coughed to murdering his own daughter.”

“No, Guv. Far from it. It wasn't what he said, it was more the things he didn't say that bugged me.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“He kept saying, ‘If there's anything you want to know just ask.' I'd ask but he never really gave a straight answer.”

“Be specific, man.”

Bliss gave it a few seconds thought. “Well, I remember asking him how long the girls had been gone, and he was sort of vague. He said something like, ‘Difficult to say precisely, officer. We were unpacking and I don't remember when they left the house for sure. It could have been ten minutes, but it may have been fifteen, possibly longer.' So I suggested that I ask the sister but he said, ‘That won't be necessary. I've already asked her and she doesn't have any idea.' I told him I should still like to ask her and he said, ‘I've told you that won't be necessary.'”

Bryan studied Bliss's face closely. “So you never interviewed the other girl.”

Bliss shook his head. “Never even saw her. Looking back on it now, I feel bloody stupid. It's obvious he kept her out of the way, but at the time —”

“What did his wife say?” cut in the chief inspector, like an interrogator keeping a suspect off balance. Bliss got up and started wandering around as if he'd lost a hip flask in the tangles of the shag-pile.

“You did interview the wife?” Bryan asked.

“Oh yes.” Bliss looked up defensively. “Of course I did. Although I never got her on her own. He was always hovering around… comforting her, that sort of thing. What was I supposed to do? She'd just lost her daughter — she was distraught. Plus, it appeared to be an accident, and there were no obvious signs of dirty business. I could hardly insist on interviewing her on her own could I?”

“So what did she say?”

“Guv, this was twenty years ago.”

“I realize that. But you're right, it could have some bearing on the old man's murder. Do you remember anything she said?” Bliss's eyes drifted to the ceiling and became entangled in the intricate pattern of a cobweb as he sought to unravel his memories. “I remember she kept referring my questions to him,” he began slowly. “I'd say, ‘What time did you realize Melanie was missing?' and she'd turn to him and say, ‘What time was it, Martin?' Even when she didn't ask his opinion, she'd look at him while she answered, like she was waiting for a clue, a nod or a wink perhaps, I don't know. But she never really spoke for herself; never gave a straight answer. She even looked at him when I asked her bloody name.”

“Did you tell anyone about your suspicions?” Apparently confused by the question, Bliss snatched his
eyes away from the cobweb. “What suspicions?” he asked, peering into the DCI's blue eyes.

“That the father killed his little girl.” Bliss thought hard and found himself staring at charges of neglect of duty — perverting the course of justice, even — and he gave his reply the most favourable spin he could. “At the time I didn't have any suspicions. I was more worried about filling out the forms, doin' sketch plans of the scene, having the body identified, arranging the postmortem: all the admin crap. Anyway, Gordonstone had a pretty good alibi. He was in the house unpacking with his wife while the two girls were playing together in the back garden.”

“You don't know that. How do you know the girls were together?”

“He told me.”

“Precisely.”

“Look, Guv. I've tortured myself to bloody death over this case. I've asked myself a thousand times why I didn't pull him in for questioning. Why didn't I bang him up in a cell for a few hours? I could have softened him up a bit; maybe a few threats, arm up his back, good cop–bad cop. You know the routines.”

“Why didn't you?” Bliss sheepishly studied the back of his hands, searching for a clearer memory of the now dead man. The bastard bullied me, he thought, remembering Gordonstone's haughty attitude. But this memory had been with him for twenty years and he still found it painful, if not impossible, to articulate. He nearly blurted out, “He bullied me,” but stopped himself, realizing how pathetic it sounded, and knowing he would be asked to cite examples. Turning his hands over, he searched the palms for evidence to support his accusations but drew a blank. Innocuous phrases sprung to mind — innocuous phrases with implied threats. I'm a
good friend of Judge so-and-so. I know quite a few of your bosses; we're in the same lodge. It was obviously just an accident. I'll give the coroner a ring, let him know; I'm sure we were at school together.”

Leaving his hands, Bliss looked up at his senior officer, seeking understanding, or perhaps compassion. “Gordonstone sort of threatened me with things that sound stupid now. And they weren't even threats, really. Just by the tone of his voice he somehow pulled rank on me … made me feel uneasy. I remember asking one question he didn't like, and he stuck his nose in the air and said, ‘Please address any further questions through my lawyer.' As if he were saying, ‘I'm too busy to deal with a little bit of shit like you.' Like I said, I've never told anyone before, but I've often wondered if he killed her. I was just a rookie at the time and didn't really know what the hell I was doing. But now he's gone perhaps the wife will talk.”

“Maybe. Although there's no mention of a wife on his sudden death report. He's shown as being single.”

“Divorced, probably. I wouldn't be surprised, the way he bossed her about. What about the elder sister? I often wondered if she knew what was going on. Maybe Melanie told her what her dad was doing. Maybe he was touching her up as well, that's why he kept her out of the way. Maybe he was screwing them both.”

“I don't think you'll get much out of her.”

“She isn't dead —”

The DCI held up his hand. “No. But she lives somewhere in the wilds of Canada. She didn't even come back for the funeral.”

“Any idea why?”

“Maybe you're right. Maybe he was playing around with both of them. Maybe she wanted to keep out of his way.”

“Why Canada?”

“For Christ's sake, Dave, stop bloody grilling me. Just come back to work and you can ask all the questions you want.”

Bliss stared vacantly into his empty glass. “I don't know if I can. Ten months is a long time.”

“Course you can. It's like riding a horse. Once you know how, you never forget. You'll just have to see the Force trick cyclist, get an OK from him. What did your own doc say was the problem?”

The well-rehearsed prognosis rolled off Bliss's tongue, accompanied by an appropriately miserable expression. “Post-traumatic stress syndrome.”

“The plane crash?”

“That and other things.”

“What things?”

“Divorce.”

“So you're a bit depressed.”

“Depressed is hardly adequate, Guv,” Bliss began, but laboured to find an alternative way to express the pain of divorce and sat in silent consternation for a few seconds. How can you explain to somebody that your mind has been torn apart? How can you carry on after such a trauma; why would you try? Death is at least final; divorce lingers. Death can be buried but divorce keeps coming back to smack you in the face. “Twenty-five years investment — hard bloody work…” he explained, “then whole bloody lot gets flushed down the pan.”

DCI Bryan softened his voice in sympathy. “Why did she leave, Dave?”

“She'd had enough, I suppose. I think it was the job mainly. She never understood; reckoned I loved the job more than her.”

“Did you?”

The admission stuck in his throat for a few seconds. “Probably.”

“If I had a missus she'd probably say the same. But you can't hide out here for the rest of your life. You've still got your daughter and you've still got a job — barely. Who knows, you might even find someone else.”

“I've had a couple of tries. I really thought I'd cracked it with the last one…” He paused briefly as a dark memory passed, then brightened himself up for the other man's benefit. “Anyway, I'm getting too old to try again.”

“Rubbish. I know dozens of men who'd love a second chance. There's plenty more fish.”

“It's too much effort. I can't be bothered any more. At first I thought, ‘Great! Free again, and still young enough to enjoy it.' Who was I kidding?” He paused and ferreted down the side of the chair squab, suddenly recalling the hiding place for a badly pulped packet of Benson & Hedges. The match shook noticeably as he lit one of the squashed cigarettes, and he stared into the flame for several seconds before blowing it out. “I got so bloody desperate I even started smoking again.”

A smirk spread across DCI Bryan's face.

“It's not funny, Guv. Have you ever tried giving up?”

“Never started.”

“You wouldn't understand then. Took me two years. Always wanting one, always tempted.”

“Oh well. Life goes on.”

Bliss's reply was loaded. “It doesn't have to.”

“For God's sake pull yourself together man.”

Bliss shrugged and gazed silently into the dirty grey cloud of exhaled smoke as if looking for inspiration; searching for a more hopeful future.