No Cherubs for Melanie (44 page)

“This is crap. Whose murder?”

“Betty-Ann Gordonstone, of course — Mrs. Piggy.”

“Snake? What fucking snake?”

“Margaret — the harelip. Snakes have a split upper lip. She was writing about herself. Doesn't the truth mean anything to you?”

“Truth,” Edwards spat. “Kids' stories about poxy pussy cats?”

Margaret was hardly a pussy, thought Bliss, reminding himself to ask Samantha about Balderdash. “She admitted it to me,” he said, casting his mind back to the nightmare island experience, which he might have put down to a bad batch of beer if it hadn't been for the book in his hand and the hole in his leg. “She told me she'd put her mother out of misery, and she was pointing a rifle at me when she said it.”

Edwards' face was speaking on his behalf. “This guy's crazy,” it said. And Bliss suddenly realized who
they
were: a couple of white coats with swinging stethoscopes who'd ignored the hole in his leg and spent most of their time with an ophthalmoscope trying to peer into his brain.

“You still don't believe me, do you?” Bliss said. “You think I'm barmy.”

Edwards folded. He had no evidence that Margaret had done it, although he had his suspicions. But what was he supposed to have done? Gordonstone had been distraught. His younger daughter had died in a terrible accident, his wife was a basket case whom he'd looked after for ten years. How would he live with loss of Margaret? Anyway, it was easy to believe that Betty-Ann had wanted to die, from what Gordonstone had said.

Bliss was still waiting; Edwards felt his eyes probing. “Melanie's accident —” he began.

“It wasn't an accident,” shot back Bliss.

“Yeah. Well, that was your fault; you were the one who told the coroner it was. I've read the bloody file.”

“True.”

“Anyway, I felt sorry for the poor bastard and, yes, if you must know, I did think Margaret might have done it. But I'll deny ever saying so. But what's this got to do with Gordonstone's death? That's what you were supposed to be working on, not something that happened years ago.”

“I
was
working on that, Guv. In fact, I now know for certain who killed him.”

“So who did it?”

“You did.”

Edwards could have murdered him — smacked him round the head with his plastered arm or pumped a pint of saline straight into his heart, if Evelyn hadn't returned.

“Your tea, Mr. Bliss,” the nurse said. “Would your friend like one?”

Bliss said, “Yes,” just for the pleasure of watching her backside go out into the corridor and return, then go out again. He could also watch Edwards build steam.

The pressure cooker in Edwards' brain exploded just as Evelyn's behind disappeared. “How dare you!” he shouted.

“Well, you had the best motive.”

Edwards went as white as a sheet. “What d'ye mean?”

“Greed. Why own half a restaurant when you can have all of it? It is yours isn't it?”

Edwards lost steam. “How did you find out?”

“I didn't — I guessed, but you've just confirmed it.”

“What? How dare you? You repeat that and I'll sue for defamation.”

“You can't sue if it's true.”

“You're doing it again. You're saying I killed Gordonstone.”

“You were in the restaurant the night he died?”

“You can't prove that.”

“You don't deny it, though.”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“Call it what you like, but I still want to know why you were there when he died, but didn't do anything to help him, and certainly didn't come forward as a witness.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Ah, but it is my business. You see, I was given the job of finding his killer, and I have. Like I said, it's you.”

“I shall pretend I didn't hear that.”

“You needn't bother. I shall tell everybody, unless I start getting some straight answers.”

“Like what?”

“Like, how long have you been a television reporter?”

Edwards' expression made it clear he was about to deny the accusation. Bliss saved him the breath. “I could get Mr. George Weston to attend an identification parade if you like. What did you do — wear glasses, false beard, and a borrowed raincoat from lost property?”

“How did you find out?”

“I had plenty of time to think about it, then” he whipped open his bedside drawer, “I watched a copy of the videotape — the one I got from Mr. Weston. The one he took at the restaurant the night Gordonstone died. You didn't know he'd made a copy, did you? Anyway, I watched it and… Bingo! Who is that sitting all by himself in the corner by the kitchen door but our Mr. Edwards? What is he doing there, I said to myself.” Bliss reached back into the drawer and pulled out the newspaper clipping of Gordonstone's funeral. “And I saw our Mr. Edwards at the funeral and I thought to myself, ‘There's
something fishy going on here.' So, I got someone to make a few enquiries with all the television stations, and they all said that they had never heard of Weston or his videotape. So, who else might have known about it?”

He opened his eyes wide, offering Edwards the opportunity to respond.

He declined.

“Well. Lo and behold, when someone asked Mr. Weston why he had contacted the television people about the videotape, he said he hadn't. He claims he only called our police station, and was taken by surprise twenty minutes later when a reporter turned up and offered him a hundred quid for the tape. He was so taken aback he forgot to mention the copy. He probably griped about the restaurant so much that the reporter was happy to get out of there. Anyway, apparently the reporter was in a tearing hurry, desperate to get the tape back to the studio for the mid-morning news, or so he claimed. Strange that, considering it was never shown. But it wouldn't have been, would it, considering the tape was in your bloody desk drawer.”

“I shall deny it. You can't prove any of it.”

“I can prove you were there,” Bliss said, waving the videotape in the air. “And I can get Weston to ID you as the man who claimed to be a reporter.”

In a flash, Edwards ripped the videotape out of Bliss's hand, threw it on the floor, and stamped it to shreds. Bliss watched impassively.

Peter Bryan and Samantha came in, hand in hand.

“Oh, Christ,” said Bliss. “That's all I need.” “Shut up, misery,” Samantha laughed. “You're always telling me I should find a nice man with good prospects. I have.”

“I give up.”

“Is this what you want, Dave,” said Bryan, passing him a copy of the letter addressed to Margaret from Gosforth, Morgan, and Mitwich. The letter she had left unopened in the cottage.

Bliss scanned the single sheet then looked at Edwards. “This appears to be confirmation that you do own
L'Haute Cuisinier.
According to Gordonstone's solicitor, his shares passed on his death to a Michael Edwards.”

“So, you really did have a motive,” said Samantha.

“I didn't,” Edwards protested, squirming. “There must be dozens, hundreds of Michael Edwards. I'm not the only Michael Edwards in the world.”

“But you're the only Michael Edwards who investigated his wife's death,” said Bliss. “The only Michael Edwards in his restaurant the night he was poisoned, the only Michael Edwards at his funeral.”

“It looks pretty bad, Guv,” said Bryan sagely.

“Oh, it's worse than that,” said Bliss, loving every minute. “Look,” he said to Bryan, pointing to the dismembered videotape on the floor.

“What happened?” cried Samantha.

“Mr. Edwards —”

“I don't have to listen to this crap,” said Edwards heading for the door.

“I suggest you do, or you may hear the rest of it from the comfort of a cell,” said Bliss, causing Edwards to stooge about near the door while he nervously considered his best course of action. Bliss carried on speaking as if Edwards were a disobedient child. “As I was saying, Mr. Edwards took exception to that videotape you gave me, Samantha.”

“Not the…”

“Yes, that one.”

Samantha swung accusingly on Edwards. “Why did you do that?”

“Look, I've got nothing to hide. All right, all right, I admit it, I was there the night he died, and I was at his funeral.”

“And you own the place.”

“Legally, no.”

“According to the solicitors…”

“They are out of date. When I found out you were sniffing around I knew there'd be a problem, so I transferred all the shares into my wife's name. So legally she owns the place now.”

“When did this happen?” demanded Bliss.

“Yesterday, if it's any of your damn business.”

“But you were the silent partner weren't you?” said Bliss. “You inherited his shares on his death. That's why you didn't want anyone re-opening the Betty-Ann investigation; in case your name came up and someone put two and two together.”

Edwards weighed the odds. “He offered me a partnership. Out of gratitude, he said.”

“For the considerate way that you covered up his wife's murder.”

Edwards was back up to full steam in a millisecond. “How dare you, Inspector? It was suicide. I've told you before.”

Wrong, thought Bliss, but let it pass. “OK. So what were the shares in the restaurant for?”

“He said he was doing me a favour, said it was a gold mine —”

Bliss cut in, “He seemed to have a knack for investing in duff gold mines.”

“He needed money. Quite a lot actually. I assumed it was something to do with his wife's estate; death duties perhaps. Maybe she'd borrowed the money and
he had to pay it back when she died. I don't know. I didn't ask. All I know is that he was looking for an investor, a silent partner. He wasn't a drunk then. He owned a very successful restaurant — at least it appeared successful, it was always packed. Anyway, he needed some cash and I happened to have some, though I had to borrow a fair bit as well.”

Bryan stepped in with an official air. “But you know a police officer can't legally own licensed premises, or even be involved in the running of licensed premises.”

“I know the Licensing Acts, you don't have to tell me, but I thought by the time anyone found out I'd be so rich that I could just quit the force and…” he paused, close to meltdown. “It's a disaster. The place is bankrupt. Half my bloody wages have gone into that place for years. Gordonstone drank himself and the business into the ground.”

“So you're not a wealthy man?” said Bliss.

Edwards snorted. “Lost my shirt. His drunken antics made good publicity, but we were always being sued for assault, damages, libel — you name it. Nothing criminal — always had to settle out of court. I couldn't afford to have my name in the papers. I was going to quit the force ten years ago. Give it six months, he said, just to get everything sorted out, then I'd quit and…”

“He never got it sorted,” helped Samantha.

Edwards shook his head. “More and more debt. I'm up to my neck in bloody debt and the interest is crippling me. I couldn't get rid of him.”

“Somebody did.” suggested Bliss.

“It wasn't me.”

“Strikes me that what you've told us makes you even more of a candidate.”

Edwards would have hit him had he thought he could get away with it. “Killing Gordonstone doesn't do
me any good. I'm saddled with a restaurant that loses more money than John DeLorean. I can't even go bankrupt without publicly admitting I own it. Then I'd lose my job on the force.

“Wait a minute,” said Samantha. “This is all very well but it still doesn't explain.”

“Explain what?” said Edwards.

She bent down and picked up the remains of the videotape. “It doesn't explain why you ripped up Dad's favourite Barry Manilow tape.”

Bliss opened the small bedside cabinet and extracted a small white envelope addressed to Margaret Gordonstone in Canada. “This envelope contains the real proof of who killed Gordonstone.” He held it aloft, almost daring Edwards to snatch it out of his hand and rip it up, but Edwards didn't intend to be caught a second time.

“Perhaps Mr. Edwards would care to open it,” he said, handing it to him.

“It's from Gordonstone to his daughter,” explained Edwards slitting it open and scanning it. Then he read: “‘I don't know why you have written to me. I thought I made it perfectly clear that I never wanted to hear from you or see you ever again. You are an evil woman. You will never get another penny from me, and if you ever contact me again I will go to the police and tell them everything.”

Edwards flipped the letter in his hand, searching unsuccessfully for more information. “I thought you said that this would explain who killed him?”

“It does.”

He reread it. “How?”

“Whose handwriting is that on the envelope?”

Edwards compared the handwriting on the envelope with that in the letter. “It's not Gordonstone's, that's for sure.”

“A woman's?” queried Bliss.

“Possibly.”

“Could it be Margaret's?”

“Makes sense, I suppose. She sent a self-addressed envelope to make sure she got a reply.”

“No, not to make sure she got a reply.”

“What then?”

“To make sure he licked the flap.”

“Shit,” shouted Edwards dropping it faster than a hot brick and dashing to the sink. “Why didn't you warn me?” he shouted frantically washing his hands under scalding water.

“Don't worry, Guv.” Bliss was enjoying himself. “Gordonstone must have licked most of the poison off.”

“The scheming witch!”

“By the way, how's old Balderdash?” enquired Bliss of his daughter after Edwards disappeared in search of a doctor.