No Cherubs for Melanie (8 page)

“I'm aware of that…” Bliss fumbled to find conciliatory words but failed, and his voice drifted off.

“Good. I'm glad you understand.”

“But you may not know he'd already murdered his daughter, sir.”

Edwards jerked forward in mock surprise. “I understood it was an accident.”

Bliss was passionate. “Believe me, sir, Melanie's death was no accident. It was murder. Her father drowned her.”

“Not according to the coroner.”

“The coroner was wrong.”

The superintendent's squinted eyes pierced Bliss. “And not according to the copper who did the investigation. He had it pegged as an accident. In fact there was never any mention of foul play.”

“It was me, sir. I was the investigating officer.” Edwards pretended he hadn't known. “So are you telling me you committed perjury? Is that what you're saying? You stood in front of a coroner's jury, stuck your hand on the Good Book and deliberately perverted the course of justice.”

“No. It wasn't like that.”

“Good. Because as far as I'm concerned the case is closed. The girl died accidentally and her mum committed suicide ten years later 'cos she couldn't stand the strain anymore.”

“But that's not what happened.”

“It is as far as I'm concerned, and it better be as far as you're concerned as well. Personally I don't give a monkey's fart whether he done her in or not, all I care about is keeping the records straight and if some prat like you starts stirring up shit from the past I shall take great delight in stomping all over you. I trust I make myself clear, Inspector Bliss.”

The onslaught forced Bliss to retreat somewhat, but he had no thought of total capitulation. “But you must admit it's possible he killed his wife.”

Edwards slowly and deliberately pulled himself up to his full sitting height behind the oversize leather-topped desk, and fixed Bliss with a defiant stare. “I admit nothing of the sort. The case is closed, Inspector. It was suicide ten years ago and it will remain suicide today. Do I make myself clear?”

Although Bliss was nodding he couldn't get his face to
agree, so Edwards drove the point home with the hint of a threat. “Just remember, it may not be in your best interest to make waves. You need all the friends you can get at the moment.”

That went well, thought Bliss sardonically as he slunk out of the superintendent's office and found DCI Bryan hovering in the corridor. “How are you getting on, Dave?”

“Brilliant, sir. You gave me a murder, I've ended up with three, and now I've got the superintendent on my back. Just brilliant. Thanks a lot.”

DCI Bryan tipped his head queryingly. “Three murders?”

“Gordonstone's kid and his wife,” continued Bliss. “I'm almost sure they were murdered as well.”

“Almost, Dave?”

“Well, all right. Personally I'm sure. I can't prove it yet, but I will.”

“So how have you upset the super?”

Bliss filled him in quickly. The chief inspector glanced up and down the corridor then caught hold of Bliss's sleeve and dragged him toward the washroom. “In here,” he said. “I need a pee.”

As the door shut, he started. “Dave. Let's get this straight. If the other two were murdered, who did it?”

“He did, of course — Martin Gordonstone.”

“So what's the point in fannying around trying to prove it? It's too late to prosecute him now and nobody's going to thank you for dredging up old cases and proving your mates wrong.”

“You mean Edwards isn't going to thank me.”

“
Superintendent
Edwards to you, Inspector, and… Yes, I do mean that.”

“Well, I don't really care what he thinks. He's no mate of mine. Anyway, I believe it's important.”

“Why for Christ's sake?”

“A motive of course. I've got to start somewhere and it seems to me that the family cupboard might be a good place to find a skeleton.

DCI Bryan stood at the urinal and spoke over his shoulder. “You're looking in the wrong place, Dave. Lots of people had a motive from what I can understand.”

“Lots of people had a motive to bop him on the nose or kick him in the goolies, but if everyone who's ever been insulted by a restaurant owner bumped them off, there'd be a huge shortage of restaurants in this country.”

“What about business partners?”

“Weren't any, as far as I can tell. The staff say he owned the place outright.”

“Disgruntled staff then. Didn't mean to kill him, just give him a bellyache for a few days.”

“It's possible,” conceded Bliss grudgingly.

“Do you know how he was poisoned yet?”

“I've absolutely no idea — why?”

“Just a thought, Dave, but I don't suppose Gordonstone could have been a suicide as well?”

“Not a chance.”

“Wait, Dave. Think about it. His daughter drowns —”

Bliss interrupted quickly. “Was
drowned
.”

The chief inspector wrenched up his fly and turned to give Bliss a hard stare. “Let me finish. His daughter drowns accidentally. Ten years later his wife commits suicide and for another ten years he's a lonely, fat, old drunk. I'd have thought suicide was a strong possibility in such circumstances, wouldn't you?”

Bliss opened the door to leave. “I'll think about it, sir. But suicide would be totally out of character for
Gordonstone. He was too pigheaded, too —” Bliss broke off, momentarily frozen. He stood half in and half out of the washroom, his hand seemingly glued to the brass handle on the door. There, disappearing down the corridor, was Sarah, his ex-wife. He wanted to call out, but her name stuck in his throat. His mind, trapped in a continuous loop, kept asking, What's Sarah doing here? A tense tremor started in his hand and shivered through his body. Then, as if feeling the force of his stare, the woman turned. Bliss's heart sank — it wasn't her. In fact, the secretary didn't look anything like Sarah. The illusion, conjured by the woman's familiar hairstyle, vanished. The DCI, stuck in the vestibule behind him, misinterpreted the cause of Bliss's hesitation. “Dave, do you need some help with this one?”

Bliss rapidly pulled his thoughts together. “No. Not at the moment anyway.”

“OK. But stick with the program, Dave. Gordonstone was murdered by a person or persons unknown, and I doubt it has anything to do with his wife or daughter. So stop digging up old skeletons and move on.”

Easier said than done, thought Bliss, as he turned and ran smack into Superintendent Edwards, marching solidly down the corridor toward them.

Edwards spoke right through him. “Ah, Chief Inspector Bryan. Can I see you in my office in five minutes, please?”

Bliss cadged a lift home, deciding one bus a day is enough for anyone, then he rooted through his life's remains in the pile of cardboard boxes stacked untidily against one wall of the apartment. “It's got to be here somewhere,” he muttered, searching for Melanie's file — a copy of it anyway, from twenty years ago. She
had always been in the back of his mind and he had never been able to let go of the thought that he had somehow failed the little girl, so he was certain he had kept the paperwork.

A school photograph of his own daughter fell out of an old exercise book and jogged his memory. Samantha! Maybe it's in that pile of stuff I stored in her attic after Sarah threw me out, he mused, and scrabbled to find the phone which was buried beneath piles of law books, LPs, and a bundle of love letters he'd sent to Sarah during their courtship. “You keep these,” she had said while they were cleaving apart their intertwined lives, making it clear by her tone that neither his love nor his letters were any longer her concern.

“Hi, Dad,” Samantha said, answering her phone the moment it rang. “That's a coincidence, I was just going to call you. How are you doing?”

He considered explaining, but chose not to. “I'm back at work.”

“Great.”

“Not really. They've given me an impossible murder just to keep me occupied, and fed me a load of garbage about being the only one who could solve it.”

“Oh.”

Bliss picked up a distinct lack of surprise in her voice. “Did you know about this?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“What?” she replied guardedly.

A penny dropped. “You had something to do with this didn't you?”

Her tone was mischievous, “What, Dad, murder? You know me better than that.”

“No. You know what I mean. You spoke to DCI Bryan, didn't you?”

“Who me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I might have.”

“Huh. You bloody lawyers are all the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Always interfering in other people's problems.”

“That's what we lawyers get paid for. Anyway, it's reassuring to hear you admit you have a problem.”

Bliss tried bravado but his voice lacked conviction. “I could have sorted it myself.”

Samantha moved on. “Tell me about the murder.”

“It's three murders, actually.”

“Three. I didn't know.”

“Neither did the DCI. Anyway, as you dropped me in it, you can buy me dinner and give me some free legal advice while I tell you about it.”

She laughed. “Tonight?”

“Can you?”

“Sure. Pick me up at eight. If I'm paying for dinner you can drive, deal?”

He immediately sussed out her plan: he who drives, does not drink. “I'd like to lodge an appeal…”

“Take it or leave it.”

“OK. I'll be there.” He'd half put the phone down before he remembered. “Sam,” he shouted into the mouthpiece, and caught her just in time. “I just remembered. I can't drive. Someone's nicked my car.”

“A likely story,” she laughed.

“Still smoking I see,” she chided as he clambered into her car two hours later.

“So?”

“I wouldn't mind, Dad, but you used to be so fucking sanctimonious when we were kids.”

“Samantha! Do you have to swear?”

“All lawyers do. Anyway, don't change the subject, I'm not going anywhere until you've got rid of that awful stink.”

Bliss took a long drag then tossed the barely smoked butt out of the window.

“Litter lout.”

“I can't win, can I?”

“It's not a competition, Dad. I just worry about you that's all.”

“How's your mother?” he asked as they drove off.

“Dad, do you really care?”

“Of course I do.”

“Maybe if you'd shown her how much you cared she wouldn't have left.”

“Don't rub it in, Sam. Do you think I don't know that?”

They drove in silence while Bliss relived the pain of his separation. The denial: “This isn't happening.” The misplaced optimism: “She'll come back.” The pleading, the crying, the begging: “I'll change.” “No you won't.” “I'll try.”

Bliss broke the silence. “What does she see in him Sam? How is he different from me?”

“Dad. He's there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I have to explain?”

“Yes.”

“You were never there — not when she needed you.”

“Is that what she says?”

“C'mon, Dad. You were always working; or that's what you said you were doing. That or playing your keyboard with your headphones on.”

Bliss defended himself indignantly. “I
was
working.”

“All right, Dad, I believe you. Anyway, it doesn't matter.”

“It does to me.”

“I said I believed you…” She paused, then added softly, “But Mum didn't.”

Bliss sulked. “Well she should have. Anyway, how is whatsisname?”

“George, Dad, his name is George. As if you could have forgotten.”

She's right, he thought, how could I forget George? Gangly George. Hairy-nostril George. Closing his eyes he let his mind wander and found himself arguing with his conscience. “Poor me. Poor cuckolded husband. Last to know as usual.”

Are you sure you didn't know?
his conscience chimed in.

Did I know?

Perhaps it was comfortable to pretend it wasn't happening
.

I'd never admit it.

Who would admit it?

What do you expect me to say. “I say old man, my wife prefers some other chap.”

Be honest with yourself at least
.

OK. Of course I knew. Not the details. Not his name. Not his hairy nostrils. I thought it was a passing phase, just a fling. Put a bit of sparkle back into her life. I'm not stupid. I saw through the pathetic excuses, the poorly disguised lies, the extra shopping trips. New clothes never worn, not for me anyway. The expensive necklace: “Just felt like treating myself, you don't mind do you?” How stupid did she think I was? So why not admit it? I thought she'd get over it. Come running back with her tail between her legs. Only she didn't come back. And it wasn't a tail between her legs — it was George.

“Hold tight, Dad!” Samantha's shout of alarm jerked him back to the present. He grabbed the dashboard
with both hands and stabbed at an imaginary brake as his daughter swerved around an unlit parked truck with inches to spare.

“Stupid place to park,” he shouted, as if anyone could hear, then turned to Samantha. “Do you want me to drive?”

“You're kidding — you lose your own car and now you want to wreck mine?”

“I didn't lose it,” he protested but, conceding she had a point, relaxed and let his mind drift back to thoughts of Sarah.

Deep down she had wanted to be caught, he'd realized. Tempting him with obvious little clues, little Freudian slips which grew bigger and bigger as her guilt egged her on to make mistakes. And then there was the farce with the underpants — George's semen-stained underpants, left in her car following one of their most intimate moments, either by accident or, as Bliss later began to suspect, by design. She had tenderly washed, dried, and folded them, then placed them in
his
underwear drawer. By accident or by design?