A Day in the Life of Louis Bloom

by Paul Charles

  Al Armstrong reacted like someone who felt self-conscious about how they were reacting, knowing that all eyes were now on him. Not so much a “Who, me?” as an “Oh gosh, well of course it wasn’t me” look.

  Mrs Bloom moved to leave Armstrong behind and join McCusker and O’Carroll by the door. She grabbed one hand of each of them and squeezed both with all her might. Then she said, in a very quiet voice, ‘I don’t care what the silly bugger did, but I want you both to promise me that you will find the person who did this to my Louis. No matter who they are, I need you to promise me. Louis certainly had his faults, but he didn’t deserve this.’

  Chapter Eight

  Armstrong, arms-folded across his chest, chased McCusker and O’Carroll out to the front gate.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’ O’Carroll replied.

  ‘The key to Louis’ study,’ he croaked, ‘it’s gone. The Yellow Pack here was the last person up there?’

  ‘McCusker, do you have the key?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘No, certainly not,’ McCusker replied.

  ‘I thought not,’ O’Carroll said, sighing, ‘and I don’t have it, nor in my pocket, so Annabella… Annabella, who’s got the key?’

  And McCusker and O’Carroll turned on their heels and left, closing the gate after them, leaving Armstrong with a dumb look of “Who the hell is Annabella?”

  ‘Okay, McCusker,’ O’Carroll said, as they headed off down Landseer Street in the direction of the Lisburn Road, ‘we need to get organised, so let’s nip into Café Conor, have a bite of breakfast and get our system together.’

  It turned out that they did a lot of eating but not a lot of talking, but at least for O’Carroll it was mission accomplished, in that she’d managed to get McCusker’s nose bag on before the hunger set in. Now she had his undivided attention, well at least until lunchtime. On the way past the Whitla Hall a ticket tout approached them, displaying his wares like they were a deck of cards.

  ‘Fancy a couple of cheap tickets to take the Mrs to see Mickey Bubbles this evening?’

  ‘Who’s Mickey Bubbles?’ McCusker asked, distracted for a second.

  ‘You ask him who’s Mickey Bubbles rather than tell him I’m not your wife?’

  ‘Don’t worry Mrs, I won’t tell anyone, and when the lights are low, no one will even know you’re there,’ the tout sniggered, and gave O’Carroll a pantomime wink. ‘Surely you know Mickey Bubbles? He does a great version of Van the Man’s ‘Moondance’,’ the ticket tout shouted, as he rushed along after them, loud enough for the early morning students’ to have their heads turned. Some, thinking the tickets were for Sir Van Morrison, started to gather around the tout, allowing McCusker and O’Carroll a chance to escape.

  ‘Mickey Bubbles?’ McCusker tried again.

  ‘Michael Bublé, you daft ejit.’

  They walked on in silence for three minutes, cutting across the green outside the majestic, red-bricked Lanyon Building.

  ‘You’ve never heard of Michael Bublé either, have you?’

  ‘No,’ McCusker admitted, ‘but I have heard of Sir Charles Lanyon, and he designed not only this building but our very own Customs House, the home of the PSNI.’

  ‘Hopefully this one isn’t going to sink when we’re in it,’ O’Carroll said, as they walked through the door and visited the reception desk in the middle of the university shop. They asked, as Superintendent Larkin had advised them to, for a Mr Ron Desmond, the head of the University Administration and Commercial Enterprises Department.

  Before they knew it and McCusker had a chance to examine the QUB scarves in the shop, Mr Ron Desmond was by their shoulders with extended hand, ready, willing and able for an energetic shake with both of them.

  Ron Desmond smelled nice. Why? How? Admittedly it was only the beginning of his day but, McCusker thought, really he shouldn’t smell that great. How did he do it? McCusker uncharitably wondered if the administrator topped up his cologne throughout the day.

  Desmond led them through the shop, back out into the hall they’d entered by and up a flight of stairs. He had time, a smile and generous words for all the students they met on their way up to his first-floor office. The students appeared to be as fond of him as he was of them.

  McCusker really loved this legendary building. He’d been dying to view the inside of it since he’d arrived down in Belfast from his native Portrush. It was most definitely his kind of old-world building, where you got the feeling that the wood-panelled walls retained all the secrets of their one-hundred and sixty-eight years. It wasn’t as big on the inside as McCusker had imagined from the outside. But he really felt that this wonderful 1849 building had successfully enabled them to leave the hustle and bustle of the outside world behind them. Even though students were coming and going, it still felt tranquil, peaceful and the ideal atmosphere for a house of learning. Gothic was a word that sprang to mind. It clearly wasn’t really Gothic, but parts of the building definitely had that Gothic feel.

  Desmond’s office was a bit of a let-down until he explained his real office was part of the wing currently under refurbishment, ‘in the best possible taste, you understand.’ They struggled to find seats and Desmond had to move files, papers and pamphlets around so the three of them could sit at the same time. No sooner were they seated than he jumped to his feet.

  ‘Pray forgive me, my bad manners. Coffee? Tea? A couple of Danish perhaps?’

  Before O’Carroll had a chance to say they’d just had breakfast, McCusker beat her to it with, ‘That would just be perfect, I’m absolutely famished – coffee for the both of us please.’

  Ron Desmond bore not a great head of grey hair. On the positive side it was long, thick on back and sides, sparse on top, but it looked expensively cut, styled and groomed. He was dressed in what appeared to be his usual ‘uniform’ of wine-coloured, crew-neck styled jumper (although bottle green or Royal blue would also have suited him), with the dazzling white collar of his shirt protruding by an inch all around. McCusker would bet that he always wore corduroy trousers (today they were blue – green would also have worked, but never ever brown or tan). His look was completed with stunning, highly polished, brown and white brogues, with loud, multi-coloured socks. All his clothes looked expensive, very expensive. This fact alone didn’t annoy McCusker. No, what really annoyed McCusker was that so new, fresh and well-laundered did Desmond’s clothes appear, that the detective would have sworn that the university administrator never, ever wore his clothes more than a couple of times. McCusker liked to look good in his clothes, liked to feel good while wearing them – that much was clear. But no matter how hard McCusker tried, he could never pull off that new clothes look unless he actually wore new clothes, and even then he could only get away with the look for the first day. In McCusker’s case, should he add one item of old clothing into the mix then his entire outfit suffered visually from the same fatigue.

  Ron Desmond didn’t like to be interviewed. Rather, he clearly preferred to ‘chair’ proceedings.

  O’Carroll soon put him right.

  ‘What we’re looking to do here is get as much information on Mr Bloom in as short a period as possible.’

  ‘A fact-finding mission it is then,’ Desmond replied instantly, while carefully potting some of the pens and pencils scattered around his desk. ‘I’m sure his PA, Miss Leab David, will be much more beneficial to you.’

  ‘All in good time, Mr Desmond,’ O’Carroll replied, ‘we’re hoping you’ll give us a better overview and then we can focus more on the individuals.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that Miss David wouldn’t be a better place to start. But anyway, here we are, so here we’ll start. Shoot.’

  ‘How long had you known Louis Boom?’ McCusker asked, filling the void left, intentionally, he felt, by his colleague.

  ‘I seem to have known him all my time at Queens. I came here from The Sports Council of Northern Ireland in 1998. I was their chief bottle
-washer and fundraiser. In those days there were jobs that needed to be done and, regardless of titles, we all mucked in.

  ‘I seem to remember,’ he continued expansively, ‘it was all very hand-to-mouth but, more importantly, I never had the feeling I was doing anything that would leave a lasting legacy. Yes the craic was great. For about a year I’d been thinking if I wasn’t careful, I’d be with the Sports Council forever and I’d have done absolutely nothing. Then I got a call from a friend of mine, Gary Mills – I’d actually gone to Queens with him and been a member of his team, helping him out in organising the Students’ Union shows.

  ‘Anyway, Gary had stayed on at Queens and become one of their players, and he was looking for someone to come in to work in his administration team with particular responsibility for fundraising and seeing various projects to fulfilment. It appealed to me immediately; I felt, now here’s something with which I could make my mark. I could leave something…’

  O’Carroll gave a long and noisy yawn. She immediately apologised, claiming (correctly) that she and McCusker had been working on the case half the night. More importantly, she’d, in an unspoken way, reminded Desmond that she didn’t need to be reminded how he had invented the wheel, but in fact that they were here to talk about Louis Bloom.

  ‘Yes, I know how you feel…’ Desmond sympathised, ‘at some of the fundraisers of ours, you find yourself getting home when its daylight… Sorry, where was I?’

  ‘You were about to tell us about Louis Bloom?’ McCusker offered as a prompt.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. So, Louis had studied at Queens, qualified at Queens and immediately joined the English Department at Queens as a lecturer. And he was already one of their major players by the time I joined.’

  ‘As part of the administration, would you have been his boss?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Ah, that would be a no to that one,’ Ron Desmond offered very theatrically, he spoke every word as though he felt Shakespeare had written it for him. ‘Totally different department, although we do… sorry, of course that should have been… we did sit on a few common fundraising committees together.’

  ‘Fundraising for what exactly?’ McCusker first wondered and then asked.

  ‘Oh, research, field trips, campus restorations, renovations, repairs, even new builds like the new library,’ Desmond replied and physically shifted into a different gear. ‘Let’s see now, the new library project cost over £40 mill, and whereas the Northern Ireland Executive took responsibility for £10 mill of that through the government-led Reinvestment and Reform Initiative, we – Queens Foundation – had to find nearly £30 mill from the private sector.’

  These figures seemed to spike O’Carroll’s interest for the first time since the start of the interview with Desmond.

  ‘Did you work on that project?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘Ah, that would be a big yes on that one,’ Desmond replied, with a smile expensive enough to pay for the naming rights.

  ‘And Louis Bloom?

  ‘No.’

  ‘What projects did you work on together?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Oh, mostly raising funds for research and then some for refurbishing buildings.’

  ‘Any of these projects come in over £40 million?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘No, certainly not – well, not on a single project.’

  ‘What about over several projects?’ O’Carroll pushed. McCusker knew she was slipping into one of her traditional crime motivations. She worked on the theory that where there was money, there was greed, and where there was greed, there was crime, and where there was crime there was (occasionally) loss of life.

  ‘I’ve honestly never thought about that,’ Ron Desmond admitted largely.

  ‘Could you maybe get us the details of the projects you worked on together and the figures involved?’ O’Carroll asked, looking like she was having trouble believing that answer.

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Did you see Louis Bloom a lot?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Well, I’d see him around, but we weren’t exactly drinking buddies.’

  ‘Who would he have come into contact with the most here at Queens?’

  ‘Sophie and Harry Rubens were good friends of his,’ Desmond replied, as O’Carroll furiously scribbled away in her pink notebook. ‘Louis’ PA will get you their details. They are both on campus.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ McCusker asked, desperate to get a bit of pace in the proceedings.

  ‘Louis has a brother – Miles,’ Desmond offered, ‘I don’t believe they get on,’ he continued, sounding like he knew just exactly how well they didn’t get on.

  ‘What can you tell us about Leab?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Former student of Louis’,’ Desmond smiled, ‘and no, I know for a fact that there is… sorry, there was nothing going on between them. She was totally devoted to him, though. She’s a funny, but effective way of working.’

  ‘How so?’ McCusker asked, as O’Carroll continued to scribble away.

  ‘You’ll see when you meet her. I’ve already spoken with her and told her to make herself available to you after our meeting.’ Desmond paused to look at his watch. ‘Talking of which, I’m running a bit late for my next meeting – are we nearly done here?’

  ‘Not quite,’ O’Carroll said, still writing in her pink book, ‘we’ve two more questions for you. Do you know of anyone who might have felt they’d a reason to kill Louis?’

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking of nothing else all morning. Firstly, I don’t think there was ever a QUB lecturer murdered before. Secondly, it starts you thinking doesn’t it? You know, that there could just be a crank around, someone without a motive, just indiscriminately killing people. You know, just like that chap in The Fall? In fact,’ and he stopped to look at his watch again, ‘I’m about to chair a meeting on campus security. But I’m not aware of anyone with a reason to kill Louis, no.’

  ‘So you weren’t aware of any trouble Louis was in?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘You know, gambling, drugs, womanising, taking advantage of students who’ve an angry father?’ McCusker said, starting off strong and then floundering.

  Ron Desmond just laughed, rose from his chair and said, ‘that’s not the Louis Bloom I knew.’

  ‘My final question for now,’ O’Carroll began, as she pocketed her book and stood up, ‘what were you doing between the hours of 9.00 p.m. yesterday and 1.00 a.m. this morning?’

  ‘Well, I was travelling up from Dublin from 8.00 yesterday evening and I arrived back in Belfast at 10.40. Then I’d a light super, watched Sky News and retired for the evening.’

  ‘Anyone travelling with you?’

  ‘That would be a no to that one.’

  ‘Were you at a meeting?’ McCusker kept on pushing, ‘you know, can anyone confirm that you left Dublin at 8 o’clock?’

  ‘No, I was just down on personal business.’

  ‘Stop off for petrol or a quick snack?’ McCusker asked, trying really hard to sound helpful.

  ‘You know,’ Desmond started slowly, ‘how should I put this… well, let’s just say your final question seems to have as many parts as one of our examination questions.’

  ‘And did you?’ O’Carroll asked innocently.

  ‘That would be a no to that one.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Desmond,’ O’Carroll said, awkwardly making her way through the files towards the door, ‘that’ll do for now, but we will be back to see you later today – please ensure you make yourself available.’

  * * *

  McCusker felt that O’Carroll would be impressed with such a well-turned out and perfectly groomed male.

  Not so.

  ‘Your man doesn’t like women much,’ she offered, as they made their way back down the wood-panelled walls of the staircase – the wood-panelled walls that so far had continued to retain their 167 years’ worth of secrets

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, he might have female frie
nds but he certainly hasn’t any female lovers.’

  Chapter Nine

  When O’Carroll and McCusker came calling to Bloom’s office, they encountered a stray student seemingly stealing some precious solitary moments in reception. She was sitting on a small, hard sofa with her Ugg-booted feet hunkered up underneath her, tapping away on her mobile screen as quickly as a mouse on the run with a piece of prized cheese. At the end of each message as she hit the send button, the fingers of her right hand flapped off into the air to the right of her mobile, just like the flapping wing of a bird, signifying to herself that the message was now making its way through the air to an unsuspecting recipient.

  The secretary’s desk was unwomanned and so O’Carroll asked the Ugg girl if she knew where Miss Leab David was.

  Without looking up from her industrious endeavours, the girl replied, ‘I am she.’

  ‘Oh,’ said O’Carroll, looking quickly from the Ugg girl to the desk where she expected to find her, back to her current location. Leab David was a thirty-three-year-old woman who acted and dressed like she was a teenager. ‘I thought you were Mr Bloom’s PA?’

  For the first time since they’d entered her reception, Leab David looked up at O’Carroll. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she’d been crying. Most likely she had been crying, McCusker figured. Leab continued working on her mobile with her left hand as she used her right hand to remove the hood of her black Nike hoodie from her head, letting her straight, fine blonde hair spill out over her shoulders. She was free of make-up and looked all the better for it. She appeared to continuously try to bite off a bit of annoying skin on the inside of her bottom lip. Her right hand automatically returned to its work with its life’s partner. She wore black baggy slacks, the legs of which were tucked into her fawn Ugg boots.

  ‘You’ve come about Louis?’ she offered, eyes back on her screen again.

  ‘You’ve heard that…’ O’Carroll started awkwardly.

  ‘Ron Desmond…’