A Day in the Life of Louis Bloom

by Paul Charles

  ‘Jeez, you guys have definitely upped your game since Z-Cars,’ he replied, clearly betraying his late-sixties age.

  McCusker got it, Barr didn’t.

  ‘Well, now we’ve ascertained you’re not from the Inland Revenue, you’re welcome to come in. My mum always told me never to talk to the police on the doorstep; it just brings the neighbourhood down.’

  The Stranmillis Gardens’ resident, George, got them settled in and offered them fresh coffee and Paris buns. McCusker was beside himself as he polished off his own bun and started into Barr’s as well, but only on Barr’s insistence.

  ‘I’d much prefer to entertain you for a day rather than a week,’ George said, as he scooped up his own crumbs. ‘So tell me all about Kampus Korma – what have they been getting up to?’

  ‘Well, the takeaway was really just the way we tracked you down,’ McCusker admitted. ‘You threw a green rubbish bag into a bin in Botanic Gardens.’

  ‘Jeez, it’s come to something when the council get the PSNI to do their dirty work for them. You can tell them from me, if they sent their bin men around more often, the community wouldn’t need to use the Botanic Gardens’ bins.’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing to do with that, Sir,’ Barr said, ‘other residents did the same last night and in fact the immediate one before you, well he…’

  ‘Oh you don’t mean Louis Bloom do you?’

  ‘Well yes.’

  ‘That’s so sad, what happened.’

  Barr looked to McCusker, clearly surprised the news was already out. McCusker was quite happy, the H2H had been effective. It meant he could expand his line of questioning.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ McCusker began, ‘but it would appear that Mr Bloom deposited a rubbish bag in the same bin. His was-’

  ‘A black one,’ George interrupted, as though he just had a visual flash.

  ‘No,’ McCusker sighed, patiently, very patiently, ‘you see Mr Bloom would have put his bag in after you because his bag was found on top of yours.’

  ‘Jeez, so whose was the black bag?’ George asked, appearing disappointed.

  ‘That was another of your neighbours. But what time did you dump your rubbish?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘It’s just that with Indian food, it’s brilliant, you know. I love it – I do pay for it a wee bit during the night when it repeats on me, but… the even bigger negative is that it does pong the house out a bit if you don’t get rid of the leftovers and the containers immediately. So, let’s think here for a wee minute. I can work this out for you quite accurately. I ordered the food at 7.15, it hadn’t arrived by 7.45 so I rang them. They said it should be here any minute and no sooner had I set the phone down than the doorbell rang and there it was. I would have tucked in immediately, washing it down with my favourite white wine, Blue Nun. I would have been finished and on the way to the bin by, say, 8.30/35. I would say that I planted my green bag on top of the black bag at around 8.40.’

  ‘Okay,’ McCusker said, pausing for a wee bit, because Barr was still writing furiously away. ‘Now this bit is very important. Can you tell me if you saw anyone else on your way to the bin and on your way back home please?’

  ‘Jeez,’ George wheezed, ‘let’s see now; there was a couple on one of those black and white bench-seats – you know, the ones under the wee shelter near the main bandstand?’

  ‘Yes, we know it.’

  ‘Yes… and then there were two old dears, standing by the bandstand. They were enjoying an eyeful of the couple on the black and white seats, who were kissing away ten to the dozen. I don’t know who was enjoying it the most, the kissing couple or the two old dears watching on, obviously reliving their teenage years.’

  McCusker nodded back to Barr’s notebook.

  ‘What do you remember about the two women? How where they dressed, for instance?’

  ‘Well, I seem to remember they had long coats on – I couldn’t tell you the colour of either.’

  ‘Is there any chance they could have been men?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘No, definitely not,’ George quickly confirmed, ‘I noticed their bare legs beneath their coats.’

  ‘Did they have hats on? Scarves? Long hair, short hair?’

  ‘I don’t think they’d hats… but yes… I can see them now. They both had long, dark hair, one darker than the other. But I suppose for me to remember the contrast in the hair colour could mean that maybe one of them was actually blonde.’

  ‘So let’s get back to the kissing couple: what can you tell me about them?’

  ‘There were two of them,’ George said, in a feeble shot at a joke.

  McCusker laughed, because, in different circumstances, it was a crack similar to one he would have attempted himself. George sounded like someone who was trying to sound like he wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t even that he was nervous; it was more that he didn’t want to appear nervous. It was probably more a social thing than a guilt thing.

  ‘And how are you spelling “too”?’ Barr asked, pen nib doing an imaginary, repeated figure-of-eight, about a quarter of an inch above the page, probably because he didn’t want George to think that the humour had been out of place.

  ‘Well, they were very close to each other. One of them had a QUB scarf on, I think it was the boy. They both had sporty kind of gear on. In the light, it was difficult to see where one started and the other finished.’

  ‘Were they doing anything rude?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Jeez, no, not at all, they were just kissing,’ George guessed. ‘Do you not remember when you were young, kissing until your face hurt?’

  ‘And then did you see anyone or anything interesting on the way back to your house?’ McCusker asked, totally ignoring the question.

  ‘Well, here’s the thing; I always go around the long way on the way back, a bit of a constitutional, you know, to walk off my meal. And as usual it was heaving with students, but I didn’t come across anything or anyone suspicious, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Okay, George,’ McCusker said, changing direction, ‘tell me this; did you know Mr Louis Bloom at all?’

  ‘Aye, well the Blooms have been there a good few years, and the word is that they’re a very nice family. Neither Elizabeth nor Louis had airs or graces – they’d speak to you if they saw you in the street, or if you happened to come across either of them in the Botanic Gardens, but we never really mixed with them. But they were kind to me recently there.’

  ‘So never any trouble or anything?’

  ‘No, never,’ he said immediately, but then paused in consideration, ‘you’d mostly meet them separately, aye.’

  ‘And did you ever notice anyone suspicious, hanging around the streets or near their house?’ McCusker asked, nodding in the direction of George’s window.

  ‘Oh goodness, no!’ George said, smiling. ‘Nice area, this. We’ve been lucky here. Nice people and we’re off the beaten path a bit, even though it’s so close to Queens and the city centre is only a stone’s throw away.’

  ‘Is your wife in?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your wife – is she not in today? I noticed the order was for two last night.’

  ‘No, sorry, no, I order that out of habit,’ George started, trying to smile, ‘my wife and I would have that same order when we had our usual Thursday night ruby.’

  Barr looked up from the page in doubt as to what to write.

  ‘Ruby?’ George guessed. Barr nodded yes. ‘A ruby, a curry? You never heard that before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Aye, after Ruby Murray, a wee girl from the Donegall Road here in the city, who’d a beautiful husky voice and was absolutely massive in the fifties and sixties, with lots of Top Ten singles in the UK. Ruby would have been what Madonna is today, but she could actually sing. Anyway, during her success, and thanks to Cockney rhyming slang, a curry became known as a Ruby. A Ruby Murray, a curry,’ he offered, sing-song style.

  ‘Okay, right,’ Barr replied,
as the three of them shared a genuine smile.

  ‘So, the Mrs and I would have a Ruby on Thursdays and we’d always have that order, which was meant for two but was certainly enough for us, and we’d share all or dishes and we’d always something left over. My wife passed last year.’

  ‘We’re so sorry for your loss,’ McCusker offered, immediately.

  ‘Jeez, I still miss her, but, augh… well, she suffered so much during her last six months…’ George had dropped to a whisper and was struggling to keep his composure.

  ‘We understand, George, we do,’ McCusker offered, quietly.

  ‘Silly auld bugger, me. She’d be so upset with me, doing that in public,’ he said pulling himself together in his wife’s memory. ‘Anyway I just keep ordering our meal, so there.’

  ‘Look, we’ve probably already taken up too much of your time,’ McCusker said, ‘but look, if you ever remember anything else from that night or just fancy a wee chat, please give us a ring.’

  ‘Aye, I will right. And equally, if you ever fancy another of my wee Paris buns, don’t wait for an invite, just drop in.’

  ‘Oh, you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll do that,’ McCusker said, and meant it. ‘And thanks a million, George, you’ve been very helpful.’

  * * *

  Two doors away from Louis Bloom’s house in Landseer Street, lived a man by the name of Mr T Husbands – well, at least that was the legend according to the Amazon packaging, discovered in the grey rubbish bag found on top of Louis Bloom’s blue bag in the bin by the signpost, close to the border of the rose garden and closer still to the bandstand and the shelter in the nearby Botanic Gardens.

  Mr T Husbands was a member of the relatively new consulting community, a workforce that had forsaken the rent and overhead of an office for the price of an iPad, an iPhone, a dedicated room in their home – or even just a coffee table in the living room – an address book and three daily cappuccinos. They had also – by choice or necessity, when necessity was instigated by redundancy – forsaken a regular salary for as many monthly consulting invoices as their particular part of the marketplace could take.

  For all of that, Mr T Husbands was bright and breezy when McCusker came calling that autumnal morning. His skin and hair enjoyed the hue of one that had recently showered and shaved. Where McCusker might have expected a member of this community to be still in their dressing gown, slippers and unshaven at this time of the day, Mr T Husbands was dressed and turned out to a standard that would have shamed most of the community over at Stormont, with his crisp, clean white shirt, and tie, and all.

  ‘I can explain the parking tickets,’ Mr T Husbands said, laughing, by way of greeting when McCusker and Barr flashed their identity cards, before adding a cautious, ‘just kidding.’

  Mr T Husbands, as his accent testified was not from these parts, but he sounded like he had acquired an Ulsterised version of English in order to disguise his Brummie roots.

  ‘Com’on in?’ he said, proving the point. ‘Is this about Louis Bloom?’ he began, ‘I heard he died last night.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Husbands,’ McCusker replied softly, ‘we’ve come to talk to you about Mr Bloom.’

  ‘But you know my name, so you’re not just doing a door to door, or cold-calling as we say in our business.’

  ‘Correct Mr Husbands,’ McCusker continued, as they were led through to the kitchen where Mr T Husbands had his desk/office spread out over the entire kitchen table and seemingly used salt and pepper cellars and other such condiments containers as paperweights for his various files, invoices and receipts.

  He quickly removed the detritus from the table. ‘It’s Tommy – people call me Tommy,’ he said, not before McCusker clocked that his chequebook appeared a lot busier than his paying-in book. No doubt O’Carroll would have thought that his use of cheques was so yesteryear.

  ‘We believe that last night, sometime after 9 o’clock, you deposited a grey refuse bag in a rubbish bin out in Botanic Gardens?’ McCusker started, as they all took a seat around the table, refusing Mr T Husbands’ offer of mineral water.

  ‘My goodness, I didn’t think they had CCTV cameras in the Gardens.’

  ‘No, in fact they don’t. But, you see, Mr Bloom did the same thing, just before 9 o’clock, and as his bag was just under yours we knew you’d come after him,’ McCusker said, as Barr took notes.

  ‘It’s not illegal is it?’ Mr T Husbands asked, ‘I mean a lot of people do it and the bin men don’t come around often enough. Unless it’s Christmas and they’re knocking on doors looking for their tips.’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ McCusker began, ‘no, we’re much more interested to hear what time you left your rubbish bag in the bin.’

  ‘I’d say I was there about 9.15, maybe 9.20 at the latest.’

  ‘Okay,’ Barr said, as he jotted that information down.

  ‘Did you notice anything, or anyone suspicious in the Gardens yesterday evening?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Well, I met Wee George from Stranmillis Gardens – he was just coming back as I was heading out. He nodded at my bag and said “Mum’s the word”. And he went off home I assume.’

  McCusker thought this was slim pickings but didn’t say so. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I mean, there were people around, but I usually try to keep to myself. I didn’t notice anyone doing anything suspicious or looking suspicious.’

  ‘On your way to the part of the Gardens where the bin is, did you pass the shelter?’

  ‘I didn’t actually pass by it, but I did see it.’

  ‘Was there anyone in the shelter?’

  ‘No, no one – sometimes there’ll be a bunch of kids hanging out there, but last night it was totally empty.’

  ‘After you dump the rubbish, what route do you take home?’

  ‘I nipped down to the Crown and had a pint with a couple of former workmates,’ Mr T Husbands said, as if it was the highlight of his day

  Barr’s pen looked as dejected as McCusker felt.

  ‘Did you know Louis Bloom very well?’ the detective asked, crossing his fingers and hoping the pickings wouldn’t be as slim on this topic.

  ‘Louis was friendly enough,’ Mr T Husbands began, ‘I mean, he’d never invite me around to any of his dinner parties. That seemed to me more of an alumni crowd than I’d usually mix with. Neither of us was big on our gardening, so we’d never lean over the fence for a chat about our rhododendrons while taking a break from weeding. I just leave the vegetation to grow and then whack it down when it gets too embarrassing. Mrs Bloom got different people in to do theirs regularly. Looked like students to me. Louis seemed to travel a lot, I mean by himself – he seemed to always be away somewhere and she always seemed to be around the house. I suppose you could say they led separate lives.’

  ‘You don’t mean that they were separated do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I do, but at the same time they never came across as a “couple” couple. I know through a friend that she’d have dinner parties and he wouldn’t even be there. That man Armstrong would be there, though; he was always hanging out with Elizabeth – they seemed to be besties.’

  ‘You don’t mean you think there was anything going on between them, do you?’ McCusker asked, as Barr bolted upright in his chair.

  Mr T Husbands just laughed.

  ‘What, sorry?’

  ‘There’s always going to be one too many in any relationship he’s involved in,’ Husbands claimed.

  McCusker wasn’t even sure he knew what that meant. But he let it lie, and soon he and Barr were off. He’d got slim pickings from Elaine, George and Tommy, but at least they got something.

  Chapter Thirteen

  McCusker considered going back to see Mrs Bloom, but returned to the Customs House instead. DI O’Carroll would want to be with him for that interview. When he and Barr entered their open-plan office on the first floor, O’Carroll was at her desk, busy on the phone. She certainly seemed happier than earlier, when she�
�d discovered she had to reschedule that evening’s blind date. Barr headed straight to his desk and dived back into his attempts to compile the complete picture of Louis Bloom’s last day, based on the Leab David interview details, which were neatly written up in O’Carroll’s pink notebook, and chasing down Bloom’s credit card receipts and phone records.

  Cage was complaining as usual and still referring to Bloom as a “missing person”. His regard in the office was betrayed by the fact that none of his fellow workers put him right.

  McCusker spent some time thinking about the couple on the bench. Both Elaine Gibbons and Wee George had witnessed them. Elaine said the boy was wearing a black scarf with yellow stripes and Wee George said it was a QUB scarf. McCusker put more credence in Elaine’s eyesight. But by the time Mr T Husbands was there at 9.20, the couple had disappeared. They were definitely there at 8.40, when Wee George spotted them. So were they there at 9.00, when Louis Bloom deposited his garbage? Did Louis Bloom spot them? Had he been as interested in the “sucking face” couple as the others had been? Had the kissing couple spotted Louis Bloom at 9 o’clock, and had they spotted what had happened to him? Had they been scared by what they saw? Was that the reason they weren’t there at 9.20, when Mr T Husbands came along? McCusker then remembered the men’s magazines stashed in one of Louis’ locked drawers. Could the kissing couple have actually caught Louis Bloom acting as a peeping Tom? Maybe even with them as the object of his interest? Could that be the solution to what had happened? Maybe they’d caught him. What if the boy had confronted Bloom and a fight had broken out? Had they fallen to the ground and continued their fighting there? McCusker always thought how ungracious and ungainly fighting really was: a bit like two bad swimmers in action, only one of them is on top of the other. But in the melee, had Louis banged his head on the solid ground? Had the couple panicked and dumped Louis Bloom’s remains over the wall, into the Friar’s Bush graveyard? Then McCusker remember two vital points that disproved his theory. One: the body was found not just dumped over the wall, but quite a bit up the graveyard, by Lennon’s Mausoleum. McCusker was sure he could have found a solution to that wee discrepancy, but the second point was a more difficult problem to explain: Louis Bloom hadn’t died from a head injury. No, Mr Louis Bloom had been stabbed in the back.