by Paul Charles
‘I imagine you’ve already been thinking about this one,’ McCusker started back up again, worrying that they’d gone so far off-topic that none of them would remember what the original question was, ‘but do you know anyone who Louis fell out with in any way, or anyone who wished him harm?’
‘The full truth is, from the part of his life that I shared with him, I can’t think of one single person who wished him ill. As for the rest of his life – his other life – I just wouldn’t know.’
‘What about Miles?’
‘But sure, Miles, for all his faults, was still his brother,’ Elizabeth Bloom said with such conviction that she clearly considered it an impossibility that one brother would kill another.
McCusker felt that the interview had reached a natural conclusion. O’Carroll clearly felt the same, because she put her notebook away. There were certainly other topics McCusker wanted to discuss, but he was happy to leave them for another time. The three then went up to Louis’ study. McCusker already had the key in his hand and palmed it from the top of the door ledge, pretending to have to search around to secure it.
‘That daft apeth couldn’t find that key anywhere up there,’ Elizabeth said, as McCusker opened the door.
The two detectives packed away all the stuff they needed, including Louis’ journal, while Elizabeth seemed very content to just sit in Louis’ space and try to soak up what remained of his aura.
Just as they concluded their task, Elizabeth Bloom, looking out at the spectacular view of the Botanic Gardens, sounded like she’d started to talk to herself. She mumbled something, which ended in her saying ‘I’m sorry’.
‘Pardon?’ McCusker asked, fearing he’d failed to pick up something important.
‘I mean, I don’t want you to give the wrong idea and think was I speaking ill of Al. He’s been a good friend to me and great company for me over the years. He’s always been loyal to a fault.’
‘We got that impression,’ O’Carroll said, as they packed Louis’ stuff into two box files they’d brought with them.
‘A totally different man to Louis,’ Elizabeth continued, as much to herself as to the detectives.
Then a few seconds later, as if hit by something she’d very quietly recalled, she said: ‘I told you I was older than Louis, quite a bit older, in fact. I’m in my mid-sixties now. My parents disapproved of me marrying him. They had great plans for me and clearly wanted someone better, someone of our own station and breeding. When I wouldn’t give in to their demands to dump Louis, they totally washed their hands of me. They both advised me that they wouldn’t be attending the wedding. My mum actually said, although she often protested that it was an unintentional slip of the tongue – me, I’m still not so sure – but the actual words she used were: “Your father and I won’t be attending the funeral.” My mum gave me £500 to buy my wedding dress, on the quiet, behind my father’s back. I believe to this day it was her final way of insulting me and my husband-to-be. I’d always dreamed of a perfect wedding and I was determined my parents’ mean-spiritedness would not get in the way of our happy day. I couldn’t ask Louis for extra money for the wedding dress; he was already paying for the wedding. On top of which I was too ashamed of my parents to ask Louis. He would have just laughed a little, got out his chequebook and wrote me a blank cheque, but you’d never, ever know what he really thought. And who uses chequebooks these days anyway?’
‘Oh, I believe we’ll find McCusker here is not a stranger to that particular antiquated system,’ O’Carroll cut in.
‘So I found myself getting rather down about all of this and my best friend from university days, who had married well in London, sent me over a British Airways return ticket and invited me over for the weekend. That was the time when a weekend trip was rather a big thing, the thing, if you will. She was six months pregnant and claimed it would be her final night on the tiles before the birth. I went over on a Friday and the next day we went to the movies in Leicester Square – saw this great period drama, and I forget who the actress was, she was stunning. Anyway, she was at this ball, in this amazing backless, off-white gown and we immediately looked at each other, nodded and silently mouthed the words, “that’s the perfect wedding dress.”
‘After the movie we’d quite a late liquid lunch. I was quite squiffy from all the white wine and she was high from the bubbles of her Pellegrino, and she pulled me into Simpsons as we were passing, and for a lark we went to look at their wedding dresses. We were fooling around, searching in vain for the £200 bargain-basement item, when we came across a gown almost identical to the one in the movie. We couldn’t believe it. She said “You’re just going to have to try it on”, and following a brief faux protest, five minutes later we were both studying me in the wedding dress from the movie, in a full-length mirror. Then I came down to Earth with a bump as the realisation of my situation set in. My friend nipped off to check the baby department, to give me time to take off the gown. I was sitting there in the demo room, still with the gown on, elbows on knees, staring at myself in that mirror. But not really looking at myself. I was still a little drunk. I was feeling extremely sad about my plight and the fact that my parents didn’t want me to marry Louis, and what a big disaster my wedding was going to be because everyone would notice that my parents weren’t there. Then the manageress of the wedding department returned and brought me back down to Earth with an even bigger bang.
“‘And what does madam think of the dress?” says she.
“Oh it’s wonderful,” says I.
“And will you be taking it?” says she.
“Oh but I wish that I could,” says I.
“But surely you can,” says she.
“I could never afford this,” says I.
“But surely you can,” says she.
“How much is it?’ says I.
“£950,” says she.
“Oh I’m really very sorry,” says I, “I have to admit, I knew I could never afford it, but I saw the exact same dress in a movie earlier today and I fell in love with it, but I really should never have put it on.”
“But surely, your father or husband?” says she.
‘So I explain the whole situation to her about my mum and dad not approving of Louis, and them disowning me.
“‘But surely you must have some budget?” says she, as if she’d been the recipient of an entire book full of “surelys” to distribute in that week’s sentences.
‘£200,” says I.
‘She looked me up and down. She looked around the demo room and then she came and sat down beside me and put her arm around my shoulder.
“Well then, it’s your lucky day,’’ says she. “This store is closing down shortly. It’s not going to be announced until next week, but we’re having a massive clearance sale starting on Monday next, so I can let you have this dress for your £200 budget and I’ll just ring up the transaction on Monday morning.”
‘Well, I just burst into tears. Not over my plight, but more because I was so happy that it didn’t matter how big a bunch of shits my parents were being to me, something bigger than that, than them, than all of us, wanted me to have that dress. Something more powerful than all that stupid domestic immaturity had brought me to London, to that movie, into that store, on that very day, with this particular, special shop assistant, to ensure that I would have my wedding dress,’ Elizabeth Bloom said, then paused to draw a very large sigh before concluding: ‘You know, when I think about that day, and I have to admit that I still do, and often – like this morning, for instance – that was most likely the happiest day of my life.’
O’Carroll was very quiet on the car ride back to Customs House.
‘Don’t be getting all gloomy on me,’ McCusker eventually said to her, if only because he could not bear the silence between them.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ she claimed, shaking herself out of whatever it was that had preoccupied her thoughts.
‘There’ll be someone…’ McCusker said in a whisper, and cut
himself short before mouthing “for you”.
‘No, no, that’s not what I was thinking,’ she said, nearly as quietly. “I was thinking how little distance we’ve come, where every wee girl has been brain-washed into thinking that their wedding day will be the most important part of their life and of what they will do with their lives. Total B.S.’
‘Hymm.’
‘Yeah, and I bet you were thinking that just because you’ve met my Grace, that you’re all right Jack, and so now I’m the one to be pitied?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ McCusker protested, ‘I was thinking it was painfully sad that Mrs Elizabeth Bloom had claimed that the day she got her wedding dress was the happiest day of her life.’
Chapter Fifteen
Back at his desk, McCusker set himself the task of discovering the name of the kissing student from Magherafelt High School. He doodled on his notepad, searching his brain for an idea.
O’Carroll, as ever, was working away diligently at her desk. Everyone else seemed to be able to get straight back into desk-work when they returned to the Customs House, but not him. He was still not as comfortable there as he’d been up in the Portrush nick. He liked to be out of the office talking to people – live, in person. He needed to look them in the eyes and see how they reacted. He felt he progressed far more quickly out on the street, rather than stuck at his desk, drowning in paperwork and research.
Then he started to think of Elizabeth Bloom and her sad wedding dress story. Elizabeth had also told O’Carroll (during their chat when McCusker was out walking around Botanic Gardens with Armstrong) how she and Louis had first met.
Elizabeth had been over in Belfast to stay with her sister, Angela, for a summer. She’d been to the Ulster Hall to see The Waterboys, who turned out to be Louis’ favourite group – in fact, he liked The Beatles and The Waterboys, and that was really it. Angela also loved The Waterboys, and that was why Elizabeth was there. Elizabeth had accidentally dropped her ticket in the foyer and Louis had tapped her on the shoulder to reunite her with it. Angela had kept the conversation going and before Elizabeth had known it, she’d been deep in conversation with this charming younger man. They’d made a date to see each other the following week and, with said date, had set themselves off on the natural flow of their life path together.
McCusker started to really focus on the victim again, honing in on “a day in the life of Louis Bloom”. He considered a typical day in the lecturer’s early life, maybe around the time he first met Elizabeth.
McCusker tried to comprehend all the worrying Louis would have gone through – exams; girlfriends; family; finding employment to see him through university; securing his current job; making ends meet; his lecturers; his clothes; his look; his health and his money. Now all that mountain of worrying had just turned out to be a complete and utter waste of time. A waste of time, due to the simple fact that his life had been suspended – well, more like terminated, really – mid-season. Some person or persons unknown had upset the flow of the seasons to the extent that, in Louis’ case, spring would no longer follow winter. And by ending Louis’ rhythm of seasons, a person or persons unknown had put paid to all of Louis’ energies, thoughts, dreams and worries. Not only that, but you could also say the same person or persons unknown had put paid to all the thoughts, energies, dreams and worries of several generations of the numerous branches on Bloom’s complicated family tree, whose side of the bloodline would end with Louis. Surely that was why he and O’Carroll and the PSNI owed it to someone, or something, to remove the person or persons unknown from society so they may never, ever interfere with the essential rhythm of an unsuspecting person’s seasons again.
Just as he was about to concentrate on tracing the pupil with the Magherafelt High School scarf, O’Carroll set her phone down.
‘That was the Superintendent – he’ll be down in ten minutes so that we can all have a catch-up session.’
* * *
‘So where are we?’ Larkin asked, the moment he strode into their office, looking quite dapper in the black, pin-striped trousers and waistcoat of his suit, with his clean, white shirt and one of his several multi-coloured striped ties. McCusker figured if he put enough thought into it he could most likely work out which day of the week it was solely based on Superintendent Larkin’s tie.
McCusker was closest to the Perspex noticeboard that showcased the team’s current notes, photographs and names, so he started recalling the facts of the case as they currently stood.
‘Okay. We still need to talk to Louis Bloom’s brother, Miles, plus Professor Vincent Best, Harry and Sophie Rubens, and the Vice-Chancellor.’
‘How are you getting on with piecing together the rest of Louis’ day?’ Larkin asked DS WJ Barr.
‘Yep, making good progress, Sir – here’s what we have so far.’ Barr nodded at a section of the Perspex board beside McCusker.
Louis Bloom’s Thursday:
07.30 Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across his head
08.00 Breakfast at home
08.30 Left home
09.00 Already in his office when Leab David arrives
10.00–12.55 Louis working undisturbed in his office
12.55–13.30 ???
13.30–14.30 Lunch with Harry Rubens
14.45–15.00 Brief meeting with the Vice-Chancellor
15.00–15.15 Brief meeting with Ronald Desmond
15.30–15.50 Brief meeting with Professor Vincent Best
16.00–17.30 Personal meeting with ???
17.30–18.30 Back at office (18.30 estimate)
19.00 Home for dinner with Mrs Bloom
20.55 Takes rubbish bag out to bin
‘We hope to have more info in by the end of the day,’ Barr added, when it looked like Larkin had finished reading the list.
Barr was looking a little uncomfortable. McCusker wondered if he wasn’t now having second thoughts about using The Beatles’ lyric for the 7.30 entry. But Larkin most likely would be well aware that the entry wasn’t due to a lack of respect; it was just one of the little things they all needed to do to deal with the darkness of the situation, yet still be able to function as humans.
‘Any clues as to the ninety minutes he was missing yesterday afternoon, as discovered by DI O’Carroll and McCusker?’ Larkin asked, proving he certainly wasn’t dwelling on the merits of a Beatles lyric.
‘Sorry, no,’ Barr admitted, ‘there’s nothing showing up on Mr Bloom’s credit card or iPad, Sir. I’m still trying to uncover the password to his email account. Hopefully there’ll be something there.’
‘Good, good,’ Larkin offered in praise, ‘going through our tried and tested procedures, that’ll produce dividends for us.’
McCusker had the impression that Larkin knew it was much too early for results but was checking in with them just because he’d told someone – his wife, for instance – that he would. The detective felt he should offer something, anything.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever worked on a case before where the first three people we’ve interviewed – Armstrong, Desmond and Leab David – didn’t have an alibi.’
‘Taking anything from that?’ Larkin asked, seeming happy at the scrap.
‘No, not yet, but DI O’Carroll and I feel we do need to check out Al Armstrong some more.’
‘Good, good, keep me posted – see you both at 7.00 for that other meeting,’ Larkin replied, but this time addressing O’Carroll.
As Larkin walked out through the swinging office doors, DI Jarvis Cage bounced in, full of beans.
Three minutes later, Cage barked ‘How do we even know he’s missing?’ on receiving what he felt was an unreasonable request from O’Carroll to partake in more than his fair share of his chores – that is to say, having to ring up the QUB Students’ Union to check if Louis Bloom was a regular visitor to their building. Cage was still unaware that Louis Bloom had in fact been discovered, and was even dead. So unpopular was the lanky detective inspector that no one, including h
is immediate senior, DI O’Carroll, had seen fit to update him.
‘Oh, just pretend that you’re in a detective novel where you don’t have to justify your actions,’ O’Carroll snapped back, sounding like she was clearly running late for one of her legendary blind dates.
‘What? What?’ Cage perked up, looking like he felt he might have picked her up incorrectly. ‘You mean this guy, Louis Bloom, is so famous they’re going to do a cop TV show on this case?’
‘But of course, sweetie,’ O’Carroll replied, reeling Cage in slowly but securely.
‘EX-CELL-ENT!’ Cage replied, doing up his top button and tie.
‘Sadly, at this stage the only part they’ve left to fill is one of the smelly corpse…’ The end of her sentence was drowned out by the guffaws around the office.
‘That was very unlike you,’ McCusker offered five minutes later, when they were in the privacy of her Mégane.
‘You don’t mean to tell me that you feel sorry for that prat?’
‘No, not that,’ McCusker replied, aping the perfect timing of Ken Dodd, ‘I mean using the word “sweetie”.’
Just then McCusker’s mobile phone chimed in with its unique war cry. McCusker claimed it was Finn McCool, although O’Carroll was convinced it was Tarzan. The detective went as white as a typical bed sheet on an Ulster clothes line. He made no replies excepting the initial, ‘Yes.’
O’Carroll grew distracted at his silence.
Eventually he disconnected after saying, ‘Okay.’
‘Goodness, McCusker – you look like you’ve just seen the Grey Lady from Stranocum’s Dark Hedges.’
‘Worse than that,’ McCusker whispered, ‘I know this ghost – it’s Anna Stringer!’
Chapter Sixteen
O’Carroll instinctively knew not to ask McCusker about his conversation with his ex-wife. Well, she wasn’t officially his ex-wife yet, in that they’d never divorced – more like she’d just completely disappeared off the face of the Earth. He’d always, even during the years that they were together, referred to her as Anna Stringer, never as Anna McCusker.