A Day in the Life of Louis Bloom

by Paul Charles

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘We’re looking for her,’ McCusker replied. ‘Did you talk to her for long?’

  ‘Not long… she was in a hurry to get away and she kept looking around and over her shoulder.’

  ‘Did she go up to the door of the house?’

  ‘No. The only thing she said, as she was weeping, was that she needed to be near his house. She thanked me for stopping for her and she left.’

  ‘Did she have a car? Or was she walking?’

  ‘Definitely walking; I watched her walk up Landseer Street and she turned right into Stranmillis Road.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else about her?’

  ‘When I was up close to her I saw what a stunning looking woman she was but I also realised she was a little older up close than she looked from a distance, but not in a bad way. Initially I thought she looked like one of those crying girls you see on the telly outside a dead pop star’s house, but then, as I say, when I got up close, I realised she was too old for that.’

  Even with his stop-off, McCusker was still in the Customs House by 9.00 a.m., and on foot at that.

  He had thought about calling in to see Sophie Rubens again, to see if he could get to the bottom of her confusion about the location of her alibi. But it might be better to pick up more information first. That was the main problem: before they spoke to anyone, apart from Murcia Woyda and Thomas Chada, they really needed more information.

  ‘I think we might have something here,’ DS WJ Barr said, as McCusker walked through the door.

  O’Carroll, who was already at her desk, and McCusker walked over to Barr’s corner of the office.

  ‘This is the report from the forensic accounting department,’ Barr started, laying down three foolscap pages on his desk in front of his two colleagues.

  ‘Okay,’ McCusker said, searching the pages of figures. He wasn’t connecting the dots. Neither was O’Carroll, it appeared.

  ‘Okay,’ Barr started, ‘for each fundraising project, Ron Desmond, on behalf of QUB, opens a separate bank account.’

  ‘Good so far,’ McCusker said.

  ‘So this page shows the current balances on the different accounts.’

  ‘Wow, that’s a lot of change,’ McCusker said, as his eyes ran down the various balances.

  ‘This page lists the summary of the donations on each account,’ Barr continued.

  ‘And this other page,’ O’Carroll guessed, ‘is the outgoings so far for each account or project.’

  ‘Still with you,’ McCusker said, if only to get to the next stage.

  ‘Now,’ Barr continued patiently, ‘all of these amounts, raised on the separate accounts for the various projects, minus outgoings so far, tally with the balances currently on the accounts… except for…’

  ‘…except for the Holywood House project, which is £480,000 short,’ McCusker added.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ O’Carroll gushed, ‘that’s a heck of a lot of money to go missing.’

  ‘And Ron Desmond is one of the people who doesn’t really have an alibi,’ Barr added.

  ‘Okay, McCusker, you’re expecting your scarf-man to get in touch this morning, so DS Barr, you and I will skip on up to QUB to have a chat with Ron Desmond and confront him with this evidence.’

  McCusker knew that O’Carroll’s skipping would only be as far as her Mégane. It didn’t make him being left behind any easier, particularly when O’Carroll returned – solo – just over an hour later, and Thomas Chada still hadn’t contacted him.

  ‘So, how did it go?’ he asked his partner.

  ‘He was brutally honest. He said he “Didn’t have a fecking clue”,’ O’Carroll started, sounding like this was not going to be a happy tale. ‘He checked with the bank, was left on hold for twenty-three minutes while various people checked out various things with various departments, which ended up where we all were, which is still none the wiser. Desmond made repeated calls to the QUB accountant in charge of these accounts. He got really aggressive with this accountant when he eventually rang Desmond back. The accountant put the phone down on him, so he rang him back to tell him he was a wee… I believe this particular substance is very effective when spread around the roots of rose bushes, yes, that’s it… he was a wee one of those. The accountant put the phone down on him again. Ron Desmond did what most people in his position, but no members of the public ever have a chance of doing: he rang the wee attachment to a rose bush’s senior and played the old boy’s act, for… oh, about three or four sentences, before saying, “Ah that would be a no to that one.’ Which O’Carroll took as a reply to Desmond being asked if everything was okay with him? He then proceeded to get to the crux of the matter. Very shortly thereafter Desmond set the phone down, totally satisfied, and announced: “You’ll be happy to hear that your query is now being dealt with as a matter of great urgency.”’

  ‘And that’s it?

  ‘No, McCusker,’ O’Carroll continued, ‘ten minutes later Desmond’s phone rang again and this time he remained quiet and said “Okay, that’ll be a yes to that one. I’m coming right over with the members of the PSNI – please have everything ready for an inspection.”’

  ‘And you left Willie John to accompany Ron Desmond to the accountants by himself?’

  ‘Yes, of course – I felt I’d already watched enough paint drying this morning already,’ O’Carroll replied, sounding rather pleased with herself.

  ‘Don’t get too excited about leaving him to a brain-numbing hour, it’s not like you’re ever going to win a Crackerjack pen over your fancy footwork.’

  ‘You don’t say things like that when you’re around my sister, do you?’ O’Carroll whispered, as she thumped him playfully on the arm. ‘Please say you don’t. I thought you were getting better, but then you go and say something like that!’

  Just then O’Carroll’s mobile chimed its ‘Chariots Of Fire’ signature, ‘it’s the only exercise I get,’ O’Carroll said, when anyone’s eyebrows questioned her choice. ‘Yes… yes… right now… was that a two or a three? We’re on our way.’ She turned to McCusker. ‘That was Mariana Fitzgerald; she’s with Murcia Woyda. They’re both in Mariana’s Belfast apartment in Opel Tower waiting for us.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  When Mariana Fitzgerald had originally told McCusker and O’Carroll that she had an apartment in Belfast that her friend Murcia was crashing in, she had made it sound like a student’s dive. But on the twenty-sixth floor of Northern Ireland’s highest building, the luxury apartment in question was anything but a dive. It was so luxurious that McCusker felt too self-conscious to sit down on any of the furniture in the grey, black and silver themed décor.

  As they waited for Murcia to come out of her bedroom (Mariana said she’d been crying all night long) the two detectives both strolled over to the window to gain a better look at the majesty of their favourite city. So clean was the glass, both unconsciously took a quick pace backwards, in-step with each other, feeling they might fall off the edge. They could see the Customs House far below them and close enough that if this building ever fell down, in a certain direction, it would collapse right on top of their office. McCusker tried to pick out several landmarks with which he was familiar: the Europa Hotel, the City Hospital, the Waterfront Hall, Napoleon’s Nose and the tower of the Lanyon Building at Queens came easiest.

  They both turned at the same time as they heard Mariana’s voice behind them.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to Mariana’s best friend, Murcia.’

  As both friends made their way across the generous-sized living room, Mariana was still very laboured in her movements.

  Murcia Woyda really did look like Marilyn Monroe. McCusker felt that when people said so-and-so really looks like so-and-so – say George Clooney – and you finally got to meet the supposed Clooney lookalike, you’d usually be thinking, well, they are similar – in that they both have two eyes, two hands and two feet, but that’s where the likenes
s ends. However, not with Murcia – she looked like Marilyn Monroe’s sister. Yes, Murcia most certainly worked and cultivated her look. Like her bottle-blonde hair was cut in Marilyn’s style, and, yes, she was also wearing Ferrari-red lipstick on her permanently pouting lips. But there was something else as well… that look Louis Bloom had described in his journal, where a subject of a photograph hints that she might be prepared to share her soul with you. The deceased QUB lecturer had hit the nail right on the head.

  For someone who had supposedly meant to have been crying all night, Murcia looked a million dollars. She didn’t appear to need a lot of make-up, apart from her lipstick, that was. She was smaller than Mariana – a bit, but not a lot. She had a more feminine figure than Mariana but didn’t flaunt herself or flirt as much as her friend did. McCusker guessed that Mariana wasn’t even aware that “Mariana” was doing it.

  ‘Right, I’ll leave you to have your chat,’ Mariana said, ‘if you need Mariana, Murcia, just ring me and I’ll be back.’

  ‘Can I make you tea or coffee?’ Murcia offered, with a hint of a French accent.

  ‘Let’s have a wee chat first,’ McCusker said, knowing the start of an interview always dictates if it’s going to be a difficult or an easy one.

  As they were walking over the spacious room to the section with a low glass coffee table, guarded by three large grey sofas and a massive TV screen (fixed to the wall) on the fourth side, O’Carroll, following McCusker’s lead, quickly said, ‘So, you saw Louis Bloom on Thursday at Dukes Hotel between 4 o’clock and 5.30?’

  ‘Yes – Mariana told me she’d mentioned that I was there with Louis and, yes, that is the last time I saw poor Louis.’ Murcia sat down on the sofa to the left of McCusker and O’Carroll’s choice of sharing the central sofa.

  O’Carroll took out her pink notebook and started to write, usually a signal to McCusker that she wanted him to take the majority of the questions.

  ‘You were seen outside Louis’ home on Friday night,’ McCusker said – again, like O’Carroll’s, it wasn’t really a question, but he thought confirmation would be good for the record.

  ‘Oui, sorry, sorry, I mean yes,’ she replied, seeming surprised. ‘The kind man, he told you?’

  ‘Yes,’ McCusker returned a confirmation.

  ‘I don’t know why I went there. I… I was upset, very upset – I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Were you going to go into the house?’

  ‘Non, certainly not,’ she shook her head violently, so much so that her hair umbrella-ed. ‘I do not know the wife. I have no wish to upset her. I just felt a need, a separate need, to be near his house. I needed to be close to him. I was drawn there beyond my wishes.’

  ‘Had you ever been there before?’ McCusker asked, as O’Carroll recorded the words.

  ‘Non, certainly not, ah… we, Louis and I, we were not… shall I say, what… we were not jealous lovers.’

  ‘Did Louis speak French?’

  ‘Oui, and Mariana, too. My English will grow the more we talk.’

  ‘Thank you for speaking in English for us,’ O’Carroll added.

  ‘Pas du tout,’ she replied, the slightest hint of a smile breaking her lips, ‘not at all.’

  ‘I met the man you talked to outside Louis’ house,’ McCusker started back up, trying hard to find common bonds. ‘I visited him this morning. In fact, we shared Paris buns.’

  ‘Ah yes, I also know this bun! They are very agreeable, yes?’

  ‘Why yes,’ McCusker agreed, as O’Carroll tutted not so subtly.

  Murcia didn’t seem upset to McCusker. He wondered if Mariana had said that Murcia was upset in order to make it appear that she cared, and therefore, that she couldn’t be involved in Louis’ murder.

  ‘What did you and Louis discuss when you met on Thursday?’ he asked, and regretted the question the moment it had left his lips. They had a room in a hotel they shared for ninety minutes – talking might not have been their priority.

  ‘We talked about my situation with Mr Noah,’ she replied. ‘Mariana calls my husband that – Mr Noah – and she calls me Mrs Noah. I’m afraid it stick.’

  ‘Stuck,’ O’Carroll involuntarily offered, in correction and, just like McCusker, appeared to regret it the moment she did.

  ‘Stuck, yes good,’ Murcia continued. Like Mariana, Murcia had a quiet voice, maybe a bit more gentle than her friend’s, and to ears like those of McCusker’s, very sensual.

  ‘Have you spoken to your husband recently?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no, no – bad for me, no more,’ she gushed. ‘He leave message on my phone, I never answer.’

  ‘Does he know where you are?’

  ‘Non,’ she spat, ‘he mustn’t.’

  ‘We need to ask you some personal questions?’

  ‘It is good.’

  ‘Mariana introduced you to Louis as an escort?’

  ‘Oui, but it is true.’

  ‘Did he pay you?’

  ‘Why yes, but of course, but that is how we met,’ she replied, sounding as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘How often did you meet each week?’

  ‘As often as we could, but never on Thursdays or Sundays.’

  ‘So maybe as many as five times a week.’

  ‘Perhaps say four,’ she offered, ‘Ah sorry, I see, I see, you mean that’s a lot of times to pay?’

  ‘Well…’

  She smiled at McCusker again. ‘He pay when we first meet, because that was how we meet, but then we became friends and lovers and of course he doesn’t pay then.’

  ‘Oh,’ McCusker said.

  ‘But as friends and lovers, well, of course he gives me an allowance to live… but that was only until I get my divorce settlement.’

  ‘Do you see anyone else as an escort?’

  ‘Non, but of course not – I have a husband and a lover,’ she shot back indignantly.

  ‘Of course…’ McCusker replied, only to be interrupted with:

  ‘But now poor Louis, no more, no lover,’ she added. ‘Are you a husband?’

  McCusker struggled, feeling something must have been lost in the translation.

  ‘He has a wife and a lover already,’ O’Carroll offered, coming to McCusker’s rescue, after a fashion.

  Murcia looked at McCusker with fresh eyes.

  ‘What does Mr Noah do?’ he asked, ignoring O’Carroll’s dig.

  ‘He is a business man.’

  ‘Yes, but what is the nature of his business?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘But you’re his wife.’

  ‘But I didn’t care.’

  ‘But still, you must have… he must have told you something?’

  ‘I met my husband when I was an escort, he was obsessed with me. He wanted me to stop being an escort, to only be with him. I said no. He kept making better proposals until I agreed. And I agreed. I agreed because when Mariana and I work out the deal, it was the same as being an escort for several years – more money, less work. I never feel our marriage was emotional or romantic. I was doing a business deal.

  ‘But I make a big mistake; I never consider the complications of such a deal. Like when a man buys something, he needs it to be his. He wants to make a statement, saying, “This woman is my wife and she is mine”. But that is just not possible. Louis understood. Louis knew that could never be.’

  She laughed sadly to herself.

  McCusker and O’Carroll allowed her the moment.

  Her eyes welled up.

  ‘Oh my Louis,’ she cried out, ‘my poor Louis. He left me when I needed him most.’

  Neither McCusker nor O’Carroll could find the right words to say.

  ‘Louis knew that a man could never own a woman. He’d say, “Forget all that bulle merde, let’s get our clothes off!”’

  O’Carroll and Murcia laughed heartily, but McCusker didn’t. He figured it must be a girl’s thing.

  ‘So, Mr Noah wants you back?’r />
  ‘He thinks he bought me. He thinks he is better than me. He thinks I cannot be alone and be happy.’

  ‘Why not just get a divorce?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Mr Noah is not a nice man when he gets angry, he hurts people.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He hurts people when he gets angry.’

  ‘You’ve seen him hurt people?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘When? Where?’

  ‘If I tell you that, my life will be over.’

  ‘He’s threatened you.’

  ‘He has done more than that. He has beaten me,’ she said.

  ‘He can’t do that; you can go to the courts.’

  ‘It is no use being in the right, having the courts on your side, when your bones are broken, or worse still, you are in the graveyard.’

  ‘Do you think Mr Noah is involved in Louis’ death?’

  ‘I can’t think how. Louis and I… we were both so careful.’

  ‘Did youse always meet at Dukes?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Noah, he know this is Mariana’s apartment. So we assume he’s watching here.’

  ‘So Louis has never been here?’

  ‘No never, I wouldn’t do that to Mariana.’

  ‘You never, ever met anywhere else other than Dukes?’ McCusker repeated.

  ‘We would only meet… oh… sorry, I just remember one time it was different… with Louis we couldn’t get back to the hotel quick enough, if you see what I mean, and so we had a moment or two in Botanic Gardens, in the bushes over by the sports centre. But nobody would know about us then.’

  ‘If Mr Noah wanted to get in touch with you, how would he do it?’

  ‘He would assume I pick up the messages he leaves for me. I don’t read them. I delete them all immediately. He needs to know I’m out of his life for good.’

  ‘Do you have a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes, Mariana found one for me. She asked him to write to Mr Noah’s solicitor and say he would be acting for me in the divorce proceedings.’

  ‘Did Louis ever meet Mr Noah?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe – something happened, but Louis wouldn’t talk about it. He certainly became more cautious over the last few weeks. It was more “I don’t want to talk about it” rather than “it didn’t happen”. This leads me to think that perhaps something did happen. But we were careful. We were very careful.’