A Day in the Life of Louis Bloom

by Paul Charles

  McCusker couldn’t be sure if Leab had paused or had completed her reply. It sounded complete, in a texting shorthand way.

  McCusker figured that although, yes, her eyes made her look like she’d been crying, she didn’t really look like she was upset. He also figured that, at about that precise moment, O’Carroll would have loved to have taken the offending mobile phone and chucked it through the nearest open window. No doubt it would be rescued by a student, who would have cleaned the screen on their jacket sleeve and continued working the keys as though it was their own.

  ‘I know this is difficult for you,’ McCusker started, ‘you don’t know how to feel about Louis Bloom…’

  ‘Mum’s just said,’ she started in her beautiful County Down accent, and nodding in the direction of her screen, ‘it’s too early to feel anything real. She also said you’d be here and that I should help you as much as I can, so,’ and she flamboyantly signed off, ‘so you now have my undivided attention.’

  ‘Leab – that’s an unusual name, not from around these parts,’ McCusker replied, picking a topic as far away from the death of Louis Bloom as he could.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, tightening and relaxing her jaw a few times, ‘you see, my mum and dad were – are still – big fans of U2.’

  ‘Right. So is that one of their hits?’ McCusker asked, as O’Carroll rolled her eyes.

  Leab smiled. ‘No one has ever got it.’

  McCusker and O’Carroll just looked at her blankly, waiting for the U2 link.

  ‘Larry – Edge – Adam – Bono,’ she offered.

  ‘What is that, another group?’

  ‘Ah McCusker,’ O’Carroll hissed, ‘don’t ever let people hear you say that stuff. If you take L for Larry, E for the Edge, A for Adam and B for Bono, what do you get…?’ she paused as if she was waiting for him to answer her, but she clearly thought better of it and answered her own question with, ‘Leab’.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Leab confirmed, ‘that was quicker than most attempts.’

  Her phone pulsed but she ignored it. O’Carroll nodded to McCusker, acknowledging that he had achieved the distraction he sought with his merry little song and dance routine with Bloom’s PA.

  ‘How can I help you with Louis?’ she asked, her voice sounding like she was close to tears.

  ‘We need to build up a picture of Louis and his day, so we can figure out what happened,’ O’Carroll offered gently.

  ‘You mean, as in a day in the life of Louis Bloom?’ Leab asked.

  ‘Well yes,’ McCusker replied, thinking that the day he really needed to know about was the final day in the life of Louis Bloom. But a typical day would do for now.

  ‘Okay,’ Leab started, biting the inside of her lip furiously, ‘let’s see now. I get in here around 9.00 a.m. Sometimes Louis is already in, but mostly not. I’ll start to check my overnight emails and deal with them. They can be a pain – there are so many of them and they all have to be replied to… no matter how inane they are. Louis insists everyone gets a civil reply. The problem I find is, when you give someone a polite no, they seem to take that as an invitation to start a dialogue and negotiate. You know, “Can he come another day?” Or, “I know I said we didn’t have any money to offer towards his expenses but if we did, would that help?” Or, “What about if he didn’t have to talk about our chosen subject and he picked one of his own?”’

  All the time, O’Carroll furiously scribbled away once again in her pink book. McCusker figured she didn’t want to interrupt Leab’s flow, so she was jotting down questions for later.

  ‘And all the time I just want to reply: “No, and just bog off!” But no, Louis wants all of them treated respectfully. He says you never know where some of these people are going to end up. “Politeness costs nothing,” he’d say, “and if some of these people end up involved in funding, we don’t want our requests going straight to the dustbin, or they may have friends, or relations, involved in some of the speaking engagements we would want to do.” Well…’

  ‘Politeness costs nothing,’ O’Carroll added quickly, maybe proving that patience was a much more expensive commodity.

  ‘Then around 10.00 I’ll nip down to Kaffeo, who do the best coffee on campus, and get us two cortados and a croissant for him and a Danish for me. That would be the latest he ever gets in. He always pays, and out of his own pocket, not from QUB expenses. I deliver his coffee and nibbles to him at his desk. I always close the door after me; he likes peace and no interruption in order to write and research. He’ll have no meetings or callers, or phone calls, between 10.00 and 12.00. Even if we spotted Sir Charles Lanyon walking around this building again, it wouldn’t matter: Louis was not to be disturbed. When I close the door after I deliver his coffee, until he opens it, he’s not to be disturbed. And that’s under any circumstances. The earliest he will emerge is 12.00 and the latest I have known was twenty-past-two. When he does eventually open his door, he’ll nip out for a “wee scoot around to get some air and exercise”, and he’ll end up perhaps with Harry Rubens and they’ll pop into Café Conor for a brief bite or he’ll just get some fruit on his travels.

  ‘If he has any lectures…’

  ‘If?’ McCusker felt compelled to ask. ‘Did he not give lectures every day?’

  Leab David, just laughed – a knowing, insider’s laugh.

  ‘Lecturers rarely take classes,’ she advised. ‘The teaching – I think that’s what you’re referring to – is either self-taught or sometimes post-grads will take classes. The priority is not so much teaching as research.’

  O’Carroll glared at McCusker, who didn’t ask the question on his lips.

  ‘If Louis has a lecture he always gives it in The Emeleus Lecture Theatre. Louis loved it in there. It’s very old word and he felt completely at home there. It’s named after Emeleus, a Finnish professor who was a bit of a superstar himself back in the day at QUB. Emeleus’ chosen subject though was maths.’

  McCusker worried that O’Carroll was going to yawn again. She didn’t.

  ‘Louis’ talks are usually great fun and well attended,’ Leab continued, ‘and I always try to sneak in, under the auspices of taking notes. If he’s not giving a lecture he’s taking or attending meetings, lots of meetings. He usually meets up with the Vice-Chancellor once a day. That’s Louis… sorry, that was Louis’ power base, the fact that he ge… sorry, got on so well with the Vice-Chancellor. A Vice-Chancellor wouldn’t usually hang out with a lecturer but Louis told me that something just clicked between them the first time they met.

  ‘I’ll work away, answering emails, organising his travel and accommodation. When he returns to his office, late afternoon, but always before I leave at 6.00, he briefs me on his meetings and dictates any emails or letters he needs me to send. Mostly when I leave, at 6.00, he’ll still be here. His door will be open and we have our wee routine where I’ll say “Anything else you need me to do?” and he’ll always reply, “No, that’s it for today, Leab, thank you – have a nice evening.”’

  ‘And are you aware of what time he would go home?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Mostly apart from Thursdays he won’t. He’ll go to meetings, dinners, public functions, talks, films, the Opera House, concerts…’

  ‘And on Thursdays?’ O’Carroll prompted, as she concluded writing in her pink book.

  ‘Thursdays he’ll always be home by 7.00 for dinner with his wife; he claims it’s the best night for TV programmes and he will not accept invitations for a Thursday night.’

  ‘Okay Leab, that was very insightful for us,’ O’Carroll started. ‘What we’d like to do now is go back to yesterday and build up Louis’ actual day. For instance, was he already in when you got here at 9.00?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, good. And then you did your emails and he did his emails until just before 10.00 and you fetched the coffee and a croissant for Louis and a Danish for you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he locked his door…’

  �
�No, he doesn’t lock the door,’ Leab corrected O’Carroll firmly, ‘I shut the door after me so that he can have peace to do his work and not be interrupted.’

  ‘And then he worked, wrote, researched until noon at the earliest.’

  Leab nodded yes.

  ‘What time did he emerge from behind his closed door for his dander, as McCusker here would call it?’

  ‘Yesterday it was just before 1.00, when he went out for his daily walk to clear his head.’

  ‘Good, good,’ O’Carroll enthused, jotting away in her pink book, ‘and did he have a lunch date in his diary for yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, he’d lunch with Harry, that’s Harry Rubin, at 1.30. They went to Café Conor.’

  ‘So you don’t know what he did between 1 o’clock and 1.30?’

  ‘He might have just dandered…’ Leab paused and looked in consideration at McCusker before continuing, ‘over to pick up Harry and then walked back up to Café Conor. Louis loved the work of Neil Shawcross – you know, the English artist who lives in Belfast – so much, that sometimes he would go and sit in Café Conor for an hour or so by himself just to soak up his dramatic, soulful paintings exhibited on the walls.’

  ‘How long would his lunch have lasted?’

  ‘Probably no longer than an hour, because he’d a walk-in meeting with the Vice-Chancellor at 2.45.’

  ‘Yes, you said he met with the Vice-Chancellor every day,’ O’Carroll remembered. ‘Could you explain the exact meaning of a “walk-in meeting” please?’

  ‘It’s either a one topic meeting, where they would share information they’d gathered on a topic since their last meeting, or it could just be a quick, general catch-up.’

  ‘Would you ever accompany Louis Bloom on any of these meetings?

  ‘Rarely, and certainly not on the walk-ins.’

  ‘Okay, good, good.’

  O’Carroll, McCusker figured, was just stalling while she remembered where exactly she was up to with her questions.

  ‘So what was his next meeting after the 2.45?’

  Leab had already scrolled up the info on her iPhone. ‘He’d a quick walk-in with Ron Desmond at 3.’

  ‘Okay,’ O’Carroll said, encouraging Leab to continue.

  ‘And Prof. Best at 3.30.’

  ‘Right, got that – and then?’

  ‘And then he’d a personal meeting down in his diary from 4. until 5.30. Then he was back here for our daily debrief and he’d dictate a few emails he needed me to send out.’

  ‘So who was the 16.00 meeting with?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘How many of these personal meetings would he have during the week?’

  ‘Two or three,’ Leab replied.

  ‘Two or three a week and you hadn’t a clue where he was?’

  ‘They weren’t to do with QUB or his professional talks, so they were none of my business,’ Leab protested. ‘On top of which, it certainly wasn’t two or three every week – some weeks there would be none in the diary at all and some weeks there might just be one in.’

  ‘Okay,’ O’Carroll conceded, not even trying to hide the fact that she was surprised, ‘but you really didn’t have a clue who any of these meetings were with?’

  ‘Hand to God,’ Leab replied sweetly, actually raising her hand to the heavens, or at least the ceiling of the reception area.

  ‘I’ve got a few questions here for you as a result of some information you shared with us earlier. Did Professor Bloom get many emails from nutters?’

  ‘Well doesn’t everyone? Like a few. I don’t really mean real nutters – more like harmless nutters, if you know what I mean. There might have been a few that scared me but Louis just laughed them off.’

  ‘Which ones scared you?’

  She looked like she was scrolling the inside of her eyelids as she tried to remember examples.

  ‘You know, let me look at them again,’ Leab offered, as her fingers danced across the screen of her iPhone, inserting a reminder, and using her signature fluttering of fingers into the ether to show the task was successfully completed.

  ‘You mean you’ve still got them?’

  ‘Yes. Louis told me to bin them all but I felt I should keep them. Mostly I just wanted to see if any of the senders would fulfil their prediction and become important people we needed to deal with.’

  ‘Can you send me a copy of them please?’ O’Carroll continued.

  ‘I don’t see why not, but let me just run it by the Vice-Chancellor,’ and her fingers returned to the screen to scoot off another email, requesting the same.

  ‘Did Louis get any threats via email or letter?’ O’Carroll asked, as she ticked off another of the questions in her pink book.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Did Louis have his own separate email account?’ O’Carroll asked, leading McCusker to believe she’d been expecting Leab’s previous answer.

  ‘Why yes, of course.’

  ‘Do you have the details?’

  ‘I have the address, but not the password.’

  McCusker jotted something down. ‘When he gives these talks, what does he talk about?’

  ‘You know he never prepares them – he just gets up, put his hands in his pockets, starts to walk around the platform or stage and words come out.’

  ‘And he gets paid to do that?’

  ‘It seems to work for Michael McIntyre – and former Queen’s student - Patrick Kielty…’

  ‘But they’re comedians,’ O’Carroll protested, looking at McCusker.

  ‘Louis held the belief that comedians are the free-thinkers of the modern world. He would frequently quote Sir Ken Dodd and William Shakespeare in his talks to prove his theory… and get a few laughs into the bargain,’ Leab added, proving she’d successfully studied timing herself.

  ‘How does he decide which speaking engagements to accept?’

  ‘Familiarity, local places and people of interest, ease of travel, quality of hotel, honorarium, securing the services of a great speaker to visit QUB in return, and not necessarily in that order.’

  ‘How much did he receive for these engagements?’

  ‘From FOC to £5,000.’

  ‘FOC?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘Free of charge,’ McCusker replied.

  While her eyes flashed McCusker a “trust you to know that one” look, her mouth gushed, ‘£5,000?!’

  ‘That would be the average,’ Bloom’s PA replied. ‘The most he received in my time with him would have been in the UK. He received £9,999 + expenses for a corporate motivation speech in the City in London, down in the old Whitbread Brewery complex by the Barbican.’

  Funny fee, McCusker thought, and then said so out loud.

  ‘He was trying really hard to get ten grand and the Henry he was dealing with said he couldn’t possibly pay that and Louis said, okay, he could understand and accept that as long as Henry would understand and accept that unless he, Louis, received £9,999 then they better look for someone else. The fee was much higher than the majority of people on the circuit received. The absolute most he ever received was $30,000 + all expenses including two first-class return flights for a speaking engagement in Boston, USA.’

  ‘Did you accompany him on that engagement?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ she replied, sounding a wee bit embarrassed at the suggestion.

  ‘Mrs Bloom?’

  ‘She never travelled with him for his speaking engagements.’

  ‘Who was his plus one then?’

  Leab worked on the screen of her phone and scrolled through some files, then she looked at O’Carroll, who had asked the question, and then glanced to McCusker before saying, ‘I don’t have that information.’

  ‘Earlier you told us what Louis did for lunch, but you didn’t say what you did or when?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll bring something in, or a mate will bring me something here, or I’ll nip out for a while.’

  ‘Are you aware of anyone
who might have threatened Mr Bloom?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head furiously and sounding like she was annoyed he’d even think Louis had enemies.

  ‘Did he owe money to anyone?’

  She repeated her ‘No’ with the same annoyed emphasis, but this time she qualified her displeasure with: ‘Louis was well off, you know. He was also very generous. He paid me a percentage of his fees for his speaking engagements. He said it was above and beyond my duty. He didn’t need to do that for me, you know, and over the course of the year it was, as my dad would say, “a good chunk of change.”’

  ‘Please don’t be alarmed at this question, Leab,’ O’Carroll said cautiously, ‘but we really do like to rule out as many people as possible from our investigation as early as possible – saves us so much time later on. So could you please tell us what you were doing yesterday evening from say 20.30 to 01.00 this morning?’

  ‘Washing my hair.’

  ‘Sorry – for four hours?’ McCusker said in disbelief.

  ‘No, of course not. I meant it as a clichéd figure of speech, you know, the bachelor girl’s lament: “What were you doing last night?” “Oh nothing, I just stayed in and washed my hair.”?’

  ‘A partner with you?’

  ‘I live alone.’

  ‘Okay, Leab,’ O’Carroll started, ‘that’ll do us for now; we’re going to look around Mr Bloom’s office.’

  Before O’Carroll and McCusker had made it as far as the dividing door separating the PA’s reception space from Bloom’s office, Leab’s fingers were once again dancing across the screen of her phone, ten to the dozen.

  * * *

  McCusker was shocked by Louis Bloom’s office, his principal workspace. It was as sparse as his home office, in that there was a desk – glass top, on silver metallic triangles – a healthy-looking chair, two matching wooden chairs and a matching sofa, all positioned on a boring, hard-wearing grey carpet and absolutely nothing else. No filing cabinets; no drawers; no pictures, paintings nor posters adorning the walls; and no windows. None of the above – just the aforementioned desk, desk-chair, two easy chairs and a sofa occupied the room. There wasn’t a fridge, nor even a fan for the traditional 17 days of summer. There was, however, a fridge-freezer in Leab’s reception area.