A Day in the Life of Louis Bloom

by Paul Charles

  ‘This is strange?’ O’Carroll whispered. She whispered half from shock and half because they could see Leab David’s shadow float past the door every now and then, her silhouette betraying her deft finger-work, busy as a bee on speed, at her phone.

  ‘No distractions,’ McCusker whispered back, ‘absolutely no distractions for someone who wanted to just think and write.’

  * * *

  ‘Do you have a key to this office?’ McCusker asked, as he closed the opaque glass door behind him.

  ‘Of course, I lock it every night.’

  ‘Can I have the key please?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘Why yes, of course,’ Leab answered nervously, seemingly shocked by the request. Maybe even as though the reality of what was happening was slowly dawning on her.

  ‘The Vice-Chancellor said we should be okay with me giving you that file of nutter emails but he needs to check first with the university lawyers.’

  ‘So Mr Bloom has no computer in his office?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor files, nor paperwork.’

  ‘NO.’

  ‘So how did he do his work?’

  ‘He had one of the large iPads he was always hammering away on. He also had a journal he frequently wrote in.’

  ‘And where is his iPad?

  ‘So you’ve found the journal then?’ Leab said, catching the DI out.

  O’Carroll had the grace to smile before repeating, ‘And where is his iPad?’

  ‘He has a brown-leather shoulder bag he always carries with him. It’s well worn – even when he nips out of here for a few minutes on one of his many sojourns he’ll take his shoulder bag. His iPad and his notes are contained therein. He never leaves them on campus.’

  ‘Tell me this,’ McCusker asked, quite quietly, as though he too had been hit by a realisation from the visit to Louis’ inner office, ‘what was Louis Bloom’s chosen subject?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you would have already known that one,’ Leab David replied. ‘The Politics of Love.’

  Chapter Ten

  By the time McCusker and O’Carroll returned to Louis Bloom’s house on the borders of Botanic Gardens, Sgt WJ Barr (O’Carroll’s crime scene bag-man of choice) had the Crime Scene Investigators team at full steam.

  Barr had also discovered (and secured the surrounding) scene of Bloom’s missing New York Yankees baseball cap. He took McCusker directly there, while O’Carroll got up to speed with the results of the house search. Barr had actually discovered the Yankees baseball cap not too far from the original rubbish bin where Bloom had deposited his plastic bag of domestic refuse. It was a couple of minutes’ walk away, back towards Bloom’s house, just to the right of what would have been Bloom’s entrance to the Gardens. The cap had become entangled in a bush in a picturesque laneway created between the hedge that bordered the Gardens with Colenso Parade, and a hedge that ran parallel, 12 feet across.

  Perhaps a caring walker had discovered Bloom’s cap lying on the ground and had placed it higher up in the bushes, in the hope that it wouldn’t get damp or trodden on, and in order to catch the owner’s eye should they return in search of their missing lid.

  ‘Maybe the cap was placed here,’ Barr offered hesitantly, on a slightly different tangent, ‘in order to make us believe it was a random attack.’

  ‘Good point, WJ, and very possible, very possible.’

  ‘We’re continuing to search the Gardens, and we’re doing a H2H of all the houses in the area,’ Barr continued, as he glanced back in the direction of Bloom’s house. Due to the hedgerow, only the roof was visible from where they stood.

  McCusker returned to the Bloom residence. Mrs Elizabeth Bloom had been taken away to the house her sister, Angela, shared with Superintendent Niall Larkin.

  Al Armstrong was trying in vain to take charge and prevent the SOC officers from doing their work. McCusker heard him say: ‘This might be a crime scene to you lot, but after you’re all long gone, this will be Elizabeth’s home again.’

  O’Carroll nodded to McCusker as she said to Armstrong, ‘Mr Armstrong, we’d like to continue our interview with you.’

  ‘Oh gosh, would you now?’ he croaked. ‘Well, as you can see I’m very busy here, so you’re just going to have to wait.’

  ‘Well here’s the thing,’ O’Carroll began, her hackles certainly rising. ‘We can either do it here an’ now, or I can ask one of these nice officers you’ve been haranguing to take you down to the Customs House, and McCusker and I can officially interview you when we’ve finished here.’

  ‘Well gosh, wouldn’t you know it,’ Armstrong started, breaking into a large, fake smile, as he folded his arms about himself again, ‘but a window of opportunity has just become free in my diary, so I’m all yours for the next…’

  ‘Until we’re finished,’ O’Carroll interrupted, her usual good humour clearly gone the same way as her previous night’s sleep.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Louis’ habit of taking to nipping out to one of the bins in the Botanic Gardens,’ McCusker started, as they strolled into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh yes, Louis’ over-active nostrils.’

  ‘How frequently does Louis get rid of the rubbish this way?’

  ‘Gosh, nightly. He’s fastidious about smells around the house – sometimes he’ll dump twice on Saturday and same on Sundays. And if he’s not around, Elizabeth will have me dump the bags on her behalf.’

  ‘And is it always at the same time?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘When I’m here it’s always just before 9 o’clock. Louis is always at home on Thursday evenings so he’d always do the rubbish-bag duty to get back to the house, to see whatever was on the telly at 9.00.’

  ‘Did he always use the same route to the bin?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Elizabeth said that if their usual bin was full we were not allowed to just leave our blue bags just by the bins, as some people do. We would have to find another bin that could accommodate the rubbish.’

  ‘Did a lot of people know that Louis dumped his rubbish in Botanic Gardens?’

  ‘His over-active nostrils were not a secret,’ Armstrong croaked. ‘I think his circle knew about it; I’ve seen him excuse himself from a dinner party table to go and dump the rubbish.’

  ‘But he’d always take out the rubbish on a Thursday evening, just before 9 o’clock?’ McCusker continued.

  ‘I’d say most definitely.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Louis’ brother, Miles?’ McCusker asked, before the three of them had finally rested their weight on the chairs around the kitchen table.

  ‘Gosh that was quick,’ Armstrong said.

  McCusker wasn’t sure if the “quick” referred to the speed by which he delivered his second question or that Armstrong already had Miles Bloom in the frame for fratricide.

  McCusker and O’Carroll both took out their notebooks and, pens primed, glared at Armstrong.

  ‘’Well, I can tell you,’ Armstrong started, sounding more like an aproned-up fishwife at the clothesline than a songwriter, ‘he’s a piece of work is that Miles one.’

  ‘How so?’ O’Carroll asked, her interest piqued.

  ‘Well, he absolutely hates Louis, I mean, gosh, you guys are certainly onto number one suspect very quickly, fair play to you.’

  O’Carroll was about to ask another question when Armstrong leaned over the table, and dropped the volume of his croak in a conspiratorial manner. ‘You see the problem is,’ again he paused and looked around him, ‘Miles is a lazy sod. Louis has never been scared of hard work and… well, he’s not preoccupied with money the way Miles is. Their auld man, Sidney Bloom, was a self-made man. He did very well for himself at a time when the general store sold absolutely everything from nails to napalm. Auld Sidney built up his business until he had a general store, a chemist, a restaurant, a pub, an undertaking business, a trucking business and, let’s see, there was also a travel agency. He ran them all phenomenally successfully
. He knew it took a lot of time, a lot of hard work and dedicated staff to make a fortune. He also knew it would take a little time and an argumentative, spoilt, lazy brat to squander the same fortune. Elizabeth said that Sidney had once told her, “I’ve always felt that people are less careful with money when they haven’t worked for it.” Sidney was a cute man all right, and he was certainly wise to Miles. So he left each of his businesses to his staff and he left all his money and his property to Louis.’

  ‘And Miles?’ McCusker felt compelled to ask.

  ‘And to Miles he left his original set of tools and a How To Be A Handy Man About The House DIY book.’

  ‘No?’ McCusker offered, barely containing a snigger.

  ’100% the truth,’ Armstrong replied, looking genuinely hurt. ‘Ask Elizabeth if you don’t believe me,’

  ‘Unbelievable!’ McCusker offered shaking his head in disbelief while looking at O’Carroll. ‘And what did Miles do?’

  ‘He went absolutely balsamic.’

  ‘I think you mean ballistic?’ O’Carroll suggested.

  ‘No, I mean balsamic,’ Armstrong replied very definitely. The problem was he meant it. ‘Jesus was crucified on the cross,’ he continued, ‘then he was speared a few times. But that wasn’t enough either, so the soldiers poured vinegar on a sponge and put it on a hyssop plant and offered it up to Jesus’ lips, so he could drink it. That was literally the straw that broke Jesus’ back. Just after that he gave up. So I’ve always felt balsamic was the stage after ballistic.’

  ‘O-k-a-y,’ O’Carroll said, drawing the word out but not long enough to betray her feelings that she felt Armstrong was behaving “in character.” ‘So what did Miles actually do?’

  ‘He contested the Will, he sued, he came around to Elizabeth and Louis’ several times after the funeral and after the Will had been read, and threatened Louis with physical harm. But auld man Bloom had written an unbreakable Will.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Gosh, I’d say eight or nine years.’

  ‘And have they communicated since?’

  ‘Mostly, through solicitors. Although I have to say, Louis seemed more bemused by Miles’s behaviour, than annoyed by it. Elizabeth said that Louis admitted he and his brother had never ever been pals.’

  ‘Was that because the father favoured Louis?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Well, that’s the really strange thing…’ Armstrong croaked, ‘until the Will was read no one, including Louis, had a clue that the father preferred Louis over Miles.’

  ‘Really?’ O’Carroll asked. ‘Something must have happened.’

  ‘Elizabeth thought it might have been because Louis was always very respectful of his mother, Terry, and his auld man, Sidney. She thought it might have been as simple as that. On top of which, Louis never caused them any grief. They never had to nag at him to get on with his studies, or homework or chores around the various stores. Louis was always up for doing anything. Equally, when the chores were being dished out, it wasn’t that Miles wasn’t first in the queue, or even last in the queue, for that matter. He wasn’t even in the queue in the first place.’

  It was clear that Armstrong had more to say and so McCusker and O’Carroll left him to it.

  ‘Elizabeth felt that Louis never had any desire to take over the family business but he acknowledged how hard his father had worked at making the family business a success, and he respected that.’

  ‘Did Louis ever offer to give Miles any of the inheritance?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Actually, I asked Elizabeth that very question at the time and she said that Louis had only discussed it with her once, and he had said if only Miles hadn’t made such a song and dance about it, he most certainly would have shared his good fortune with his brother. But Louis was really scundered with Miles dissing auld man Bloom in public after his death, with all his lawsuits and the crap involved. Miles’s problem was that he’d didn’t want just a share of the estate. No, he felt entitled to the whole shebang.’

  ‘What does Miles do now?’ McCusker asked.

  ‘Someone told me that on his passport he listed his occupation as ‘House Husband.’

  ‘You mean he lives off his wife?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘I don’t think that man has ever worked a day in his life,’ Armstrong replied, not exactly answering the question.

  ‘What does his wife do?’ O’Carroll asked, sounding like she was itching to meet up with Miles Bloom.

  ‘We – Elizabeth and me – always refer to her as the Other Mrs Bloom. She’s an independent head-hunter. Apparently, according to Elizabeth, she’s very, very good at her work. Yes, the Other Mrs Bloom is phenomenally successful, has two PAs and is always on a plane to somewhere or other.’

  ‘Where do they live?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘Oh they’ve got a big pile up on Cyprus Avenue.’

  ‘McCusker immediately thought of Ryan and Larry, the O’Neill boys and the first case he’d worked on with O’Carroll a little over a year ago.

  McCusker also noted that Armstrong wasn’t backwards about coming forward with information. The secret seemed to be in knowing which question to ask.

  ‘Tell me this,’ McCusker started, closing his eyes as he threw the dice, ‘did Miles Bloom ever attempt to hurt his brother in any way?’

  ‘You mean in a physical way?’

  ‘Well yes,’ McCusker replied, hopefully.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that myself all night,’ Armstrong replied. To McCusker, he sounded like he was growing hoarser by the minute. ‘I asked Elizabeth the same question when Louis was discovered in the graveyard and she kind of laughed, but then she, too, seemed to grow concerned. She seemed to be thinking about something she didn’t want to share with me. To be quite frank with you, if you tell me in a few days’ time that you’d discovered Louis was murdered by Miles, then I, for one, wouldn’t be shocked. I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.’

  ‘What is your own line of work?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘He’s a songwriter,’ McCusker offered, on Armstrong’s behalf, ‘remember that song ‘Causeway Cruising’…’

  ‘Yes, of course – a big hit for Zounds,’ O’Carroll replied, before McCusker had even asked the question. ‘But wait: you’re not a member of Zounds – I saw them during the summer at the Ulster Hall…’

  ‘No, no, but he wrote the song,’ McCusker advised his colleague, as Armstrong beamed in the background, basking in his own little unexpected moment of glory, ‘Mr Armstrong himself actually wrote ‘Causeway Cruising’.’

  ‘Run up the wall and tiddle the bricks,’ O’Carroll gushed, but then reverted to a Colombo moment that McCusker hoped Armstrong wouldn’t notice: ‘Well, that’s very impressive.’

  ‘Oh gosh, thank you.’

  ‘My sister, Grace, and I really love that record,’ O’Carroll said. ‘So that’s how you make a living, you write songs?’

  ‘Yes,’ Armstrong replied, his face now frozen in a permanent beam of pride.

  ‘And how long have you been doing that?’ O’Carroll continued.

  ‘Well, ever since my university years. But I’ve only been able to make a living out of it since… well, really since I gave up playing with my own group and started to concentrate on writing.’

  ‘And a decent living?’ O’Carroll asked, continuing to stay in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Augh you know, I get by,’ he said, with a modest shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘That’s great, Mr Armstrong…’

  ‘Oh, you can call me Al…’

  ‘Okay, Al – can you tell me what you were doing between the hours of 9.00 yesterday evening and 1.00 a.m. this morning?’

  ‘Oh gosh, where did that come from?’ he moaned. ‘How have I been promoted to a suspect?’

  ‘Here’s the thing, Al,’ O’Carroll started patiently, maybe even sincerely, ‘really everyone is a suspect until we can rule them out. You’ll never know how much we just love to rule people
out. It means we can concentrate our resources on who might have committed the crime rather than those who definitely didn’t.’

  ‘Well, actually I was at home working on a song,’ Armstrong started off, enthusiastically. ‘Did you ever wake up in the morning and feel that the dream that was just ending wasn’t in fact a dream, it was a scene for your real life?’

  ‘Ah, no to that one,’ O’Carroll replied, immediately. ‘Were you with anyone else when this was happening?’

  ‘What, you mean when my dream was ending? Isn’t that just a wee bit too personal, even for a police person?’ Armstrong shot back. When he was trying to be ironic his hoarse croak sounded even more pathetic than normal.

  O’Carroll grimaced as if that was the image she most wanted to keep out of her mind.

  ‘NO!’ she protested. ‘I meant does anyone help you with your songwriting endeavours?’

  ‘Oh gosh, now that really was a funny moment.’ Armstrong’s resultant grin betrayed all the lines and crow’s feet in his face. He looked like an Egyptian calligrapher had been set loose on his forehead.

  ‘So no one helps you write your songs,’ O’Carroll started back up again. ‘Don’t all the famous songwriters have co-writers, like Lennon & McCartney, Simon & Garfunkel…’

  ‘Actually, Paul Simon wrote the songs and Art sang them.’

  ‘Okay right. So you don’t have a co-writer?’

  ‘No, I’ve tried a few times to write with other people but I’ve never found it to be a satisfactory process.’

  ‘So the long and the short of it,’ O’Carroll said before physically sighing, ‘is that there was no one with you last night when you were writing your song?’

  ‘Gosh, that’s right, but I could sing it for you now to prove I wrote it?’ Armstrong offered.

  ‘Yes, but then surely myself and McCusker here wouldn’t know if you wrote it last night, or last week, or even last year?’

  Armstrong seemed to consider this theory for a while but before he could come up with another excuse to play his song, O’Carroll continued with, ‘Ah, did you speak to anyone on the phone, during that period?’