by Paul Charles
‘Assaulted?!’ Miles cried, dropping his volume considerably mid-word.
‘No assault, I can assure you, DI O’Carroll,’ Elizabeth said, gently through a compassionate smile, ‘no, assault at all… the silly apeth simply ran into the back door in his haste to get out of the house when Miles started shouting.’
McCusker and O’Carroll left the three of them to it and made arrangements to see Miles at the Customs House that afternoon at 3.00 p.m.
‘That was quite bizarre, McCusker, even for you, your spoilt-child routine. Where did that come from?’
‘Well, it wasn’t so much a spoilt child really,’ McCusker started off slowly, ‘but did you ever see that movie The Horse Whisperer, you know, the one with Robert Redford? Well, this stallion is uncontrollable and Redford just keeps whispering in its ear until it eventually settles down.’
‘McCusker, you know you really do talk the biggest load of crap sometimes – I suppose that’ll be the culchie in you.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Professor Vincent Best, another of Louis Bloom’s colleagues on the Senate, was what could officially be termed as old. Or at least he looked old – very old, like a grandfather. He was tall, slightly stooped, and anaemic-looking. He didn’t suit having long hair, yet that is what he had – long, grey, dense, fluffy hair, with a parting that appeared as though someone had taken a knife and sliced a 45-degree wedge out of an Afro. His clothes were old, but clean. He wore a shirt that, quite simply, had been dry-cleaned just once too often – clean, but in a dying-kind-of way, where the life had been completely washed out of it. It had probably been white at one point but the original colour was now almost imperceptible. His trousers were grey, a bit too long and very creased – creased in that they looked like he had slept in them, and for several nights at that. He was wearing a wine-coloured button-up cardigan, probably the newest item in his wardrobe. The buttons and holes were one space out of sync with each other, but the top button-holes looked so under-used it appeared that he never undid them and instead used the cardigan as a pullover. His fingernails were overly long, but clean. His hands were an unpleasant combination of withered and red-peppered, and the dark blue of his veins was visible and protruding, making the back of his hand look like a 3D map of mountain ridges. He smelled of a combination of tobacco and a strong yet pleasing deodorant.
McCusker and O’Carroll had the impression from the get-go that they were lesser beings being tolerated by an audience.
‘They say Bloom was stabbed in the back,’ Best said, after brief introductions. ‘What I’d like to know is, was he stabbed just the once or several times?’
‘We’re still awaiting the autopsy results,’ O’Carroll replied.
‘You mean members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary no longer use their eyes?’
‘It’s the PSNI these days,’ McCusker replied.
‘It’ll never be anything but the RUC to me, dear boy,’ Best started, paused and when O’Carroll started to say something, he closed her down with, ‘but my point was going to be that if someone stabs someone else, it’s not that they just want to kill their victim, it’s that they want to hurt the victim too. And if they stab the victim, several times, well they really want to hurt them. Period.’
‘Louis Bloom came to see you yesterday around 3.30 – how did he seem?’ O’Carroll asked, wanting to change direction.
‘He seemed in a big hurry to get away.’
‘Did he say what for?’
‘He didn’t even say… we passed a bit of daily time, neither of us had anything important to discuss with each other. On reflection, if either of us had known it was to be our last time together, I know it would have been different. Period.’
‘Do you know anyone who would have wanted to hurt Louis Bloom?’ McCusker asked.
Professor Best tended to squint a lot, and what with the squinting and his demeanour, at that precise moment he looked as interested in the PSNI representatives as a music publisher who used to be an accountant would be, in listening to a songwriter talking about his music. Best, through lack of speech, just point blank refused to answer McCusker’s question.
Working on the theory that Best was old and might possibly be losing his hearing, McCusker made, in Best’s eyes, the faux pas of repeating his question.
‘I heard you first time, dear boy,’ he said. ‘What you’re actually asking me to do is to use my imagination to guess what might have happened?’
‘Well, yes,’ McCusker ventured.
‘As Stephen King once famously said, “Imagination is not something you can put in a box; it’s never a tamed animal”, you know.’
‘Nonetheless, Professor Best,’ O’Carroll cut in, ‘all McCusker was asking you to do was to think of the people you knew who were in Louis Bloom’s life and surmise if there were any who had a reason…’
‘Very diplomatic, Miss O’Carroll,’ Best, who had a habit of letting his facial expression predict a negative before his voice actually did, replied.
As McCusker and O’Carroll were waiting for Best to complete his sentence, McCusker thought that no one starts off old, which is why a lot of their (old people’s) mannerisms must come from their youth, which is why the old may sometimes unintentionally appear younger, childish even. Like just now, for instance: instead of Best adding to the sentence he signalled that he had already finished it by offering himself a large “what a clever boy I am” grin.
‘Actually, it’s Detective Inspector, Professor,’ O’Carroll said.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s not Miss, Professor, it’s Detective Inspector. I’d never address you as anything other than Professor as your deserved title, so I’d like the respect to be reciprocated.’
Again Best offered another large smile and quite a bit of squinting.
‘Good on you, Detective Inspector, I love people who are never scared of speaking up for themselves.’ Professor Best nodded towards O’Carroll. ‘You know, I reached the age of 78 on my last birthday. I have discovered there are two things in particular about reaching 78: one, you’re now officially old enough to die. You’ve finally reached the status of years that when you die, people will no longer discuss your meaningless illnesses in great detail for hours, but will merely state “Oh, he’d a great innings” and still have sufficient time left to go on to discuss your achievements at length.’
When it was clear he’d omitted something, O’Carroll prompted, ‘and the second thing Professor?’
‘Pardon…? Oh yes… ah, let’s see now what was it? Oh yes, it might have been: once you’re over 78, it’s cool, as my students have a habit of saying, to forget shit.’
McCusker took that as, hopefully, a thawing of the ice. He was starting to feel despondent though. They weren’t really making progress with the case. He accepted the fact that he pretty much always thought they weren’t making progress at this stage in a case, but the thought didn’t comfort him. He couldn’t even think of a single question to ask the professor, apart from maybe: “Did you murder Louis Bloom?”
‘Look dear boy,’ Professor Best started, this time addressing and trying through his squinting to make eye contact with McCusker, ‘I went to see Bloom address his students a few times, he was quite the orator, I can tell you – very passionate. The students absolutely loved him, nay, worshipped him. But the point I want to make to you is that he was passionate about his topic, LOVE. But he wasn’t interested in writing poetry about it. I remember him instructing his students at the top of his voice:
“When it comes to love,
Don’t write about it
Do it.
When it comes to love,
Don’t dream about it
Live it.
When it comes to love,
Your only regret should never be,
You missed it.”
‘But the thing that impressed me the most is that I would swear to you that those words just came from the top of his head as he spoke them.’
‘The point I’m making to you two fine members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary is that Bloom was indeed a passionate man. He was not the type of man to live his life in a loveless marriage. No, Bloom would have sought out Love and that is what got him into trouble. Period.’
Now the professor was finished.
Well, he did say that he would bet his final years that Bloom’s murder had nothing to do with money, property, politics or anything other than love, or the lack of it.
He also had the perfect alibi for the previous evening – he had gone to a concert at the Waterfront Hall with two old friends. He qualified that by confirming that both his friends were of a ripe old age and that they had all known each other for a long time. The concert had featured Christy Moore on the second of his three sold-out nights at the venue. McCusker had gone to the venue on the first night to see the same artist, who wasn’t just his favourite artist but also a genuine national treasure of the island of Ireland. After the concert, Best and his two friends had finished off a bottle of whiskey in his humble (his words) accommodation, his friends calling for a taxi at 2.30.
‘The other great thing about getting old,’ Professor Best started, ‘is that you get so many more hours out of your day, as the need for sleep greatly decreases. Period.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
DS WJ Barr was always so on the case that McCusker instinctively knew, as he walked up the stairs of the Customs House, he’d have some valuable information waiting for him.
‘Mr Bloom withdrew £340 from a cashpoint at the Ulster Bank on University Road, just opposite the Whitla Hall yesterday afternoon at 1.11,’ Barr offered breathlessly, suggesting there was more.
McCusker wrote the time and the activity down on his page titled Louis Bloom’s Day.
‘He drew a similar amount out most days.’
‘Two grand a week in cash?’ O’Carroll noted for her book. ‘That’s a lot of change.’
‘How much money was found on his body?’ McCusker asked Barr.
‘Forty quid.’
‘Any other credit card activity?’
‘A lunchtime bill for two people, of £38.00 including a £5 tip, at Cafe Conor,’ Barr replied, checking his summary.
‘Did Louis have any other credit cards?’ O’Carroll continued.
‘One MasterCard credit card and one Visa debit card,’ McCusker voiced, remembering their first interview with Elizabeth Bloom.
‘Any activity on the debit card?’ O’Carroll asked Barr.
‘Nope, none at all, in fact he seemed to have never used it.’
‘What about his mobile phone?’ O’Carroll continued.
‘His wife said he didn’t have one,’ McCusker offered.
‘I found one in the back pocket of his trousers, when we searched him up in the graveyard,’ Barr offered.
McCusker wondered how he’d missed that piece of valuable information, and what would Louis Bloom need to keep from his wife that would have necessitated him having a secret mobile phone.
Barr, being the organised man he was, carefully closed his “Bloom credit card” file, moved it to one side of his desk and opened his “Bloom mobile phone” file, which had been waiting underneath the credit card file.
‘Let’s see,’ Barr started up again, as he flicked through a few pages, ‘he rang his office number at 15.50. The call lasted 2 minutes and 10 seconds and he rang the same number again at 17.33 for 4 minutes and 3 seconds. He rang Mariana Fitzgerald at 15.55. That call lasted 3 minutes. No other activity on this phone.’
‘Did he have just the one mobile?’ O’Carroll asked.
‘Yes,’ Barr said, and then added, ‘that we know of.’
‘Let’s check that with Leab David,’ O’Carroll instructed, clearly taking the DS’s point.
‘Good work, WJ,’ McCusker said. ‘Did you speak to Belfast’s answer to Billy Connolly?
‘You mean our esteemed pathologist, Mr Anthony Robertson,’ Barr replied, tidying and closing Bloom’s mobile phone file, and placing it on top of the credit card file, revealing his autopsy notes, ‘yes… Anthony said the single stab wound was either a complete fluke or delivered by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. He leans towards the later, in that multiple stab wounds would tend to suggest someone who didn’t know what they were doing and wanted to make sure they killed their target.’
‘Either that or they really wanted to hurt/punish their victim,’ McCusker suggested.
‘Quite.’
‘Any other marks about the body?’ McCusker asked, thinking that surely couldn’t be it.
‘Just some superficial scratches along the arms. Anthony thought that the body must have been cleaned up at the scene, which tends to tie in with the scene of the crime.’
‘How so?’ McCusker was totally intrigued.
‘Well, when we found the actual point that Louis Bloom was murdered, in the avenue formed between the hedge behind the bandstand and the hedge that runs along the road, Colenso Parade, just opposite Louis’ house – it’s quite a tranquil avenue, far from the madding crowd, with a tarred path with several wooden arches, and with trees, flowers and park benches on both sides–’
‘Please stop there,’ McCusker said to Barr, and then turned to O’Carroll. ‘Can we go down there again and walk the site with WJ giving us this new information?’
‘Okay, you and WJ skip along there and go through it, so you’re comfortable with it,’ O’Carroll replied, while looking like she was seriously thinking about joining them, ‘I’ll stay here – I’m still trying to get the Vice-Chancellor on the phone to fix up a time to visit him. I’d like to do that today, so I’ll keep on at it.’
Ten minutes later McCusker and DS WJ Barr were walking along the same herbaceous borders off the tranquil avenue in Botanic Gardens where Louis Bloom lost his life.
About halfway along on the side facing Colenso Parade, and just behind a park bench, was the taped-off scene of crime.
‘What I was about to say back at Customs House, but now can show you, is that it appears that the murder was carried out here on the soil and away from the plants and grass, so that there would be no–’
‘Tell-tale blood. Great, WJ, well done,’ McCusker said, as he saw Barr’s point.
‘Not just that, Sir,’ Barr said, being the only person in the Customs House who always addressed McCusker as “Sir”, ‘but if you look there, where the soil seems fresher, it seems that the soil has been recently dug, maybe even to hide the blood.’
‘But how did you even find it then?’ McCusker asked, in genuine awe.
‘Oh, it was easy, Sir; Bloom’s New York Yankees baseball cap was caught there on the thorns of that rose bush. Obviously, as Bloom and his assailant cut off the main path and into the bushes, his cap came off. I imagine the assailant searched for it on the ground and saw the markings on the soil over there, but never thought to look above him. There was just one thing a wee bit odd about the baseball cap…’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, it may be something and it may be nothing. But it smelled of perfume.’
‘Really,’ McCusker said, more amused than inquisitive.
‘I’ve asked the lab to check it.’
‘Are there any footprints then?’
‘Sadly not; the assailant covered his shoes with some kind of variation on our plastic crime scene bootees. Maybe even just a plastic shopping bag around each foot and taped at the ankle.’
‘So how did Louis’ murderer get him to come here with him?’ McCusker asked, himself as much as Barr. ‘There were no signs of any marks around Louis Bloom’s person?’
‘Nope.’
‘So that means he didn’t feel a need to protect or defend himself, which means…’
‘Which m
eans that he knew his assailant?’ Barr offered, finishing off McCusker’s sentence for him.
‘Any fingerprints around the park bench?’ McCusker asked, and then said, ‘No, of course not,’ before Barr could answer.
‘I have to say, you don’t seem overly concerned about that, Sir.’
‘You know what, WJ, to be honest I’ve never set much store by fingerprints, or even footprints, for that matter, but please don’t tell the superintendent that. No, I’ve always felt if a criminal is stupid enough to leave their fingerprints or footprints then they’re certainly foolish enough for us to catch them… eventually.’
McCusker left Barr examining the scene and went to sit on the park bench, opposite the murder scene. There was a bit more activity as directed by Barr. Two suitably kitted-out Crime Scene chaps started to dig out the topsoil, down to about 9 inches, in the spot that Louis Bloom had died. They placed the soil carefully in plastic sacks for shipping back to the lab for particle-by-particle examination.
McCusker viewed the scene of the crime and as ever he was just as much preoccupied with what was missing as what was present. He tuned into this and try though he did, he couldn’t come up with a single missing thing. It was certainly a very clever location to pick; it was in a public place, yet it was probably to be avoided in the darkness. Which means the murderer would have been left alone to do their evil work. But during the day there would have been numerous footprints around and about the area, contaminating the site. So even if the murderer had left any clues, they’d have been neutralised by unwitting members of the general public.
Yes, evil had been committed on the previous evening, just a matter of a few feet from where he now sat. McCusker felt that evil was always around. It might change its course, or find another way to spend its force, but it most certainly never just disappears.
Over the hedge opposite him, McCusker could hear people out for a stroll in Botanic Gardens and he imagined the parts of the conversation he missed out. He was saddened by the fact that, just a few feet away from them, a man – a good man, by all accounts – had lost his life, and the world, with the exception of a few, was both unaware and unconcerned by his passing. He could hear the infrequent traffic on Colenso Parade on the other side of the hedge behind him. How had the murderer arrived here, at this location? What time had he arrived at the scene? How long had he lain in wait? McCusker started to assume that the murderer was indeed a male due to the physicality of the murder, and the fact that there must have been a certain amount of man-handling of the body in order to get Bloom to this location from wherever he’d been hijacked. Next, he would have had to transport the body up to and over the graveyard wall. Then he would have had to carry the body from inside the graveyard up to the Lennon Mausoleum.
