A Day in the Life of Louis Bloom

by Paul Charles

  Elizabeth Bloom looked equally happy for the extra company, and studied O’Carroll up and down closely before saying, ‘Are youse two out on a date?’

  O’Carroll laughed and then said, ‘No – sure, he’s already spoken for.’

  ‘Is Mr Armstrong here?’ McCusker asked, as Elizabeth Bloom led them through to the living room.

  ‘No, he was here earlier but he scarpered when Angela and Superintendent Larkin dropped in about an hour ago.’

  ‘I bet,’ McCusker said, under his breath, wondering how WJ Barr was getting on checking if Armstrong had a criminal record. Out loud the Portrush native said, ‘How have you been getting on?’

  ‘Oh you know,’ she said through a large sigh. ‘I find myself talking to Louis, then I realise it’s not him answering me; it’s my imagination and I’m just being a silly moo. Angela and Niall, and even Al, have been great to me, trying to support me while equally trying not to crowd me.’ She looked like she was about to have another moment but then she snapped herself out of it and said, ‘Right, who’s for tea?’

  ‘We’re going on for supper from here so we’re okay thanks,’ McCusker, a man rare to turn down any chance of a nibble, replied.

  ‘So youse are on a date?’

  ‘We’re joining his girlfriend – my sister, Grace – for a meal,’ O’Carroll offered, in hope of clarity.

  ‘Augh but sure you’ll have a wee cup of tea in your hand, please?’

  Arm sufficiently twisted, McCusker said, ‘Oh go on then.’

  ‘There was a letter that came for Louis this morning. I opened it. I hope I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s on the mantelpiece there, have a look,’ she said, as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  O’Carroll walked over to the fireplace and lifted the letter that had been opened cleanly with a letter opener, rather than being ripped open by someone’s finger.

  The letter was from Random House Publishing, now officially listed as Penguin Random House UK and based at 155 Oxford Street, London. Basically, the publishers were acknowledging that they had received Louis Bloom’s manuscript, The Politics of Love, that they had read it and were very excited by what they had read, and that they’d like to offer him £210,000 against a royalty percentage to publish the book in the following autumn’s list. They noted Louis didn’t have an agent and asked him to contact them immediately to finalise details.

  McCusker felt himself getting very excited on Louis’ behalf, much the same way he did while willing Rory McIlroy on to greater and repeated successes.

  ‘That’s amazing news, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth said, as she returned with a tray, with three cups of tea, already poured and milked, and a few scones.

  ‘That’s brilliant news, Elizabeth,’ O’Carroll agreed.

  ‘Just incredible,’ McCusker chipped in, finding himself welling up a bit.

  ‘The silly bugger worked on it for ages. He never showed me a word of it, of course, but I do know he was very proud of it. I think he’d pretty much given up on anything happening with it.’

  ‘Can you imagine how happy he would have been if this had just arrived 24 hours earlier,’ McCusker said.

  ‘Do you think they won’t publish it, now that he’s… he’s passed?’

  ‘I think they made their offer based on how great they think the work is – they’ll still publish it,’ McCusker enthused.

  ‘How can I make sure this whole thing goes through properly? Someone like Miles would have been green with envy if he’d known Louis was going to have a book published. Mind you, I always thought Miles had a great book in him – I’d even picked out a title for him: Fifty Shades of Mean. Even Al wasn’t as excited about Louis’ book deal as I was when we read the letter… if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’d say you should have a chat with the Vice-Chancellor about it,’ McCusker volunteered, ‘he was a very good friend of Louis’, and due to his status at QUB he’ll have a certain amount of clout and I imagine prior knowledge of publishing deals.’

  ‘What a great idea, that’s what I’ll do,’ Elizabeth gushed.

  ‘Talking of Miles, we chatted to him earlier this afternoon,’ McCusker said.

  ‘Had he calmed down?’

  ‘Somewhat,’ O’Carroll offered, ‘but he claimed that Louis was adopted.’

  ‘Oh right.’ Elizabeth sighed the sigh of a woman who’d been haunted by a sensitive matter for years, but now she’d finally reached the point where she could enjoy the sheer pleasure of the large white elephant balloon in the room being completely deflated. ‘Did he go on and on about his mother always playing Hank Williams’ ‘My Son Calls Another Man Daddy’ record around the house to rub all their noses in it?’

  At that, Elizabeth Bloom actually broke into a verse:

  “My son calls another man Daddy

  He'll ne’er know my name nor my face

  God only knows how it hurts me

  For another to be in my place.”

  ‘Louis’ mother had a son (Louis) with another man,’ she continued. ‘She’d just turned twenty. Miles’ dad, Sidney, had already been happily married to Miles’ mother, who died in childbirth. Miles survived.

  ‘Louis’ mother worked for Miles’ father in his shop. Actually, it was Miles grandfather’s grocery shop at that time. Louis’ mother helped Miles’ dad raise Miles as a baby. Miles was a year older than Louis.

  ‘Eventually Louis’ mother also helped keep Mr Bloom’s bed warm, if you get me drift,’ Elizabeth said, as McCusker and O’Carroll sat mouths agape. ‘Then Miles’ father and Louis’ mother married and Miles’ father became Louis’ father and Louis’ mother became Miles’ mother.

  ‘Miles and his father were always arguing over something or other – that’s where he took it from. Miles’ father never even had a single argument with Louis in his life.

  ‘Miles felt his father owed him everything, including a life. He continued arguing all his life. He wanted to be like his dad. He argued about everything with everybody. The big problem is, he really doesn’t think he’s arguing, he thinks he’s just putting you right. He knew he was going to end up like his dad, but not as rich, because he’d never work as hard as his dad had. Deep down, though, he’d always wanted to be Louis, if only because he felt that his dad always favoured Louis. And that’s what made him so bitter.

  ‘Louis never agreed this with me, but I always thought that Miles’s dad was never ever going to leave Miles a penny, if only because the father thought Miles was responsible for the death of the only person auld man Sidney Bloom ever loved: his first wife.’

  * * *

  McCusker, Grace and Lily’s dinner in Deanes at Queens absolutely flew by. McCusker loved the fact that Lily looked good, so good in fact that neither he nor Grace had to actually say so. He loved to see the sisters together; they were great company to be with in that they didn’t go all cliquey on him with non-stop in-jokes. He also felt somewhat spoilt in that he got to see a side of each of them that the other never witnessed.

  They closed Deanes at Queens, in that they were by far the last ones out. Without asking, Lily O’Carroll dropped them both off at Grace’s apartment.

  Ten minutes later, Grace and McCusker were enjoying what was fast becoming their favourite shared moment; Grace stripped down to her undies, McCusker more discreetly attired, both lying on top of Grace’s made-up bed, talking, occasionally caressing. Surprisingly they didn’t discuss the intensity of their shared moments from the previous night.

  Grace asked McCusker what his childhood was like.

  ‘I didn’t have rich parents but we had a rich life,’ he explained.

  ‘You just never know do you?’ she replied. ‘I mean, about people. Our Lily figured you came from a rich family.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, trying to figure out when he would have given her that impression.

  ‘Well, she thought you always wore fine suits and shirts but she’s never been able to work out if they’re expensive or not.’


  McCusker considered this for a few moments.

  ‘Oh, don’t be going all self-conscious on me,’ Grace said. ‘Lily said that to me long before you and I met. Since we started dating, she hardly says a word about you. The fine suits conversation might have been the only one we had about you. Just so that it’s all on the table, she also said you had smiling blue eyes, you were about forty-seven ish, you love your food, but you burn the cals by walking a lot – and she’d never known anyone who walked so much. She also said you didn’t like scruffy coppers and you have an eye for a beautiful woman.’

  ‘That was you,’ McCusker admitted, excitedly. ‘I kept seeing you in McHughs. Every time I went in there, it was you I saw, but I didn’t know it at the time.’

  McCusker had never felt this comfortable with a woman before. It hadn’t always been like that with Grace. They’d gotten off to a very slow start, as it were. While walking her home on their first date though, they’d found each other’s hands. Their fingers touching for the first time was one of the single most electrifying moments of his life. They hadn’t even kissed that night. There had been no need to. After that it went pretty slow, as in very slow. Then eventually they had kissed. Then a month later, they had come together. He felt, he said, the delay was her trying to decide. Afterwards she said she knew from the first moment their fingers touched that they were going to be together, but that he wasn’t quite ready for them to be together. She also said that for them to have a proper chance it was vital they took the first steps carefully.

  ‘Lily knew that she wanted to be a detective when she read In Cold Blood for the first time,’ Grace started. ‘When did you know?’

  ‘My mother always said she knew from the time I was six that I was going to be a detective, because I told her I didn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore. She protested, and asked me why I thought that. She said I claimed I recognised the kind hands, and the wedding ring, of the white bearded man in the red suit giving out presents at Sunday school to belong to a friend of the family. She thought my early powers of deduction set me off on the road to the RUC.’

  ‘McCusker, what can you do, that you have never, ever done before? That you will do for me now to seal our union or, to put it another way, to get you laid?’

  He thought about this long and hard, and again about the previous evening’s encounter. ‘I know,’ he said, quite nervously, ‘I can do a headstand.’

  ‘You can stand on your head?’ Grace said, through a fit of giggles, ‘and you’ve never done it before in front of anyone?’

  ‘Correct!’

  ‘Okay, McCusker I’ll take that as a worthy gesture,’ she said, even though she was still finding it difficult to stop laughing.

  McCusker hopped off the bed, went to the middle of her bedroom and placed his forehead on the carpet. Using his hands, palms upon the carpet, to support himself, he raised his feet shakily up towards the ceiling. He steadied himself, but was finding it difficult to retain his position because Grace’s laughter and applause was distracting him. She was leaning over the end of her bed in her full glory and his inverted view of this wonderful, full-bodied woman was enough to make him collapse in a heap on the floor, which also helped to spare him carnal blushes.

  She rolled onto the floor beside him and they both fell into a hysterical, tear-inducing fit of the giggles. Then they climbed back into bed and every time they tried to get close, one or both of them would break back into a fit of the giggles, to the extent that McCusker’s headstand turned out to be in vain.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Day Three: Saturday

  Superintendent Niall Larkin had okayed overtime for as many of the team as DI Lily O’Carroll deemed necessary, which is how Barr, McCusker and O’Carroll were all at their desks by 9 o’clock that Saturday morning. The first thing they needed to do was to update the noticeboard. They were at the board when Larkin walked in.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ he said, as he strolled over to them, ‘where are we up to?’

  McCusker nodded to Barr’s to-do list and general case updates:

  Current Issues:

  1. Awaiting Leab David’s email of L. Bloom’s email nutter file.

  2. Louis journal to be read. McC.

  3. Thomas Chada will phone Monday a.m.

  4. CSI soil inspection results.

  5. 4 rubbish bags inspection results.

  6. L Bloom’s email account.

  7. Where was L Bloom on Thur p.m. 16.00–17.30?

  8. What was L Bloom’s £2G a week for?

  9. Cage on Miles Bloom’s stake-out.

  10. Armstrong’s criminal activity?

  11. Funds raised by L Bloom and Ron Desmond?

  12. L Bloom asked Harry Rubens to analyse his wife’s energy drink – results?

  13. Review CCTV footage of the surrounding Botanic Gardens, Colenso Parade area.

  14. Scent on L Bloom’s baseball cap?

  Alibis:

  1. Leab David – in alone, washing hair.

  2. Vice-Chancellor – with Leab David. Both now agree.

  3. Miles Bloom ?

  4. Al Armstrong – in alone, writing songs.

  5. Ron Desmond – in Dublin, alone, back in Belfast @ ???

  6. Prof Vincent Best – with 2 chums until 2.30 a.m.

  7. Harry Rubens – in office, working alone on Stranmillis Road.

  8. Sophie Rubens – Eric Bibb blues concert at MAC, alone, confusion over layout?

  Outstanding Interviews:

  1. Mariana Fitzgerald

  2. Francie Fitzgerald

  3. Muriel??? MURCIA!!! Friend of Mariana

  4. Al Armstrong (again)

  5. Sophie Rubens (again)

  6. Thomas Chada (potential youth in the scarf at scene)

  7. Miles Bloom (again – with solicitor)

  Rubbish bag Owners:

  1. Elaine Gibbons, Elaine Street. Addressed envelope. Black bag (8.00 p.m.)

  2. George Divito, Stranmillis Gardens, Indian takeaway Green bag (8.40 p.m.)

  3. L Bloom, Landseer Street. Blue bag (9.00 p.m.)

  4. T Husbands, Landseer Street, Amazon packaging. Grey bag (9.20 p.m.)

  McCusker wasn’t even aware that Wee George’s family name was Divito until he saw it listed on the Perspex noticeboard. The ever-efficient DS Barr must have asked his full name on the way out.

  ‘Okay, well, there’s no questioning the approach – all seems very sound and thorough to me,’ Larkin started. ‘Is there a reason why we still don’t have the rubbish bag’s inspection results? I thought they’d all been examined and that was how you discovered the identity of the other three owners?’

  ‘Yes exactly, Sir,’ McCusker started, ‘but we were mainly looking for information on the owners, the first time round, but then we thought, what if Louis Bloom’s priority on Thursday night hadn’t been getting the rubbish out of the house? What if his priority was to get rid of something he just didn’t want in the house? What we haven’t been able to find, so far, in the house is anything… well, anything revealing. So we started to consider what might be missing from the scene and then maybe how did whatever might be missing, go missing.’

  ‘Good, good thinking,’ Larkin said. ‘Mariana Fitzgerald is next on your witness list? They’re just outside of Bangor, aren’t they? That’s a bit of a drive for you?’

  ‘Mariana volunteered to come in and meet us in Belfast, Sir,’ O’Carroll offered.

  ‘That’s handy; you might even get to enjoy a bit of your Saturday, DI O’Carroll. Right, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be upstairs if you need me for anything.’

  Barr continued with his chores and O’Carroll and McCusker set off to meet up with Mariana Fitzgerald at the Merchant Hotel in Skipper Street. The former bank was now considered to be a very hip and cool hotel. McCusker figured that hip and cool must mean having a lack of light. In fact, it would have been much easier for them if they’d brought a couple of flash lamps along. Eventually they discovered Mariana in a
secluded annexe, trapped in the darkness of one of the hotel’s complicated labyrinths.

  Mariana Fitzgerald’s signature dark hair was even longer than McCusker had expected. There were a few, a very few, hints of grey specks starting to creep through her hip-length hair and it was to her credit, McCusker felt, that she wasn’t trying to hide them. She rose from her seat when she saw they recognised her, and walked towards them. She was tall, slim, and sultry, with hints of an Eastern European look. Her accent, however, was pure, unadulterated Belfast. She had very big, round, sad eyes. She wore an expensive-looking cream blouse, loose-fitting black trousers and black ankle-length high-heel boots. Her movements were extremely laboured and she appeared to help herself back into her seat by supporting herself on the arms of the black leather chair.

  From nowhere, McCusker found himself wondering if her husband had hit her. There were signs of pain in her eyes, yet at the same time there was always a hint of a smile present.

  ‘We wanted to thank you for coming in to see us,’ O’Carroll started, getting the etiquette out of the way and ordering a “do not disturb us again” supply of tea, coffee and mineral water from a passing waiter.

  ‘I can’t believe it; I spoke with Louis on Thursday afternoon,’ Mariana said. She spoke very quietly, gently even, a couple of decibels above a whisper.

  ‘What time would that have been?’ McCusker asked, knowing from Barr’s research that it was at 15.55.

  ‘It was in the afternoon, 4 o’clock, maybe a little earlier,’ Mariana replied.

  ‘How did he seem?’ O’Carroll asked.

  ‘He was Louis, no?’ she replied, meaning, McCusker assumed, that he was like just like Louis Bloom always was. She pronounced the name “Louis” with the slightest hint of a French accent. ‘I mean, he was good. Louis was never down, he was a good friend, a great listener, he was – yes, he was always supportive.’