No Cherubs for Melanie (14 page)

“There's some tins of his favourite stuff in the cupboard over the sink.”

“OK.”

“And he likes milk in the…”

Samantha knew all about Balderdash. Using her key to get into the small apartment the previous day, before DCI Bryan and his demolition squad arrived, she had soothed the old animal with a stroke and emptied a full can of Whiskers into his bowl. Then she had rounded up her father's passport and clothes before turning on the television to keep the animal company. “The cat's fine Dad, stop worrying,” she assured him, unaware that the unfortunate creature had later died under a size 11 boot in the act of protecting his home, although she had been very conscious of the unmarked police car parked in the street outside as she prepared to leave.

“He likes a bit of chicken sometimes,” Bliss was saying, but Samantha wasn't listening. Her mind was still on the two young detectives in the car, pretending to be a courting couple as they had watched for her father. Fearing they might recognize her, she had slipped lightly down the fire escape at the back of the building. Warily searching the shadows in the scrub below, she saw only an abandoned car, a rusted rubbish skip, and a broken down
sofa. He must be able to afford something better than this, she'd thought. Maybe he wants to live here. Maybe he wants mum to feel sorry for him; maybe he's trying to make her feel guilty. Maybe, at one time, he even thought she would take him back.

Another detective, lounging lazily against a rotted wooden fence behind the building, had concentrated on trying to roll a cigarette in the gloom. She hadn't seen him and he had taken no notice of her—he had been waiting for Inspector Bliss.

“Dad,” Samantha said into the phone, bringing her thoughts back to the present. “Stop worrying about the cat. I know what to do. Is there anything else?”

There was a definite pause as Bliss considered the prudence of disclosing his intended destination. “I need Margaret Gordonstone's address in Canada,” he said finally.

“Canada?” she gushed. “You're going to Canada?”

He hesitated, but chose not to tell her that he was already there. “Yeah. I need to talk to Gordonstone's daughter. She's the key to this case, I'm sure. She must know something or he wouldn't have packed her off so quickly after her mother's death. He probably wanted to stop tongues wagging about their relationship.”

Samantha caught on quickly. “In case someone suggested he bumped off his wife in favour of her.”

“That seems to be the gist of the rumours. Anyway Edwards knows more than he's letting on. I wonder if he suspected the same thing at the time but didn't pursue it. He certainly made sure the file disappeared damn fast for some reason.”

“Where am I going to find Margaret's address?”

“Try Gordonstone's lawyer, he must know. The restaurant belongs to her now, so he must be in contact with her.”

“He'll probably claim confidentiality.”

“Well promise not to tell anyone else then.”

She laughed. “Just you.”

“Yeah. I'll call you back later.”

Mid-day in Toronto and Bliss checked his watch. Five o'clock in London. She should be home by now, he thought, and tried phoning again. Her machine willingly accepted the call and his credit card took another hit. He tried her mobile. The plastic card obligingly dished out some more money enabling him to listen to a complete stranger telling him his call could not be connected at that time. “She's probably on the tube,” he said to himself.

He strolled down to the hotel lobby to kill time, and a copy of the previous day's
International Telegraph
caught his attention on the newsstand. He thumbed through it, half expecting to meet himself face-to-face in a grainy blow-up of his warrant card photograph. Nothing. In an effort to remain inconspicuous he found a secluded bar—a smokers' refuge in an otherwise hostile environment of smoke-free lounges—ordered a beer, and wasted another thirty minutes.

His third attempt on Samantha's home phone was successful but she wouldn't discuss anything, fearing the call was being monitored. She insisted he phone her back on her cellphone. He told her she was being ridiculous. She said she knew but was adamant, and he sustained a double hit on his credit card for her canniness.

“Where are you?” she demanded, her tone making it clear she expected the truth.

“Toronto,” he confessed, now feeling reasonably safe.

“Oh. What's it like?”

He had no idea. He was still in the hotel where the East Indian taxi driver had taken him the previous night.
The turbaned driver, whose cab, Bliss guessed, would have been condemned as unroadworthy in Bombay or New Delhi, obviously couldn't speak English and was apparently blind to the twenty or so airport hotels, with their huge gaudy neon signs, which they passed on the way to a hotel in the city centre. Bliss had attempted unsuccessfully to remonstrate with him but he had simply given a gap-toothed smile and said, “Sank you,” as if he were being complimented on his ability to keep the ancient vehicle more-or-less on the road.

“I haven't had a chance to look around yet,” he informed her. “But I'm already fed up with everyone asking me how I am.”

“How are you?” she enquired.

“Don't you start,” he snapped. “They all do it. They all say ‘And how are you today, sir?' Like they care. And if one more person tells me to have a nice day, they'll have a very bad one.”

“Don't get excited, Dad. That's just the way Americans are.”

“These are Canadians.”

“Same difference.”

“Sam, this phone is eating my credit card. Did you have any luck with the address?”

She sounded genuinely disappointed. “Sorry, Dad. The lawyer claims he has no idea how to find Margaret, but he's probably lying. Ontario, was all he would say. You'll have to find her yourself.”

“Do you know how big Ontario is?”

“As big as Essex?” she ventured.

“Try Europe.”

“Go to the police.”

“I can't,” he replied. “They may have been tipped off by Edwards.”

“Try directory enquiries.”

“They call it ‘directory assistance,'” he said, with an appallingly executed Canadian accent. “And I've already tried. You have to know some sort of area code otherwise they won't help.”

“I could ask Chief Inspector Bryan.”

“Don't,” he screamed.

“I was only joking. Anyway, he's beginning to get on my nerves. He's making vague threats about what he'll do to me if you don't show up.” She paused, then her voice darkened a little. “I think he's bluffing but he did say Edwards' wrist is worse than they thought. Damaged nerves or something. Apparently it might not heal properly.”

Bliss dismissed the news immediately. “Don't worry about him.”

“Oh I'm not.” She lifted her tone. “You were right. It is sort of fun being on the other side for a change.”

“Don't get used to it. I want to sort this mess out and come home, but I've got to find Margaret first.”

“What about a private detective. Do they have those in Canada?

“Brilliant, Samantha.”

The hotel bill had grown alarmingly from the original quote and his dismayed look brought an immediate response from the desk clerk. “It's the taxes,” she said in a way that made it clear she blamed the government for all things unpleasant. Bliss continued to stare at the bill in disbelief. It was “the taxes,” he realized, but it was also the phone calls, a couple of drinks, coffee, breakfast, and the service charge, whatever that was.

“Shall I charge it to your Visa card, sir?” she asked, giving the impression that doing so would relieve him of the financial burden. He nodded and kept his fingers
crossed as she ran the card through the machine. His heart was still racing as she handed him the slip for signature. ‘Approved,' it said.

Relieved, he sunk into a deep settee in the lobby and mentally totted up the state of his credit card. There had been the boat to France and the train to Paris; he had considered the Chunnel but his excitement at the prospect had been muted by the fear of being spotted by the travelling police officers. Then there was the flight from Paris to Toronto — an absolute rip-off. They must have seen him coming, he reasoned. The young woman clerk at the reservation counter, little more than a hairy French schoolgirl, had explained in broken English that the only last-minute seats available were in first class. His elation at flying first class faded after about ten minutes when he'd correctly worked out the exchange rate. Then there were the phone calls. And the fifty dollars from a cash machine at the airport, almost all of which had been snagged by the taxi driver.

In addition, he figured he needed money for a private investigator, a rental car, food—no, he'd manage without food if necessary—and probably another night in a hotel.

“Shit,” he said very loudly, soliciting a sharply indrawn breath and a nasty look from a neat little woman using an adjacent phone booth.

The phone gave him an idea and as soon as the woman left he shoved his credit card into the slot and dialled the toll-free enquiry number printed on the back. A funny burring sound told him the number couldn't be accessed from outside the UK so he called the regular number, and paid dearly for the privilege of hearing an English accent telling him his call would be answered in rotation. He listened to the same message four times before a live operator took his call. Then he waffled—
mother taken ill in Canada, hotels, hospital bills, desperate need of cash. The operator mumbled something sympathetic as he took Bliss's name and account number.

“I realize I'm two months late with payments,” Bliss continued quickly, hoping to forestall any hasty decision the operator might otherwise make. “It's been a stressful time, but I've just arranged for my daughter to pay the outstanding amount. She's a lawyer, you know?” He didn't know and did not sound impressed.

“Yes, I'm still in the police,” Bliss answered when queried, but didn't add, “I think.”

He'd have to consult a supervisor. Hurry, thought Bliss, this call is costing me money—on my Visa!

Keeping his ear jammed to the phone he listened to the muzak draining money out of his account. A minute passed in the space of time he normally associated with ten. “Hello, hello,” he shouted, hoping to attract someone's attention, intending to say he would call back. The muzak continued. It was tempting to put the phone down and try again but he didn't know the operator's name. He'd probably have to explain himself all over again.

“Mr. Bliss?”

Finally!—but no hint of a decision. “Yes.”

“Hold on, I'm transferring you to a supervisor.”

“Wait…” Too late, the muzak was back. Money was still dripping away.

The supervisor came on eventually and gruffly made it clear he was putting his job on the line by increasing Bliss's limit by a thousand pounds, on the condition that he pay off the outstanding minimum of four hundred and fifty.

Bliss heaved a sigh. “That's no problem.”

But it was a problem; the supervisor demanded the payment up front.

“How can I do that?”

It was, it seemed, simple: the payment would be deducted from the new loan. “That leaves you with five hundred and fifty pounds available credit, and may I suggest you get some sound financial advice,” said the supervisor.

“Yes,” Bliss said. “Thank you very much. Maybe I should talk to my divorce lawyer and my ex-wife; after all they've got most of my money.”

Bliss, dragging his suitcase like a reluctant dog, was hooked by a street bum as he made his way from the hotel to Toronto's Union Station in search of a luggage locker.

“Spare some change, sir?”

Bliss looked down. A mop of matted hair had sprouted from an untidy mound of blankets, a pair of deadpan grey eyes stared right through him. The eyes, like the mound, seemed inert, and he peered closer, seeking life. He found none. No reflection of the piercing blue sky, no sign of glinting sunlight, just a distant, forlorn, numbness. Propped against the dishevelled pile was a sign, pencilled on cardboard torn from the side of a cornflake box: “Old soldier. Unemployed. No food. Please give generously.”

Bliss automatically fished in his pocket, but quickly extricated his empty hand. What the hell are you doing, he chided himself indignantly. Giving money to someone who has nothing. You've got less than nothing, nearly twenty thousand pounds less than nothing to be exact. I've got a job, he argued with himself. Maybe not for long, he realized.

He started to walk away but his feet dragged, slowed by logic and not the panhandler's plea. Maybe you should go back to England and put up a defence, he told himself. Innocent men don't run. How many times
had he used that very premise to justify an arrest? “If you didn't do it, why did you run away?” In any case, the option of remaining in Canada would soon be out of his hands; he was quickly running out of money. His moment of impetuous behaviour in Edwards' office was going to cost him dearly, and not simply in the potential loss of freedom.

Checking his watch, he gave himself an ultimatum. It's one in the afternoon. Find out where Margaret Gordonstone is by five o'clock today, or go home. Four hours. He had little chance of finding her, he suspected, but maybe that was the point. It had probably been a stupid notion anyway, he reasoned, motivated more by his desire to escape than by any real hope of finding her and getting her to accuse her dead father of double murder. Four hours and not a minute more he decided. After ditching his suitcase in a locker at Union Station, he selected a private investigation agency from the Yellow Pages, based solely on the fact that he recognized the name of the street address.

To his surprise he found an attractive dark-haired young woman in the office instead of the Colombo type he'd anticipated—dirty raincoat
et al—
but she was no less inquisitive by reason of her gender and appearance.