Bliss rapidly pulled his thoughts together. “No. Not at the moment anyway.”
“OK. But stick with the program, Dave. Gordonstone was murdered by a person or persons unknown, and I doubt it has anything to do with his wife or daughter. So stop digging up old skeletons and move on.”
Easier said than done, thought Bliss, as he turned and ran smack into Superintendent Edwards, marching solidly down the corridor toward them.
Edwards spoke right through him. “Ah, Chief Inspector Bryan. Can I see you in my office in five minutes, please?”
Bliss cadged a lift home, deciding one bus a day is enough for anyone, then he rooted through his life’s remains in the pile of cardboard boxes stacked untidily against one wall of the apartment. “It’s got to be here somewhere,” he muttered, searching for Melanie’s file — a copy of it anyway, from twenty years ago. She had always been in the back of his mind and he had never been able to let go of the thought that he had somehow failed the little girl, so he was certain he had kept the paperwork.
A school photograph of his own daughter fell out of an old exercise book and jogged his memory. Samantha! Maybe it’s in that pile of stuff I stored in her attic after Sarah threw me out, he mused, and scrabbled to find the phone which was buried beneath piles of law books, LPs, and a bundle of love letters he’d sent to Sarah during their courtship. “You keep these,” she had said while they were cleaving apart their intertwined lives, making it clear by her tone that neither his love nor his letters were any longer her concern.
“Hi, Dad,” Samantha said, answering her phone the moment it rang. “That’s a coincidence, I was just going to call you. How are you doing?”
He considered explaining, but chose not to. “I’m back at work.”
“Great.”
“Not really. They’ve given me an impossible murder just to keep me occupied, and fed me a load of garbage about being the only one who could solve it.”
“Oh.”
Bliss picked up a distinct lack of surprise in her voice. “Did you know about this?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.
“What?” she replied guardedly.
A penny dropped. “You had something to do with this didn’t you?”
Her tone was mischievous, “What, Dad, murder? You know me better than that.”
“No. You know what I mean. You spoke to DCI Bryan, didn’t you?”
“Who me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I might have.”
“Huh. You bloody lawyers are all the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“Always interfering in other people’s problems.”
“That’s what we lawyers get paid for. Anyway, it’s reassuring to hear you admit you have a problem.”
Bliss tried bravado but his voice lacked conviction. “I could have sorted it myself.”
Samantha moved on. “Tell me about the murder.”
“It’s three murders, actually.”
“Three. I didn’t know.”
“Neither did the DCI. Anyway, as you dropped me in it, you can buy me dinner and give me some free legal advice while I tell you about it.”
She laughed. “Tonight?”
“Can you?”
“Sure. Pick me up at eight. If I’m paying for dinner you can drive, deal?”
He immediately sussed out her plan: he who drives, does not drink. “I’d like to lodge an appeal…”
“Take it or leave it.”
“OK. I’ll be there.” He’d half put the phone down before he remembered. “Sam,” he shouted into the mouthpiece, and caught her just in time. “I just remembered. I can’t drive. Someone’s nicked my car.”
“A likely story,” she laughed.
“Still smoking I see,” she chided as he clambered into her car two hours later.
“So?”
“I wouldn’t mind, Dad, but you used to be so fucking sanctimonious when we were kids.”
“Samantha! Do you have to swear?”
“All lawyers do. Anyway, don’t change the subject, I’m not going anywhere until you’ve got rid of that awful stink.”
Bliss took a long drag then tossed the barely smoked butt out of the window.
“Litter lout.”
“I can’t win, can I?”
“It’s not a competition, Dad. I just worry about you that’s all.”
“How’s your mother?” he asked as they drove off.
“Dad, do you really care?”
“Of course I do.”
“Maybe if you’d shown her how much you cared she wouldn’t have left.”
“Don’t rub it in, Sam. Do you think I don’t know that?”
They drove in silence while Bliss relived the pain of his separation. The denial: “This isn’t happening.” The misplaced optimism: “She’ll come back.” The pleading, the crying, the begging: “I’ll change.” “No you won’t.” “I’ll try.”
Bliss broke the silence. “What does she see in him Sam? How is he different from me?”
“Dad. He’s there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do I have to explain?”
“Yes.”
“You were never there — not when she needed you.”
“Is that what she says?”
“C’mon, Dad. You were always working; or that’s what you said you were doing. That or playing your keyboard with your headphones on.”
Bliss defended himself indignantly. “I was working.”
“All right, Dad, I believe you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“I said I believed you…” She paused, then added softly, “But Mum didn’t.”
Bliss sulked. “Well she should have. Anyway, how is whatsisname?”
“George, Dad, his name is George. As if you could have forgotten.”
She’s right, he thought, how could I forget George? Gangly George. Hairy-nostril George. Closing his eyes he let his mind wander and found himself arguing with his conscience. “Poor me. Poor cuckolded husband. Last to know as usual.”
Are you sure you didn’t know? his conscience chimed in.
Did I know?
Perhaps it was comfortable to pretend it wasn’t happening.
I’d never admit it.
Who would admit it?
What do you expect me to say. “I say old man, my wife prefers some other chap.”
Be honest with yourself at least.
OK. Of course I knew. Not the details. Not his name. Not his hairy