“So what did she say?”
“Guv, this was twenty years ago.”
“I realize that. But you’re right, it could have some bearing on the old man’s murder. Do you remember anything she said?” Bliss’s eyes drifted to the ceiling and became entangled in the intricate pattern of a cobweb as he sought to unravel his memories. “I remember she kept referring my questions to him,” he began slowly. “I’d say, ‘What time did you realize Melanie was missing?’ and she’d turn to him and say, ‘What time was it, Martin?’ Even when she didn’t ask his opinion, she’d look at him while she answered, like she was waiting for a clue, a nod or a wink perhaps, I don’t know. But she never really spoke for herself; never gave a straight answer. She even looked at him when I asked her bloody name.”
“Did you tell anyone about your suspicions?” Apparently confused by the question, Bliss snatched his eyes away from the cobweb. “What suspicions?” he asked, peering into the DCI’s blue eyes.
“That the father killed his little girl.” Bliss thought hard and found himself staring at charges of neglect of duty — perverting the course of justice, even — and he gave his reply the most favourable spin he could. “At the time I didn’t have any suspicions. I was more worried about filling out the forms, doin’ sketch plans of the scene, having the body identified, arranging the postmortem: all the admin crap. Anyway, Gordonstone had a pretty good alibi. He was in the house unpacking with his wife while the two girls were playing together in the back garden.”
“You don’t know that. How do you know the girls were together?”
“He told me.”
“Precisely.”
“Look, Guv. I’ve tortured myself to bloody death over this case. I’ve asked myself a thousand times why I didn’t pull him in for questioning. Why didn’t I bang him up in a cell for a few hours? I could have softened him up a bit; maybe a few threats, arm up his back, good cop–bad cop. You know the routines.”
“Why didn’t you?” Bliss sheepishly studied the back of his hands, searching for a clearer memory of the now dead man. The bastard bullied me, he thought, remembering Gordonstone’s haughty attitude. But this memory had been with him for twenty years and he still found it painful, if not impossible, to articulate. He nearly blurted out, “He bullied me,” but stopped himself, realizing how pathetic it sounded, and knowing he would be asked to cite examples. Turning his hands over, he searched the palms for evidence to support his accusations but drew a blank. Innocuous phrases sprung to mind — innocuous phrases with implied threats. I’m a good friend of Judge so-and-so. I know quite a few of your bosses; we’re in the same lodge. It was obviously just an accident. I’ll give the coroner a ring, let him know; I’m sure we were at school together.”
Leaving his hands, Bliss looked up at his senior officer, seeking understanding, or perhaps compassion. “Gordonstone sort of threatened me with things that sound stupid now. And they weren’t even threats, really. Just by the tone of his voice he somehow pulled rank on me … made me feel uneasy. I remember asking one question he didn’t like, and he stuck his nose in the air and said, ‘Please address any further questions through my lawyer.’ As if he were saying, ‘I’m too busy to deal with a little bit of shit like you.’ Like I said, I’ve never told anyone before, but I’ve often wondered if he killed her. I was just a rookie at the time and didn’t really know what the hell I was doing. But now he’s gone perhaps the wife will talk.”
“Maybe. Although there’s no mention of a wife on his sudden death report. He’s shown as being single.”
“Divorced, probably. I wouldn’t be surprised, the way he bossed her about. What about the elder sister? I often wondered if she knew what was going on. Maybe Melanie told her what her dad was doing. Maybe he was touching her up as well, that’s why he kept her out of the way. Maybe he was screwing them both.”
“I don’t think you’ll get much out of her.”
“She isn’t dead —”
The DCI held up his hand. “No. But she lives somewhere in the wilds of Canada. She didn’t even come back for the funeral.”
“Any idea why?”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he was playing around with both of them. Maybe she wanted to keep out of his way.”
“Why Canada?”
“For Christ’s sake, Dave, stop bloody grilling me. Just come back to work and you can ask all the questions you want.”
Bliss stared vacantly into his empty glass. “I don’t know if I can. Ten months is a long time.”
“Course you can. It’s like riding a horse. Once you know how, you never forget. You’ll just have to see the Force trick cyclist, get an OK from him. What did your own doc say was the problem?”
The well-rehearsed prognosis rolled off Bliss’s tongue, accompanied by an appropriately miserable expression. “Post-traumatic stress syndrome.”
“The plane crash?”
“That and other things.”
“What things?”
“Divorce.”
“So you’re a bit depressed.”
“Depressed is hardly adequate, Guv,” Bliss began, but laboured to find an alternative way to express the pain of divorce and sat in silent consternation for a few seconds. How can you explain to somebody that your mind has been torn apart? How can you carry on after such a trauma; why would you try? Death is at least final; divorce lingers. Death can be buried but divorce keeps coming back to smack you in the face. “Twenty-five years investment — hard bloody work…” he explained, “then whole bloody lot gets flushed down the pan.”
DCI Bryan softened his voice in sympathy. “Why did she leave, Dave?”
“She’d had enough, I suppose. I think it was the job mainly. She never understood; reckoned I loved the job more than her.”
“Did you?”
The admission stuck in his throat for a few seconds. “Probably.”
“If I had a missus she’d probably say the same. But you can’t hide out here for the rest of your life. You’ve still got your daughter and you’ve still got a job — barely. Who knows, you might even find someone else.”
“I’ve had a couple of tries. I really thought I’d cracked it with the last one…” He paused briefly as a dark memory passed, then brightened himself up for the other man’s benefit. “Anyway, I’m getting too old to try again.”
“Rubbish. I know dozens of men who’d love a second chance. There’s plenty more fish.”
“It’s too much effort. I can’t be bothered any more. At first I thought, ‘Great! Free again, and still young enough to enjoy it.’ Who was I kidding?” He paused and ferreted down the side of the chair squab, suddenly recalling the hiding place for a badly pulped packet of Benson & Hedges. The match shook noticeably as he lit one of the squashed cigarettes, and he stared into the flame for several seconds before blowing it out. “I got so bloody desperate I even started smoking again.”
A smirk spread across DCI Bryan’s face.
“It’s not funny, Guv. Have you ever tried giving up?”
“Never started.”
“You wouldn’t understand then. Took me two years. Always wanting one, always tempted.”
“Oh