No Cherubs for Melanie (18 page)

Margaret barely scanned the note before swinging back to Bliss and switching her accent back to pure English. “So. Where are you staying?”

Alice was headed back to the plane for another sack before Bliss could reply.

“I would've phoned —” he began.

“I haven't got a phone.”

“I was going to say that. I couldn't find your number.”

“So you
were
coming to see me then?”

He thought fast. “Sort of. I was going to kill two birds with one… ” He left the saying unfinished and could have kicked himself for the unfortunate choice of expression. Margaret didn't seem to notice so he carried on. “I needed a holiday and my boss thought someone should get a bit of background information about your father.”

Her face clouded.

Bliss panicked, put on his ‘notification-of-death face' and enquired quickly, “You do know he died?” He was not entirely certain she
was
aware.

She nodded. “A friend of his called. Said he'd had a heart attack.” She noticed Bliss's puzzled expression. “They take messages for me here,” she explained.

Alice was back, crashing enthusiastically though the front door and flinging the second sack of mail on top of the first. Margaret ignored her. “So what do you plan to do here?”

He felt slightly foolish. “The problem is that I lost my traveller's cheques and I'm a bit stuck for cash.”

Alice chimed in. “You could put him up at your place, couldn't you, Maggie?”

Shaking her head vigorously she sat back down to accentuate her unwillingness to help. “The animals,” she explained. “They get very nervous with strangers, and Bo wouldn't like it.”

“Animals?” enquired Bliss.

“Maggie runs a sort of rehab centre for injured critters. People bring them to her from all over. I often fly them in.”

“If it's too much trouble…” said Bliss politely.

Alice wasn't prepared to let it drop. “C'mon Maggie. I can't take him back now. Anyway, Jock's already loading the furs, I won't get off the lake with all that weight.”

“Jock will have to unload some of the furs then. You know I don't like visitors.”

Bliss wasn't going to give up that easily. “Perhaps I could stay here and come out to visit you one day.”

Margaret's expression made it obvious she didn't want him around. “There's nowhere to stay in town. Anyway I'm really busy at the moment.”

“I could help you. I like animals.”

“The truth is that people might talk. You now what they're like up here, Alice,” she said, turning to the other woman for support.

“C'mon, Maggie,” Alice laughed. “They all think you're weird anyway.”

“Weird I can live with. A maneater is something else.”

At last, thought Bliss, the real reason for her reticence. “I can understand that —” he started, but Alice jumped ahead of him. “Give me a break girl. Let 'em think what they want. I'll put the word out that he's your Dad come for a visit.”

Bliss shot Margaret a questioning look. Her deadpan expression suggested she had not widely broadcast the news of her father's death.

He had one more card up his sleeve — the truth, a card he had hoped to avoid having to play. “I've got a confession to make,” he said, as calmly as he could. “When I said I didn't have much money, I meant hardly any at all. I'm waiting for some more to arrive but at the moment I can't even pay Alice to fly me back.”

“That does it then,” said Alice, clearly not intending to fly him anywhere without prior payment.

Margaret caved in. “OK. I know when I'm beaten. But if you upset the animals you'll have to leave.”

“I promise.”

“And you'll have to work for your keep. I've been meaning to rebuild the dock ever since the ice wrecked it last year. Are you any good with wood?”

“Fantastic,” he replied, willing to try anything once.

From the look on Alice's face one might have thought she'd just arranged a marriage. “Yes!” she cried, triumphantly pumping the air with a fist as she set off in search of another mailbag.

“We're going to need more food,” Margaret said to herself as she got up and started plucking packets and cans off the shelves with such speed that Bliss wondered if she had any idea what she was grabbing. “Have you got any cash at all?” she asked over her shoulder as she reached into a huge refrigerator.

“About twenty-three dollars.”

She clucked disapprovingly. “OK. Stick it into the till and I'll straighten up with Stacy next time.” Then she pointed to a Western Union sign over a side counter that bore the red and white insignia of Canada Post. “You can get your money sent here and pay me when it arrives.”

“Terrific. I'll have to make a phone call to arrange it.”

He searched in vain for a pay slot on the phone and finally enquired of Margaret, “How do I pay?”

“You haven't got any money,” she reminded him.

“I will have.”

“Write it in the book,” she said, pointing to an ancient notepad hanging on string at the side of the counter. “Stacy will work it out at the end of the month.”

Was she supposing he'd still be there, he wondered

A few minutes later, phone jammed against his ear, he willed his daughter to pick up. “Pick it up Sam. Please pick up the phone ….”

Samantha's answering machine cost him another call. He was tempted to leave the store's number but decided against it lest Edwards or Bryan had it traced.

“We'll be back in a few days,” said Margaret. “We'll need more supplies, you can call again then.”

Putting down the handset he turned to the sepia-edged notepad and was not at all surprised to see the last entry was in 1994. Bear Lake settlement was not, he had already decided, the sort of place that attracted visitors out of the blue.

“Where the hell is Bliss?” bellowed Edwards without rising from behind his resurrected desk. DCI Bryan, thinking to slink unnoticed past the superintendent's office, slithered to a halt and stepped cautiously into the room. “I don't know, Sir,” he began, but was immediately shushed with a frantic flick of Edwards' good hand. He got the message but hesitated in turning to close the door, searching for an excuse to leave it ajar as an escape route. Not that he would need to escape, he told himself, it was simply comforting to have the option. Edwards impatiently cleared his throat and flicked harder, as if fending off a persistent wasp. The door seemed to shut by itself under Bryan's hand. “He could be almost anywhere,” he concluded, uneasily sliding, uninvited, onto the edge of a chair.

Superintendent Edwards, arm in sling, looking as though he'd dressed in the dark, seemed to deflate as he sank back into his chair. “We've got to find him Peter,” he began, his voice tinged with anxiety.

You mean
you
want him found, thought Bryan, his eyes fastened on the skewed blue tie and mismatched green shirt, the only one Edwards possessed with sleeves wide enough to accommodate the cast on his wrist. You want to get to him before he says too much, before he goes public with a sob story about his boss blowing up his flat and killing his cat.

“The press are still nosing around,” Edwards continued with a nod to his cracked wrist. “Want to interview me. I've told 'em to eff off, it's none of their damn business. But I want to know who grassed.”

“Could've been one of the civvies, or even the ambulance men. A lot of people were around when it happened.”

Edwards snorted in disbelief. “More likely Bliss, or that lawyer girl of his. Shit-stirring.”

“You have to admit, Guv,” said the DCI, “the more you read between the lines, the worse it appears. It must look suspiciously like revenge. I mean, Bliss clobbers you and the next thing…”

“I
know
what happened.”

The DCI shrugged, not knowing what was expected of him.

“Anyway, I wanted to warn you,” continued Edwards. “The assistant commissioner's been asking questions. Wants to know who gave the order to trash Bliss's flat. I've been trying to protect you, Peter… ” His voice trailed away, dripping with an unctuousness that stank of insincerity. “What about that girl of his, doesn't she know where he is?”

“She may do, but it's too late now, Guv.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's upstairs with the divisional commander right now.”

“Shit.”

Bryan rubbed it in. “She's not very happy either.”

He had seen Samantha ten minutes earlier, face set on revenge, stalking up and down the senior officer's corridor, limbering up for a bout with the DC.

“Do you want to wait in my office Samantha?” he had offered tenderly.

“Trust me, you said,” she replied haughtily, without considering his offer. “Trust me. I want to help your Dad.”

“I did — I do,” he interjected.

“Well, what are you planning to do for an encore — blow up his fucking car?”

“Samantha!”

“Oh, I forgot, somebody already stole his car, before you blew up his flat and killed his cat.”

He tried mollifying her. “It wasn't my fault…”

Delving into her briefcase she grabbed a handful of papers and shoved them in his face. “Well, your name's on here as well.”

The writs also cited Edwards, the commissioner, and the policeman whose size eleven's had mangled the poor old cat. The documents, hurriedly drawn up by Samantha herself, and liberally spiced with unnecessary but grandiloquent legalese, alleged criminal damage, unlawful entry and search. Then, she had swallowed hard as she'd added a claim for £1 million compensation — for the stress caused by the death of the cat. It was, she told herself, merely a negotiating figure.

Bryan's thoughts were snapped back to the present as Edwards jumped to his feet and stomped across the room.

“You should have realized what Bliss was up to. He's worked you over, Peter.”

“It was your idea…” started the DCI, but stopped when he realized Edwards was coming to the boil.

“Where the hell is he? Wait till I get my hands on him. And that girl of his — lawyer… Humph… She'll never
practice again when I'm finished with her.” Megalomania swung to paranoia without coming close to rationality as he fumed. “I bet the bastard did this on purpose.”

DCI Bryan let the atmosphere relax for a few seconds as he concentrated on fingering the creases in his trousers, then he gently stoked Edwards' fire again. “If the press find Bliss before we do, he might say something about the Betty-Ann Gordonstone case.”

Edwards wasn't drawn, his focus seemingly fixed on something out the window. “So what?”

“He's convinced she was murdered.”

“He's wrong,” Edwards said, coming back into the room.

Bryan persisted, feeling eggshells crunching underfoot. “Can you be certain, Guv?”

“Yes,” he shot back, barely short of shouting, and sat heavily at his desk, intimidating Bryan with a stare.

Undaunted, Bryan persevered. “He was questioning why the file was destroyed so quickly.”

In a flash, Edwards' head dropped and his eyes were drawn to the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. No sooner had he looked, than he jerked his head back to the DCI and, after missing only half a beat, lied, “I destroyed the file in accordance with standing orders.” Had the other man noticed his wavering, he wondered with consternation. He searched the DCI's face for clues, but Bryan's expression suggested nothing untoward. The Betty-Ann Gordonstone file could safely remain undisturbed — for the moment.

DCI Bryan was well aware the file had been logged as ‘destroyed.' He had already been to central records to substantiate Bliss's story, but, unlike Bliss, he had been circumspect in his dealing with the clerk, ensuring no one would tell Edwards of his visit. Now he raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh! You destroyed it yourself, Sir.”

“So?”

Bryan hesitated, dying to enquire why. “Nothing, Sir,” he replied, then cannily decided to ask on Bliss's behalf. “DI Bliss just found it a bit unusual, that's all.”

Edwards shook off the insinuation. “Just bloody well find him. He can't be far away.”

Bliss was very far away. Leaving the store, he and Margaret walked together in silence along the gravelled shore toward a large freight canoe dragged up on the beach. Margaret's furrow-browed expression suggested she was seriously deliberating some matter of great importance; finally she stopped, dumped her bags on the ground and snapped, “Look, I don't normally take anyone to my place.”

She's changed her mind, thought Bliss.

“But,” she continued, “I don't have much choice in your case.” The coldness in her voice concerned him and he began to say he wouldn't go when she stopped him with the wag of a finger. “I said you can stay, so you will. But I don't want you upsetting the animals, and I don't allow smoking or drinking.”

“I don't smoke,” he protested, immediately realizing the truth in the statement. But she had already jammed her hat firmly on her head, scooped the bags from the beach, and stalked off, leaving him slightly bewildered, wondering if it was perhaps a hatred of all men that had forced her to leave home and live so far away.

The act of stowing the bags in the canoe kindled in Bliss a sense of adventure and, looking across the picture-postcard lake, he had the feeling that his pilgrimage would be vindicated on one of the islands near the horizon. Looking back, he felt a tingle of excitement as he watched Margaret striding manfully back over the gravelly
beach to collect the eagle. I'm going to enjoy this, he thought, ducking the reason for his mission for a millisecond. Then his mind clouded. How would he confront her? When?

“Talk to her now, what's stopping you,” he asked himself, struggling with his conscience, knowing he had no need to go with her to the island, knowing he could persuade Alice to fly him back to civilization if he tried hard enough.