Read Online No Cherubs for Melanie by James Hawkins - Free Book Online Page A

smoke-stained ceiling, trying to make out familiar images in the dirty brown tar. Mother Teresa’s profile swirled into view, but vanished as a commotion at the bar attracted his attention. The landlord had grabbed the phone and was semaphoring to Bliss with his free arm. “Excuse me mate someone’s just stolen your car,” he called across the bar as the emergency operator answered.
    Bliss spun to look out of the window. His car was gone. “What? Who the hell would want my car?”
    â€œJoyriders,” the landlord replied, after he asked for “Police.”
    â€œHow did you know it was mine?”
    â€œI saw you drive in. Anyway, that’s the spot they usually pinch ’em from.”
    Bliss put on a crestfallen look. “It’ll probably be wrecked.”
    The landlord gave him a look which said, I’ve seen your car, then spoke into the phone as he was connected to the police operations room.
    Catching the bus to work the following morning, Bliss was grateful the rain had eased. In the circumstances he would have been justified in asking the duty officer to send a car, but he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of having a laugh at his expense. The early shift are probably pissing themselves already, he assumed, rightly.
    â€œDid you hear about poor old Dave Bliss,” one of them had said, “Someone nicked his wife, he gets into a plane crash, goes sick for nearly a year, then someone half-inches his car.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œLast night outside the Four Feathers up Dalton Road.” They laughed. “I’d rather someone nicked my missus than my car,” said a wag.
    â€œI wouldn’t go sick for ten minutes if someone nicked my missus,” said another.
    â€œWho would want to nick your missus?” asked a third with a malicious twist…
    â€œShe’s not that bad,” he replied, paradoxically defending her.
    There was a message waiting for Bliss on his desk; a response from a George Weston to a small article in the morning papers revealing that a police spokesperson had refused to confirm or deny that the death of Martin Gordonstone was now being treated as suspicious. But first he had to deal with another note — hand scrawled in an obvious attempt to disguise the writer’s identity. “This is the best we can do but it’s worth more than your old one,” a joker had scribbled, and left it attached to a battered dinky toy, hurriedly borrowed, Bliss guessed, from the lost property office. Droppingthe toy and the note straight into a waste bin, and ignoring the guffaws of the assembled pranksters, he read the other message. It advised him that Weston had phoned to say he made a videotape of Gordonstone collapsing in the restaurant the night he died.
    The vultures drifted away after one of them fished the toy out of the trash bin, leaving Bliss to contact the videographer and arrange to collect the tape.
    A succinct third message awaited him in his pigeonhole.
Report to Superintendent Edwards at 11:30 a.m. today
.
    A pep talk, assumed Bliss, immediately feeling more depressed than ever. He could guess the format if not the actual words. Welcome back, tidy yourself up, pull yourself together, lay off the booze, and stop farting about.
    Central records opened at eight-thirty. Bliss strolled in at nine-fifteen and found the three clerks still clustered around a copy of the daily nude.
    â€œNot disturbing you, am I?” he asked as sarcastically as possible. Two of the three men drifted languidly in different directions without comment, leaving the third to carefully fold the newspaper as if it were a precious manuscript.
    â€œYeah Mate. What d’ye want?”
    â€œDetective Inspector to you,” shot back Bliss, resolving to bring up the question of uncivil civilians at the next divisional meeting.
    The Betty-Ann Gordonstone file had been shredded, the clerk pronounced after a brief search through