Samantha stepped in. “Ignore him, he’s in a bad mood. He’s lost a murderer.”
Bliss shot her a look of alarm but the waiter shook his head, laughing lightly. “You lawyers,” he said.
“We’ll both have the penne Alfredo with a couple of skewers of the lemon garlic prawns. Thank you, Angelo,” said Samantha, figuring her father was in no frame of mind to make a rational choice. Bliss considered protesting but instead asked for a very large scotch.
“You can’t,” Samantha asserted. “You’re driving us home.”
Feeling thoroughly defeated, he settled for a small scotch on the condition that he could have a glass of wine with the meal.
As Angelo moved away Samantha whispered, “His name’s Godfrey really.” Bliss blurted out a laugh and she shushed him noisily with a finger to her lips. “So tell me about your murderer, Dad.”
“Murderers,” he said, and briefly recounted the circumstances of the three Gordonstone deaths and Betty-Ann’s missing file.
“So what’s your plan?” she asked when he had finished. “Go to the powers that be and confess everything? Confess you screwed up? There was no evidence. You said so yourself.”
“The evidence was probably there, I just didn’t find it.”
“Legally speaking, that’s immaterial. If there’s no evidence of murder how can there be any proof you screwed up. Even if you’re correct about the girl, there was only one witness, his wife, and she’s been dead for ten years. You won’t get much of a statement from her.”
“But he killed her as well.”
“Dad. It was suicide, the coroner said so.”
“He was wrong.”
“You don’t know that, and in any case without a witness…” She left the sentence hanging; she had made her point.
Bliss gave her a sly look, as if he were holding all the aces. “What if I found a witness?”
“You’re a bloody lawyer’s nightmare. A client who insists on confessing the truth, even when there isn’t a shred of evidence to back up the prosecution’s case.”
“But there is evidence… at least I think there is.”
Samantha peered over the top of her wine glass and her wide brown eyes urged him to continue.
“What about the other daughter,” he said. “She must have known what was going on. I’m sure they kept me away from her because she knew her father killed her sister.”
Putting the glass down slowly, Samantha considered her reply, then jabbed a spoke into his wheel. “Dad, she was only a kid. This happened twenty-odd years ago. Whatever she says now, a good lawyer would punch a dozen holes in her testimony: False memories, survival guilt, revenge against her father for precipitating her mother’s suicide. Not to mention the fact that although she’s been beyond his control for the past ten years she hasn’t found it necessary to come forward and point the finger at him.”
Bliss was not easily deterred. “I bet she was terrified of him. Everybody else was.”
Samantha studied her father carefully. “Were you frightened of him?”
He contemplated his answer carefully and found himself walking through a mental minefield. Frightened? he asked himself. Was I? And should I admit it, even to myself?
“No…” he began, then started again. “Yes. In a way, yes. Not physically, but he had a sort of aura. Like a…” Bliss found himself stumped for a simile.
“Like an Old Bailey judge,” suggested Samantha.
“Yeah. You know the feeling.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
It must be part of every judge’s training, Bliss thought. Somebody must give them lessons in how to scare the pants off you with just a look.
Dinner arrived. Bliss checked his watch: twenty-five minutes. Giving the pasta a poke he grumbled, “What were you doing Godfrey, making it?”
Samantha tried killing him with a look, but failed.
“It’s Angelo, sir. And yes, we make it fresh for each customer.”
“That was spiteful,” Samantha said as soon as the waiter left.
“Sorry. I’m just fed up with everyone dumping on me all the time. I’ve got no one else to take it out on, besides the cat.”
They began the meal in embarrassed silence, then Samantha started thinking aloud about Margaret, Gordonstone’s eldest daughter. “Let’s just say she did play ball and spilled the beans about her father killing her sister. What good would that do you? What are you going to do, insist they prosecute you for perjury?”
“Neglect of duty,” he suggested, his expression making it clear he had given the prospect careful consideration.
“Come off it, Dad, you’re just trying to get rid of the guilt. You just want someone to absolve you of your sins. Shit. If you’re that concerned why not go the whole hog: become a Roman Catholic, go to confession, say three Hail Marys, and you’ll be right as rain.”
“Don’t be funny, Sam, I’m quite serious.”
“So am I, Dad.”
Undeterred, Bliss insisted on laying out his thoughts about Gordonstone’s eldest daughter. “I reckon she went to Canada to keep clear of him. Put yourself in her place. He’d killed your sister and convinced the police it was an accident, then he makes your mother’s murder look like suicide. You’d be scared to death.”
“She wouldn’t be scared now he’s dead,” Samantha mused, then saw a look of triumph spreading across her father’s face and acted quickly to dispel it. “Dad, I’m not saying you’re right. I’m not agreeing with you.” His face clouded again as she continued, “What I am saying is, even if she was scared to come forward earlier, there is nothing stopping her now, so why hasn’t she?”
“Maybe she’s waiting for someone to ask,” he replied, his tone and expression indicating he had every intention of being the one to do it.
Bliss declared himself full when Samantha toyed with the desert menu and said she was considering the Tiramisu.
“How do you stay so slim?” he laughed, reaching over and giving her a prod. Her eyes dropped automatically to her belly. She looked up, a worried frown across her forehead. “Actually, Dad, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Her expression warned him to keep quiet. “I think I’m going to have a baby.”
It took a few seconds to sink in. “You think…?”
A smile spread back over her face. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s probably a false alarm. I don’t expect you want to be a grandfather, not yet anyway, not at your age.”
Without giving him an opportunity to reply she slapped down enough money to make up for Godfrey’s hurt feelings and was on her way to the door.
The meeting between Superintendent Edwards and DCI Bryan had started cordially, with Edwards pouring the chief inspector a coffee.
“What’s this I hear about Bliss ferreting about in central records, nosing into the Betty-Ann Gordonstone case?” Edwards said.
“He thinks it may be linked to Gordonstone’s murder somehow.”
“Rubbish.”
“That’s my view. I’ve told him to lay off and concentrate on finding Gordonstone’s killer.”
Edwards waved Bryan to a chair. “Look, I think it might be a good idea to yank him from that case. Put somebody else on to it.”
“Oh no, sir.” Bryan