‘I’m going to pay him a visit shortly.’
‘You want backup?’
Bliss smiled to himself. ‘You recovered, have you, Teddy?’
‘Well… no.’
‘There’s your answer, then.’
He briefly thought of involving Chandler, even if only to make her aware of his whereabouts and the situation he had become embroiled in, should things turn ugly and become worse than that. He decided not to, for two viable reasons: first, Chandler would nag him to step away and allow matters to take their natural course; second, when he refused to do so, she would insist on accompanying him. That was a risk he was unwilling to take, because he didn’t know this particular journey’s destination.
Minutes after speaking with Barr, Bliss was knocking on the door to Christine Bell’s home. It was she who answered. Although not recognising the man who stood on her doorstep, she did seem to realise he was not about to try selling her a new set of windows or spread the word of God. She asked who he was with deep suspicion in both her tone and her stance.
‘I’m the man you need to invite inside without making a fuss or continuing to question me,’ Bliss said, having decided not to show his warrant card ID. ‘I need a chat with George. I’d prefer to do so quietly, but I can go the other way if you force me to.’
Bell’s glare was defiant, but he could tell she wasn’t about to do anything stupid. He eased off the hard-edged approach. ‘Look, all I want is a word. Nothing more than that.’
With a sigh of disapproval, she stood to one side, but made sure to first call out a warning to Moss. When Bliss walked into the living room at the far end of the hallway, it was like stepping into an oven. The night was cold, but the radiators in here must have been at their highest setting. Bliss’s attention was immediately drawn to the man on his feet in the centre of the room, one hand holding a bottle of beer like a cosh.
‘Put it down, George,’ Bliss said, shaking his head slowly and deliberately. ‘That’s not the way you want this to go, believe me. I’m not even here about you. I want to talk to you about Neil Watson.’
The penny dropped and relief flooded the man’s eyes. All tension left his body. He was not a big man, but tall and rangy, and in relaxing he lost some of his presence. He tossed the bottle onto the sofa behind him. ‘You’re police, yeah?’
‘For the time being, I’m not telling you who or what I am, George. Let’s say I’m a concerned citizen.’
‘Yeah, right. I know one when I see one.’
Undaunted, Bliss moved on. ‘Whatever. I’m not interested in what you think or don’t think. My only interest in you is your association with a child-killer.’
Bell gasped. She looked from Bliss to Moss and back again, pawing at a gold crucifix on a chain around her neck. ‘What?’
‘I take it George hasn’t told you about his mate, Neil Watson?’
‘I know him. He’s been here a few times in recent weeks. What’s all this about him being a child-killer?’
‘Don’t listen to him, Chris,’ Moss said, shaking a hand defensively. ‘The filth are trying to fit Neil up. He was shacked up with some kid’s mother, and she murdered the kid. Not Neil. She’s even doing time for it.’
‘Yes, and for his crime,’ Bliss insisted. ‘So go on with your story, George. Tell Christine here why Neil is not also behind bars.’
Moss peered down his nose contemptuously. ‘What, you mean because the kid’s mum confessed? You mean that reason?’
Bliss took a step closer. Close enough to see the film of sweat on the man’s thin moustache. ‘You know I don’t. Watson is not doing time for murder, or even GBH, because he had an alibi. Isn’t that right, George?’
‘George?’ Bell’s voice was soft, unsure of herself as her gaze shifted to Moss. ‘What’s he on about? What is all this?’
Moss said nothing. He breathed heavily, his frame having become rigid once more. Bliss had sensed the man’s earlier relief when he’d realised the stranger in the living room was only a cop, but he was becoming agitated all over again. It caused Bliss to wonder who he’d been expecting – and what the result of that visit might have been.
‘I don’t think he’ll come straight out with it,’ Bliss said to Bell, capturing her attention. She was no taller than five foot in her slippered feet, hair unwashed and unkempt. Her clothes looked clean, at least, if creased and leached of colour. The fingers of one hand continued to toy with the chain at her throat.
‘No? Why’s that?’ she asked defiantly.
‘Probably because you’ll know a lie when you hear one. So allow me. Your friend George here was Neil Watson’s alibi the night that poor child got beaten to death. Even if his story were true, Watson’s to blame because the death was known to be cumulative. You know what that means? It means the poor little mite was beaten on a regular basis, and the ongoing effect of those beatings created weaknesses in the boy’s skull. That’s awful enough, I’m sure you’d agree. But the fact is, I don’t believe George’s story. I don’t believe he was with Neil Watson that night. I believe he’s covering for him – for the kind of man who would beat a child so often that the poor little sod had physical damage and old breaks too numerous to count.’
‘That’s not possible,’ Bell said. She shook her head fiercely. ‘I know from having my own son, Charlie. You go to emergency with any cut or break and they’re on you, always suspecting the worst.’
Bliss nodded. ‘That’s often the case, yes. But it’s the follow-up that counts. Social care teams are
