The Devil in Disguise

by Martin Edwards

  Her face crumpled. There were lines round her eyes and mouth that Harry had never seen before. ‘My God, what an idiot I have been. I will be a laughing stock.’

  Frances put an arm round her and Harry said, ‘I realise this is difficult for you. If you’d rather not discuss...’

  ‘No,’ Inge said. ‘I need to talk. I have to make some sense of it all. He - he said he would need to stay overnight and he’d be back tomorrow. I offered to help him pack, but he said it wasn’t necessary. Ten minutes later, he was on his way. He said he was driving to the station.’

  ‘I expect he was telling the truth,’ Frances said. ‘My guess is that he will want to put as much space between himself and Liverpool as possible now that he’s been found out.’

  ‘Did you really have no idea that he had been lying to you?’ Harry asked.

  Inge closed her eyes. ‘I suppose that subconsciously, I already had a great many doubts about him. There were so many things that didn’t add up. I’d been uneasy for a long time, but I’d been afraid to admit to myself the reason why.’

  ‘Presumably he kept you well away from any members of his family?’

  ‘Yes, you are right. I could never understand it. I’ve always been close to my parents and it was strange that whenever I suggested going down to see Lord Gralam or his elder brother, he made an excuse. I assumed it was just the way upper-class English families behave. They keep themselves to themselves. And I was amused by the way he never seemed to have any money.’

  Frances stroked her jaw thoughtfully. ‘Looking back, I see it now. We all assumed he was wealthy, but there was precious little hard evidence. I seldom saw him putting his hand in his pocket, even though he always dressed well and seemed to have an expensive lifestyle.’

  ‘Who do you think paid for that lifestyle?’ Inge asked wearily.

  ‘He lived with you, of course.’

  ‘And off me. The flat is mine. He never even contributed towards the upkeep. He always had an explanation for being short of ready cash. Something to do with the strict terms of the trust funds his father had set up. I never understood the details. He told me that even when he needed money, he was too proud to plead with his own flesh and blood. He would rather be on the bread-line. There was a story about a rift between them, something to do with Matthew yearning to do charity work whilst his father wanted him to be something in the City. I felt sorry for him, being deprived simply because he wasn’t prepared to kow-tow to the old man. So I was always willing to help him out. My own father did express his concern once or twice, but I brushed it aside. Love is blind. Stupid, too.’

  She let out a long sigh before adding, ‘There was more. Occasionally I would catch him out in a little lie. Usually it was about something trivial. An old college friend he claimed to have been talking to or a business deal that he was trying to pull off. He always liked to impress me - but sometimes he overdid it. Believe it or not, I was rather touched. I thought it was sweet that, with his impeccable background, he would want to show off to me. It’s stupid, but he made me feel good.’

  ‘That’s the art of the confidence trickster,’ Frances said. ‘He tried to convince us all that he was bestowing an honour merely by talking to us.’

  ‘No wonder he claimed to be publicity-shy,’ Harry said.

  ‘That always appealed to me,’ Inge said. ‘He used to say he wasn’t seeking public approval for his charity work. I admired his unselfishness, his modesty.’

  Harry thought that Matthew had never seemed too modest when not threatened by the risk of public exposure. It was a contradiction that had always troubled him, and yet he’d never guessed the explanation. ‘But he got carried away by the engagement and the excitement of yesterday evening. No wonder he cringed when the photographer insisted on snapping him. He must have been half-afraid that his luck would finally run out.’

  Inge said softly, ‘Shall I tell you what hurts me most?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Frances asked.

  ‘I don’t know anything about him. Nothing at all. Last night I thought I was going to marry him and now he’s gone. I may know his real name. But this - Gary Cullinan - is a complete stranger to me.’

  For a time none of them spoke. The skies were darkening and lights gleamed from the Cathedral windows high above the hollowed-out park. Spots of rain were beginning to fall, but the wind had died and the only sound was the hum of the cars of kerb-crawlers cruising Gambier Terrace, looking for business.

  Harry cleared his throat and said, ‘The question is: what do we do now? Try to find him? Call the police?’

  Frances winced. ‘Heaven knows what harm this episode will do to the Trust. As if we haven’t had enough to contend with lately.’

  Inge said, ‘The last thing I want right now is to see him again. I need time to think things over. And to talk with my family.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Harry said. ‘But remember, the journalist has his teeth into the story. He won’t let go. You’ll have to decide before long whether you’re willing to speak to him.’

  Inge coloured. ‘Kiss and tell?’

  ‘Not at all. But odious as it may seem, sometimes it’s better to be frank with the Press rather than giving them the chance to make up the news. You know how they define a good story? Something that someone somewhere doesn’t want them to know.’

  Inge hauled herself to her feet and pulled her coat tightly around her. ‘Very well. I’ll consider it. But please, don’t call the police. Not yet, anyway. There’s probably no need. After all, as far as I know, I’m Gary Cullinan’s only real victim.’

  Harry said nothing. But he couldn’t help wondering if she was right.

  Chapter 18

  After Inge had left them, Harry and Frances walked in silence along the path that curved under the shadow of the Cathedral. They were only a stone’s throw from the red light area where Davey Damnation had confronted the Scissorman. In his mind he could hear Davey’s echoing voice.

  ‘I am he that liveth and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death!’

  Hadn’t Shakespeare said that the devil can cite scripture for his purpose? Harry moved his shoulders up and down, as if it might help him to concentrate on the problem that had brought him here.

  ‘Wasn’t it Luke’s idea to invite Matthew Cullinan to become a trustee?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he took the fellow at face value. It was quite a coup to have an investment expert offering his services free of charge. And naturally, it did the Trust no harm to have an aristocrat on the board.’ She paused and said grimly, ‘I suppose that if he’s a rogue, that may explain what happened to the Trust’s money.’

  ‘But Roy is the treasurer,’ Harry objected. His conversation with Ashley was still fresh in his mind, although he did not want to muddy the waters by revealing the suspicions which Luke had confided in his godson. ‘He would have had to approve any expenditure.’

  ‘Come on,’ Frances said scornfully. ‘Let’s face it, Roy’s an alcoholic. He couldn’t look after a child’s piggy-bank properly. Matthew - Gary - whatever his name is - will have been able to do exactly as he pleased. I’ll call in the auditors to check over our books as a matter of urgency. We’ll have to talk to the Charity Commission too. I suppose I ought to speak to Roy, though frankly I doubt if he’ll have anything worthwhile to contribute.’

  ‘Assuming that you find him.’

  She halted in mid-stride and turned to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He missed the show last night, didn’t he? And I’ve tried to contact him by phone today with no joy. Ashley Whitaker reckons that he’s gone off with some floozie, but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘He’ll turn up,’ she said with a shrug. ‘The proverbial bad penny.’

  She started walking again in the direction of the c
ar park. Harry hesitated before following her. He looked up at the forbidding bulk of the Cathedral. Again he felt a chill of unease, again he heard in his brain the voice of Davey Damnation.

  ‘And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened!’

  He sucked in a breath of the cold afternoon air and told himself that he must stop expecting the worst. He must dismiss the dread that lurked at the back of his mind, the cold fear that the killing was not yet at an end.

  ‘So we weren’t rubbing shoulders with the nobility after all,’ Jim Crusoe said as they had a coffee together back in the office. ‘I should have realised.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Last time I attended a trustees’ meeting, I mentioned to him that Heather and I were thinking of taking a weekend break in Oxford. I knew he’d been to university there, so I asked his advice on hotels and the best places to visit. He was amazingly vague and I remember thinking to myself that it had been a waste of time plucking up the courage to ask the question. I’d picked up more from watching Inspector Morse. But of course I didn’t draw the right conclusion. I thought he was simply too grand to take much notice of the sort of places that would fascinate an ordinary tourist. What’s the betting he’s never been near Oxford in his life?’ Jim sighed. ‘So the man who was supposed to be the saviour of the Kavanaugh Trust was the one who bankrupted it.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Obvious, isn’t it? He’s ripped off Inge Frontzeck over the last few months. He had the know-how and opportunity to do the same to the Kavanaugh Trust.’

  ‘Luke thought that Roy Milburn was on the take from the Trust,’ Harry said.

  He recounted the story Ashley Whitaker had told him. Jim listened closely, his craggy face giving no clue to his thoughts.

  ‘So Luke was mistaken. Nobody’s perfect.’

  ‘But he was a careful man,’ Harry said. ‘It wouldn’t be like him to accuse someone unless he was sure.’

  ‘He was circumspect when he talked to you,’ Jim pointed out. ‘He was obviously confident that he could rely on Ashley’s discretion. As well as the fact that Roy was an old friend of Ashley’s.’

  ‘I suppose so. It troubles me, though. Who killed Luke? And why has Roy disappeared?’

  ‘Luke is six feet under. There’s no forensic evidence to suggest he was killed. As for Roy, my guess is that he’s gone off on a bender somewhere. Or maybe he’s seen sense and checked in to a drying-out clinic.’

  ‘Now who’s letting his imagination roam?’ Harry hesitated. ‘You know, even if Matthew was the one robbing the Trust, that doesn’t necessarily exonerate Roy. He could have been at it as well. Luke may have asked him round to the Hawthorne, challenged him - and been pushed out of the window for his cheek.’

  ‘You know yourself it’s impossible to prove that, one way or another.’

  The coffee had a bitter taste but Harry swallowed the last of it anyway. A kind of penance for not seeing the obvious sooner. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I’m sure I’ve missed something. Luke could have tumbled to the truth about Matthew himself, after he spoke to Ashley. He must have found that he had two problems to contend with. Not just a treasurer on the take, but a bogus financial adviser.’

  ‘You’re surely not suggesting that would have driven him to suicide?’

  ‘No. But maybe Roy wasn’t the only one with a motive to murder Luke. I never considered that the honourable Matthew was a serious suspect. But Gary Cullinan may have been.’

  Jim raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Any idea where he’s got to?’

  ‘Des Reeve was going to speak to the man who gave him Cullinan’s name after meeting Frances and me. Let’s give him a ring to see if he’s learned anything more.’

  But the message from the newspaper office was that Reeve had not come back in that afternoon and was not expected at his desk again until the next morning. Harry tried Roy Milburn’s number again but it kept ringing out. He gnawed at his fingernails in frustration. The need to do something was as insistent as a hunger pain.

  ‘I’ll go round and have a look at Roy’s flat. See if there’s any clue as to where he might be.’

  ‘Wasting your time, aren’t you? He won’t have left a note on the door telling the milkman not to deliver and by the way, he’s nipped off to Blackpool to spend the money he’s stolen from the Trust.’

  Harry gave his partner a wan smile. ‘Maybe not, but anything’s worth a try.’

  Jim’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s eating you?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m being melodramatic.’

  ‘I always think that.’

  ‘Roy has been flush with money recently, right? Perhaps it’s not because of his ill-gotten gains from the Kavanaugh Trust.’

  Jim considered. ‘You reckon he may have been blackmailing Matthew? Or Gary or whatever we are supposed to call him?’

  ‘Why not? He likes to poke his nose into other people’s business. If he thought Gary Cullinan had killed Luke rather than face exposure, he would have been more likely to try to cash in on his deduction than run off to the police. When I last talked to him, he actually said, “Knowledge is power.”’

  ‘So you think he may have pushed his luck too far?’

  ‘Possible, isn’t it? If Gary had killed once to preserve his secret, he probably wouldn’t scruple at a second crime.’

  Jim groaned. ‘You said it yourself. You’re eternally melodramatic. You’re going on a wild goose chase.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ Harry said, but he did not really believe it.

  The old furniture shop was still deserted. Harry walked down the passageway at the side of the building, but found the back door locked. On balance, he decided, this was reassuringly consistent with the theory that Roy had disappeared on a frolic of his own and had not fallen victim to a desperate attempt by Gary Cullinan to conceal his imposture.

  And yet - instinct told him that this was a story which would not have a happy ending. He leaned on the padlocked gate at the bottom of the alley and wondered what to do. Rain was falling steadily now and one by one the lights in neighbouring blocks were going out as people working in the city set off for home. Some of them walked past the top of the passageway, but none glanced down it.

  The easy course would be to walk back to the street and head back to Empire Dock. But he knew that if he did that, he would not be able to settle until he could be sure that nothing untoward had happened to Roy Milburn. At least not here. He stood on tiptoe and peered over the top of the gate. It gave on to a tiny yard containing a bunker, a couple of dustbins and an ironwork fire escape. Harry recalled from his last visit that the stairway led to the roof. Why not climb it and just check that there were no signs of disturbance in Roy’s studio?

  Fortunately there was no barbed wire on top of the gate. If the receivers of the furniture business were relying on Roy for security, they were making a false economy. A few old bricks were lying around in the passageway and he used them as a platform to haul himself up and over the gate. He dropped down heavily on the other side: the aching of his knee joints as he hit the ground reminded him that he was neither as young nor as fit as he used to be.

  The steps of the fire escape were sleek with rain and he took care to grip the cold railing as he began his ascent, remembering that Roy had described it as a death trap. He had no wish to emulate Luke by plunging to his doom from a great height. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea not to look down.

  Slow as a septuagenarian, he made his way up towards the roof. When he reached the top he was out of breath, as much because of the tension he could not help feeling as the steepness of the steps. He squatted on his haunches at the foot of the flagpole, trying to recover his breath.

  The last time he had come on to the rooftop had been in daylight.
In the dark, it seemed different, shadowy and sinister. The wind was much stronger than before and Harry remembered that the guardrail around the roof had been low. A fierce gust coming in from the river might pick up even a grown man and toss him to the street below. And what was the noise coming from the direction of the fire escape? Was it possible that someone had followed him here?

  He shivered and told himself not to allow imagination to conquer common sense. Jim was bound to be right. Roy had skipped and this was a waste of time. It would be absurd to peer down the fire escape and try to detect a non-existent pursuer. He clambered to his feet and squared his shoulders before walking across the roof to the window of Roy’s studio.

  The room was in darkness. The curtains had been drawn, but there was a crack between them. Harry peered through it. He could not see much, but it was possible to make out that there was someone sprawled across the sofa. A man who might perhaps be asleep - but Harry did not think so.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said.

  Even as the words left his lips, he heard something behind him. Fear paralysed him. No doubt about it this time. Someone really had followed him up the fire escape. For a moment he thought he was about to throw up. He bit his bottom lip hard as he fought to master his terror. He could taste his own blood. It was no time to surrender to a man who had killed before.

  It’s him or me, he thought.

  Then he turned, lowered his head and charged towards the dark figure who stood at the top of the iron stairway. But the other man saw him coming all the way and raised a gloved fist as he swerved to avoid a collision. Harry hit the guardrail and lost his footing. He felt himself falling and the last thing that passed through his mind before he lost consciousness was that now he would never know whether Gary Cullinan had killed Roy - or the other way around.

  Part Three