‘Did he? So what? I suppose everybody was going to do something else before the war. Me, I might have become a monk!’
Templewood laughed raucously at the thought and Goldsmith began to feel angry.
‘So you admit now it was just a farce? Listen, Tempy, I’m a busy man, I don’t like wasting a couple of days chasing shadows.’
‘You’re a politician, Billy,’ said Templewood lightly. ‘I thought you’d have been used to it.’
‘Oh, go to hell! You’re the most self-centred bastard I know.’
He turned away, but Templewood grasped his arm.
‘Look, Billy, I’m sorry. I’m not doing the big kiss-your-arse apology thing, because I’ve still got a feeling about this boy. But that’s all. Just let’s stand back from it awhile. I’ll keep sniffing around now I know where to sniff, and you get back to waving the people’s flag. OK?’
Someone somewhere was banging a glass on a table. Templewood looked round in alarm. ‘Oh Christ!’ he said. ‘It sounds like speech time. I’m off. Nice to see you again. Next year, eh? DV and WP. Sorry to have mucked your week up.’
‘Hold on,’ said Goldsmith, suddenly full of guilt at his outburst. A few drinks quickly brought out a latent sentimental vein in him. Templewood might be an egotistical sexual obsessive who fancied himself as a detective, but there were strong bonds of experience holding them together.
‘Have another drink before you go.’
‘Can’t, old son. Don’t want the lady to start without me, do I?’
‘Then give me a ring tomorrow morning. I needn’t catch a train till mid-afternoon. We could lunch together.’
‘OK. I won’t promise, depends on how many encores I take. But I’ll try. See you!’
He moved away with his characteristic confident strut; like a bantam heading for the hen-coop, thought Goldsmith.
‘Billy? Billy Goldsmith!’ said a voice behind him. ‘How’s tricks? For God’s sake, get that glass filled!’
He turned, only half recognized the man who so familiarly greeted him, but gladly accepted the invitation to fill his glass.
Goldsmith usually stayed sober, even on occasions like this. There were gaps in himself whose emptiness sometimes ached, but he had never found alcohol could even begin to fill them. And he was not a man who readily slackened his lines of control. But tonight he gave himself over entirely to the spirit of nostalgic euphoria which ruled the reunion. The drink took a rapid hold on his unaccustomed senses and at ten o’clock, after three or four madly swaying choruses of ‘Bless’em All’, he found himself kneeling over a pink marble lavatory bowl wondering whether to be sick or not.
Behind him perched on the edge of a huge bath was Colonel Maxwell.
‘Vitreous China,’ read Goldsmith, piecing together the letters on the marble. ‘Like perfidious Albion. All Chinese are vitreous.’
‘Made your mind up yet?’ demanded Maxwell.
Goldsmith examined himself mentally, then stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared solemnly back. Even drunk, it was a face which promised control, discretion, reliability. If Maxwell had not been there, he might have spat right into it.
‘I think I’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘Right. Try the cold water,’ said Maxwell.
Obediently he bent his head down into the hand basin and ran the cold tap, cupping his hands and splashing the icy stream into his face.
‘That’s enough,’ commanded Maxwell. ‘Fresh air, a stiff walk, that’ll do the trick.’
Minutes later they were strolling along Regent Street together.
‘No need for you to come,’ protested Goldsmith.
‘That’s all right. I need the walk. Can’t take the stuff like I used to.’
‘I wouldn’t have noticed,’ answered Goldsmith.
‘No? Well, you don’t show much yourself either. Not till you start falling over.’
They continued in silence for a while. The traffic was heavy and the pavements fairly crowded. It was a relief when Maxwell, very much in control, turned right and led him into a comparatively quiet maze of streets which took them into Soho.
‘Interested in this stuff?’ asked Maxwell with a short wave of the hand.
Goldsmith wasn’t certain whether he meant Greek food or naked Ceylonese snake-dancers.
‘No,’ he said, inclusively.
‘More Templewood’s style, eh? He left early.’
‘He’d be flattered you noticed.’
‘I doubt it. Interesting fellow, in some ways. Seems to be doing all right. You see a lot of him?’
‘No. Once a year at the reunion and that’s about it.’
‘I see. Not married, is he?’
‘No. On the contrary,’ Goldsmith laughed.
‘Queer, you mean?’
‘No! Just very hetero-hetero.’
‘Oh. And you?’
Again he wasn’t sure of the precise direction of Maxwell’s question.
‘No.’ The inclusive negative seemed to be in order once more.
‘I thought these political fellows – selection boards, that sort of thing – liked safe family men?’
‘Often they do. Which might be why I won’t get selected.’
‘I think you’ll get anything you like, Goldsmith,’ said Maxwell. ‘Feeling OK now? See you next year then. Good luck.’
It was an abrupt leave-taking and Goldsmith was left standing on the pavement, staring after the Colonel’s stocky erect figure as he marched briskly back the way they had come.
‘Continuous show, friend,’ said a club tout from a nearby doorway, mistaking his hesitation. ‘Leaves nothing to the imagination, If you can imagine it, we can show it.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Goldsmith and continued on his way. His nerves and muscles seemed to be overcharged, sending little shock waves of energy rippling through his body so that he had to increase his pace to absorb them. The thought of going to bed, or even of sitting down, had no appeal at all. He had felt like this before and knew that a night of pure white insomnia lay ahead unless he could push himself into exhaustion.
His rapid stride had taken him across Charing Cross Road and he bore right now making up to New Oxford Street. Another few minutes could bring him to the Kirriemuir Hotel, he realized. A pity it was not earlier. He felt much more in the mood for tailing Housman now than he had hitherto.
His mind began to turn over what Templewood had told him at the reunion. The information about Housman’s business background fitted with the visits he had made in the past couple of days. Except, of course, to the house in Wath Grove.
He began to picture Housman in his mind and for some reason the image he got was more like Hebbel than ever before. It was the drink, of course. Hebbel was in Peru. Or dead perhaps. One of the tens of thousands over whose anonymous bones the new cities of Germany’s economic miracle had arisen. Hebbel could not possibly be Housman, respectable Rotarian Housman, living in some provincial stockbroker belt with his wife and 2.4 children. Was he married? He tried to recall if Templewood had said. Probably he was. Probably he had married his childhood sweetheart, courted long years since in the streets of … why not Manchester? There had to be some reason for his choice of football match that afternoon.
Yes, probably a few words with his wife and family would have clarified matters in a trice. He sounded a reserved kind of man, not the type who would reveal everything about himself to mere business acquaintances.
Yet he had not looked like a naturally reserved kind of man sitting at the bar chatting to the barman; nor when he had inquired if Goldsmith were ill in the washroom.
There was a bit of mystery about him. Goldsmith doubted very much if it was his own particular mystery, but it certainly existed.
His rapid pace and deep introspection finally brought about what it had been threatening for several minutes. He collided heavily with someone and they clung to each other for support and recovery.
‘I’m sorry,’ sa
id Goldsmith breathlessly.
‘You bloody well should be,’ snapped the man he had collided with. He was a balding, horsy-faced man with a Yorkshire accent and a bad-tempered expression. An angry Yorkshireman was not something Goldsmith particularly wanted at the moment. As a councillor, half his life seemed to be spent dealing with angry Yorkshiremen. He smiled conciliatingly, then turned to get his bearings.
He accepted as part of life’s fateful pattern the fact that he was at the foot of the steps which led up to the Kirriemuir Hotel. And it needed no conscious effort of will to set him walking up the steps.
CHAPTER IV
THE ONLY OCCUPANTS of the entrance lounge were two middle-aged women, sitting in the chairs he and Templewood had used two nights earlier. They were discussing a disappointingly immoral play they had just seen. Schoolteachers, on a cultural weekend, Goldsmith categorized them in passing.
The reception desk was empty. He spun the open registration book round, flipped back a page and spotted Housman’s name instantly, Room 26. He looked at the key-board. The 26 peg was empty. Housman must be in his room, or else in the bar or TV lounge with the key in his pocket.
Goldsmith was normally a most circumspect man, but from time to time he found himself started on a course of action which he felt compelled to pursue, no matter what areas of irrationality and rashness lay ahead. Perhaps his awareness of this daemonic urge was the reason for his normal circumspection. He began to climb the stairs now, having no idea what he was going to do or say when he reached Housman’s room, but equally bereft of the power to halt himself.
Room 26 was on the second floor at the back of the hotel, far from the best room even in this very modest establishment. He wondered once again at Housman’s reluctance to live in the luxury which it seemed he could afford.
There was no reply to his knock. He tried a second time with the same result and finally turned the handle. The door swung open with a faint creak.
A bedside lamp was on, but the room was empty. The key lay on the dressing-table. His second guess was right; Housman must have gone out briefly, for a nightcap perhaps or to catch the late news. This was not the kind of hotel which piped television to all its guests. That at least was in its favour, as were the room’s dimensions. A more recent building would have carved the space used here into three or even four aseptic catafalques in which a man could feel he had taken one step towards the tomb. But here it was possible, if you desired, to take a turn round the bed before getting into it.
Goldsmith found he had entered and closed the door behind him. There was no point in hesitating now. Delay only increased the chances of being caught. What had promised to be an embarrassing confrontation had turned into a criminal act and generally the only trick to criminal success is speed.
He began to search.
Beside the wardrobe was an old brown leather suitcase which contained a plastic bag full of discarded clothing. The wardrobe itself held the light grey suit he had seen Housman wearing and another more formal dark grey suit. On the dressing-table was a small framed snapshot of a family group, Housman and, presumably, his wife and daughter. They looked well together. The dressing-table drawers revealed nothing out of the ordinary; handkerchiefs, underclothes, toilet articles.
What the hell do I expect? Goldsmith asked himself savagely. Swastikas? The daemon was weakening and he was becoming more and more aware of the absurdity of his situation.
Behind him something moved. He almost fell as he turned in panic. The full-length curtains were billowing towards him as a sudden breeze puffed in through the wide open sash-window. He let out a long breath of relief which felt as strong as the breeze itself, went to the window to close it, then checked himself, realizing what a giveaway it would be. He leaned on the low sill and peered out. It was not a pleasant prospect; below, there was a fifty-foot drop into a paved kitchen area, littered with boxes, bins and crates, and on all sides loomed the shadowy outlines of buildings, irregularly patterned with squares and rectangles of vinegary light. The thought of the many miles in each direction covered by bricks and mortar suddenly pressed in hard on his mind and he closed his eyes. He hated any sense of confinement and had steadfastly resisted the efforts of the local Labour Party to persuade him to leave his stone-built cottage on the fringe of the Dales and move back into the heart of the ward for which he was councillor.
The breeze dropped, the curtains fell back, he opened his eyes. And found himself looking down at the black leather and chrome document case he had seen Housman carrying. He picked it up, placed it on the bed and tried the catch. It was locked. By now the daemon was quite exhausted and the inexorable pressures which had brought him to the room were being replaced by the more erratic forces of panic. He abandoned the case and headed for the door, but his eyes fell on a pile of loose change and a bunch of keys by the bedside lamp. He paused, indecisive. What could the case hold which could help him in any way? What did help mean in this situation?
Angrily he snatched up the keys and at his first attempt selected the one which fitted the lock.
Unsurprisingly it was full of documents. They were financial, legal, incomprehensible at such a short viewing, but all relating to J. T. Hardy’s. Some large development project seemed to be in the offing and Amberson and Lockhart’s were involved in backing it. It all fitted in with Housman’s movements.
In a pocket in the lid of the case he found some letters, again all obviously connected with business except one, the envelope of which was handwritten. Goldsmith was feeling ashamed of himself now and hesitated about reading it. There was something else in the pocket, in a square buff envelope. He postponed his decision about the letter, thrusting it into his own pocket while he shook out the contents of this envelope.
On to the pale green bedspread fell a passport. Quietly he opened it. Housman’s face, slightly younger, stared out at him. He glanced at the date of issue, 1954, then turned back to the face. The moustache, the spectacles, how much could they change a man? And what was he comparing it with anyway? A chimera, bred of fancy out of fear.
The page opposite the photograph was more helpful. Profession – company director. Place and date of birth – Sunderland 11.11.18. A present for Armistice Day. Residence – England. Height-5’11’. Colour of eyes – blue. Colour of hair – fair. Special peculiarities – none.
The details of date and place of birth at least could be checked, thought Goldsmith. He had no doubt that his research would prove that a child called Neil Housman had been born on that day, and very little that this face belonged to that child. It was time to go. He had lingered too long already and to be caught now with the document case open on the bed would be impossible to explain. He replaced the documents neatly, picked up the passport and its envelope, then before putting them back on an impulse he riffled through the visa pages.
Housman was a much travelled man, was his first thought. But his second thought was much more riveting, so much so that he did not hear the bedroom door open.
In April of the previous year, Housman had visited Peru. And in May two years before that.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The voice was distinctive.
He looked up.
Standing in the doorway, wearing a dressing-gown and pink from freshly bathing, was Housman.
Foolish of me, thought Goldsmith dispassionately. The money and the keys should have told me.
He felt surprisingly in control.
‘Police,’ he said, not in the hope of deceiving, but merely trying to delay the other’s call for assistance. It seemed to work, even though the look on Housman’s face was nine parts incredulity.
‘Show me your warrant card,’ he demanded.
‘What were you doing in Peru last year?’ asked Goldsmith.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
Housman reached for the bedside telephone.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ he continued. ‘In the loo the other night. You couldn’t manage a
piss.’
‘Do you want everyone to know about this stuff?’ Goldsmith tapped the case. ‘And Wath Grove?’
Housman replaced the receiver. He looked very self-possessed.
‘Jesus wept,’ he said. How many of you are there?’
Goldsmith ignored this odd question, hoping that an air of confidence would indicate the place was full of his accomplices.
‘I’m sure we can settle things amicably,’ he said. ‘Just tell me about Peru.’
‘She’s barking up the wrong tree. Peru was merely business. What are you after?’
Goldsmith felt unwell. He did not like what was happening here. ‘She’ must be Housman’s wife who the man imagined had hired him. The thought of the damage he might be doing to their relationship troubled him greatly. He had no right to let his own search for Hebbel harm innocent people. Could Peru be a coincidence? It was a stupid question. Anything could be coincidence. He found that he was massaging his forehead in an effort to ease away the internal pressure building up there.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Housman. He might have been parodying his concern at their first brief meeting, but Goldsmith was not up to detecting such subtleties and infinitely less capable of penetrating defences which (if they existed) had been carefully built up over twenty years.
He dropped the passport into the case and set off for the door. Housman barred his way.
‘Not leaving are you?’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he managed to say.
‘Oh no. We settle this now. You’ve been through my papers, now it’s my turn to check on you.’
Housman, very confident of both physical and mental dominance, took hold of Goldsmith’s jacket and tried to remove his wallet. Resistance was instinctive; the thought that the hands might be Hebbel’s made it violent. He brought his arms between them, flinging them wide and breaking the other’s grip.
‘Christ!’ ejaculated Housman, staggering back and nursing his aching wrists. Goldsmith started for the door again, Housman came at him from the side and launched an attack at his head with more fury than technique. Goldsmith grabbed the loose material of his dressing-gown and tried to fling him off once more, but the other man was ready this time and countered by grasping his jacket lapels.
A Very Good Hater Page 3