He strolled to Inverleith Park and watched half a dozen Indian boys playing cricket. As he made his way back, a thin rain turned from harmless persistence into an intention to turn nasty. As the first big drops launched themselves, he dived down a stairway and took refuge in an Italian restaurant. Bean soup, veal, bitter coffee and a look at the morning paper, an hour and a half later he was back on the street, wondering how to kill time for the rest of the afternoon.
As he walked aimlessly, his feet led him out of habit to a familiar curve of buildings. He pressed the bell and waited until a woman’s voice answered.
‘It’s Barclay Curle. I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk to me.’
‘Come up.’
Linda Fleming met him at the door of the flat.
‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.
The warmth of her welcome took him by surprise. As he followed her along the passage into the front room, he caught the faintest trace of a perfume. Rich almost cloying, petals that hinted at their own decay, it was a scent he had despised himself for responding to so entirely. He had never asked for its name, but Ali had worn it all the time.
He took a seat in the room that had been so familiar and now seemed like part of another time, a lost world. He struggled as he had done before to find a resemblance between Linda Fleming and her dead sister. Something perhaps about the mouth, the shape of the eyes, but if there was one it was no greater than that between two people picked at random from a crowd in the street, strangers bred from the same Lowland stock. As she sat down and crossed her legs, he looked automatically at the curve of her calf and the sleek swell of her thighs. The red shirt she wore had the top buttons undone to show her breasts almost to the nipples and it seemed to him that her skirt was shorter than the one she’d worn to his house. She had struck him then as being restrained, modest even, if that wasn’t too out of date a concept. He wondered if she had dressed for that first meeting to make some kind of statement about the difference between her and Ali. If so, what did the way she was dressed now mean?
‘You came to the funeral,’ she said.
‘I tried to stay well back. I hope no one was upset.’
‘Aunts and some people who had known my parents,’ she said dismissively.
‘I was thinking of your parents. I wouldn’t have wanted to upset them.’
‘No need, they weren’t there. They live in Inverness now. My father’s senile and my mother wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t understand.’
Curle’s quick imagination conjured up a picture of the old woman faced by the empty smile of her husband as the hour passed during which she knew her daughter was being buried far away. ‘How awful for her,’ he said.
‘She’s a strong woman. When my grandmother died, she didn’t put up a stone over her grave. They’d quarrelled over something. Ali and I shared the cost of a stone as soon as we were independent. I can’t tell you how angry she was with us for doing that. In a funny way, we almost welcomed her being so angry. If she ever felt much in the way of emotion normally, she never showed it. We were all glad to get out when our time came.’
‘What kind of man was your father?’
She stared at him. ‘Why would you want to know?’
‘Ali never spoke about her parents.’
‘Why would she?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Did she talk about me?’
He shook his head. She made a face, which might have been disappointment.
‘A quiet man,’ she said. And when he looked puzzled, added, ‘My father. If it matters. Did you want him to be a monster?’
‘Why would I have wanted that?’
‘After Ali got involved with you, I read your books. You don’t write about nice people.’
He shrugged. ‘Books aren’t life.’
‘You can’t write books without giving something away.’
‘That’s true.’ Goaded, he observed impulsively, ‘Ali had a dark side to her nature.’
‘Not with me,’ she said, her face frozen into a mask. ‘Not ever with me.’
Scrambling to retrieve his mistake, he said, ‘I don’t mean dark dark. Lovers’ games. They don’t count.’ What’s said at night should be set aside in the morning.
‘What did you talk about?’
Fucking. Being fucked. Power and submission.
He could find nothing to say, all the glib words deserted him. In the silence, he waited for her to condemn him.
‘You might think we’d be remote from one another, given that upbringing,’ she said. ‘For some reason, it didn’t work like that. All three of us loved one another. But she and I had time to get very close before Jean came along. Because there wasn’t much affection around, she looked for it to me. There was only four years between us, but I felt like a mother to her. At least, I suppose that’s how a mother would feel. I never had a child of my own.’
Overt emotion always embarrassed him. For something to say, he asked, ‘Was Jean at the funeral?’
‘Jean’s dead. The youngest went first. She’d never been sick in her life. One morning, she felt unwell. From the diagnosis to the day of her death was only a matter of weeks.’
Surreptitiously, he turned his wrist so that he could check his watch.
She caught the movement, however, and looking at her own watch cried, ‘Oh, it’s time. Would you come with me?’
‘Where?’
‘He came down last night, but I told him it was late and I was going to have an early night. Then he invited me for tea today, since it’s his afternoon off.’
‘Are we talking about Haskell?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not usually in such a muddle. Truth is, he gives me the creeps, just like Ali described. If there was anything to be found out, I was determined to go. But I wasn’t looking forward to it. And then you knocked at the door. The last person I expected to see. You have to come with me. It’s like fate, you do see that?’
That explained the short skirt and the tight top, he thought. Did she imagine Bobbie Haskell would give himself away by grabbing a breast or sticking a hand up to see if she was wearing knickers? The shame that accompanied the thought (if she believed this fantasy that Haskell might have killed her sister, you couldn’t deny her courage) weakened his resistance to going with her.
‘He hasn’t invited me,’ was the best he could do by way of protest.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, picking up her handbag. ‘How would it look if he refused?’
Chapter Thirty-Four
The repetition of spaces undid Curle. While he had been with Linda Fleming, he had tuned out the colours, carpets, walls, the shape and position of furniture, the painting on the wall, things that reminded him of Ali in a room filled with memories. This repression had taken him through what could have been a very bad experience. In contrast, the similarity of the layout in Haskell’s flat slipped effortlessly under his guard, despite everything in the room he now sat in being unlike anything in the one downstairs, so that for the first minutes after they were seated he had to struggle to keep his self-control.
‘Biscuits all right?’ Haskell asked, as he reappeared carrying a loaded tray. ‘I know Linda enjoys them with a cup of tea.’
When he’d first met him, Curle had thought him no more than twenty. Now that seemed a mistake. With dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well, he seemed older.
‘Isn’t that a charming plate?’ Linda Fleming asked as Curle picked a biscuit from it.
It seemed to him a perfectly ordinary plate with a blue border, but he wasn’t interested in such things.
‘You have lovely taste,’ she said to Haskell. ‘He chose all the furniture,’ she informed Curle, ‘and worked out the colour scheme.’
‘It’s nice,’ Curle managed, looking around vaguely.
‘I offered to help Ali, you know,’ Haskell said. ‘She would talk about getting her flat redecorated, but she never actually got round to it. I told her, you could make this
place a jewel.’
Little fucking gay decorator, Curle thought. She won’t ever get round to it now. He was embarrassed by the sting of tears.
Blinking and looking round again, he said flatly, ‘Like this.’
For what seemed an interminable time, the two discussed decoration and furnishings while Curle ate biscuits, one after another, absent-mindedly, washing them down with weak coffee.
‘I’d even have painted the ceiling for her,’ Haskell said. ‘I could have got men in, but I did this myself.’ And over the woman’s responsive murmurs, ‘I’ve always been good with my hands.’
After a time, Linda Fleming said, ‘I have to go to the loo.’
‘I’ll show you,’ Haskell said getting up
‘No need! I suppose it’s where Ali’s was?’
She had no sooner left the room than Haskell asked, ‘Am I being stupid?’
Curle, startled by the abruptness of the question, was at a loss.
‘Sorry?’
‘I know something was muttered when you arrived, but, I’m sorry, I have no idea why you would be visiting Linda.’
‘To see if she was all right?’ The younger man’s assumption of a right to question him offended Curle. ‘I haven’t seen her since the funeral.’
It was Haskell’s turn to seem disconcerted.
‘You mean Ali’s funeral?’ Curle didn’t think that deserved an answer. Who fucking else’s? he wondered. ‘You were at Ali’s funeral? I’d have gone if I’d known where it was.’
‘You should have asked.’
Haskell jumped up as if he was going to walk out, but instead began to pace about the room.
‘Who was there?’ he asked.
‘Relatives.’
‘I can’t imagine you being welcome. Do you mind me being honest?’
‘Yes. I mind a good deal.’
‘You must have cared for her.’ He sat down again and regarded Curle solemnly. ‘I give you credit for that.’
Curle, a man normally timid about violence, had a strong impulse to get up and punch the young fool in the mouth.
‘If I could be honest with you,’ he said, ‘I don’t give a fuck what you give me credit for.’
‘All the same, it’s true.’ Although Haskell’s cheeks had flushed, his voice was quieter, so soft that Curle strained to catch his words. ‘I thought you were just using her. God knows how many women he has on the side, that’s what I thought. Adultery means nothing now, it’s just a word. It made me so angry that she would let herself be treated like that.’
‘Angry with her?’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Curle had a vision of how Ali had died, the image Brian Todd had described to him of her being beaten to a pulp.
‘Not with her!’ Haskell cried. ‘I was her friend. Angry with you, I’m not trying to deny that. I told you so, didn’t I?’
Sick of the conversation and of the blond man’s histrionics, Curle wanted nothing more than to get out.
He must have glanced at the door to the hall, for Haskell turned his head towards it and frowned.
‘She’s a long time,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should knock?’
Before he could move, however, the door opened to admit Linda Fleming back into the room.
She hurried with short steps back to her chair. As she settled herself, she seemed unaware of how far the short skirt rode up her thighs. There was, too, a slight flush on her cheeks. Perhaps, Curle thought, taking so long embarrasses her. In a moment, however, as she straightened from putting her bag on the floor beside her chair, she pulled the skirt down and asked, ‘What did I miss?’
‘I was saying,’ Haskell said quickly, ‘how sorry I am not to have been at the funeral. I could have asked for time off. Perhaps if you tell me where she’s buried, I could take flowers to the grave.’
Her face froze for a long moment before she managed to speak. ‘The funeral was in Glasgow. Too far to ask you to go.’
‘I was her friend,’ he said reproachfully.
Despite Curle’s efforts, it took another quarter of an hour before they left. Linda Fleming, perversely, as it seemed to him, taking her time about their departure.
At the door, Haskell laid a hand on her arm.
‘Take a deep breath.’
He smiled at her bewilderment.
‘Don’t tell me you can’t smell it?’
As he spoke, Curle caught the heavy mouth-watering smell and was amazed not to have noticed it before, a sign of how tense he had been when they arrived.
‘What is it?’ Curle asked.
Haskell flicked him a glance, but spoke to the woman. ‘Ghisau – Sardinian beef stew. I made it once for Ali. I get the beef from Colin Peat, a butcher in Haddington. It’s every bit as good as the Sardo Modicano the Sardinians use. And the best plum tomatoes I could find, though they’re not San Marzano unfortunately.’
‘I’m sure it’s very nice,’ Linda Fleming said. His hand still lay on her arm.
‘Come and help me eat it. There’s far too much for one. I can freeze what’s left, but I’d much rather enjoy it with someone. I was going to eat about seven. Please come.’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’d like to, but Mr Curle has asked me to eat with him.’
At Haskell’s glance, Curle nodded.
A moment later, the door was closed on them.
As they went down the stair, Curle said, ‘I don’t think he cares much for me.’
She didn’t answer, hurrying down so quickly he feared she would stumble. As they came to her door and he began to say goodbye, she urged, ‘Come in! Quickly!’ glancing at the stair to the upper floor as if expecting pursuit.
Reluctantly, he followed her inside.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I really have to be going. I’ve arranged to meet my wife.’
Disregarding his words, she beckoned him into the front room. As he followed, she was upending her handbag on to the small coffee table. A fat grey notebook tumbled out of it.
‘I found it in his bedroom,’ she said. ‘It was in the drawer of a bedside table. I think it’s his diary.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Curle said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Walking away from Royal Circus, Curle could still feel in his chest a physical memory of how his heart had pounded as he came from what he still thought of as Ali’s flat out on to the landing. He’d fully expected to confront Haskell demanding the return of his stolen property. Going down the stairs to the street had been a flight from the risk of pursuing footsteps. It shows what a bad conscience does, he consoled himself, when even a weed like Haskell can put the wind up you. To make matters worse, Linda Fleming’s impulsive theft of the book had been pointless. A hasty glance had told her it was a diary, but they’d read it from end to end and found nothing more incriminating than dental appointments and books ordered on Amazon.
Curle was almost back to his car, when he stopped abruptly and crossed the road to check the numberplate of a green Subaru estate parked under a streetlight. He wondered how he’d missed it earlier. Perhaps Liz had for some reason needed to use the car in the afternoon and found this place when she came back. In any case, she’d parked facing against the traffic. He went back to his own car and angled the driver’s side mirror so that he could just glimpse the Subaru. She would have to come right across the road, giving him a good chance of spotting her and making it easy to pull out himself and follow. A glance at his watch told him that it was just after six.
As he waited, he wondered what would happen when Haskell realised his diary was missing. It might not happen for some time, for he didn’t seem to make much use of it. If they were lucky and a week or two passed, maybe even longer, it was just possible that he might not connect its disappearance with his two visitors. Nice to believe that, but Curle didn’t persuade himself. Wishful thinking, he thought, biting his lip. For one thing, he had a feeling Haskell didn’t entertain many people to his flat. On the worst scenario, he’d notice it was missing
this evening, in which case he’d know at once who had taken it. Entirely absorbed in her disappointment that the diary proved nothing, Linda Fleming had seemed surprisingly unconcerned about the consequences of her action, but he should have stayed with her longer. Brooding on this, he almost missed the Subaru looming into his mirror as it cut across the traffic.
By the time he managed to pull out, he was three cars behind it. It was harder to follow a car than he had realised. All right in fiction, in real life it would involve a team of pursuers and more than one car. Twice, the Subaru went through a set of lights, which caught him on the red. By good luck more than skill, he reeled her back into sight each time. It was quickly obvious that she wasn’t going home, and when they turned right on to Corstorphine Road he fretted himself with the notion that she might be on her way to Glasgow. She was at least as able a driver as he was, and he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the Subaru on the motorway. They passed the zoo and a light, steady rain began to fall. It was a relief when she turned into a side road. Not long afterwards, her indicator lights came on. As he drove past, he saw the neon sign indicating a hotel.
He parked and walked back, hunching his shoulders against the rain. Squinting between a pair of stone pillars, he saw the Subaru at the end of a line of half a dozen cars parked in front of the façade of a long two-storey red-brick building. Reluctantly, like a man going to be hanged, he made for the splash of light that marked the entrance.
On the other side of the revolving doors, it was dry and warm. A woman looked up from her place behind the reception desk, studying him as he hesitated. Through an open door behind her a man in shirtsleeves could be seen talking on the phone.
From his left, he heard what might have been voices coming from what he assumed was a bar. As he went nearer, however, the sound resolved into a fretful Muzak track, and the dimly lit space was empty except for a couple seated at a table in the far corner. Their heads were close as they leaned towards one another. Curle recognised Brian Todd at once, but it was only when he lifted his glass and said something that made the woman laugh that he was forced to admit the woman was Liz. In a state of shock, he retreated across the hall under the watchful eyes of the woman behind the desk. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes.
The Endings Man Page 13
