The Endings Man

by Frederic Lindsay

  Curle found this too effusive to answer. He kept silence until they were in the front room. Seated, he glanced round and, for something to say, remarked, ‘Plenty of space for a bookcase. One of them would look well in here.’

  This was a mistake, however, for Haskell looked offended. Putting back a lock of blond hair, he said, ‘I thought I’d made it clear. I don’t keep books in here. I’m quite particular about that.’

  Who was it? Curle wondered. George Douglas Brown? Who’d made the point that stupid people would seize on some arbitrary habit and follow it inflexibly as a mark of individuality.

  Haskell, however, had an explanation. ‘For me books should be private. If you took me into a stranger’s house and showed me his books, you’d be surprised how much I could tell about him. Or her.’

  ‘Or her,’ Curle noted.

  ‘Yes. Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t want to keep you from your meal.’

  ‘Oh, it won’t take long tonight. Just a simple salad with a bottle of white wine. I was opening it when the buzzer went. You’re sure you wouldn’t take a glass?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Curle said a shade too emphatically.

  ‘Oh, well.’

  After an awkward silence, Curle said, ‘Can I ask you something about the night Ali was killed?’

  Haskell stiffened. ‘If I killed her? Is that what you want to know?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘That awful bloody woman downstairs thinks I did. Do you know that?’

  ‘I’d no idea. I mean, you must be mistaken.’

  ‘When you came here for afternoon tea, she stole something. She claimed she wanted a pee and took her chance to wander about the place. I only realised once you’d gone.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Curle said.

  ‘Believe it!’

  Curle thought quickly, trying to work out how to use this unexpected turn in the conversation to his advantage. ‘If it is the case,’ he said, ‘she’s just threshing about because she’s distraught over her sister’s death. She desperately needs to know who killed her. You can see how natural that is.’

  ‘I can’t bring Ali back.’

  ‘None of us can.’ Curle felt the sting of unwanted tears. ‘But it would help, it would help me too, if whoever killed her was punished.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ To Curle’s eye, there was something pathetic in the blond man’s plea for reassurance.

  ‘The night Ali was killed Jonah Murray and I left you in the pub with Brian Todd. You remember?’

  Stupid question.

  ‘I’ll never forget that night,’ Haskell said.

  ‘Did you tell him about Ali and me?’

  ‘What was there to tell?’

  ‘Don’t play silly games. You knew we were lovers. Did you tell Todd?’

  ‘…I was drunk. I’m not really a drinker, apart from wine. After you two left, he bought whiskies. I didn’t want it, but he insisted.’

  ‘So you told him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not used to drinking so much. I may have done.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘I think I told him that I lived in the flat above a friend of yours.’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘He kept on at me.’

  ‘And you told him I visited her.’

  ‘For years, I said.’ He stopped, realising what he’d admitted. ‘I’m sorry.’

  It was more than Curle had expected to learn. The stirring of excitement, though, was dampened at once. There was a difficulty. ‘I don’t suppose you told him where you lived?’

  Haskell bit his lip, staring suddenly. ‘Wait a minute. What’s this about?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you thinking this fellow Todd…’ He baulked at putting the idea into words. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking, it doesn’t make sense. He didn’t know her. He’d never even heard of her until that night.’

  All of which was true, but he hadn’t raised the obvious objection.

  ‘But he did know where you lived? You told him where you lived?’

  Curle held his breath.

  ‘I had to. He gave me a lift home.’

  ‘You took him up to your flat?’

  ‘No! Of course not.’

  ‘Did you watch him drive away?’

  ‘No. I thanked him and he went off. I imagine that’s what happened… What else would happen?’

  ‘Is there any chance you didn’t close the street door properly when you went in?’

  Haskell threw up his hands. ‘I was drunk. I go in and out every day. I suppose I shut it.’

  ‘Did you tell the police about Todd running you home?’

  ‘Yes – not that they were interested. I mean, why on earth would they be?’

  They wouldn’t be. But then, Curle thought, they don’t know there’s a history between Todd and me. What was it Jonah had said?: He must hate you very much; we must find out why.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Curle was on the second flight down when he heard the sound of Haskell’s door being closed. He turned and, stepping softly, quickly remounted the stairs.

  When Linda Fleming opened the door, he put his fingers to his lips and mouthed, ‘Can I come in?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped aside. He went in past her and without waiting for an invitation made his way to the front room and sat down.

  When she’d joined him, he said, ‘I’ve just been with Haskell.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her face lit up as she took her seat opposite him. ‘I see.’

  He said, ‘I wanted to put your mind at rest. I’m certain he isn’t the one.’ There was no need to explain what he meant by that.

  As the animation drained away, he was shocked to see how much she had aged since their last meeting. She hadn’t brushed her hair and, without make-up, it straggled around a pale face marked by dark clown circles under the eyes.

  She turned her head away from him. ‘I didn’t sleep last night.’

  ‘You shouldn’t stay here.’ He felt an impulse of genuine concern. ‘It’s doing you harm.’

  ‘How can I leave?’

  ‘What’s to stop you? Get an agent to put the flat on the market and go home.’

  ‘You’re not being honest!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just asking you to be honest with me. Haven’t I the right?’

  ‘I’m sorry – I’ve no idea, what do you mean?’

  ‘You ask me to give up. You’re not giving up. Why else would you be seeing him?’ She jerked a hand at the ceiling. ‘I don’t need protecting. So don’t lie to me about him. I know he killed my sister.’

  ‘But he’s gay.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Not waiting for an answer, she added scornfully, ‘Who else could it be, if it isn’t him?’

  She watched him with an expression of growing incredulity as he told her about Brian Todd.

  When he’d finished, she shook her head and said slowly, ‘He killed Ali because he bullied you at school?’

  He flushed. ‘He hates me for some reason.’

  ‘What has that to do with a woman he’d never seen or even heard of?’

  ‘Because she was mine.’

  ‘That isn’t a reason to kill someone.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t intend to kill her.’ No sooner had the thought come to him than it seemed enormously persuasive. ‘Maybe he went there to talk to her. Maybe he was arrogant enough to think she’d let him make love to her. When she didn’t, he tried to rape her and…it went wrong.’

  ‘Went wrong! You mean he beat her face, smashed all the bones in her face. And stamped on her. My sister, you’re talking about my sister. Oh, Christ,’ Linda Fleming said, ‘you’re all so sick.’ She moved both hands across her face, pressing it gently, as if feeling the
bones. ‘Could you leave me alone now? Please.’

  He got to his feet.

  At the door, he paused and said, ‘He knows his diary is missing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He was shamed by her fear.

  Wanting to comfort her, he said, ‘It doesn’t matter. There wasn’t anything in it.’

  ‘But can he be sure of that?’ she cried.

  There was silence for a moment. Then in a different voice, she said again, ‘Can he be sure?’

  Torn between wanting to get away and pity for her isolation and vulnerability, he offered her the number of his mobile phone and escaped.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Saturday morning, Curle ate the food Liz put in front of him without tasting it, trying to decide what to do. Constrained, Liz made no attempt to break into his silence. Since her meeting with Brian Todd at the hotel, since her passion of weeping over the death of Mae, a kind of embarrassment had kept husband and wife at arms’ length. Crouched opposite Curle, his son ate without raising his head.

  ‘I have to go out,’ Curle said, pushing his plate away.

  They were the first words he had spoken.

  Liz nodded. As soon as he stood, she reached over for his plate and cutlery, which she piled on her own ready to clear away.

  The boy ate on, lifting the fork to his mouth, chewing and swallowing. Curle had been so absorbed he’d hardly been aware of the other two. Now he went round and laid his hand on Kerr’s head.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said, and felt the little responsive movement under his hand.

  All the way into the city, he seemed to feel it tingle on his palm.

  He had no reason to believe that Meldrum would see him, always assuming he was there at all. Did policemen work on a Saturday? Of course, they did. Double time? Almost certainly not. The police had liaison officers who answered questions about police pay and conditions and other such trivia courteously and seriously. He’d used them himself.

  As he was being led along the corridor to the office, he distracted himself with the thought of Meldrum’s expression if he were to try a few such enquiries on him. I just called in, Inspector, to ask how many hours you work in an average week. At the first sight of the big man looking up from behind his desk, the distraction collapsed. Dry mouthed, Curle told himself he was innocent.

  ‘Mr Curle,’ Meldrum said. He scratched what must have been a signature on a paper in front of him and laid his pen aside.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me.’

  ‘Oh, I’d be seeing you sooner or later.’

  It was said neutrally. There wasn’t any kind of threat in it. It was no more than a matter of fact: however their business together was going to end had still to be settled.

  Gestured to a seat, Curle found himself babbling as he sat down, ‘Saturday morning. Rotten time to be working.’

  The policeman looked at him quizzically. He’s trying to decide, Curle thought, if I’m play-acting. Preparing a defence of idiocy.

  ‘I should be with the others in the Incident Room,’ Meldrum said. ‘I had to take a meeting this morning, though.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I was just leaving.’

  ‘I won’t take up much of your time.’ He hesitated. He’d spent breakfast working out what he wanted to say, but now it wouldn’t come to him. The man across the desk watched him in silence. Curle began again, ‘I’m concerned about Linda Fleming. I saw her yesterday.’

  Meldrum frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘She looks ill and stressed.’

  ‘I mean, why would you go to see her?’

  Thrown out of his stride, Curle stared helplessly. ‘I’d just been to see Haskell.’ He chopped at the air. ‘This is a muddle. Can I explain it my own way?’

  ‘It might be quicker.’

  Curle took the plunge. ‘I think I know who killed Ali,’ he said.

  Meldrum took the news calmly. Leaning back, he said quietly, ‘Not the Classics Professor you told me about before, I hope. We’ve checked university departments from Aberdeen to Durham and points south. Put your mind at rest on that one.’

  ‘Not him. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

  ‘It didn’t take long. But you have someone else now. You went to see Mr Haskell?’

  ‘Not him either.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  For the second time in two days, Curle explained his theory about Brian Todd. He’d spent the previous night awake going over it, and it was a better-honed version than the one he’d offered Linda Fleming. He acknowledged, for example, how unlikely it was that a man would plan to murder a woman the moment after he’d learned of her existence. ‘But I don’t think that’s what he intended. He went to look at her. Probably he went to tell her what a weakling I was. I think then he tried to make love to her and it finished in rape. Once he’d done that, he had to kill her, and the way he did it – all that violence – that was the rage in him.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Meldrum said. ‘And you say he hates you?’

  ‘Ask Jonah Murray. He believes the same thing. The three of us were at school together.’

  ‘My school wasn’t such an exciting place.’

  ‘All right,’ Curle said, ‘it was a boarding school. Whatever you think of them, it does make a difference.’

  ‘From what I understand,’ Meldrum said, ‘they seem to be an important event in the lives of people like yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet am I not right in thinking that this man Todd hadn’t seen you for thirty years?’

  Curle nodded reluctantly. He could see where this was going.

  ‘Is that not odd if he hated you as much as you say?’

  But this was something Curle had thought about. ‘I don’t think he hated me at school. He despised me. Maybe disliked me. But he does hate me now. Something happened in the years in between.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Meldrum looked at his watch again.

  Taking the hint, Curle got to his feet.

  ‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘About Linda Fleming.’

  Meldrum had got up and was walking him to the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s obsessed with the idea Haskell killed her sister. I know it’s wrong.’

  ‘Did she tell you what she did with this diary she stole?’

  ‘She’s hidden it somewhere. The thing is, he knows she took it.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He told me. Dental appointments, stuff like that, how could it matter?’

  Meldrum opened the door. It was a dismissal.

  As Curle stepped into the corridor, he said, ‘Thank you for seeing me alone.’

  ‘I’ve got you on tape,’ Meldrum said. ‘Did I mention that?’ Curle shook his head. A reflex brought the taste of vomit into the back of his mouth. ‘Well, you know now.’

  Chapter Fifty

  Curle wasn’t sure he wanted to speak to Jonah again. Indeed, he found it difficult to picture how they would ever manage to face one another. As with other, less extreme but similar, situations, his strategy had always been to do nothing for as long as humanly possible. It was the same principle as ignoring an in-tray; if you waited long enough, everything in it would have solved itself. Time was a great healer.

  Two days wasn’t long enough.

  He’d come home from his interview with Meldrum to find a note propped against the milk jug on the kitchen table. Liz had taken Kerr into the shops and then over to Ster Century for lunch and most likely a film to go with it, if she could find one that was suitable. ‘I think he needs cheering up,’ she’d written.

  When he read that, something like a stab of jealousy went through him. He knew his son probably loved his mother more than him. What little boy didn’t love his mother best? But as little boys grew up, fathers got their chance. They taught their sons to play golf, bridge or poker, took them to football matches. How could mothers compete with that? A non-golfer, adulterer, murder suspect; had he blown his chance?<
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  He was still chewing over that, together with a pilchard in tomato sauce balanced on a slice of wheaten bread, when Jonah phoned.

  ‘I don’t have the car,’ was Curle’s excuse.

  ‘You only have one car?’

  ‘The Vectra needs a new tyre.’

  ‘…I could come to you.’

  Waiting for him to arrive, Curle was filled with trepidation. What could he possibly want that would make him come all the way out here to the house? He had never visited Curle before, and there, however unworthy, was another cause for concern. It was a nice enough house, but nothing to boast about. In that it was like the old Vectra, both of them middle of the range, family models. Curle had been short of money for long enough to be canny about spending it even after he had some.

  When Jonah arrived, however, he was a man on a mission, too intent to spare a glance for his surroundings. He sat down in the living room with his coat on and refused anything to drink.

  Needing fortification, Curle opened the cabinet and poured himself a whisky.

  As he sat down, Jonah leaned forward and asked, ‘Do you know what a phoenix company is?’

  Curle stared in surprise. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Didn’t expect you to. You write murder stories. You don’t have to know about anything to write murder stories.’

  Too uncomfortable to protest, Curle settled for a mouthful of whisky.

  ‘A phoenix company is one that survives after it’s been liquidated. Before it goes under, all its assets and cash have been handed over to a new firm which just happens to be owned by the same directors as the old one. They go on making money – only difference is that they’ve got rid of all their unpaid debts and taxes. You follow me?’

  ‘Does that work?’

  ‘Like the plague. It costs the country millions.’

  ‘It seems so obvious.’ Despite his confusion, Curle couldn’t help absorbing information that might be useful at some point. ‘You’d think the police would crack down on it.’