The Devil in Disguise

by Martin Edwards

  knew Roy had been spending quite heavily and it didn’t take much to put two and two together. When he spoke to me, he was thinking of asking a firm of outside accountants to undertake a special audit and find out how much money was involved. He wondered if he should give Roy a chance to make amends and repay whatever he’d taken before matters went any further.’

  ‘And what was your view?’

  ‘I thought it was a good idea. Roy is an old friend. I don’t defend him - his behaviour can be appalling. But he’s always been a survivor, managed to avoid really serious trouble. A fraud charge would be something different altogether. Call it foolish if you like, but I hated the idea that he might go to prison.’

  ‘What did Luke say?’

  ‘He said he would need to think it over. But yes, I thought he would at least speak to Roy. He didn’t lack a heart. And Roy can charm the birds off the trees when he’s in the mood. I hoped they could work something out between themselves. As long as Roy made amends promptly and resigned as treasurer, Luke might have been willing to leave it at that. He wouldn’t have wanted the Trust to become involved in unseemly publicity if it could be avoided. At the same time, I’m sure he would have insisted on full restitution with the absolute minimum of delay.’

  Harry said softly, ‘And what did you think when you heard about Luke’s death?’

  Ashley’s face darkened. ‘Does it matter? I think I’ve answered the important question. You were right. Luke had cottoned on to Roy’s defalcations.’

  ‘I just wondered if you’d discussed with Roy your theory that Luke was murdered.’

  Ashley fiddled with his cuff-links. ‘You must understand, this is very difficult for me.’

  ‘Because you suspect your old friend of having killed your godfather?’

  The bookshop was silent as Ashley stared like a blind man at the packed shelves. Presently he cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m sorry, Harry. I suppose I should have said something to you earlier.’

  ‘Have you confronted Roy?’

  A mute nod.

  ‘And he confessed to you?’

  ‘No!’ Ashley said fiercely. ‘He did not. He laughed at me, told me I’d always had a vivid imagination. Read too many detective stories for my own good. And then he brushed the whole thing aside and started talking about something else as if what I’d suggested was so absurd as not to deserve more than a moment’s conversation.’

  ‘But did he convince you he was innocent?’

  ‘No,’ Ashley said, bowing his head. ‘Not at all.’

  Harry scarcely noticed the rain as he walked back through town. Although the sky was dark, in his mind everything was becoming clear at last. The key to the puzzle must be the Kavanaugh Trust’s financial plight. For all his eccentricities, Charles had been as generous a benefactor as his father and had covenanted a monthly lump sum right up until his death. Matthew Cullinan was an experienced investment adviser, whose acumen should have helped to shore up the finances. The cost of subsidising a stage musical might have been heavy, but it should not in itself have bankrupted the Trust. However strong his wish to support the Waterfront Players, Luke would not consciously have authorised a grant that was more than he believed was affordable. As treasurer, Roy was in the best position to milk funds for his own benefits. He was notoriously short of money, but Harry recalled the Rolex and his extravagant mood that lunch-time at the Hawthorne.

  Luke had presumably asked Roy to meet him at the Hawthorne and decided to stay there so as to kill two birds with one stone. He could talk to Bruce Carpenter about the musical and then ask Roy how he intended to repay the money he had stolen from the Trust.

  But Roy would not have been willing or able to make good the deficit. Easy to imagine his blustering denial of guilt followed by panic when Luke made his disbelief clear. Luke would have been insistent. If Roy could not put matters right, there would be no alternative but to call in the police. For Roy, though, there had been one alternative. The death of Luke, in circumstances that could be passed off as accident or suicide.

  As he walked down Fenwick Street, Harry glanced up and caught sight of the old furniture store. For a moment he toyed with the idea of calling there to see if Roy was there. On second thoughts, better not - at least until he had decided how to handle any confrontation. Perhaps it was lucky he had not cottoned on to the truth at the time of his visit to the studio. The railing that ran around the roof of the building was alarmingly low. Roy might have started to make a habit of pushing people to their death.

  As he hurried through the main door of the office, still deep in thought, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Frances Silverwood in reception. She looked haggard and ill; her eyes were red and she was blowing her nose. A copy of the local morning paper was spread across her knees.

  ‘What on earth brings you here?’

  She looked up and half-rose from her chair. ‘Thank God you’re here. I called you half an hour ago, but I was told you and Jim were both out. Your girl said she didn’t know when either of you would be back. Because it was so important, I decided I’d turn up on the off-chance.’

  ‘What’s this all about? Is it something to do with Roy Milburn?’

  Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘No, nothing at all. Hasn’t he turned up yet?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Harry said grimly. ‘What, then?’

  She lifted the newspaper and Harry saw that it was open at the page with the report of the opening night of Promises, Promises. There was a small picture of Bruce Carpenter together with his leading lady, a much bigger one of Matthew Cullinan toasting his bride-to-be. ‘I take it you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  Frances swallowed. ‘It’s about Matthew.’

  Harry stared. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘My information is that at this very moment, the honourable Matthew Cullinan is in India. He’s been seconded there for the last twelve months by a cancer charity that he works for, to help with a project to develop a specialist cancer hospital in Madras.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We were with him at the Pool Theatre only last night.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we weren’t. The person we have been dealing with is someone else altogether. He’s an impostor. And now he has disappeared.’

  Chapter 17

  ‘How did you find out?’ Harry asked five minutes later. They had settled in his room and Frances had spread over the desk a copy of the newspaper report which had led to the exposure of the false Matthew Cullinan.

  ‘I had a call this morning,’ Frances said. ‘From a local journalist, a young man called Des Reeve. He’d read the piece in his own paper about Matthew and Inge announcing their engagement. He was contacting me as acting chair of the Kavanaugh Trust. He said he’d called Matthew - or rather, the person we thought of as Matthew - but as soon as he started to probe, the phone was slammed down. When he tried again, the receiver had been taken off the hook.’

  ‘What did Reeve tell you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Apparently he started his career with one of the tabloid papers in London. When he was working as sidekick for a gossip columnist, he came across Matthew Cullinan. He knew that Matthew had been abroad for a long time and also that the man in the photograph taken last night bore no resemblance to him. Needless to say, he sniffed an exclusive. He sounds young, enthusiastic. I suppose he regards it as his big break. He tracked down Inge’s number and dropped lucky. He spoke to Matthew - sorry, I keep calling him that - and tested him out with a couple of questions. With instant success so far as he was concerned. Matthew panicked. When Reeve couldn’t get through a second time, he decided to get in touch with me.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘At first I didn’t believe him. I insisted on ringing off and calling him back at his office to check that it
wasn’t some kind of hoax. Whilst I was off the line, he took a message from someone else who had read the press report and reckoned the man in the photograph, far from being the honourable Matthew Cullinan, was someone he’d been to comprehensive school with in Chester. His name’s Gary Cullinan, apparently, and he has about as much blue blood in his veins as you or I.’

  ‘So you’re convinced?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve never liked journalists. I don’t trust them and this young fellow has an ingratiating manner that didn’t cut any ice with me. But I decided he simply couldn’t have made it up. Although it seemed incredible, once I began to get used to the idea, a good many things that had puzzled me started to make sense.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She puffed out her cheeks for a moment. ‘As you know, he wasn’t above boasting about his family and their money. Yet whenever I asked him about his father, simply to pass the time of day, he would change the subject. It struck an odd note. Looking back now, I realise that he was afraid of making a gaffe that would lead to his being found out.’

  ‘He certainly fooled me,’ Harry said ruefully. ‘Made me think that I needed to watch my manners whenever I was in his presence. When I went to dinner with Matthew and Inge Frontzeck, I was a nervous wreck beforehand, worrying that I might forget myself and start eating peas off my knife.’

  ‘Reeve has been busy,’ Frances said. ‘He’s even managed to speak to Lord Gralam himself. The real Matthew hasn’t set foot in England for the past year, but he was on the phone to his father from India only last night. The idea that he might be working in Liverpool seemed to cause his Lordship particular consternation. He’d much rather think that his second son was helping the needy in Madras than sinking in the squalor of Merseyside.’ Frances sighed. ‘It’s sickening to realise how naïve we have all been. Let’s face it, none of us really knew anything about Matthew Cullinan.’

  ‘What about Inge?’

  ‘Poor woman. I’m sure she hasn’t the faintest idea about the truth.’

  ‘Have you tried to call her?’

  ‘Of course. Reeve was right - her number is unobtainable. Maybe when Matthew took the phone off the hook, she simply didn’t notice it.’

  ‘We need to talk to her,’ Harry said. ‘Any idea where she might be?’

  Frances rubbed her chin. ‘We could try the Cathedral. She has one of the catering concessions there. I remember she once told me she often looks in to make sure everything is under control.’

  ‘I’ll drive you there. But first we speak to Reeve together, yes? Better make sure of our facts before we start slandering one of the richest families in Britain.’

  Des Reeve responded immediately to a call from Frances proposing a discussion about Matthew Cullinan. He suggested they meet in the gardens between Water Street and the parish church and within ten minutes he was greeting them there. He was in his early twenties and had masses of red hair, bright inquisitive eyes and an agreeable manner. Harry thought he resembled a squirrel and it would have been no surprise to see him chewing a conker as he ambled down the path towards them. His handshake was warm and he seemed eager to please. Harry had to remind himself that a squirrel is just a rat with a flair for public relations.

  ‘You’ll understand that I have to check any allegation that one of our trustees may have acted improperly with the utmost care,’ Frances said. ‘That’s why I’ve asked our solicitor to come along.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Reeve said amiably. ‘I’m not surprised you find it hard to credit. You could have knocked me over with a feather this morning when I saw the picture in the paper

  and realised someone was passing himself off as Matthew Cullinan.’

  ‘You’re quite certain about this?’ Harry asked, in his best innocent-until-proved-guilty tone.

  ‘We’re supposed never to let the facts get in the way of a good story,’ Reeve said with a disarming smile. ‘But the bottom line is that I’ve interviewed Matthew. It was when I was down in London. He’s a decent fellow and he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth - but even if he was richer than Croesus, he’d not be able to afford the plastic surgery to make him look like your chap. He’s a small dark-haired fellow with a cast in his eye. See for yourself.’

  He put a hand inside his Oxfam-issue jacket and pulled out a sheet, holding it with exaggerated care lest a gust snatch it away and carry it over the road and into the river beyond. Harry and Frances craned their necks to study it. It was a copy of a fax containing a press paragraph about the charitable deeds of Lord Gralam’s son. The snippet was accompanied by a small head and shoulders photograph.

  Harry let out a breath. ‘Even I would have to admit it’s fairly compelling evidence.’

  Frances’ eyes widened as she read the clipping and for the first time in their acquaintance Harry heard her swear. ‘Shit. He’s fooled us all.’

  Reeve could scarcely conceal his pleasure at their reaction, but he attempted an off-hand tone as he stuffed the clipping away. ‘The real Matthew Cullinan may be no Robert Redford, but as far as I can tell, he’s genuinely caring. Let’s face it, you’d have to be, to spend a year of your life in India raising money for people dying of cancer. He’s been well-known for his charitable activities ever since he left Oxford. Depend upon it, he’s still in Madras.’ A pause. ‘What I’m wondering is - where is Gary Cullinan?’

  With caution worthy of any lawyer, Frances said, ‘You realise I can’t disclose the private address of a fellow trustee to a journalist?’

  ‘Oh, no problem to any reporter worth his salt,’ Reeve grinned. ‘I soon found where our Gary lives. He’s shacked up with Inge Frontzeck, isn’t he? I nipped over to Caldy a little while ago, but no joy. There wasn’t a sign of either of them. My guess is, he’s done a runner. As for her - who knows? Maybe she’s gone with him. Any idea where they might be headed for?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Frances said sharply. The wind was blowing her hair into her eyes and she pushed it angrily away. ‘What you suggest is quite impossible. I’m absolutely sure this will come as a bolt from the blue to Inge. She’s been betrayed - like the rest of us.’

  The wind was sharpening and Harry turned up his coat collar. ‘So what do you know about Gary Cullinan?’

  ‘Not much yet. I’m due to see the chap who gave us his name later today. Then I may be able to start piecing the story together. The way it looks at the moment, our Gary reinvented himself in order to do a spot of fortune-hunting. He chose well, didn’t he? Uwe Frontzeck’s daughter must be one of the wealthiest young women in the North-West.’

  ‘She’ll be heartbroken,’ Frances muttered.

  ‘She might find it helps to talk about it all,’ Reeve said in a pious tone. ‘Here’s a card with my number. If she contacts you, would you ask her to give me a ring straight away? I’m sure she has a story to tell that our readers would love to hear.’

  Half an hour later, Harry was walking through a tunnel lined with tombstones. He was completing a circuit of the Anglican Cathedral while Frances comforted Inge Frontzeck. The pathway that led down from the visitors’ entrance passed underground for a short distance before sweeping out and round into a former graveyard which was now an area of parkland. He emerged into the open air and spotted the two women ahead of him, sitting on a bench, Inge’s head on Frances’s shoulder.

  This place had once been a quarry; in Liverpool’s pomp, much of the stone for its finest buildings had come from here. Later it had become St James’s Cemetery, last resting place for many of the city’s great and good. For the most part, their memorials remained: crosses, obelisks, small monuments. But Harry knew that there were catacombs here too, in which countless ordinary men and women had been interred and then forgotten.

  He glanced up to his left and saw a pastiche Doric temple. The Oratory: a grand name for the old mortuary chapel, but Liverpudlians never did thing
s by halves. Over his shoulder on the right loomed a place that always made him shiver. With its huge sandstone towers, the Cathedral was a house of God that inspired awe like no other.

  Ahead of him, Frances looked up and caught his eye. She gave an imperceptible nod. On the way here, they had agreed that she would talk to Inge on her own before Harry started putting any questions. They could not be sure how Inge would react to the news that her lover was a fraud.

  Inge’s head was bowed, but as he approached, he saw that her cheeks were glistening with tears. He exchanged a glance with Frances. She put a finger to her lips.

  Presently Inge said in a small voice, ‘Sorry. It’s childish to cry. I suppose I should have known it was all too good to be true.’

  Frances put her hand on the younger woman’s. ‘He deceived all of us.’

  ‘I love him, you know. Even now - I can’t find it in me to stop loving him.’

  Frances bit her lip. ‘Men are like that,’ she said fiercely. ‘The more plausible they are, the more they hurt you.’

  Spoken with feeling, Harry thought. Aloud, he said, ‘Are you able to talk about - what happened this morning?’

  ‘I was in the shower when I heard the phone ring,’ Inge said. He could tell she was striving to compose herself, but there was no disguising the tremor in her voice. Her life was being put through a shredder. ‘Matthew - sorry, but what else can I call him? - answered it. I couldn’t hear what was said. When I was dressed, I came downstairs and he was getting ready to go out. I asked who had called and he fobbed me off, said it was a business associate. Of course I never dreamed it had been someone from the Press. He told me he would have to go out to organise a business deal. It had cropped up unexpectedly and he had to deal with it at once. I was surprised, but of course I didn’t question him closely. I - I’ve always trusted him implicitly.’