A Very Good Hater

by Reginald Hill

  ‘My daughter, Rita,’ said Mrs Waterfield, noting the movement of Goldsmith’s eyes.

  It wasn’t till he was driving away from the house that Goldsmith identified the resemblance.

  Dora, Housman’s girl, whom he had met the previous Saturday.

  He smiled. It was perhaps the first time anything about this business had made him smile.

  Obviously some ships passed closer than others.

  Liz was waiting for him outside the cottage, leaning up against her Mini, smoking a cigarette. As usual she looked as if she had dressed and combed her hair while fleeing from a fire.

  ‘You should have waited inside,’ he said drily, thinking of the broken window.

  It was the wrong thing to say. For some time Liz had been hinting how useful it would be for her to have a key, but Goldsmith had steadfastly ignored her. At times it was true that the cold emptiness of the place could be daunting in anticipation, but at least it was a certainty. With a spare key in circulation, he could never be sure that Liz would not be waiting inside when he returned. Or Mrs Sewell even.

  ‘I was worried,’ said Liz in a hurt voice as he ushered her into the living-room. ‘Where the hell were you anyway? They said you were sick.’

  I was,’ said Goldsmith. ‘I felt better later on, fancied some fresh air. That was all.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said casually. ‘Were you out for long?’

  He was being gently investigated, he realized. Perhaps Vickers had primed his defence mechanism.

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Well, you picked a good day for a walk. I thought you’d changed your mind and gone to Scarborough.’

  She must have noticed the Land-Rover had gone. Or made it her business to check. He grunted neutrally, annoyed at having to play the question-answer game with Liz, and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. When he returned she was tidying up.

  ‘This place could do with a good clean,’ she said.

  ‘It does me.’

  ‘And you’re beginning to look a bit scruffy yourself, Bill. When did you last have that jacket cleaned? And for Christ’s sake get a haircut before the Selection Board. That mop doesn’t suit your anti-intellectual image.’

  “That’s what I’ve got, is it? Shall I work a bit of dialect into my answers?’

  She took her coffee and sat down in front of the empty fireplace. The chill of autumn was in the room and the uncurtained window looking out on to the dark garden and black line of the stony ridge beyond was like a hole in space, giving a glimpse of some alien landscape. Shivering, she put down her coffee cup, rose and drew the curtains.

  ‘Jeff wants to see you before Wednesday’s meeting,’ she said, resuming her seat. ‘I expect he’ll ring. You are well enough to go back to work tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘I should think so. My walk did me good,’ he answered calmly, meeting her irony with his own. She ignored it.

  ‘I’ve often wondered what made you start with politics in the first place, Bill,’ she said. ‘It struck me just the other day how little I know about you really. It’s what? nine, ten years since I first met you. But before that, well you’re just a blank.’

  ‘Surely not,’ he said lightly. “There are plenty of people round here who’ve known me longer than that. You must have had a nice gossip with some of them. And you know I was in the Army.’

  ‘So they say. But you never talk about the past. I don’t really know what you did, where you’ve been, who you met. What kind of child were you? I’ve never met any of your ancient relatives who’ll tell me embarrassing stories about your infant habits or show me old snapshots.’

  ‘That’s what comes of dedicating your life to the pursuit of loneliness,’ he answered with a forced laugh.

  ‘Does it? Well, when you’re Prime Minister the papers will want the full biography bit. I’ll just wait till then, shall I?’

  Now Goldsmith laughed properly.

  ‘Liz, behind every great man there’s a great woman, they say. Now either you’ve got the wrong man or you’re going to have to slow down a hell of a lot to get behind me!’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Liz, finishing her coffee and standing up. ‘You need no one behind you. That’s your big asset, Bill. You look so self-contained, people believe you can do anything.’

  ‘Perhaps I can,’ said Goldsmith.

  He did not suggest that she should stay the night, nor did she indicate if she wanted to. But as she left, she removed the coat which he’d draped carelessly over the banister at the foot of the stairs and hung it neatly on a coat-hook behind the door, as though establishing some kind of bridgehead on his territory.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY was a day of drenching showers and gusting winds. With the clouds scudding behind its tall chimney-stacks and the shrubbery boiling around its walls, Green-mansion this morning looked as if it had weighed anchor and nosed out of harbour into the open sea.

  The garden looked a little less well kept than the previous week, thought Goldsmith as he drove the Land-Rover through the gates. Perhaps it was just the weather.

  There were two cars parked outside the house and one of them started up as he approached and headed down the gravel drive towards him.

  Goldsmith applied his brake, feeling annoyed. The drive was narrow and one of them would have to back. In addition he hoped it wasn’t Mrs Housman going out for the day. Or Vickers either. He had little desire to meet Vickers here once more.

  But the car was too opulent for an honest policeman. It halted bumper to bumper with the Land-Rover and its driver got out and trotted through the rain to Goldsmith’s passenger door.

  It was Templewood.

  ‘Christ almighty, what do you think you’re doing here?’ he demanded without ceremony, climbing in and slamming the door.

  ‘Visiting. What about you? Selling brushes, is it?’

  ‘I’ve been doing What I said I’d do,’ said Templewood, lighting a cigarette. ‘Checking up. I introduced myself as an old business friend of Housman’s.’

  ‘Great minds,’ said Goldsmith.

  ‘Not you too! For God’s sake, forget it, Billy boy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, for a start, you haven’t got the background, have you? Like I told you, my company has in fact done business with J. T. Hardy’s, so I know the right names to drop. Also, when it comes to getting info from broken-hearted widows, some people think I’m top of the class.’

  He smiled smugly at Goldsmith and waggled his bushy eyebrows with a self-satisfaction that was not altogether caricature. Goldsmith stared back at him expressionlessly, the only effective counter he had ever discovered to the man’s sexual vanity.

  ‘And have you made any progress?’ he asked finally.

  Give us a chance, mate!’ protested Templewood. ‘This isn’t just a bed job, is it? Not that I’d mind. No, this needs just a touch more subtlety.’

  ‘Which I lack?’

  ‘Oh bollocks, Billy. I didn’t say that! But look, it’s daft to have two of us pussyfooting around here, isn’t it? The last thing we want is to stir things up.’

  ‘It’s a bit late,’ began Goldsmith, but stopped as he became aware of a blurred face outside the steamed-up passenger window.

  Templewood turned and wound down the glass.

  ‘Hello there!’ he said. Outside, looking very wet, was Dora.

  ‘Washing your hair, are you?’ continued Templewood, reaching out and tugging at a rain-matted strand.

  Dora smiled widely and Goldsmith suddenly felt jealous. Without the ocular proof, you could always assure yourself that ninety per cent of Templewood’s instant feminine conquests were mere fantasy. But Dora’s smile was genuine and affectionate.

  ‘You said you’d look at the gears on my bike,’ she said accusingly. She was a very different girl from the solemn imitation-adult Goldsmith had met. Templewood’s creaking charm had worked wonders in a single meeting.

  ‘So I did, a
nd so I shall. Instantly. See you in the garage, shall I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dora. As she stepped back from the window, her gaze went past Templewood and met Goldsmith’s for the first time.

  “Oh, hello, Mr Goldsmith,’ she said as she moved away.

  Well, she remembered my name, thought Goldsmith, absurdly pleased, which was more than Templewood was.

  ‘How the hell does she know your name?’ he demanded.

  I was about to tell you,’ answered Goldsmith calmly. ‘I was here last week.’

  ‘Last week! Jesus! So that was you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Mrs Housman mentioned that someone had dropped in, someone else she didn’t know, I mean. Well, well, Billy. Surprise. You’re the fast worker when you want, aren’t you? Did you get anything?’

  ‘Not much here.’

  Briefly Goldsmith filled his companion in on his investigations.

  ‘All negative, I’m afraid,’ he concluded.

  Templewood whistled admiringly.

  ‘You’ve done well, Billy boy. Only, be careful not to stir things up too much, eh? Remember, there could be a murder charge at the end of this. Or manslaughter anyway. I’ve not been idle myself, mind you. There’s been a lot of speculation in local business circles as you’d expect, and I’ve been chatting up my contacts like mad. I’ve spent a fortune on double gins. Mind you, it has its compensations. One of the directors of J. T. Hardy’s has got this wife. Christ, what a length of leg! You need to be a steeplejack! I’ve got half a suspicion Housman may have done a bit of climbing there himself. We shall see. You never know, he might have been gabby in bed. But so far everything in Sheffield stops or rather starts in 1950. And you’ve got further back than that. What was that address in Leeds again? Agnes Waterfield sounds like one for me, eh?’

  Goldsmith dictated the address, then suggested they should sort out their cars before everyone in the neighbourhood noticed this encounter. He could see that Templewood was still worried in case his visit to the house should stir suspicion in Mrs Housman’s mind, but he had to agree that for Goldsmith to leave now, especially since Dora had seen him, would be very odd.

  ‘I’ll back up then,’ said Templewood finally. ‘I’ve got to fix the kid’s bike anyway. Take care now, son. And make this your last visit. If the police are still sniffing around, it’s not worth taking chances.’

  Goldsmith watched him reverse away with mixed feelings. Templewood’s patronizing self-assurance always made him angry, but at the same time he had to admit he had misjudged the man after their meeting in the White Rose when he had been certain that his promises of help were placebos prescribed out of self-concern. Now here he was, actively and visibly engaged in the hunt for Hebbel.

  As he stepped out of the Land-Rover and walked up the steps to the front door, he saw Templewood and Dora disappear into the garage together. He stared gloomily after them, thinking that if Templewood went into politics, he might indeed have some of the qualities necessary to get to Downing Street, principally charm without involvement and vanity without doubts.

  Hello, Mr Goldsmith. How nice to see you again.’

  It was the high clear voice of Mrs Housman who once again had managed to materialize unnoticed behind him. She had opened the front door to let a man out. He was of medium build, fair-haired with a bald patch like a monk’s tonsure, and he had a long, set, rather awry face as though he had been eating a large mouthful of nougat and had been petrified in mid-chew. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but despite the fact that the man stared with open interest at Goldsmith, Mrs Housman made no attempt to introduce the two.

  ‘Please step inside, Mr Goldsmith. I won’t be a moment.’

  He obeyed, glad-to get out of range of the man’s scrutiny. He could be another policeman, perhaps, but Templewood would surely have warned him of his presence. If he had known.

  ‘Good day, Mr Munro,’ he heard the woman say. Then she came through the door and closed it behind her.

  She was a very attractive woman. He found himself contrasting her small, delicate features and cool self-possession with Liz’s much greater exuberance of both appearance and personality. This one might not trudge from door to door canvassing in a rain-storm, but she would know how to send her husband’s dinner guests home convinced that their host was a man with a future.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude again,’ he began awkwardly as she led him into the same room as on the previous occasion.

  ‘It’s no intrusion. I’m delighted you were able to return so soon. And this time you mustn’t rush off so quickly. Would you like some coffee? I’ve just made some. Or a drink perhaps?’

  ‘No, it’s a little early for me. Coffee would be fine.’

  She looked much more relaxed than she had done the previous week. Most of the lines of tension had left her face. Perhaps, thought Goldsmith suddenly, Templewood had offered to tickle her breasts with his eye-brows.

  The thought made him feel guilty, as if he’d spoken it aloud. No, he decided, watching her pour the coffee with an economic grace of movement, she’s not his type. The Templewood tactics would have little effect here.

  ‘How’s your little girl?’ he asked.

  ‘I think she’s over the worst,’ she replied, glancing at her wrist-watch. ‘She should be home soon. She insisted on going to the shops despite the rain. It’s my birthday on Monday, so it all had to be done secretly and by herself.’

  She smiled with a kind of rueful affection as she spoke.

  ‘She is back,’ said Goldsmith. ‘I saw her by the garage.’

  ‘Oh good. She’ll be pleased to see you again.’

  It was mere politeness, Goldsmith knew, yet the idea gave him a disproportionate pleasure. He recognized that he would have to watch this carefully and not forget the real and squalid basis of his relationship with this family.

  Mrs Housman’s next remark did the reminding for him, putting him on full alert.

  ‘Forgive my asking, Mr Goldsmith, but my husband did not owe you money by any chance, did he?’

  ‘No!’ he said strongly. ‘What gave you such an idea?’

  ‘Well, it’s always a possibility that undocumented debts are left, isn’t it? And the embarrassment of mentioning them must be acute. Neil tended to emulate the Gulbenkians and Gettys of the world and carry little or no cash with him, I know. So I thought …’

  She let her voice tail off in a beautifully modulated dying fall.

  I’m being offered an option, thought Goldsmith suddenly. Look sheepish, say well, yes, as a matter of fact it was just fifty, seventy-five, a hundred pounds … and the cheque-book would come out. I would finish my coffee and she would smile sweetly and offer her hand as I left. For good.

  ‘I think Inspector Vickers must have been talking to you,’ he said.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Probably uttering warning words about strange men scavenging round the tables of rich funeral feasts.’

  She smiled sweetly now, but with genuine sweetness.

  ‘He may have said something. Let me apologize if I’ve offended you, but it seemed simpler to speak directly. I’m glad I was wrong.’

  ‘Of course, I could be after larger game,’ said Goldsmith boldly and to his own amazement. This was Templewood’s line, not his!

  That I can deal with without the police. Let’s talk about Neil, shall we?’

  Of course. I’m sorry. You were his secretary, weren’t you, before you married?’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He must have done,’ he answered.

  ‘Interesting. You must have been close to him. He talked very little of personal matters to others. He never mentioned you to me, for example. Yes, I was his secretary. I’d been working as a typist at Hardy’s for about a year when he joined the firm. I was his secretary for only two or three months. He offered me the job himself, asked me to go out after a fortnight, asked me to marry him six weeks later. A whirlwind romance, I th
ink they call it.’

  ‘You must have made a strong impression,’ said Goldsmith. ‘Neil struck me as a ‘thoughtful, prepared kind of man. Most things he did would get careful advanced planning.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Housman neutrally.

  And yes, thought Goldsmith. She wondered herself now. Thirteen years of marriage must have made her wonder. Was Housman the kind of man to be swept off his feet? Or the kind of man to see in this woman something that he needed? Nothing as blatant as being the boss’s daughter or related to the county gentry, but qualities of composure, dignity and reliability which would give impetus to and weather with an ambitious man’s rise. And was it too fanciful to think that these qualities were all the better for being found in a girl young enough to be swept off her feet into an unquestioning acceptance of the relationship for many years?

  Fanciful or not, the questions must eventually have come. The point was, did any answers follow?

  ‘Dora must have been born fairly early in your marriage,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Not too early,’ she said, with a gentle ironic stress.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said quickly.

  ‘That doesn’t follow either,’ she said.

  Goldsmith began to feel he was being quietly mocked.

  ‘It must have been fascinating to know Neil in those early days with Hardy’s,’ he said. ‘Before he built it up from nothing.’

  ‘Hardly nothing, Mr Goldsmith. It was a good sound business in a small way; just beginning to flourish again after the war. A good injection of capital was all that was needed. And a bit of know-how about cutting corners on building regulations and getting hold of materials. That’s what Neil brought to Hardy’s.’

  ‘Which?’ asked Goldsmith. ‘The know-how or the capital?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Useful. Where did he get it, I wonder?’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Either.’

  She looked at him assessingly, mocking no longer. She’s wondering what I’m all about, thought Goldsmith. She senses this isn’t a real, normal, inconsequential conversation, but for the life of her, she can’t guess what it really is. Can she?