He pecked Liz on the cheek, seized the cup of coffee she had brought upstairs with her and drank it as he finished his dressing on the stairs. Liz, far from being offended by his casual manner, seemed to sense something uxorial in it and contented herself with shouting after him without heat, ‘I’ve got a job, you know!’
He was far from sure what to do about Munro. There were dangers in every course, but to do nothing might be most dangerous of all. Halfway through the morning he called Directory Enquiries and got Jennifer Housman’s number. An hour later he decided that more rehearsal was just going to make him sound as unconvincing as a washing-powder commercial, and dialled.
Mrs Housman answered, her cool, high voice immediately recognizable. She sounded pleased to hear from him, and unsurprised. Nothing appeared to surprise her. He felt an impulse to try her with I think your husband may have been a Major in Hitler’s SS. She would probably still have remained unsurprised and that would have given him even more cause for worrying speculation, the nature of which had already changed from its relatively simple origins.
They chatted a while. Dora had talked about the unexpected ‘treat’ all through breakfast and expressed a hope that Goldsmith would soon come back and do a hand-print for her.
‘I’m flattered,’ said Goldsmith.
‘She needs a masculine presence somewhere in the offing,’ said Mrs Housman evenly.
‘By the way,’ said Goldsmith, ‘we may be needing to hire an investigator at the office. A small matter, but I wondered about that fellow Munro. Do you know anything about his background? Was he ever a member of the police force, for instance? I believe a lot of them were.’
‘Yes, I think he was,’ she answered. ‘I believe he used that as a selling line when I first contacted him.’
‘You don’t sound very impressed.’
There was a short pause before she answered, ‘No, I can’t say I was.’
‘I see. Perhaps we should look elsewhere then. Well, back to the grind. I look forward to coming to do that handprint some time.’
It was a blatant piece of invitation-fishing. But she merely brushed against the bait, gently amused, saying, ‘Dora will be delighted to hear that,’ and was gone.
So, he thought, Len the landlord had been right when he said Munro and Vickers were the same kind. Assume Munro still had contacts on the force. Would it be possible for him to find out if the break-in had been reported? And what conclusions would he draw if it hadn’t been?
At lunchtime he went round to the Central Police Station and offered a bowdlerized description of the events of Sunday night. The officer who took the details seemed surprisingly unsurprised that he had let so long elapse before reporting the crime.
‘Nothing missing? No. Well, someone’ll come round.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the man, adding poker-faced, ‘We’ll try to take it at your speed, shall we?’
Goldsmith left, amused and also disproportionately elated. He felt that he had done something positive. It was absurd, but acting the good citizen made him feel good.
He worked hard the rest of the day and after a quick snack in the early evening, he made for the Council Chambers. There was a Finance Committee meeting at six, followed by a full Council meeting. It was a long hard session going on till after nine. Afterwards as he went into the washroom, he bumped into Jeff Malleson. There was no awkwardness, Malleson was an accomplished politician in this at least. He brushed aside Goldsmith’s not very enthusiastic attempts at apology and returned with him into the washroom to discuss the meeting. The door opened behind them and Roger Edmunds came in. He was a square-shaped ugly man in his fifties; he had twice been Mayor and was a formidable figure in local politics; he was also Chairman of the Selection Board who on the following Saturday would be interviewing Goldsmith and the other candidates.
‘Bill,’ he said. ‘Got a moment?’
Malleson moved off, nodding approval like a pander who had just brought a pair of coy lusters together.
“Certainly,’ said Goldsmith. ‘You want to talk here?’
‘Ay. It’ll do.’
Goldsmith waited expectantly. He had never liked Edmunds much, though they had always had a fair working relationship within the Party; and since he had become a candidate for adoption, he had avoided anything but the most formal and official of meetings with the man. Edmunds was powerful, but he had not become so by making people love him. To be known as Edmunds’s ‘boy’ in the caucus race was a good way to antagonize people. For instant enemies, just add Edmunds. The thought amused Goldsmith, but he also knew that not to be Edmunds’s boy meant (to use one of Templewood’s images) that in the chase after the naked blonde, you were the one carrying the anvil.
‘How’s things then?’ said Edmunds, as though uncertain where to start. Goldsmith did not believe it.
‘Grand,’ he said.
Good. Bill, it’s selection meeting on Saturday.’
‘Yes.’
‘We do a lot of vetting beforehand, me and the Committee, just to make sure.’
‘Make sure of what?’
‘That all’s well. You understand? So that we know what we need to know.’
‘You mean that I don’t screw pigs, that sort of thing?’
Edmunds looked offended. In his world, even gross indecency had its own rules and conventions.
‘If you like. And we listen. You get a lot of gossip in a place like this, but people listen to it, so we’ve got to as well. Do you know a man called Vickers?’
The question was such a shock that Goldsmith heard himself draw in his breath.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Inspector Vickers, you mean?’
“That’s it. So you’ve met him?’
‘I have. Two or three times.’
‘What did you talk about?’
Time for a bit of indignation, thought Goldsmith. Here in Yorkshire the rules of social intercourse permitted blunt direct questioning, but they also permitted blunt direct answers.
“That’s my bloody business. What do you want to know for?’
“There’s been talk,’ said Edmunds. ‘Look, lad, it’s for your own good I’m asking, for everybody’s good. Believe me.’
He sounded and looked genuinely concerned and Goldsmith was touched in spite of himself.
‘What kind of talk?’ he asked.
‘About the way contracts have been given out by this Council,’ answered Edmunds.
‘Oh that! You mean Cyril Fell’s still stirring things!’
‘You know about it then?’
‘Know? What is there to know? I know that Fell … hold on, last time we met he said … is that it? Because Vickers talked to me a couple of times, people think I’m being investigated on some corruption charge! How bloody halfwitted can you get?’
Half-witted it might be, but it made sense. Vickers going round asking questions about him at the same time as Fell (and others?) were crying fraud; smaller things than this had started rumours to warp a man’s career.
‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘It’s nothing to do with that.’
“Nothing? Has this man Vickers ever talked about council business with you? Or mentioned any of your fellow councillors? Or any local contractors?’
‘Never. Not a word. Look, he’s connected with a mutual friend who’s just been widowed. If he’s been checking up, it’s just to make sure I’m not some layabout after her bit of money. That’s all.’
If your lies run parallel to the truth then geometrically (and with a bit of luck) they should never meet. Edmunds looked at him assessingly.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
“Then I’m glad to hear it. You understand I had to ask, Bill. You know what it’s like, people with nothing better to do, tongues clacking, I’ve had it myself in my time, rest assured of that!’
He clapped his arm over Goldsmith’s shoulder and, still talking, led him out of the washroom. Their
exit was watched by Malleson from the end of the corridor. Goldsmith recalled Mrs Sewell’s opinion of him. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in it. Certainly there was something about him now of the pander who would have preferred to stay in the room to oversee the coupling, but who still gets some kind of kick from seeing the happy pair as soon as possible after consummation.
He gave Malleson a nod and passed on with Edmunds down the corridor. The traditional post-meeting drinking session in the mayor’s parlour was often a bore, but tonight the room was buzzing with more than the usual semi-official chatter. The news of Macmillan’s illness and hospitalization had just been broadcast and speculation was rife. Though his mind was more concerned with what Edmunds had just said, Goldsmith poured himself a large scotch and joined in.
Liz, as usual, would have to wait.
CHAPTER XV
TWO DAYS LATER Templewood got in touch and they arranged to meet in the White Rose once more.
Every time the bar door opened, Templewood’s eyes flickered away from Goldsmith and noted who had come in. Goldsmith was used to this. His companion was the kind of man who in any public place always gave the impression of being on the look-out for more interesting and influential acquaintances than the man he was with. With a woman, on the other hand, he appeared to shut out the surrounding world and have eyes for no one else. Today, however, this watch on the door seemed to Goldsmith to derive from something more than his normal desire for re-assurance of his own importance.
They exchanged news. Templewood had been to Leeds and visited ‘the Waterfields.
‘That Agnes,’ he said. ‘Crack you like a nut if you’re not careful. Still, I squeezed her pretty dry myself.’
‘Tempy,’ said Goldsmith. ‘I’m a big boy now. I don’t need the dirty pictures any more.’
Templewood laughed, unoffended.
‘Sorry. Like the man said, emotion recollected in tranquillity. Where was I?’
Where he had been was one of the local newspaper offices which employed an old acquaintance who owed him a favour. Armed with the background information supplied by Agnes Waterfield, the man had agreed to do a bit of digging on Templewood’s behalf.
‘And this is what he got. Black market! You remember Agnes told you the police had been round to her place looking for Housman? Well, that was what it was all about. Remember what it was like after the war? You could get hold of nothing, not unless you had the contacts and the money. Then the world was your oyster. I made a few killings myself!’
‘Spivs,’ said Goldsmith.
‘What?’
‘I can see you in the loud jacket with the padded Shoulders, Tempy.’
‘You’re very cocky today, young Billy,’ said Templewood coldly.
Yes, I am, Goldsmith found himself agreeing internally to his surprise. It was as if deep down he had made a decision of some importance, but it had not quite reached his consciousness yet.
Templewood continued, sticking now to facts only. Housman had been suspected of being involved with a large well-organized black market set. The police had got fairly close to him, but never near enough for an arrest. And by the time they decided he’d be worth questioning, he’d moved on.
‘I reckon he knew the cops were sniffing around and there’s a faint hint that he had some kind of disagreement with his partners. The police weren’t the only people who came looking for him, Agnes says. No, I reckon he had a policy disagreement and took off with a bit more than his share. He seems to have been a bright boy and he could see that, once rationing disappeared and things got better in the early’fifties, the time had come to specialize. So off he went to the building trade.’
‘A wise choice,’ said Goldsmith. ‘With the Tories back in and ready to start one of their pseudo-booms as soon as possible, there were fortunes to be made, especially to a guy with the right contacts.’
Templewood raised his bushy eyebrows appreciatively.
‘I was forgetting you’re a politician, Billy boy. All going well there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. So where are we? Housman seems to have the right credentials for old Nikolaus, doesn’t he?’
‘Does he? So do a million others then. Including you.’
‘Let’s do without the holier-than-thou bit, Billy,’ said Templewood, drawing patterns in spilt beer with the stumpy end of his short middle finger. ‘One more thing. Agnes thinks he went to the Continent in 1949 or 50. Every little helps, eh, as the actress said to the choir boy. Well, your turn. What have you been up to then? Self-help’s best, they say and it’s you we’re trying to protect, isn’t it?’
The ironic rebuke stung Goldsmith in spite of himself.
‘I’ve been having my little adventures too.’
Briefly he described the events of Sunday night and his discovery of Munro’s identity. Templewood listened in disapproving silence till he finished.
‘This is what comes of you going to Housman’s house,’ he said mildly. ‘That’s where he saw you.’
‘I had to go in that day,’ said Goldsmith defensively. ‘It would have looked suspicious otherwise. You agreed.’
‘But you’ve been back since, you say. And talked on the telephone. That’s not what you’d call discreet, is it? For Christ’s sake, you don’t know what you might be stirring up!’
‘What do you suggest then, Tempy?’ he asked.
“Step back from it for a bit, that’s all. Don’t do anything for a while till things settle and we can see a bit of daylight. Look, the important thing for you is still, was Housman Hebbel? Right?’
Goldsmith didn’t answer immediately and Templewood repeated impatiently, ‘Right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Suppose? What’s that mean?’
‘There are other things.’
‘What’s getting into you, Billy? It’s simple. Either it was Hebbel, in which case it was a happy accident; or it wasn’t, in which case it was an unfortunate accident. Now it would be nice to know. OK. I see that. And we’ll keep nibbling away at it till something gives. But we’ve got to keep it cool, there’s no point in pulling the plug on ourselves. So from now on, keep away from that house, don’t even telephone; forget this Munro character, he won’t bother you, not while he suspects you’ve got that letter. Just concentrate on nationalizing brothels or something for a while. OK?’
He raised his glass as for a toast and looked expectantly at his companion. Goldsmith turned his tankard slowly round in front of him, watching the changing pattern on the suddy surface of his beer.
‘I don’t think I can do that,’ he said.
Templewood lowered his glass.
‘What?’
‘I don’t think I can let go so easily.’
‘Why the hell not? Look, I’m in this as well. Is there anything you haven’t told me?’
Goldsmith chose his words carefully.
‘I feel some kind of obligation to Mrs Housman and her daughter.’
Slowly Templewood relaxed and his lips began to curve into a smile.
‘Well, well! So that’s it! Why didn’t you say, Billy boy? So you’re after a bit of the old monkey-on-the-stick!’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Goldsmith.
‘No, of course you didn’t. You’ve got this funny old-fashioned moral thing, haven’t you, Billy? It’s not tip-and-run for you. You’re an endless-Test man if ever I saw one. OK, Billy, don’t get annoyed. You’re talking to an old campaigner, I’ve got the scars. So you fancy the widow. Well, why not? But it’ll wait. Don’t you see that? I mean, Christ, she’s only been widowed a couple of weeks. Even in these fast times, you can hardly start making advances already. And it’s not going to help your suit if she finds out you killed hubby, is it?’
Goldsmith finished his drink.
‘I suppose I ought to assure you that if anything goes wrong, I’d keep you out of it, Tempy. But sometimes I remember more strongly than others that it was you that got me into it in the first place. So p
erhaps you’ve got cause to be worried.’
He rose to go, but Templewood reached out a hand and detained him.
‘I’ve killed no one, Billy. If I had to lie low for a bit, I’d be as happy in Cannes or Acapulco as I am here, but they’re not very good places for conducting an election campaign from, so I’m told. Think on.’
‘I’ve not been adopted yet,’ said Goldsmith indifferently.
‘And if you are? You don’t fool me, Billy boy. It’s what you want, what you’ve always wanted.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Goldsmith. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’
He disengaged Templewood’s hand and made for the door. As he shouldered it open, he glanced back. Templewood had risen and was leaning on the bar talking confidentially to the middle-aged barmaid who in Goldsmith’s eyes always seemed to have been selected to match the shiny tiled discomfort of the place. Now she was simpering with mock coyness at something Templewood had said.
You had to give it to him, thought Goldsmith. He knew his women.
But he might be wrong about his men.
For the first time in three nights, Goldsmith got through his business before nine o’clock, or rather he abandoned it then. The news of Macmillan’s resignation that afternoon had provoked so many people to contact him that he began to wonder if he were on the Tory short-list for Premier. Liz did not call. He had seen little of her since Monday and he slowed down guiltily as he passed her house but the place was in darkness. Relieved, he drove on.
Something had to be done about that situation, but he was far from sure what it was. Perhaps Mrs Sewell was right and marriage was the answer. Marriage gave a woman status whatever happened, whereas to go on as they were, with love (at least, his love) dying and only fornication constant, turned Liz into his whore. Not that he had any objections to whores; a whore might become your friend, but that little parcel of prejudices, codes and reactions which some hasty angel had dropped into his cradle did not permit him to accept the reverse.
He thought now of Sandra Phillips, Housman’s whore. It was a fascinating word. He couldn’t shake it out of his mind. It was fairly clear now that she hadn’t talked. Someone would have been taking a very close look at all of Housman’s acquaintances if she had, or rather, an even closer look than Vickers appeared to be doing.
A Very Good Hater Page 13
