A Very Good Hater

by Reginald Hill

  Love should be the touchstone, he supposed. He examined his feelings and found them ambivalent. He liked the girl but did not wholly understand her. As for simple, uncomplicated affection and friendship, he probably had rather more of that in his relationship with Sandra Phillips.

  But that too would have to come to an end, he had decided. He had been careful there, but care in such matters could only take you so far. More out of curiosity than with any particular plan in mind, he had made copies of the Munro tapes before returning the originals to Sandra. One at least of the voices he had recognized and over the years he had amused himself by uncovering the identities of Sandra’s other political customers. By now he had a fair idea of their habits and predilections, some of which he found distasteful, but it was their lack of discretion which distressed him most. If (and he admitted to himself privately the chances were high) the Tories were returned to power at the next election, one or more of these men might achieve positions of high responsibility. Then the information he possessed would possibly come in very useful. They would deserve anything they got.

  And it was at this point in his reasoning that he had considered the vulnerability of his own position. Since then his meetings with Sandra had become rarer and even more circumspect. He trusted her, but he recalled that Munro had got himself into a position from which he could bring pressure to bear on her. There were cleverer men than Munro in the world.

  No, it would have to end. But not violently, not too suddenly.

  He found that he had risen and was standing staring down out of his window. There was nothing to see below, only parked cars, but suddenly he thought of the attic room in Greenmansion and the papered alcoves. Which of the windows would Dora choose to stand at after she had been in his bed that night?

  He shook his head with a sigh and went back to work. The machine had been started. He was what he was. Nothing could stop things now.

  At nine-thirty the telephone rang.

  ‘A Brigadier Maxwell. From the War Office.’

  ‘What? Oh yes. Put him through, Miss Alcott.’ ‘Goldsmith? Hello, there. Maxwell here.’

  ‘Hello, Colonel; sorry, Brigadier. Congratulations.’

  ‘Don’t bother, my boy. It’s a sop before they chuck me out. Look, I’m sorry to trouble you, know you’re a busy man destroying the Army and all that …’

  Goldsmith tried to interrupt with a Party-like disclaimer, but Maxwell brushed him aside.

  ‘… but I thought you would like to know. Just heard this very minute; at long last they’ve picked up Hebbel.’

  It was like standing on the long ridge behind his cottage once more, looking up into the cloud-black sky and seeing the dead branch tumbling towards him from the wind-shaken tree. This time, he could not move.

  ‘Hello. Hello! You still there, Goldsmith?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Thought I’d lost you for a moment. Well, as I say, the news just came through. No details, except that they took him in Germany last night.’

  ‘It’s a positive identification, is it?’ asked Goldsmith with a steadiness he felt quite proud of.

  ‘Yes, I believe so. The Jewish Documentation Centre in Vienna, Wiesenthal’s lot, they picked up the trail and they don’t make mistakes. They got him by chance, it seems, while they were after someone else. As you know, he’s not very high on their own lists; no, he’s one of the few who’s peculiarly ours. But it’ll create a stir, I should think. British Minister as principal witness and all that. Templewood too. He’s a big name now. Thought you should know before the newsmen sniff it out.’

  ‘Yes. Many thanks,’ said Goldsmith. ‘I’m very grateful. You’ll keep me posted?’

  “Of course. Goodbye now.’

  So. When man works everything out, fate produces the unimaginable.

  Well, it didn’t matter, of course. There would be a courtroom somewhere; photographs, television, interviews, and finally he would stand up and look at Hebbel (how old now? only in his fifties, still alert and lively) and answer the questions. There would be questions from Hebbel’s counsel too, perhaps from Hebbel himself, and they would try to drag the truth of the matter from him. Not that it made Hebbel any the less guilty, but if his evidence could be discredited, if the world could be made to see that this so-called English hero had, without being touched let alone tortured, told everything he knew, even indicating which of his captured comrades were holding back useful information, then any evidence he might offer about the killing of these same comrades, that must be discredited too.

  But it didn’t matter, he repeated to himself. No one was going to take notice of a Nazi war-criminal desperately seeking to wriggle off the hook. And he mustn’t forget Templewood. They were two to one. They had long ago rehearsed their version to perfection. Before the pair of them, Hebbel would have no chance of being believed. No, Templewood would be too much for the German. With Templewood’s support, he could bluff this whole thing out and come through to the other side with his reputation untouched or perhaps even enhanced.

  He reached for the telephone. Templewood was probably still in London. He would have to be warned, then they would have to meet and discuss tactics. He found himself longing for the man’s hearty reassurances, his self-confidence, his Machiavellian expertise.

  But he did not touch the phone. For a moment it was as if he did not need to, Templewood’s presence in his mind was so strong. Then it vanished like a thread of smoke and he sat back in his chair, feeling exhausted.

  Templewood was no refuge, he told himself. All his life, it seemed, he had been dancing around the man as he pulled strings and pressed levers. This very morning he had been congratulating himself on finally facing up to him and challenging his supremacy. But even the challenge had been cast down in the kind of oblique, subtle, ambiguous way which was Templewood’s own. He planned to destroy him secretly, to strike out of darkness and from behind.

  He rose and began to pace around the room with growing excitement. Once before he had sensed the temptation of confession and atonement but had successfully resisted. This time, however, this time … there must be nothing histrionic, nothing self-indulgent. He was no martyr, had no desire to end up in jail. But he could refuse to testify on the grounds that his action at the time and the quarter-century of deception which had followed made him incompetent. He would return his medal, given for the terror-controlled actions of fifteen minutes while others had stoically endured five years of war for nothing.

  And he would, of course, resign from this political life, which contained so much and demanded so much which he felt alien and repugnant to his true inner being. The old escape route was still open. There were still empty areas in this country where a man could settle alone and free from the pollution of society.

  He sat for nearly an hour letting image upon image of this new life pile up in his mind till it seemed so real and tangible that he just had to step through his office door to find it. The arrival of Jenkinson to remind him of his first appointment scarcely disturbed his reverie and the young man was beginning to look quite worried before Goldsmith finally took notice of him.

  ‘Jenkinson,’ he said. ‘Just the man.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Jenkinson. ‘It’s ten-thirty. There’s a lot to be done this morning.’

  ‘More than you think,’ said Goldsmith, feeling lightheaded, almost tipsy. ‘First I want to see the PM as soon as possible. It’s urgent. See what you can fix. After that, cancel my meeting with Tranter, in fact cancel all my engagements. Including my dinner tonight. Get a message through to Miss Dora Housman at Birkbeck College and say I regret but I’ve got to go away unexpectedly.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Jenkinson in puzzlement. Goldsmith ignored him.

  ‘… and don’t hang around.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Jenkinson made for the door, but Goldsmith called him back.

  ‘And Jenkinson, dump this in the destructor, will you?’

  He handed over his J. T. Hardy’
s file. The other files he kept at home could go into the fire that night.

  He waited till the door closed behind the young man and reached for the phone. Now he could deal with Templewood, give him the news, tell him of his decision. Let him make of it what he could. Now he felt untouchable.

  But the telephone rang as his hand closed on the receiver.

  I have Brigadier Maxwell on the line again, sir.’

  He hesitated then steeled himself. He had to start somewhere and it might as well be with Maxwell.

  ‘All right. Put him through.’

  ‘Goldsmith, it’s me again, I’m afraid. Sooner than I expected, but we’ve had more news.’

  ‘Yes, Brigadier. I was hoping to hear from you. There’s something I want to say.’

  ‘Is there? Well, hold your horses,’ said Maxwell with the impatience of rank. ‘Look, he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead. Who?’

  ‘Hebbel, of course. Amazing, isn’t it? Well, it saves a lot of fuss. Not the cyanide pill or anything dramatic like that. That’s what I thought straight away. No, simple heart attack. Brought on by the excitement of being arrested, seems likely. It’s really ironical!’

  Goldsmith clutched the phone so tightly it hurt his hand.

  ‘Was he interrogated at all? Did he make any statements?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems not. No, they got him to the police station and that was it. Dead on arrival at hospital. It’s a strange business all round …’

  ‘Could you hold on just a moment, Brigadier?’ said Goldsmith.

  He did not wait for a reply, but laid the phone on the desk and stood up. From this position all he could see from his window were clouds moving across a blue-grey sky, but a couple of paces brought other buildings and the crowded carpark into view. He paused at the window. The walls were painted white. It could be anything he wanted.

  Then he strode rapidly out of the office.

  Jenkinson looked up in surprise as the door of his room burst open.

  ‘Sir?’ he said, standing up.

  ‘Have you done anything yet?’

  ‘You mean, what you asked me to do just now?’ asked Jenkinson looking justifiably aggrieved. ‘I’m sorry, but it was only a moment …’

  ‘Good. Then forget it. All of it. Right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. If you say so.’

  Without another word, Goldsmith picked up the J. T. Hardy’s file which lay on the desk and returned to his own room.

  Seated in his chair once more, he picked up the telephone.

  ‘Sorry to go off so abruptly,’ he said, ‘but something came up. Now, you were saying about Hebbel …?’

  ‘Yes. Well, it seems the fellow had settled down in the part of the country he’d been brought up in, and, listen to this, he was actually using his own name! Isn’t that incredible? All that searching, and there he was!’

  ‘Incredible,’ agreed Goldsmith.

  ‘And, odder still, he was evidently a pillar of the community. Good family man, churchgoer, full of good works helping local charities, well loved by everyone. Created quite a stir when they came for him. And now he’s dead, well, there’ll be a bit of fuss locally.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll sort it out,’ observed Goldsmith.

  ‘I’m sure. Still, it does make you wonder. Could it all be a front? What do you think, Goldsmith? Is it possible for a man like that to put his old self behind him? Could a man change so much?’

  Goldsmith did not even pause to think.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  About the Author

  Reginald Charles Hill FRSL was an English crime writer and the winner of the 1995 Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1974 by the Estate of Reginald Hill

  Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-5977-0

  This 2019 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  180 Maiden Lane

  New York, NY 10038

  www.openroadmedia.com

  REGINALD HILL

  FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

  Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

  MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  FOLLOW US:

  @emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

  MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.

  The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.

  58 Warren Street

  info@mysteriousbookshop.com

  (212) 587-1011

  Monday through Saturday

  11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

  FIND OUT MORE AT:

  www.mysteriousbookshop.com

  FOLLOW US:

  @TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop

  SUBSCRIBE:

  The Mysterious Newsletter

  Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com

  FOLLOW US

  @ OpenRoadMedia