Name To a Face (19 page)

Hello?”

“It’s me, Carol.”

“What… what time is it?”

“Early.”

“Has there been… some news?”

“No. Hayley’s still on the run, as far as I know. I just phoned… to say goodbye. I’ll be leaving shortly.”

“Right. OK.”

It was absurd, in so many ways, to be having a telephone conversation with Carol when her room was a two-minute walk away. But it was an absurdity born of the drastic change in their relationship. Two minutes or two hundred miles made no difference. Their separation seemed to know no limit.

“It’ll probably be tomorrow… or Friday… before we can finalize transport… for the coffin. But… I’ll be in touch when we get back. Or Tony will.”

The use of
we
and the hint that she might communicate with him through Whybrow in future could have been calculated insults, although Harding suspected they were merely all too accurate reflections of the way Carol’s mind was working. Either way, he would have preferred to ignore them. But Unsworth’s revelations about Starburst International meant he could not. They indeed were why he had rung, when he would have preferred an unannounced departure-as perhaps would Carol.

“I’ll say goodbye, then, Tim.”

“One thing, Carol.”

“What?”

“Barney never involved you much in the business, did he?”

“You know he didn’t.”

“You should… tread carefully.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Tony will only tell you what he wants you to know. Which’ll be what he thinks is good for him. Not necessarily what’s good for you.”

“I don’t need warning not to trust Tony Whybrow, Tim. I’ll meet the lawyers. And the accountants. I’ll take a long cool look at everything.”

“Even so…”

“What is this? Are you worried about me?”

“Maybe.”

There was a brief silence. Carol seemed to have been taken aback by the very idea. But she soon recovered herself. “Well, you know what, Tim? I’d say it was a bit late for that. Wouldn’t you?”

He could have done more to alert Carol to the danger she was in. Harding admitted as much to himself during the train ride out to the airport. But he was not sure she would have believed him. Nor was he
absolutely
sure she was unaware of the dark side of Starburst International. There were too many secrets and grievances between them now for him to risk showing his hand. Though eventually, with Unsworth breathing down his neck, he might have to.

But that threat at least was vague and distant. The lure of an entirely different and more urgent kind of secret was drawing him on. According to Ann Gashry someone had broken into the Foxtons’ old house in Dulwich-now occupied by the Billingsley family-on Saturday night. Or, rather, there had been an intrusion. Nothing had actually been broken. Nor had anything been taken, as far as the Billingsleys could tell. They had not even reported the matter to the police, so vague and puzzling was the evidence that there had been an intruder at all.

But there had been, of course. Harding knew that. There was a strand of logic connecting this with all the other events that had culminated in Hayley’s murder of Barney Tozer. It was there, waiting to be grasped. And he could not abandon the search for it. It was, in so many ways, the only thing left for him to pursue.

He did not collect Polly’s painting of Hayley from the airport left-luggage office before boarding the flight to London. He regretted now that he had removed it from the storage depot in the first place. The memory of doing so was a standing rebuke for his foolishness in believing there could be a place for him in Hayley’s life. It was not so much that she had deceived him as that he had deceived himself. The knowledge angered him. And only by seeking out the truth could he hope that the anger would die.

It was early afternoon when he reached Dulwich. Ann Gashry was expecting him. He had told her he would come straight there from Heathrow. As he headed along Bedmore Road, however, he saw she had another visitor. Nathan Gashry was hurrying out of the house to his car with the flushed and fretful air of a man with plenty on his mind and none of it pleasant.

He had yanked open the driver’s door of the Porsche and was about to climb in when he noticed Harding and froze on the spot.

“Hi,” said Harding as he neared the car.

“What are you doing here?” Nathan demanded, his voice tight with suspicion and hostility.

“I might ask you the same.”

“I was visiting my sister.”

“In the middle of a working day. Spur of the moment, was it?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Could be my business. Considering I was at Nymphenburg when Hayley shot Barney Tozer and you were the source of the message that took us there.”

“I’ve told the police everything I know. I don’t plan to tell
you
anything.” With that Nathan flung himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door and started the engine.

“Hold on,” shouted Harding, rounding the bonnet and standing beside the car so that Nathan could not pull away without driving into him. “We’re not done yet.” He tapped with his knuckle on the driver’s window.

Nathan glared at him, then lowered the window.

“I want to know how Hayley seemed when she spoke to you.”

“You do, do you? Well, what I want you to know is this: I’m leaving now. And if you don’t want to get run over, I suggest… you get out of my fucking way.”

Dora let him in, the King Charles spaniel eyeing him mournfully from behind her. Ann was coming down the stairs as he stepped into the hall. She looked as flustered as he could ever imagine her allowing herself to appear. Nathan’s visit had evidently not been an agreeable experience.

“You just missed my brother,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Nathan to have dropped in, although the redness of her eyes and the faint tremor in her hands suggested otherwise.

“I didn’t miss him. We had a… chat… outside.”

“Then there’s probably no point my pretending we parted amicably.”

“What did he want?”

“Come into the drawing room and I’ll explain-as best I can.”

“Nathan’s somehow persuaded himself that I’m to blame for the position he finds himself in,” said Ann, when Harding had closed the drawing-room door behind him and she had turned to face him. “The police evidently contacted him at work, which caused him considerable embarrassment.”

“He could have avoided that by refusing to pass Hayley’s message on.”

“I pointed that out to him, for which he did not thank me. He could also have rejected Barney Tozer’s original proposition that he pose as the Foxtons’ benefactor, of course. I imagine he calculated Tozer might be grateful to him for helping to arrange a meeting with Hayley and would express his gratitude later in tangible form. I fear Nathan’s biggest disadvantage is his own mercenary nature. As it is, he’s bound to face a good deal of police questioning about his role in events. Further… embarrassment… may confidently be expected.” There was the quiver of a smile on her lips as she said this.

“You’ll be questioned yourself, Ann. When they find Hayley, everything will come out.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

“Some would say you’ve got what you wanted: justice for the man you believe murdered Kerry.”

“I didn’t want a second murder, Mr. Harding. I didn’t want Hayley to feel she needed to… do such a terrible thing.”

“Did you know she’d turned herself into an expert shot?”

“Absolutely not. I’m shocked to learn of it.”

“It means she was planning this for a long time.”

“I realize that. But I assure you it was without my knowledge. It’s clear neither you nor I understood the way her mind was working. Yet it’s also clear there are aspects to this sad tale we simply have no inkling of. Someone took something from the Foxtons’ old house on Saturday night. The question is-”

“I thought you said nothing was taken.”

“Nothing belonging to the Billingsleys, no. But
something
, unquestionably.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Something predating their ownership of the house, I mean. The circumstances point to no other conclusion. I know the Billingsleys more as neighbours than friends, but they sought my opinion of what had happened because they’re aware I was closely acquainted with the Foxtons and felt certain what was taken must date from when the Foxtons lived in the house.”

“What was it?”

“Let me explain. This house and theirs are laid out exactly the same. When they got up on Sunday morning, they found the carpet had been lifted in this room, over by the window. An armchair had been moved and not replaced. And the edge of the carpet was loose. Underneath, they discovered a removable section that had been cut out at some point in one of the floorboards. It had always creaked, apparently, though they’d never thought to investigate why. There was nothing under the board, but they think-and so do I-that there had been something there. Until Saturday night.”

“I don’t understand. How did whoever supposedly took whatever this something was get into the house?”

“With a key. The Billingsleys found the front door had simply been pulled to. They always lock it at night.”

“And you conclude…”

“They didn’t replace the locks when they moved in, Mr. Harding. Who knows how many sets of keys the Foxtons had? But I can certainly think of one person very likely still to have a set in their possession.”

“Hayley”

“Exactly.”

Harding walked slowly across to the window, thinking as he went. He looked back at Ann. “It’s possible Hayley found a note secreted by Kerry in one of her possessions retained by the Horstelmann Clinic. This would have been on Thursday or Friday of last week. And I suppose it’s equally possible…”

“That the note told her where Kerry had hidden something in their old home.”

“Yes.”

“So she came back over the weekend to fetch it.”

“Then returned to Munich, her mind made up, apparently to kill Barney.”

“Because of what she found under the floorboard. Compelling evidence, perhaps, that Barney Tozer murdered Kerry.”

Harding thought of what Unsworth had told him about Starburst International. And of what Carol had said about Kerry:
“She was always chasing a story of some kind. I had the sense this was bigger than most.”
Yet Unsworth’s assessment was that Tozer had not yet strayed into outright illegality by the summer of 1999. So, what could the story have been? And what could Kerry have gone to such lengths to put beyond anyone’s reach-except, perhaps, her sister’s?

“The authorities might treat Hayley more leniently if they knew she acted in response to some terrible discovery,” said Ann, ever hopeful, it seemed, of finding some way to excuse her friend.

“Maybe,” Harding half agreed.

“And she’s bound to tell them what it was. When they finally track her down. Or she gives herself up, as I believe she well might eventually.”

“I suppose so.”

“But perhaps you don’t have to wait for that to happen to find out what she discovered.”

“No.” Harding glanced at the clock, calculating as best he could what time it would be when he reached Deal. “Perhaps I don’t.”

It was six o’clock on a raw, dark evening when Harding turned in to Deal Castle Road. A chill wind was barrelling in from the sea and it seemed a good bet that Jack Shepherd, quondam editor of the
Kentish Mercury
, would be at home. Sure enough, the lights were on in his ground-floor flat.

He took his time answering the doorbell, however. When he did, the stick he was leaning on heavily suggested why Harding had been kept waiting so long. He was a big, fleshy sack of a man, with a flushed face that emphasized the whiteness of his hair and a grouchy, thin-lipped expression. He was dressed in a voluminous cardigan, baggy trousers and a frayed shirt. Grey wary eyes met Harding’s through unfashionably large, thick-lensed glasses.

“Jack Shepherd?”

“You must be Harding.”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, voice, age, manner. Or journalist’s intuition. I didn’t think it’d be long before you showed up, despite crying off on Sunday.”

“Something cropped up.”

“Doesn’t it always?”

“Can I come in?”

“Why not?”

Shepherd hobbled back into the flat. Harding followed, closing the front door behind him. There was an aroma of fried food cut with whisky and an immediate impression of learning embedded in dowdiness. The cramped sitting room they entered was long overdue for a makeover, the furniture’s second-hand value well below zero. But there were crammed bookcases lining three walls and Shepherd’s current choice of leisure reading, standing next to the whisky tumbler on a low table by his fireside armchair, was a biography of Pushkin.

“Want a drink?” Shepherd nodded to a tray on a sideboard. “There’s whisky… or whisky.”

“Thanks.” As Harding helped himself to a finger of Johnnie Walker, Shepherd subsided into the armchair and flapped a hand towards the sofa.

“Take a seat.”

“Thanks.” Harding sat down. “Cheers.”

“Looks like a Scotch evening out there to me.”

“It is.”

“So, what’s this all about?” There was no hint Shepherd knew Barney Tozer was dead-or that Hayley Foxton was wanted for his murder. Harding was not entirely surprised. It was hardly the stuff of headlines in Deal. All in all, he reckoned there was no need to rush into announcing the news.

“It’s simple enough really. Kerry Foxton worked for you, didn’t she?”

“Cub reporter to my sourpuss editor. Yes. She soon moved on, though-on
and
up. But she stayed in touch. I liked her. And I like to think she liked me. She wasn’t terribly good at her job, to be honest. Council committee meetings and magistrates’ hearings bored her rigid and she didn’t hide it well. She was a rotten team player too. But that didn’t really matter. She had this… dazzling personality… that made even a sourpuss editor cut her a lot of slack. Besides, if you put her onto a story with some meat in it, well, she gave it everything. And she got results. She had Fleet Street written all over her. When she left, I never seriously expected to see or hear from her again. But, as I say, she stayed in touch. She liked to get my views on things. I was a little like her when I was her age and I think she sensed that. I was considered a high-flyer in my day. Before I… bottled out, you could say if you were of a punning disposition. But you don’t want to hear about my problems.”

“When we spoke on the phone, you said you’d be reluctant to talk about Kerry”

Shepherd smiled. “So I did. But that was partly to see how easily put off you’d be. And I thought about it afterwards, especially when I had my daughter and the grandchildren over. Family’s important. Probably more important than what I choose to call my principles. Kerry didn’t talk much about her sister. But she said enough for me to know she’d want me to do anything I can to help her. So, how’s she placed?”

“Oh, she’s OK.” Harding winced inwardly at the scale of his misrepresentation. “Most of the time.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Well, there’s this idea she can’t get out of her mind that Kerry may have been… murdered.”

“Murdered?” Shepherd frowned sceptically. “I was going through a bad patch when they held the inquest and wasn’t well enough to attend, but I read the reports later. The lead diver may have been sloppy, but it came across as a straightforward accident to me. Tragic. But no one’s fault other than Kerry’s for entering the wreck. Which sounded to me like the kind of mistake she might make. She always was headstrong. That was part of her appeal.”

“I’m sure you’re right. And I think Hayley could bring herself to accept that. If only there weren’t so many unanswered questions about what Kerry was working on in the weeks and months before the accident.”

“Ah. I see. You reckon I know, do you?”

“Her friend Carol says she was often on the phone to you while she was staying with her on St. Mary’s.”

“Yes. She was.” Shepherd drank the last of his whisky and gazed for a moment at the empty glass. “You couldn’t top me up, could you?”

“Sure.” Harding obliged with the Johnnie Walker and Shepherd took another sip.

“After I retired from the
Mercury
, Kerry started using me to do background research for her freelance stories. It was a good arrangement for both of us. Kept me busy and off the booze and saved her having to do all the checking and double-checking she never really had the patience for anyway. She certainly had something on the boil that summer, though she never told me exactly what. She liked to tease me about where the research she palmed off on me was leading and I enjoyed trying to second-guess her. Sadly I never got the chance to find out where we were heading that time. I kept my files on the work I did for her. I looked through them after you called. Reminded myself what it was all about. And I can honestly say there was nothing in them to suggest Kerry had strayed into… dangerous territory.”

“What did you do for her?”

“You’re going to be disappointed if you’re expecting anything sensational.”

“I won’t be disappointed,” said Harding, sticking to his cover story. “The less sensational the better. For Hayley”

“OK. Well, it’s all pretty obscure historical stuff, actually. There were two strands to it and I think-only think, mind-I know how Kerry hoped to tie them together. The first strand concerns a semi-legendary figure from the fourteenth century called the Grey Man of Ennor.”

“Who was he?”

“To answer that question I need to take you back to the time of the Black Death. Know much about it?”

“About as much as most people, I suppose. A plague carried by rats that decimated the population of Europe around the year… 1350?”

“You’ve got it. Actually, it was much worse than literal decimation. At least one in three died, possibly more. It spread across Europe, starting in Constantinople in late 1347 and reaching England in the summer of 1348. It was at its height in the West Country between then and the spring of 1349. Which is where the Grey Man comes in. During that period-1348/49-an elderly grey-haired monk from St. Nicholas’s Priory on Tresco is supposed to have left his cell and wandered through Cornwall, Devon, Dorset and Somerset, miraculously curing plague-sufferers as he went while remaining immune to the disease himself. Ennor was the common name for the Scillies then. Hence the Grey Man of Ennor.”

“Did he really exist?”

“Who can say? It was a widespread enough rumour to warrant mention in the chronicles of the period. But the Church did its best to scotch the rumour. St. Nicholas’s Priory was under the control of Tavistock Abbey and the abbot’s known to have sent letters to the Bishop of Exeter in April 1349 for distribution to his parish priests stating unequivocally that no monk had absented himself from Tresco. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. There was no shortage of people hoping and praying for deliverance from the plague. Basically, there’s no hard evidence for
or
against the Grey Man.”

“What about the other strand?”

“How much do you know about King Edward the Second?”

“Did Shakespeare write a play about him?”

“No. But Marlowe did. Thanks to which a lot of people know how he’s supposed to have died. A gruesome exit involving a red-hot poker.”

“Ah. That was him, was it?”

“Yes. Succeeded his macho-man father, Edward the First, in 1307. Probably gay, though he married and dutifully fathered four children. Certainly no great shakes as a military commander. Widely blamed for defeat by the Scots at Bannockburn in 1314. Court riven with jealousy and rivalry. Civil war constantly threatening. Eventually forced to abdicate in favour of his fourteen-year-old son, Edward the Third, leaving the government of the country in the hands of his wife, Queen Isabella, and her lover, Roger Mortimer. Locked up in Berkeley Castle, Gloucestershire, where, after a couple of abortive rescue attempts, he was murdered, at some point in September 1327. Nasty end to a nasty story. Or was it? Kerry wanted to know just how certain historians were that Edward died in 1327. The answer turns out to be not very. He’s got a smart tomb in Gloucester Cathedral, but it took Isabella and Mortimer all of three months to get round to putting him in it. There’s a whole host of circumstantial evidence to suggest he wasn’t recaptured, as he’s usually thought to have been, after he was sprung from Berkeley Castle by a raiding party organized by his former confessor, Thomas Dunheved, in late July of 1327. After searching in vain for him in the Welsh Borders, Mortimer may well have decided it was best to say he’d been murdered, so that he could be dismissed as an impostor if he ever reappeared. But he never did. Perhaps because he didn’t want to. Perhaps because he recognized that he didn’t have it in him to be a king. So, what became of him? Well, maybe the answer is that the Church gave him sanctuary. Dunheved was a Dominican. Maybe he eased Edward’s passage into a remote monastery somewhere on the Continent.”

“You’re saying he became a monk?”

“Possibly. Monk. Friar. Hermit. Something like that.”

“Something like… the Grey Man of Ennor.”

“It’s a tempting thought, isn’t it? He was born in 1284. That would make him sixty-four in 1348. The age certainly fits. When he saw the plague rampaging across Europe, might he have decided to return to his homeland in its hour of need? He could have entered the country surreptitiously, via the Scillies. Hence the idea that he was
from
the Scillies. As for the notion that he was able to cure victims of the plague, well, the Royal Touch was a persistent medieval belief. Anointment with holy oil during the coronation ceremony was supposed to confer on the monarch the power to cure leprosy and scrofula in particular by touching the sufferer. This was conditional on the monarch leading a sinless life, which could hardly be said of Edward the Second. But perhaps twenty years in a monastery-or wandering the byways of Europe-could be regarded as sufficient to atone for his sins. Not that I’m suggesting he actually cured anyone, you understand. But the arrival of the Black Death must have felt like the end of the world, so it’s small wonder people fantasized about a nomadic healer coming to their rescue. If Edward the Second
was
still alive, he’d be a leading candidate for the role because of the myth of the Royal Touch.”

“So, quite a few historians have identified him with the Grey Man of Ennor, have they?”

“As a matter of fact…” Shepherd smiled. “None at all.”

“But you think Kerry was trying to?”

“It’s the obvious conclusion. It’s certainly what I concluded at the time.”

“But why? What’s there to interest an ambitious free-lance journalist in a story like that?”

“Exactly. It’s hardly big news today, is it? There has to be more to it. And the more has to be what took Kerry to the Scillies, ostensibly to write about the total eclipse, in the summer of 1999. The research I did for her was just background. There must have been something else-something bigger-she was on the track of.”

“What could that have been?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea. But a mystery from the mid-fourteenth century doesn’t give anyone a plausible motive for murder in the late twentieth. I’m clear about that.” Shepherd squinted at Harding suspiciously. “Which should be good news for you. But strangely, judging by your expression, it isn’t. You look what you said you wouldn’t be: disappointed. Now, why’s that, I wonder?”