Name To a Face

TWENTY-SIX

A poky ground-floor flat facing Deal Castle, near the sea front.” Such had been Nathan Gashry’s succinct description of Jack Shepherd’s retirement abode. There were, as Harding had expected, several J. Shepherds listed in the phone book covering Deal. But only one had an address in Deal Castle Road.

“Hello?” The man who answered the phone sounded old and wary but reassuringly alive.

“Jack Shepherd?”

“Yes.”

“Former editor of the, er… Messenger?”

“Mercury. Kentish Mercury. Part of the Kent Messenger group. Not the same thing.” Reassuringly sharp, too.

“Right.”

“What can I do for you, Mr…”

“Harding. Tim Harding. I’m phoning about… well, in connection with… Kerry Foxton.”

“Kerry?” There was an edge of something in Shepherd’s voice: regret, maybe; or loss; or nostalgia. “You were a friend of hers?”

“No. I’m a friend of her sister, Hayley”

“Ah. Kerry’s twin.”

“That’s right. Do you know her?”

“No. We’ve never met. But… I recall Kerry… mentioning her.”

“Did Kerry mention Hayley’s psychiatric problems?”

“Yes,” Shepherd replied cautiously.

“I’m trying to help her get over them. The thing is, could we meet, Mr. Shepherd?”

“To what purpose? As I say, I’ve never met Hayley so-”

“It’s Kerry I want to talk to you about.”

“Really?”

“The loss of a twin is a hard thing to get over.”

“I’m sure it is. But-”

“I could explain myself much better in person. I’m in London at the moment. I could come down to Deal on the train this afternoon, if that’s convenient.”

“It isn’t. I have my daughter coming over. With my grandchildren.”

“This is very important. More important than I can get into on the phone.”

“My grandchildren are important too, Mr. Harding.” A silence ensued, during which Shepherd’s thoughtful breaths fanned the receiver. Then he said, “Come tomorrow. If you catch the first train, you can be with me by eleven. I’ll expect you then. But let me warn you: I don’t discuss my friends with strangers, even when they’re dead. You’ll have your work cut out shifting me from that principle.”

Shepherd sounded as if he might be a hard nut to crack. Harding had no means of forcing him to disclose what Kerry had been phoning him about in the days and weeks before the accident. He could only rely on his powers of persuasion. Even if they proved sufficient, the answer might be of little help in his search for Hayley. And he would have to kick his heels until Sunday before he could even hope to find out. Which left him with no excuse for failing to do what he had known he would have to do, sooner or later, since waking in the small hours of Friday morning.

His destination was close to Hanger Lane Tube station, out towards the western end of the Central line. He had realized he would have to go back there one day. A settlement with the past could not be postponed forever. But this was sooner than he had expected-sooner than he was ready for. When his phone rang shortly after the train had emerged from the underground part of the line, several stops short of Hanger Lane, he caught himself hoping the call, whomever it was from, would prevent him completing his journey.

“Hello?”

“Hiya. It’s your good friend Darren here.”

As surprises went, this was a big one. Harding was struck momentarily dumb.

“Knock, knock. Anyone at home?”

Anger rushed in to swamp Harding’s astonishment. He found his voice. “What the hell do you want?”

“Any idea where Hayley’s taken off to, man?”

“No, and even if I had I-”

“Wouldn’t share the news with me? I know. I guess you’ve figured out by now she hired me to pull a few moves on you.”

“Yes. Ring to apologize, did you?”

“Nothing to apologize for, the way I see it. It was just a bit of business. No hard feelings, hey? Thing is, we could do a bit of business ourselves, you and me. Know what I mean?”

“No. I don’t. And we couldn’t.”

“Don’t be so hasty. Hayley quit town owing me money, see.”

“Your fee, no doubt. For stealing my phone.”

“That and the other things. Point is, I don’t like being left in the lurch.”

“Who does?”

“So, if someone else-you, say-picked up the tab, I’d be willing to tell them what I know about the burglary at Heartsease.”

“What do you know?”

“Who stole the ring. I was there, see, keeping an eye out. I saw who took it, man.”

“Perhaps you took it yourself.”

“Nah. Not me. Someone else. You’ll never guess who. You’ll need me to tell you.”

“In exchange for what Hayley owes you.”

“Yeah.”

“Which is?”

“A grand.”

“Come off it.”

“Barney can afford it. He’ll see you right. You think it over, Mr. H. Or clear it with your multi-millionaire boss. Whatever. I’ll give you a bell Monday to fix the details. It’ll have to be a cash deal, so you and me’ll have to meet up. Nice to have the excuse, hey?”

“Now, just-”

“Catch you later.” The line went dead.

Harding had his doubts about whether Hayley owed Spargo any money at all, far less a thousand pounds. But it did not really matter. If Spargo knew the identity of the Heartsease burglar, Barney would be happy for Harding to pay him that and more to be let in on the secret. The devious Darren was onto a good thing. And he probably knew it.

Consulting Barney about Spargo’s proposition would have to wait. The phone call had, after all, done nothing to deflect Harding from his destination: a storage depot near the Hanger Lane roundabout on the A40. His only other visit had been six years ago, at the wheel of a hire van loaded with such contents of the house in Worcestershire he had shared with Polly as he could not bring himself to sell or throw away after her death.

They were all still there, boxed and stacked in a small, securely locked, CCTV-monitored room, where, as far as Harding knew, no one had set foot since he had closed the door on its hoard of tangible reminders of Polly and their life together.

Now, in eerie silence halfway along a gantried corridor, he was reopening the door, in search not of Polly, but of Hayley and her particular place in his past.

The overhead light flickered into life. Harding stepped into the room. The air was fresh enough, thanks to the ventilation gaps between the walls and suspended ceiling. There was only the thinnest layer of dust on the crates. He glanced from one to the other of them, noting the words he had scrawled on their sides to indicate what they contained. BOOKS. CLOTHES. MUSIC. ROCKY. Ah yes. Rocky the rocking horse, treasured by Polly since childhood. Tears sprang into Harding’s eyes. Suddenly the years that had passed dissolved to nothing. He leant forward, hands on knees, breathing deeply to compose himself. A minute or so passed. Then he was in control again.

The box he wanted was one of three marked PICTURES. Polly had been a talented painter, though not talented enough to make a full-time living as one. She had sold a few pictures in her time, however. Those she had hung around the house, along with others that had slowly accumulated in her makeshift studio, were stored here, apart from some that friends had asked to take as mementoes. And Harding was certain the picture he was looking for had stayed with the rest.

After a few minutes, he located the right box and hauled it out into the centre of the room. Beneath PICTURES he had written Art Therapy, a reference to the period when they lived in Harrow-on-the-Hill and Polly had worked as an art therapist at various clinics and day centres around west London. She had painted some of the patients she had met. He remembered these anguished, expressive portraits of people who possessed none of Polly’s own robustness of mind, which had served her so well-if Harding less well-in the end.

He ripped off the strip of brown tape and opened the box. He was close now. He knew it. He had only to see it again to be absolutely certain. He began lifting out the pictures to examine. No. No. No. No. Yes.

There she was. Younger, angrier, weaker, but instantly recognizable nonetheless, something of her essence captured along with her features. He turned the picture round. On the back, Polly had written Tooting, November 1994. She would not have been so unprofessional as to record the subject’s name. But Harding did not need her to have done so. He knew Hayley Foxton when he saw her. He had all along-without realizing it.

Did Hayley know? he wondered. There was no reason why she should remember a fleeting encounter with Polly from twelve years ago, far less connect it with Harding’s uncanny conviction that they had met before. For they had not met, except vicariously. He had seen her face long before he had set eyes on her in person. She had gone as far as suggesting he might have known Kerry in another life. But nothing so fanciful lay at the heart of his unreciprocated sense of familiarity. He had often looked at the picture and pondered the enigma of the troubled young woman Polly had depicted, about whom, as he recalled, she had claimed to know virtually nothing. Never would he have imagined, never in a million years, nor even an alternative universe-

The trilling of his mobile sliced through his thoughts. He slid the picture back between the two others he had been holding apart and pulled the phone out of his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Harding?”

“Ann?”

“Yes.” She sounded uneasy. There was a faint tremor in her voice. “You asked me to call… if I heard from Hayley.”

“And you have?”

“Yes.” There was a moment of silence, followed by a whisper of static. Then she said, “I know where she is.”