Name To a Face

THIRTY-EIGHT

In the end, Harding told Shepherd the truth. There was nothing to be gained by keeping him in the dark about Hayley’s murder of Barney Tozer once he had revealed what Kerry was investigating at the time of her fatal dive off the Scillies: not Tozer’s suspect finances, but an historical conundrum which by any rational standards could have no connection with her death.

Shepherd deduced Harding’s motive for holding out on him swiftly enough and was only briefly angered by it. It was a double tragedy now, he observed, the more so since he did not believe Kerry’s accident had been engineered by anyone. There was nothing for Hayley to avenge. And nothing Harding could do to help her.

Nor was there much Shepherd could do to help Harding. Except suggest he top up both their glasses and offer him a bed for the night; as well as proffer some sage advice.

“Go back to France, son. Landscape a few more gardens. Get on with your life. Let the dead bury the dead.”

“But Hayley isn’t dead.”

“She’ll be as good as, once the law’s finished with her. Not that it ever will finish with her. Prison and/or mental hospital sounds like her foreseeable future to me.”

“I keep wondering… if there was something I could’ve done to prevent this outcome.”

“I wonder that about my entire existence to date. The answer’s yes, of course. But it doesn’t help to know it. What’s done is done. There are no second chances.”

Harding thought of Hayley’s apparently serious suggestion that he and Kerry had met in some cosmically real alternative existence. In which case he and Hayley had also met there, with a different result. A happier one, surely. “Going back to my old life isn’t exactly possible.”

“Make it the nearest approximation, then.”

An approximation of life sounded uncannily like what did await him in France. And what he had left behind there when he first set off for Penzance on Barney Tozer’s behalf. The truth was that it was no longer enough. He realized now that he had coped with Polly’s death by withdrawing from the world he knew. And he had still found no other world to replace it.

“I get the feeling I’m wasting my breath,” said Shepherd, breaking into Harding’s thoughts. “You won’t be content until you’ve explored every last avenue and proved it to be a dead end.”

“Perhaps one of them isn’t.”

“Perhaps.” Shepherd eyed Harding over his whisky glass. “For your sake, I hope so.”

Harding slept poorly, as he had each night since the shooting at Nymphenburg. Whenever he closed his eyes, his mind would replay for him the last few seconds of Barney Tozer’s life, over and over again, until eventually it tired and let him sleep-though never for long. He found it restful by comparison to lie awake and hear Shepherd snoring in the adjoining bedroom, to gaze into the darkness and wonder, almost neutrally what the future held; and to know it had never been less certain.

Shepherd was still snoring away when Harding got up the following morning, made himself a cup of coffee and composed a farewell message for his host on a Post-It note he stuck to the toaster. Thanks for hospitality. Gone to explore those other avenues. Let you know if I find anything. TH.

Harding could think of at least two leads he could still follow: Nathan Gashry’s reluctance to talk to him; and Darren Spargo’s claim to know who had stolen the Shovell ring from Heartsease. He would start with Nathan. Ann Gashry had said he worked for an executive recruitment consultancy in the City called Caddick Pearson. That was where the police had contacted him, to his considerable embarrassment. So, why not find out how he would react to an office visit from Harding?

About halfway through the two-hour train journey to London, Harding’s phone rang. Seeing the number of the caller, he was tempted not to answer. But he reasoned in the end that Whybrow was a man more safely misled than ignored.

“Hi, Tony. What can I do for you?”

“Where are you, Tim?”

“Oh, in… transit.”

“Only I was puzzled when Carol told me the time you left yesterday morning. It didn’t seem to fit with any of the scheduled flights to Nice.” So, he had checked, which was worrying in itself.

“I’m in England, actually, Tony. I decided… I needed a break… after everything that’s happened. Thought I’d see the folks and a few old friends.”

“Good idea. Just a little odd you didn’t mention it.”

“It was a last-minute thing. No problem, is there?”

“Only that they still haven’t found Hayley”

“But they will.”

“Yes. Of course. But tell me, this break… wouldn’t be cover for some… ill-advised attempt to do the police’s job for them, would it, Tim?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, you haven’t taken it into your head to try and find Hayley yourself, have you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I wouldn’t know where to look. Don’t worry Tony. I’ll be back next week.”

“Fine.” There was a momentary silence that felt significant. Then Whybrow concluded, “We’ll talk then.”

It was mid-morning when Harding arrived in London, late morning by the time he reached the offices of Caddick Pearson: one floor of a steel-and-glass tower near Liverpool Street station. His plan to catch Nathan unawares in his workaday environment was stillborn, however. Nathan had phoned in sick that morning.

Harding reckoned it was no better than fifty-fifty he would find Nathan at his flat. He did not suppose for a moment the man’s illness was genuine; he was up to something. Harding was not discouraged by the thought, however. Quite the contrary. It meant he was on to something.

The first warning he had that all was not well came as he approached the apartment block across Vauxhall Bridge. There were assorted vans and cars drawn up in the courtyard area below the flats-at least one of them a police vehicle.

As he drew nearer, he saw a line of police tape, with a constable standing just beyond it, barring access to the courtyard and the adjoining riverside walkway. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered, although they were in the process of dispersing. The incident, whatever it was, had evidently already lost some of its novelty value.

An Asian man dressed in dark-green uniform overalls was among those drifting away. Harding caught sight of the name of the block displayed on his breast pocket. He intercepted.

“Excuse me. Has something happened?”

“A tragedy. Someone has fallen. From one of the flats. They have just taken the body away.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Oh yes. I saw him. Before the police came. Nasty. Very nasty. Poor fellow. Suicide, I suppose. But who would have thought it? Such a nice man. There was always a joke or a smile from Mr. Gashry”

“Nathan Gashry?”

“Yes. You are a friend?”

“Sort of. You’re saying… Nathan Gashry’s dead?”

“Fifth floor. Straight down into the courtyard. You could not survive. He did not want to, I suppose. A desperate, terrible thing. But there it is.” The man spread his hands helplessly. “Yes. I am sorry. Mr. Gashry is dead.”