Name To a Face

FORTY-THREE

From the pavement, Heartsease looked as it had prior to the auction. But Harding knew it was now an empty shell. The rooms were no longer filled with Gabriel Tozer’s innumerable possessions, nor with the voices of those sifting through them in search of a bargain-or an overlooked gem. Like the trees lining Polwithen Road that may once have been part of a local farmer’s field boundary, so the house remained, and would remain, long after the going of its latest owner.

The keys had been waiting for Harding at Isbisters’ auction rooms. Clive Isbister, who might well have spent the morning regretting his garrulousness of the night before, had been conspicuous by his absence, although his secretary had emphasized how short-term the loan of them was. “We need them back within the hour.”

That would be no problem. An hour was more than Harding needed. He let himself into Heartsease by the main door, turned off the alarm using the code the secretary had given him and stood in the hall for a moment or two, letting the silence and emptiness of the house declare themselves. There was nothing left. Gabriel Tozer’s home had been stripped in accordance with his wishes, every sign of his years there erased.

The third key Harding tried opened the door beneath the stairs marked PRIVATE. He stepped through and went down to the basement flat. This part of the house was still furnished, of course. Theoretically, its tenant might return at any moment, though the certainty that she would not had somehow altered the atmosphere since Harding’s last visit. He glanced into the kitchen. Virtually everything had been put away. No tea towels hung on the range. No mugs or plates stood on the worktop. It was as if Hayley had known she might never return there-as if she had foreseen all the events that were to follow her departure.

Harding walked into the bedroom. A sheet had been draped over the entire bed. The memory of the night he had spent there with her was hard to conjure up. So much had been lost, so much altered, since then. It was only last week, but it might have been last year. He opened the drawers in the bedside cabinets, seeking a clue without really knowing what one would look like. But the drawers were empty. So was the wardrobe. Her clothes were gone. Perhaps she had never had many to start with. Perhaps she had always travelled light-the better to flee whenever the need arose.

There was a cupboard in the hall, but all it contained were spare sheets, blankets, towels and pillowcases. The flat seemed to have been prepared for a new tenant, rather than the return of the existing one. The tracks of the vacuum cleaner could be seen in the pale carpet in the lounge. Hayley had left everything in pristine condition, as if proclaiming the permanence of her going. That, Harding realized, was the only clue he was likely to find there, her absence a statement in itself.

Clive Isbister was pulling in to the staff car park in an enormous Saab estate when Harding returned to the auction rooms with the keys. He stopped and lowered his window.

“I’ll take those if you like,” he said, smiling amiably-if a touch apprehensively. “Everything OK?”

“You could say so,” Harding replied, handing over the keys.

“You remembered to reset the alarm?”

“Oh yes.”

“We don’t want any more burglaries.”

“There’s nothing left to burgle.”

“What did you expect? We pride ourselves on our thoroughness.”

“So does Hayley it seems.”

Isbister frowned in puzzlement at the remark, but did not query it. “How’s Humphrey?”

“Much as usual.”

“Did he mention the ring? The police haven’t made any progress with the case, as far as I can establish.”

“He’s not bothered about it.”

“Really? You surprise me. Still, perhaps his brother’s death has put such things into perspective.”

“Yes.” Harding allowed himself half a smile. “That must be it.”

Harding had nowhere to go now. He had arrived where Shepherd had predicted he would have to before abandoning his search for the truth: the last dead end. He was not ready to give up. But he could not see how to avoid it. Nathan Gashry was dead. Humphrey Tozer was the Heartsease thief. And Hayley had fled, he knew not where.

Wandering south along Chapel Street towards the sea front, he saw the doors of the Turk’s Head being opened for business. He walked in and ordered a double Scotch.

He had nearly finished his drink, and was seriously considering the merits of another, when a second customer appeared at his elbow.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Ray Trathen, grinning lopsidedly “Having a hard day?”

“Hello, Ray” said Harding, too worn down by recent events to be riled by Trathen’s sarcastic tone. “D’you normally start this early?”

“Only on Fridays. What’s your excuse?”

“Do I need one?”

“Certainly not. In fact, why don’t I stand you a drink? Least I can do in the circumstances.”

“All right. Thanks.” Trathen ordered a pint of bitter for himself and another double Scotch for Harding. “Which circumstances did you have in mind?”

“Well, you were there when Barney Tozer got what was coming to him.” Trathen lit a cigarette while his pint was being pulled. Studying him as he did so, Harding wondered just how much comfort he would ultimately derive from Tozer’s death. Blaming his misfortunes on the local-boy-made-good was one thing; carping endlessly about the supposed misdeeds of a dead man quite another. “Cheers,” said Trathen, taking a large gulp of beer. “What brings you back here, then?”

“I had to see Humph.”

“Ah. The grieving brother. Bad luck.” Trathen smacked his lips. “So, Hayley Winter was actually Hayley Foxton, set on avenging her sister, and now she’s been and gone and done it.”

“Is that what they say in the papers?”

“The ones I read, yeah.”

“Must be true, then.”

“Are you trying to imply it isn’t?”

“Why would I do that? I was only there when it happened. How should I know?”

Trathen frowned. He nodded at Harding’s drink. “How many of those have you had?”

“Several too few.”

“Blimey. Sounds like it could be a lively lunchtime here.”

“Tell me, Ray,” said Harding, aware that the whiskies were already affecting him, but disinclined to hold back, “what story do you think Kerry was really working on when she came down here in the summer of ’ ninety-nine?”

“You know what I think.”

“The shady secrets of Barney’s business empire, right?”

“Right. On the money.” Trathen smiled at his own pun.

“There’s no chance you could have got that wrong?”

“She had Barney lined up for an exposé. That’s the way I see it. He found out and decided to shut her up. Permanently. He was smart enough to make sure the law couldn’t touch him. But her twin sister in full avenging-angel mode was something he hadn’t bargained for.” Trathen slapped his hand down on the bar. “Bang.”

“Ever heard of the Grey Man of Ennor?”

“Who?”

“Semi-legendary Scilly Islander from the fourteenth century. Supposed to have wandered the West Country curing people of the Black Death.”

“Bloody hell. Get off with the Nine Maidens, did he? Stony-faced bunch, but biddable, so they tell me.” Trathen’s chortlings ended in a quaff of beer. He gave Harding a straight look. “What are you on about?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. But if Kerry was investigating Starburst International, I’m pretty sure she was investigating something else as well.”

“This medieval healer?”

“Yes. Strange as it may seem.”

“Oh, it seems strange, all right. She was a journalist, y’know. Not a bloody historian.”

“She was interested in the Association story.”

“Yeah, but that’s bang up-to-date by comparison with the fourteenth century. And there’s a wreck to explore. As she made the fatal mistake of doing. Not to mention divers to interview about the treasure hunt back in the sixties, if she’d had a mind to. Who was she going to interview about the… what was he called?”

“Grey Man of Ennor.”

“I take it the old boy’s not still around?”

Harding smiled thinly. “I doubt it.”

“There you are, then. Total non-starter.”

“Kerry never mentioned him to you?”

“Not as I recall. And I reckon I would. Besides, she’d have known better than to ask me about something like that-just supposing, for the sake of argument, she was remotely interested.”

“Who would she ask, then?”

Trathen pondered for a moment, then said, “John Metherell, maybe. She knew him. He lives on the Scillies. And he’s a historian-of sorts.”

Trathen was an amused witness when, a few minutes later, Harding phoned Metherell. His call was a surprise, naturally, and Metherell wanted to ask all the obvious questions about Barney Tozer’s death, as well as Hayley Foxton’s responsibility for it, before he could be induced to focus on the arcane issue of the Grey Man of Ennor.

“I’ve never heard of him. But then I’m no medievalist. Working on the Association story’s given me tunnel vision where the past’s concerned. I certainly don’t remember Kerry asking me anything about the fourteenth century or the Black Death… or the Old Man of Ennor.”

“Grey. Not old. Necessarily.”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind.”

“Crosbie Hicks would’ve been the person to ask. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about Scillonian history. Used to write a piece in The Cornishman every month or so. Might have written about your fellow. Yes, he might well have done. That sort of thing would’ve been right up his street.”

“Would’ve been?”

“Sadly, he died a couple of years ago.”

“But he was alive in 1999?”

“Oh yes. Very much so. In fact-” Metherell broke off, seemingly struck by a thought. “Now, that’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Well, you’ve jogged my memory. Crosbie Hicks. I met him once with Kerry Here in Hugh Town. Nothing unusual about that. It’s a small place. You meet everybody sooner or later. But-”

“Hold on. Were you with Kerry? Or was she with Hicks?”

“I was with Kerry. We bumped into old Crosbie coming out of the post office and chatted for a few moments. Well…”

“What?”

“It was obvious they knew each other. Again, nothing unusual about that. Crosbie could easily have been a regular customer at Carol’s café. But I remember Kerry thanked him for some help he’d given her. So I acted affronted and said, ‘You’ve been double-checking what I’ve told you about the wreck of the Association with Crosbie, haven’t you?’ And Crosbie said, ‘Don’t worry, John. Kerry’s asked me nothing about the Association. I’ve been helping her with an entirely unrelated matter’ Well, that could have been your Black Death legend, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Harding thoughtfully. “It could.”

“Unfortunately, it’s too late to ask either of them now. So, we’ll never know for sure.”