Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

It was not yet six when he entered the Turk’s Head, but Ray Trathen was already installed at one end of the bar, puffing at a cigarette between gulps of bitter, a tightly rolled copy of the auction catalogue parked by his elbow.

Harding ordered a pint and turned to look at Trathen, whose bleary gaze suggested he had visited several other pubs since leaving Heartsease. Perhaps that was his normal Saturday routine. Or perhaps this had been a particularly trying Saturday.

“We met at Heartsease this afternoon,” said Harding, smiling warily. “You’re Ray Trathen.”

“Yeah.” Trathen frowned. “I am. But I don’t…”

“I’m Tim Harding. Quite a place, that house, don’t you think?”

“How did you… know my name?”

“Clive Isbister told me. He said… you know all there is to know about the Tozer family.”

“He did?”

“Can I get you another?” Harding nodded at Trathen’s glass.

“Yeah. Thanks.” A moment later, the glass was empty. “Wouldn’t say no.” And, a few moments after that, it was full again.

“I gather you used to work for Barney Tozer.”

“I did, yeah. You know him?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s how a lot of people know him.”

“He lives in Monaco now, right?”

“Yeah. Tax exile. Exile, anyway.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t come over for the auction.”

“I’m not. He’s afraid to show his face round here.”

“Because of the diving accident?”

“Accident? That’s not what I’d call it.”

“No?”

Trathen shaped another frown. “Why are you so interested?”

“Well…” Harding lowered his voice theatrically. “Truth is, Barney’s offered to put some money into my business. And I’m just wondering if he’s the sort of bloke I should get mixed up with. Financially-or in any other way.”

“Take a long spoon.”

“Sorry?”

“You’ll be supping with the Devil.”

Harding smiled. “He can’t be that bad.”

“You can find out the hard way if you want. Or you can take my advice. Give Barney Tozer a wide berth.”

“Why?”

“Because, sooner or later, he’ll shaft you. Take my word for it. What sort of business are you in, anyway?”

“Landscape gardening.”

Trathen emitted a derisive grunt, though whether at the expense of Harding’s choice of occupation or Tozer’s suitability as a partner in it was hard to tell. “Barney likes to dabble. No question about it. He’d just moved into fish farming when he took me on to handle his PR. But that all went by the board when he vamoosed to Monte Carlo. And my job with it.”

“Was he already in the timeshare game then?”

“Oh yeah. That and a few other games as well. Not all of them strictly kosher. As Kerry Foxton found out. To her cost.”

“She’s the girl who died in the diving accident?”

Trathen looked woozily surprised. “Clive really has been shooting his mouth off, hasn’t he? He’s not normally so… free with info.”

“I didn’t get her name from Isbister. I’ve been… asking around.”

“So it seems.” Suspicion was taking lumpen shape in Trathen’s mind, but Harding was prepared to bet he was too drunk to be restrained by it. “Kerry was a nice girl. Just too inquisitive for her own good.” He sighed. “But I suppose that goes with the territory.”

“What territory?”

“Well, she was a journalist.”

“Was she?”

“I should know, shouldn’t I? I fixed it for her to meet Barney. I thought he’d get an ego-stroking profile in one of the Sunday supps out of it. Instead, he got a load of very bad publicity and she got…” Trathen’s voice trailed into silence.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“So the inquest said. When they finally had one. She was a long time dying.”

“You were there when it happened?”

“Yeah.” A jag of painful memory twisted Trathen’s features into a grimace. “I was on the boat.”

“So, was it an accident?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows why Kerry’s oxygen supply malfunctioned? All by itself? Or with a little encouragement?”

“You’re suggesting… she was murdered?”

“I’m suggesting that delving into Barney Tozer’s affairs can be an unhealthy activity. Terminally unhealthy.”

“Come off it. You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” Trathen’s gaze switched suddenly to a figure behind Harding. He raised a hand in half-hearted greeting. “Evening, Darren.”

“Hi, Ray.” A gangly, carrot-haired young man in jeans and garishly logoed zip-top hovered at Harding’s elbow. “Got a light?”

Trathen obliged with a light for Darren’s rollup. Leaning forward to accept it, Darren, who was clearly not having his first drink of the day either, contrived to slop lager from his crookedly held glass down Harding’s jacket.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry” Darren slurred, grabbing a bar-towel to mop up the spillage.

“It’s OK,” said Harding, smiling grimly as he repulsed the heavy-handed dabs of the towel. “I’ll be fine.”

“There’s not that much really.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“OK, man. Cool.”

“Why don’t we sit over there?” Trathen jerked his head towards a table by the window facing onto the street. “We’ll be out of harm’s way.”

Darren made a wavering peace-be-with-you gesture with his cigarette hand as they went, then plonked himself on a bar-stool next to someone else he knew.

“Sorry about that,” said Trathen when they had settled.

“Never mind.”

“Where were we?”

“You were telling me you think Kerry Foxton was murdered because she knew something to Barney Tozer’s disadvantage about his business activities.”

“I was telling you I thought it was possible. Distinctly possible. There were sides to Starburst International I knew nothing about-except that it was best to know nothing about them. Only Barney and that slimeball Whybrow know how it all fits together. See…” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with delight in the intricacy of his conspiracy theory. “Kerry said she’d been sent down to do a piece for the Sunday Times on how the Cornish were dealing with the rush of visitors for the eclipse. But that was bullshit. I checked with them after the accident. Like I should have checked before. They hadn’t sent her. She’d freelanced for them in the past, but her Cornish trip was nothing to do with them. It was all her own idea. I think the eclipse story was cover for her to get close to Barney and learn some of his secrets. And I think she may have succeeded. Worse luck for her.”

“How did this… diving expedition… come about?”

“It was Barney’s idea. I thought he was out to impress Kerry. He seemed to be having a hard time keeping his hands off her. Can’t say I blamed him. She was quite something. Anyway I assumed the trip was intended to boost his action-man credentials. He fixed it with another old school chum of ours, John Metherell. Kerry was certainly keen on the idea. Maybe she thought she could hang another piece for the papers on it. The Association story’s always a good one to rehash.”

“The what?”

“Scilly’s most famous wreck. HMS Association. Flagship of Admiral Sir Clowdisley Shovell. Foundered on the Gilstone rock and lost with all hands in 1707. Never heard of it?”

“Don’t think so.”

“There was quite a hoo-ha when they located the wreck back in the nineteen sixties. Divers have been exploring it ever since, though all the valuable stuff was brought up years ago. John Metherell lives on St. Mary’s. He’s a real Association buff. Supposed to be writing a book on the subject. Due out next year, for the three hundredth anniversary. Well, it was due out then. Maybe he’s gone off the idea since the accident. I wouldn’t know. We don’t exactly keep in touch. Anyway, he organized the trip and went along for the ride, like I did. He even videoed it.”