Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

When Harding left, he had in his pocket not merely a note of the address and phone number of the Herbert Shelkin Genealogical Research and Advice Service, but the one-man band’s actual business card. “I won’t be needing it,” Ann Gashry had coolly remarked. The readiness with which she had handed it over encouraged Harding to chance his arm in another direction, though he instantly regretted it.

“Does your brother live far from here, Miss Gashry?”

Her expression grew glacial. “Near or far shouldn’t concern you, Mr. Harding. I advise you not to contact Herbert Shelkin. But I forbid you to contact Nathan. Hayley’s free of him and must remain so.”

“Of course. I only-”

“Thought of taking a look at what kind of a man he is?”

“Well…”

“A poor sort. Take my word for it.”

Harding had never been to Dulwich before. Nor even to Lincoln. Gazing through the drizzle-blurred lamplight along the cloned house frontages of Bedmore Road, he detected no crossovers between his life and Kerry’s, just as he had detected none between his life and Hayley’s. On whatever level he had met either of them before, it hardly seemed to lie in the world of the everyday. Still regretting his parting question to Ann Gashry he headed for the station.

On the train back to Charing Cross, he called Hayley again. But she had not yet returned to Heartsease. Nor had she left a message on his phone, as he had hoped she would. He thought of calling Barney and/or Carol, but soon thought again. He still had no clear idea of what he should say to either of them. Impulsively, he tried Shelkin’s number, but got only an answering machine and a wheezily enunciated message from the man himself. “Leave your name and number and I’ll be sure to get back to you” Harding left neither. He needed to think before committing himself where Shelkin was concerned. He needed to think about everything.

Before Harding had done much of that, Hayley called. He was on the concourse at Charing Cross at the time, wondering what he should do with an empty evening in London. He did not realize it was her at first, the call originating from a mobile number he did not recognize.

“It’s me, Tim.”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Hayley. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“No need. I’d have rung earlier, but I didn’t want to interrupt when you were with Ann. I’ve just spoken to her.”

“Does that mean you know about Herbert Shelkin?”

“Yes. Are you going up to Lincoln to see him?”

“Looks like it. No sense giving up halfway on this, I suppose. Much as I’d like to.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Part of me would like nothing better than to get on the sleeper tonight back to Penzance-and you.”

“All of me would like that, Tim. But…”

“Exactly. Duty-of a sort-calls. Now, what’s with the mobile? I thought you didn’t have one.”

“It’s Jeanette’s. She’s in my judo class. I was moaning to her about being stuck at Heartsease with the auction going on around me and she suggested I stay with her tonight. She has a cottage in Mousehole. I’m there now. Sounds like I could be staying tomorrow night as well, if you’re going up to Lincoln. I don’t really want to be alone at Heartsease. Since the burglary…”

“Do you know how the auction went?”

“No. But it’ll have gone smoothly, I’m sure. Which means they’ll already have started stripping the place.”

“I’ll be back on Thursday whatever happens, Hayley Even if I can’t see Shelkin tomorrow. That’s a promise. To you and me.”

“OK. Thursday.”

“Did Ann mention…” Harding hesitated. But he knew it had to be said. “Did she mention I asked her… where Nathan lives?”

“Yes,” Hayley answered softly. “She did.”

“I don’t know why I asked. It was stupid. I wish I hadn’t. She was never going to tell me anyway. And the truth is… I don’t really want to know.”

“Yes, you do. But… I know what you mean.”

“I won’t ask again.”

“Good. And, Tim…”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“That’s OK. I don’t want there to be any… secrets between us.”

“There aren’t. There are just… things we haven’t got round to telling each other yet. But we will. Starting on Thursday.”

“Yes. We will.”

“I’ll call you this time tomorrow.”

“OK.”

“’Bye, Tim.”

“’Bye.”

“Love you.”

He stood where he was, asking himself, amidst the babel of passing voices, whether she had really spoken those last words. He had echoed them, too late for her to hear. And now he repeated them under his breath, amazed by the thought that they might actually be true.

He consumed a pizza supper to stave off hunger, sat through a film at one of the Leicester Square cinemas to pass some time, then headed back to his hotel.

He could have waited till morning before trying Shelkin again, but something prompted him to leave a message for him that night. To his astonishment, however, the answer-phone had been switched off. And the call was taken by a living, heavily breathing human.

“Herbert Shelkin.”

“Mr. Shelkin. Good evening. I… I’m surprised to get you. I was going to… leave a message.”

“I work a good deal at night. Who am I speaking to?”

“My name’s Harding. I was hoping to… consult you.”

“On a genealogical matter?”

“Yes.”

“Concerning your own family?”

“Not as such, no. It’s… complicated.”

“That’s in the nature of the subject, Mr. Harding. I pride myself on being an expert in complexity-and its resolution.”

“Right. Good. Well, could I… come and see you?”

“Certainly. I offer a free half-hour of advice before any fees arise.”

“Fine. How about… tomorrow?”

“That should present no problem. Are you coming far?”

“From London.”

“Then we’d better make it the afternoon. Would two thirty suit?”

“Yes. I should think so.”

“And you have the address of my office?”

“Yes. It’s… on your card.”

“Ah. My card. Did someone recommend me, Mr. Harding?”

“Yes. I’ll, er… explain when we meet.”

“Excellent. I’ll look forward to that.”

Lincoln was a step further back into winter compared even with London. A pall of gunmetal-grey hung over the city and an east wind chilled Harding to the bone as he climbed the hill towards the cathedral. A guilty conscience about his failure to contact Barney or Carol, especially Carol, was also gnawing at him, but there was little he could do to ward that off either. He had phoned Luc before leaving London to tell him his return would be delayed, news the young man had greeted with his customary sangfroid, un-dented even by an instruction to deny he had heard from Harding if questioned by Barney. Luc’s casual “D’accord, d’accord” had made such tactics sound so trivial and reasonable that Harding could almost believe they were. But only almost.

Harding had time for a sandwich and a pint in a pub before his appointment. The Herbert Shelkin Genealogical Research and Advice Service was housed in a first-floor room above a gift shop. The threadbare stair carpet and damp-stained wallpaper suggested running costs were kept to a minimum. The office itself was chilly, cramped and cheaply furnished, the air laden with stale cigarette smoke.

Shelkin was a concavely thin man of seventy or so, his skin matching the grey of his shabby clothes and improbably luxuriant hair. His features had a bloodhound look to them, thanks to oversized nose and ears and frown-lines heavily entrenched around his mouth. Even his eyes were those of a lugubrious tracker. He was sitting at his desk, tapping at a computer, when Harding entered, though stacks of files and papers ranged across the floor and a phalanx of filing cabinets along one wall suggested he made as much use of old technology as new.