Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

“It might pay to keep on the right side of Tony. At least for the time being.”

Carol took a thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “Yeah. I suppose so. Until they catch Hayley, anyway. She won’t try to wriggle out of it. She’ll be proud to admit what she did. Then Tony’s threats will be worthless. And he’ll find out what it’s like to have me as his boss.”

“I guess Barney’s stake in Jardiniera makes you my boss too.”

“I’ll write that off as a gift, Tim. You don’t need to worry about me trying to run Jardiniera.” She turned to look at him. “It’s probably best if we… don’t have any reason to see much of each other in the future.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It must have been what you wanted. When you slept with Hayley.” She let him absorb the point for a moment, then went on. “Of course, you didn’t know she was a homicidal maniac then, did you? But maybe it was a smart move after all. Maybe it’s why she didn’t shoot you as well as Barney.”

“I didn’t cause any of this, Carol. You know that.”

“I guess not. If only Barney hadn’t sent you to Penzance. He should just have ignored Humph. Then…”

“Hayley would have made her move sooner or later. You know that as well.”

“Yeah. And what will happen to her anyway? Some smooth-talking lawyer will persuade the court she wasn’t really responsible for her actions. Tragic death of twin sister. History of mental trouble. Extenuating circumstances by the bucket-load. She’ll probably only serve a few years in prison.”

“Just before it happened, Barney was saying… how much he regretted not having made his peace with Hayley.”

“So, you think it was his fault, do you?”

“No.”

“Whose side are you on, Tim? I’d really like to know.”

“Do there have to be sides?”

“Oh yeah. There have to be. I’m surprised life hasn’t taught you that.” Carol looked back across the canal.

Following her gaze, Harding noticed two men in plain clothes walking slowly through the wood, within the police cordon. He recognized the taller and leaner of the two as Streibl, the Kriminal-Polizei officer who had asked most of the questions the previous day. The other man was stocky, grey-haired and trench-coated, probably the older, possibly senior in rank. Harding had never seen him before. An animated conversation appeared to be in progress between them, complete with emphatic gestures and energetic nods.

“Do you know those two?” asked Carol neutrally.

“The one on the left is Streibl. He’s in charge of the investigation. The other bloke… I don’t know.”

“So that’s Streibl, is it? I’m due to meet him this afternoon. Has he finished with you?”

“He asked me to stay in Munich for twenty-four hours in case there was anything they wanted to check. After that…”

“You’ll be free to go?”

“I guess so.”

“And will you?”

“I suppose. Unless you want me to…”

“No.” She looked at him regretfully but unapologetically “I don’t think I do.”

Harding opted not to share the taxi for the journey back into the centre. It was impossible to tell whether Carol was grateful for this. More likely Harding reflected as he set off on foot, she did not care. Barney’s death had laid bare her inner strength. She was distressed to lose her husband, but not grief-stricken. She was shocked by what Hayley had done, but not overwhelmed. As heiress to Barney’s considerable estate, she would soon control the resources she needed to make her life whatever she wanted it to be. And she had already made it clear that Harding would have no place in it.

He was not a religious man. He had never resorted to prayer during Polly’s illness, nor lit candles for her after her death. She would not have wanted him to and, as a good agnostic, he had always respected her atheism. Quite why, after the long, cold walk from Nymphenburg, he went into the Frauenkirche, sat himself down in the rearmost pew in the nave and gazed vacantly along the tunnel of pillars towards the distant altar, he could not properly have explained. There had been a choice of ways to make matters right. But Hayley had chosen a different course. Now Barney Tozer was dead. And her act of revenge, however satisfying in the moment of its commission, was unravelling into the ruin of her life. There was nothing Harding could do for her. And the only thing he could do for himself was to abandon her to her fate. He felt empty of hope and purpose, drained of foresight. Above all, he felt alone. And solitude, as he knew from previous experience, was a bleak place to be.

But solitude in the literal sense was not destined to last long. He was suddenly aware of a figure looming beside him. Glancing up, he was astonished to see the grey-haired man who had been talking to Streibl out at Nymphenburg. He was smiling down at Harding, a roll of fat around his chin distorted by the upturned collar of his coat, his blue eyes twinkling almost mischievously beneath drooping lids and bushy brows.

“Mind if I sit down?” the man asked, doing so without waiting for an answer. His accent was North Country English. He was clearly not from the Kriminal-Polizei. “The name’s Unsworth. Chief Inspector Unsworth. Fraud Squad. On secondment to Europol.” He flourished a warrant-card. “Ever been to The Hague, Mr. Harding?”

“What?”

“It’s where Europol’s based. Boring city, let me tell you. Munich, on the other hand…” Unsworth gazed about him, apparently savouring the Gothic architecture. “More style. More character.”

“Did you… follow me here?”

“Ah. You spotted me earlier, did you? No. One of Streibl’s men tailed you. They’re good at the simple stuff. Whereas what I want to discuss with you… is a little complicated.” Unsworth grinned. “Why don’t I buy you lunch?”

Harding had little appetite for lunch. Chief Inspector Unsworth, on the other hand, attacked his double order of toasted ham-and-cheese sandwiches with a trencherman’s vigour, whilst eyeing the Café Kreutzkamm’s cake display with dessert clearly in mind. Acerbic observations on the shortcomings of the Dutch capital and variations on a theme of how much he envied Harding his Riviera existence had delayed an explanation of what he actually wanted so long it seemed it might never come. But with one sandwich swallowed and the second commenced in slightly less urgent style, he came to the point at last, albeit by an indirect route.

“Which way did you vote in the Common Market referendum, Mr. Harding-back in 1975?” Harding was too bemused by the question at first even to attempt an answer. And Unsworth saved him the bother by snapping his fingers suddenly. “Hold on. Of course. You were born in 1958. So, just too young to vote in ’ seventy-five.” This, Harding could only assume, was a bizarre method of telling him that Unsworth knew more about him than he might have supposed. “Well, I voted no. Would again if they gave me the chance. Don’t let the Europol credentials fool you. I’d pull us out tomorrow if it was up to me. More corrupt than your average banana republic, that outfit in Brussels. Put a stop to one scam and ten more sprout in its place. What’s that stuff you gardening types go in fear of? Bondweed?”

“Bindweed.”

“That’s it. Tendrils spreading under the earth faster than you can dig ’ em up. That ’s exactly how it feels fighting corruption in the EU, take it from me. Thankless and hopeless. But… we soldier on.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It can take years to crack just one case. You have to be patient, persistent and pragmatic. The three Ps. I swear by ’em. They’ve always stood me in good stead. You could say it’s the third P we’re here to explore.”