Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

“You just missed my brother,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Nathan to have dropped in, although the redness of her eyes and the faint tremor in her hands suggested otherwise.

“I didn’t miss him. We had a… chat… outside.”

“Then there’s probably no point my pretending we parted amicably.”

“What did he want?”

“Come into the drawing room and I’ll explain-as best I can.”

“Nathan’s somehow persuaded himself that I’m to blame for the position he finds himself in,” said Ann, when Harding had closed the drawing-room door behind him and she had turned to face him. “The police evidently contacted him at work, which caused him considerable embarrassment.”

“He could have avoided that by refusing to pass Hayley’s message on.”

“I pointed that out to him, for which he did not thank me. He could also have rejected Barney Tozer’s original proposition that he pose as the Foxtons’ benefactor, of course. I imagine he calculated Tozer might be grateful to him for helping to arrange a meeting with Hayley and would express his gratitude later in tangible form. I fear Nathan’s biggest disadvantage is his own mercenary nature. As it is, he’s bound to face a good deal of police questioning about his role in events. Further… embarrassment… may confidently be expected.” There was the quiver of a smile on her lips as she said this.

“You’ll be questioned yourself, Ann. When they find Hayley, everything will come out.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

“Some would say you’ve got what you wanted: justice for the man you believe murdered Kerry.”

“I didn’t want a second murder, Mr. Harding. I didn’t want Hayley to feel she needed to… do such a terrible thing.”

“Did you know she’d turned herself into an expert shot?”

“Absolutely not. I’m shocked to learn of it.”

“It means she was planning this for a long time.”

“I realize that. But I assure you it was without my knowledge. It’s clear neither you nor I understood the way her mind was working. Yet it’s also clear there are aspects to this sad tale we simply have no inkling of. Someone took something from the Foxtons’ old house on Saturday night. The question is-”

“I thought you said nothing was taken.”

“Nothing belonging to the Billingsleys, no. But something , unquestionably.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Something predating their ownership of the house, I mean. The circumstances point to no other conclusion. I know the Billingsleys more as neighbours than friends, but they sought my opinion of what had happened because they’re aware I was closely acquainted with the Foxtons and felt certain what was taken must date from when the Foxtons lived in the house.”

“What was it?”

“Let me explain. This house and theirs are laid out exactly the same. When they got up on Sunday morning, they found the carpet had been lifted in this room, over by the window. An armchair had been moved and not replaced. And the edge of the carpet was loose. Underneath, they discovered a removable section that had been cut out at some point in one of the floorboards. It had always creaked, apparently, though they’d never thought to investigate why. There was nothing under the board, but they think-and so do I-that there had been something there. Until Saturday night.”

“I don’t understand. How did whoever supposedly took whatever this something was get into the house?”

“With a key. The Billingsleys found the front door had simply been pulled to. They always lock it at night.”

“And you conclude…”

“They didn’t replace the locks when they moved in, Mr. Harding. Who knows how many sets of keys the Foxtons had? But I can certainly think of one person very likely still to have a set in their possession.”

“Hayley”

“Exactly.”

Harding walked slowly across to the window, thinking as he went. He looked back at Ann. “It’s possible Hayley found a note secreted by Kerry in one of her possessions retained by the Horstelmann Clinic. This would have been on Thursday or Friday of last week. And I suppose it’s equally possible…”

“That the note told her where Kerry had hidden something in their old home.”

“Yes.”

“So she came back over the weekend to fetch it.”

“Then returned to Munich, her mind made up, apparently to kill Barney.”

“Because of what she found under the floorboard. Compelling evidence, perhaps, that Barney Tozer murdered Kerry.”

Harding thought of what Unsworth had told him about Starburst International. And of what Carol had said about Kerry: “She was always chasing a story of some kind. I had the sense this was bigger than most.” Yet Unsworth’s assessment was that Tozer had not yet strayed into outright illegality by the summer of 1999. So, what could the story have been? And what could Kerry have gone to such lengths to put beyond anyone’s reach-except, perhaps, her sister’s?

“The authorities might treat Hayley more leniently if they knew she acted in response to some terrible discovery,” said Ann, ever hopeful, it seemed, of finding some way to excuse her friend.

“Maybe,” Harding half agreed.

“And she’s bound to tell them what it was. When they finally track her down. Or she gives herself up, as I believe she well might eventually.”

“I suppose so.”

“But perhaps you don’t have to wait for that to happen to find out what she discovered.”

“No.” Harding glanced at the clock, calculating as best he could what time it would be when he reached Deal. “Perhaps I don’t.”

It was six o’clock on a raw, dark evening when Harding turned in to Deal Castle Road. A chill wind was barrelling in from the sea and it seemed a good bet that Jack Shepherd, quondam editor of the Kentish Mercury , would be at home. Sure enough, the lights were on in his ground-floor flat.

He took his time answering the doorbell, however. When he did, the stick he was leaning on heavily suggested why Harding had been kept waiting so long. He was a big, fleshy sack of a man, with a flushed face that emphasized the whiteness of his hair and a grouchy, thin-lipped expression. He was dressed in a voluminous cardigan, baggy trousers and a frayed shirt. Grey wary eyes met Harding’s through unfashionably large, thick-lensed glasses.

“Jack Shepherd?”

“You must be Harding.”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, voice, age, manner. Or journalist’s intuition. I didn’t think it’d be long before you showed up, despite crying off on Sunday.”

“Something cropped up.”

“Doesn’t it always?”

“Can I come in?”

“Why not?”

Shepherd hobbled back into the flat. Harding followed, closing the front door behind him. There was an aroma of fried food cut with whisky and an immediate impression of learning embedded in dowdiness. The cramped sitting room they entered was long overdue for a makeover, the furniture’s second-hand value well below zero. But there were crammed bookcases lining three walls and Shepherd’s current choice of leisure reading, standing next to the whisky tumbler on a low table by his fireside armchair, was a biography of Pushkin.

“Want a drink?” Shepherd nodded to a tray on a sideboard. “There’s whisky… or whisky.”

“Thanks.” As Harding helped himself to a finger of Johnnie Walker, Shepherd subsided into the armchair and flapped a hand towards the sofa.

“Take a seat.”

“Thanks.” Harding sat down. “Cheers.”

“Looks like a Scotch evening out there to me.”

“It is.”

“So, what’s this all about?” There was no hint Shepherd knew Barney Tozer was dead-or that Hayley Foxton was wanted for his murder. Harding was not entirely surprised. It was hardly the stuff of headlines in Deal. All in all, he reckoned there was no need to rush into announcing the news.