Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

Hayley was on her knees beside Josie, holding her unresponsive hand. Harding was crouching beside her, one arm round her shoulders, as Metherell spoke to the emergency operator on the telephone. “Pregowther Farm… Yes… A pregnant woman… She’s fallen down the stairs… It looks bad. There’s no pulse. I think she’s broken her neck… Yes… Come quickly.”

He ended the call and Harding stood up to speak to him. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “How long before they get here?”

“Not long. It’d be best if you weren’t here when they arrived.”

“I agree.”

“Take my car.” Metherell handed him the keys. “I’ll sort everything out.”

“I’m sorrier than I can say for the way…” Harding gestured helplessly towards Josie.

“Me too. And so I should be. For helping create this situation.” Metherell shook his head despairingly. “But none of it’s your fault. Or Hayley’s. Get her off the island. Get her far away. I can’t put much right. But I’ll swear she visited me on Monday if you need me to. You have my word.”

“The Martyns?”

“This has broken them. They’ll blame themselves. With good reason. They’ll never recover. I don’t know… what their futures hold.”

“We’ll go, then.”

“Yes. Do.”

“Hayley” Harding coaxed her to her feet. She did not resist. But she did not stop looking at Josie. She was crying, tears coursing down her hollow cheeks. “We have to leave.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Now.”

She nodded her understanding and turned away towards the front door, which still stood open.

“Don’t forget this.” Metherell stooped and picked up the fox-cub brooch that had slipped from Josie’s fingers as she fell. He offered it to Hayley. But she did not even seem to see it. Harding took it instead. “I…”

“No more words,” said Hayley, looking sorrowfully at him. Then she walked unsteadily out into the grey afternoon. And Harding followed.

There was time for Hayley to drink some tea and nibble a muffin at the airport before the helicopter from Penzance arrived and was unloaded, then readied for the return flight. Harding kept urging her to sip from a bottle of water he had bought and to eat something more substantial. But she complained of feeling sick and Josie’s death was like a black cloud in their thoughts, obscuring almost everything-except the need to leave St. Mary’s. Even Hayley understood they had to go. Though somehow, crazily she felt she was abandoning the Martyns in their hour of need.

“They meant to kill you,” Harding reminded her. “They did kill Kerry. And we’re letting them off. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“None of it was Josie’s doing. And her baby, Tim. God, what a price to pay”

“It’s awful, I know. I only wish I could…”

“Put it all right?” She gazed deeply into his eyes and shook her head. “You can’t.”

“No. All I can try to do is… stop it getting any worse.”

“How could it?”

“You could be arrested and tried for murder. Remember that. You’re a fugitive.”

“Why doesn’t that seem to bother me?”

“Because part of you is still in the cellar at Pregowther Farm, slowly dying. And coming back to life is a slow business too.”

“I’m not sure I want to come back.”

Harding smiled ruefully. “Then I’ll just have to make you, won’t I?”

They cleaned themselves up as best they could in the airport loos, but Harding suspected they were still viewed with distaste by the other passengers on the flight to Penzance, if only because of their dishevelled appearance. He would not have cared but for the fact that this made them conspicuous as well as memorable. At any moment someone might recognize Hayley as the young woman wanted for Barney Tozer’s murder. Every journey they took was risky But it could not be helped. And he was too drained by what had happened to worry much about it. From now on, what would be would be.

They caught the last London train of the day from Penzance. It drew out past St. Michael’s Bay through the dusky early evening. They would probably never return to the town. So much they had cared about and striven for and struggled with was slipping away behind them into the retreating day.

Ten minutes later, they reached St. Erth, where the St. Ives train was waiting at the bay platform. Hayley gazed out at it dreamily. “Remember our trip to St. Ives, Tim?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“It feels longer.”

“A lot’s happened.”

“Yeah.” She nodded vaguely. “I was leading you on then.”

“You had your reasons.”

“I thought I had. Now they seem… hardly like reasons at all.” The St. Ives train slowly passed from view as they drew out of the station. Hayley turned from the window and looked at Harding. “What are we going to do when we get to London?”

“Not sure.” He smiled, willing her to be reassured by his words. “But I will be by the time we arrive.”

It was a pledge Harding was determined to fulfil. He persuaded Hayley to eat a sandwich and drink some water. She fell asleep sometime after the train left Plymouth. He wondered, watching her, whether he should have taken her to the hospital in Penzance, but convinced himself she was actually looking better, despite her despondency; there was even a hint of colour in her cheeks. He wanted to sleep himself but instead he forced his mind to concentrate on the problem he knew he would have to solve if Hayley’s future was to be a better place than her past; and his with it.

A couple of hours later, with Hayley still asleep, he closeted himself in a loo and phoned Ann Gashry.

“I’ve found her, Ann.”

“Thank God.”

“She didn’t kill Barney. I know that now for certain.”

“I felt sure of it. Where are you?”

“On a train. Heading your way. Can we stay with you tonight?”

“Of course.”

“I should warn you. She’s had a rough time. She’ll need… gentle handling.”

“She’ll get it.”

“Have the police been on to you again?”

“No.”

“So…”

“She’ll be safe here, Mr. Harding. For a while at least.”

“A while is all we need. Did you speak to Nathan’s girlfriend?”

“Yes. But she didn’t tell me anything valuable. He was worried about something, but she couldn’t persuade him to say what. She thinks someone was putting pressure on him. But she doesn’t know who. Or why. She doesn’t believe he committed suicide, but…”

“She can’t prove it.”

“Exactly. Can you?”

“No.”

“Then what are we to do? If they catch Hayley, they will charge her with Barney Tozer’s murder.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“How can you prevent it?”

“I think I know a way.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He confronted his reflection in the mirror on the wall. The expression of the man staring back at him did not echo the confidence of his words. His gaze was wary, anxious, no more than stubbornly hopeful. “I really do.”

Sunday morning in Dulwich. Ann Gashry’s house was a haven of healing silence. Harding woke late and found Ann in the drawing room, sipping coffee and leafing through the Observer like a woman pursuing a solitary weekly routine, calmly and self-sufficiently entirely untroubled by the events he had related to her late the previous night. But she was not untroubled, of course. He knew that well enough.

“Did you look in on Hayley?” she asked, pouring him some coffee.

“Yes.”

“Still sleeping?”