Name To a Face (7 page)

The divers, fully kitted up now, their faces obscured by wet-suit hoods, goggles and breathing apparatus, stepped off the boat, Barney taking the lead, into the stretch of sea adjacent to the buoy the Martyns had deployed earlier. Barney vanished first, then Kerry, the wake of her dive fading rapidly. She was gone. The video cut out.

“Want to see any of it again?” asked Metherell.

“No, thanks.”

“OK.” Metherell switched off the TV and set the video to rewind. “As you see, it doesn’t tell you much. There’s no clue as to what followed.”

It was true. The video contained nothing either suspicious or remarkable. Unless, like Harding, you were acquainted with Hayley Winter. “Did you ever… meet Kerry’s family?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the screen.

“I met her father. He came down and asked a few questions of those involved. Those he could get to speak to, anyway. A nice man, as I recall, though nothing like as flamboyant as Kerry’s personality had somehow led me to expect. Small, inoffensive, quietly spoken. And crushed. Yes. Crushed is how he seemed.”

“No other relative?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did she have any brothers? Or sisters?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I mean, she may have, but… I never met them.”

“Didn’t the family show up at the inquest?”

“No. Her parents were dead by then, of course.”

“They were?”

“Yes. It’s why-” Metherell broke off, waiting until Harding had turned to look at him before continuing. “It’s a sad story right to the finish. The doctors in Plymouth soon gave up on Kerry. Evidently, you don’t come out of the sort of coma she was in. Her parents refused to accept that. They moved her to a private hospital in London. Then to some clinic in Munich that had a reputation for working miracles with coma cases. They commuted over to see her. I don’t know if any progress was made. Not enough, obviously, because, when they were killed in a pile-up on the M4 driving home from Heathrow Airport after yet another visit to Munich, whoever was left to make the decisions… pulled the plug on Kerry.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I have the impression something’s… troubling you.”

“Have you ever met Gabriel Tozer’s housekeeper at Heartsease?”

“Can’t say I have. I didn’t even know he had one.”

“What about Clive Isbister, then? Or Humphrey Tozer? Would they ever have met Kerry?”

“I don’t know. There’s no reason why Clive should have. The same goes for Humphrey, I assume, though I scarcely know the man myself. Why do you ask?”

“That leaves Ray Trathen, then. He must have noticed.”

“Noticed
what?”

“The resemblance.” Harding looked back at the blank and unrevealing TV screen. “The quite startling resemblance.”

When Harding left Mercer House, he still had several hours at his disposal before the four o’clock helicopter back to Penzance. Metherell had obligingly offered to drive him to the airport, so it was agreed he would return to Mercer House around three fifteen. He lunched, on Metherell’s recommendation, at the Mermaid, down by the quay, then walked out round the walls of the old Elizabethan garrison at the western end of the town.

It was also the western end of the island. The dark grey finger of the Bishop Rock lighthouse stood out on the horizon, hemmed in by the other jagged rocks it gave warning of. Somewhere out there lay the wreck of the
Association
, scene of the disastrous diving expedition of 6 August 1999.

The date was both a tease and a lure. Harding had arrived in Penzance with Polly the following day, by which time Kerry Foxton was in hospital in Plymouth, in a coma from which she would never wake. He could never have met her. Not in Penzance, at any rate. Her photograph might have appeared on the front of
The Cornishman
, of course. He
might
have seen that. But it was not enough, not nearly enough, to account for his strong sense of familiarity.

And what of Hayley? How was it she so closely resembled Kerry Foxton? Was she aware of the similarity? It was too striking to be a matter of chance. Somehow, somewhere, there was a reason for it.

Harding glanced north towards Tresco, distinguishable from the other islands by its central belt of woodland. His memories of exploring the famous Abbey Gardens there with Polly were distinct yet distant, as if he were recalling the experiences of another life, another man. His past was numb, like a frozen limb, his present a labyrinth of contradictions.

Judith Metherell, a briskly mannered woman whose taste in clothes made her look a decade older than Harding suspected she really was, greeted him when he returned to Mercer House. She surprised him by apologizing for mishearing his name over the phone, then went to extricate her husband from his study.

“Glad you made the effort to come over?” Metherell asked as they drove out of town.

“Glad isn’t quite the right word.”

“Kerry Foxton wasn’t murdered, Mr. Harding.”

“I’m happy to believe it.”

“But there’s something else you’re
not
happy about.”

“True.”

“A passing resemblance that Gabriel Tozer’s housekeeper bears to Kerry.”

“More than passing.”

“Maybe that’s why he chose her.”

“How do you mean?”

“The old boy always had a mischievous streak. He liked to get under people’s skin.”

“Did he really?”

“Yes. And it seems to me he’s still doing it. From beyond the grave.”

It was a twenty-minute flight to Penzance, nothing like sufficient for Harding to decide what his next step should be. Carol’s friendship with Kerry; Kerry’s resemblance to Hayley; his own conviction that he had met Hayley or Kerry-or both, for that matter-before: he was beset on all sides by the inexplicable and the unresolvable.

One problem he no longer had any patience with was Darren Spargo. He did not like being threatened. He did not like it at all. He felt, in fact, very much in the mood to do some threatening of his own. And Morrison’s supermarket was only a short walk from the heliport.

But he was out of luck. The woman at the information desk informed him that Darren no longer worked there. And if she knew where he lived, she was not telling.

Ray Trathen was the obvious source to tap for information about Spargo and much else besides. Harding decided to try the Turk’s Head at Trathen’s usual time. That left him an hour or so to freshen up back at his hotel. Hayley had declined his invitation to dinner and he wondered now if that was because she had known what he would discover during his day trip to Scilly But he wondered also if that was one suspicion too many. He wanted, he needed, to give her the benefit of the doubt.

None of which was any kind of preparation for the news that awaited him at the Mount Prospect.

“You’re a popular man, Mr. Harding,” the receptionist said as she handed him a note with his key.

“Sorry?”

“All these phone calls.”

“Ah.” He glanced at the note and ran his eye down the list of callers. Clive Isbister at 10.38. Barney Tozer at 11.21. Isbister again at 12.08. Barney again at 14.10. Carol at 14.58. Humphrey Tozer at 16.11. And Isbister yet again at 17.02. The message was the same in each case. Please call as soon as possible. He
was
popular. Or
un
popular. What was going on? What could they possibly all want with him?

He phoned Isbister first, judging he might not be available on his office number much longer. And the man himself answered promptly.

“Mr. Harding. At last. Where have you been?”

“Out of town.”

“All day?”

“Yes. Since you ask.”

“Sorry. None of my business, really. I gather from Barney you’ve lost your mobile, so perhaps you haven’t heard what’s happened. Unless you’ve spoken to him since your return, of course.”

“I haven’t spoken to Barney.”

“Ah. I see.”

“What
has
happened?”

Isbister sighed. “There was a burglary at Heartsease last night, Mr. Harding. A very specific burglary. Just one thing taken. And I expect you can guess what it was.”

“Not… lot six four one?”

“The very same.”

Gabriel Tozer had had a burglar alarm fitted at-Heartsease some years previously, though he had economized by having movement sensors fitted on the ground floor only. Isbister had set the alarm personally on leaving the house at the end of Sunday’s viewing. It had been triggered shortly after nine o’clock that evening. Hayley had phoned the police and been advised not to stir until they arrived. In the event, the police had been unable to find anything amiss, bar an unlatched window in the dining room. They had detected no signs of a break-in.

“It took us some time to notice what had happened ourselves,” Isbister went on. “I thought it prudent to give the house the once-over this morning in view of the alarm going off. We finally discovered the lock on the cabinet containing the ring had been forced, but the doors had been wedged together with a matchstick so it wasn’t immediately obvious. The ring, along with the starburst box, was missing. But nothing else.”

“Nothing at all?”

“We checked exhaustively. It was just the ring he came for.”

“Via the unlatched window.”

“I think that’s how he left, certainly. I’m not sure it’s how he arrived, though. He may have unlatched the window while mingling with the crowds earlier in the day. But he couldn’t have been sure we wouldn’t spot that while locking up. So, another possibility is that he sized up the alarm system, hid somewhere-in the airing cupboard, maybe, or a wardrobe, or even under one of the beds-and waited till it was dark and everything was quiet before helping himself to the ring and leaving through the dining-room window. Going downstairs set off the alarm, of course, but by then it didn’t matter. He had what he wanted.”

“Is that what the police think?”

“They favour the first theory: unlatch the window and come back later. I have the impression they also think it’s possible the ring was stolen during viewing hours and the thief returned during the evening for some more goodies, only to leg it when he set off the alarm. They obviously have a poor opinion of our powers of observation. I can tell you
that
didn’t happen.”

“Do they have any suspects?”

“I don’t know. Frankly, I doubt they’re entertaining high hopes of finding the culprit. Half of Penzance left their fingerprints around Heartsease over the weekend. Nobody actually saw the burglar. Miss Winter very wisely lay low. A tough case to crack, I’d say.”

“Do
you
have any suspects?”

“No. You don’t want to confess, do you?”

“Me?”

“Just joking, Mr. Harding. You could have bought the ring tomorrow, for a price Barney can readily afford, I’m sure. On the face of it, you’re the last person who’d steal it.”

“Who’s the first person, then?”

“Someone who badly wanted it, but didn’t have the money to pay for it.”

“And who might that be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Better, I hope, for your sake, if Barney’s still in the mood he was in when I spoke to him this morning. He doesn’t like to have arrangements he makes interfered with. He doesn’t like it at all.”

Isbister was, if anything, understating Barney’s anger at being cheated of the ring, as Harding soon realized when he phoned him.

“What the bloody hell’s going on, Tim?”

“I don’t know. The ring’s been stolen. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Well, it’s not enough. You promised to make sure everything went smoothly.”

Harding was tempted to contradict Barney on that point, but opted for something less inflammatory. “I wasn’t to know this was going to happen.”

“Who took the bloody thing?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, find out. Get it back. I’m not going to let some sneak thief put one over on me.”

“I don’t really see what I can do.”

“Talk to this housekeeper Clive’s told me about. See if she knows anything.”

“All right.” That at least presented Harding with no difficulty. As it happened, he had rather a lot to discuss with the housekeeper already.

“And try to calm Humph down. He tells me he’s seen neither hide nor hair of you since Friday.”

“I didn’t know he needed to.”

“Well, you know
now.
For God’s sake, Tim, this was supposed to be a piece of cake.”

“It’s not my fault it isn’t, Barney. There’s obviously more going on here than you gave me to understand.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The ring was targeted. That’s obvious. I’ve no idea who by or why. Have you?”

“No, I bloody haven’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Maybe Humph knows of someone. You’d better check that. And buy yourself a phone so I can keep in touch. You’ve been incommunicado all day.”

“OK. I’ll do that.”

“I want to know who did this.”

“So do I, actually.”

“You could try putting the squeeze on a former employee of mine, now I come to think about it.” Barney’s tone had softened considerably. “Name of Ray Trathen.”

“I met Ray at Heartsease on Saturday.”

“You did?”

“He certainly bears you a grudge.”

“You can’t believe a word he says.”

“I don’t. But there
was
a diving accident in August 1999, wasn’t there?”

Barney groaned audibly. “Is Ray still going on about that?”

“Oh yes.”

“I guess I should have warned you.”

“Maybe you should.”

“All right.” There was silence for a moment, then Barney resumed, almost contritely. “I’m sorry Tim. By rights, it ought to be me sorting this out, not you. But as it is… you’d be doing me a big favour if you… gave it a go.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

Harding congratulated himself on how he had handled Barney, who was back now where Harding needed to have him: in his debt. It was a fragile advantage, though, with Harding’s phone-and Carol’s incriminating message-in Darren Spargo’s possession. He could not afford to rest on his laurels.

Nor could he spare the time to visit Humphrey. A phone call would have to suffice.

“You’ve resurfaced, have you?” was the elder Tozer’s less than genial conversation-opener.

“Barney’s asked me to look into the theft of the ring.”

“Has he now?”

“Do you have any idea who might have taken it?”

“No. I don’t.”

“I imagine… the news came as a nasty shock to you.”

“It did. Though perhaps it shouldn’t have.”

“Sorry?”

“I ask Barney to send me money. Instead he sends me you. I ask him to help me retrieve something Uncle Gabriel stole from us. Instead, what happens? It gets stolen all over again.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the ring’s further out of our reach than ever. And I don’t think you’re capable of doing anything about it.”

Humphrey Tozer’s vote of no confidence mattered little to Harding. The theft of the ring meant his business in Penzance would not be concluded at tomorrow’s auction. It had, in fact, given him more time to probe the mystery of Hayley’s resemblance to Kerry Foxton and his sense of a previous connection with one or both of them. Perversely he was almost grateful for the opportunity it had handed him. But he had to tread carefully. With Spargo on the loose, he was in a vulnerable position. Finding Spargo, indeed, was far more important to his welfare than laying hands on the Heartsease thief. He set off into the Penzance evening knowing that had to be his first objective.

He found Ray Trathen
in situ
at the bar of the Turk’s Head, unaware, as far as he could judge, of the burglary at Heartsease.

“Still here, then?” Trathen greeted him, woozily cocking one eyebrow.

“I’ve just got back from St. Mary’s.”

“What took you there?”

“John Metherell.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The video, Ray. I’ve seen it.”

“What did you make if it?”

“I saw no evidence of murder. Not a shred.”

“There’s none so blind…”

“I wasn’t blind to one thing. Kerry Foxton and Hayley Winter. They’re so alike.”

“I didn’t know you’d met Hayley.”

“Briefly yes.”

“Well, you’re right. She looks a lot like Kerry.”

“How do you account for that?”

“I don’t.”

“It must have struck you as odd.”

“Yeah, well, Gabriel Tozer was an odd man.”

“You think he chose her specially?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“But she came down from London of her own volition. He couldn’t have-”

“Review her CV during this ‘brief’ meeting, did you?”

Harding took a deep breath. “I happened to ask what had brought her to Penzance.”

“And you believed her explanation?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because of how close in looks she and Kerry are. They could almost be twins. Sisters, at all events. Coincidence? I think not.”

“Are you suggesting they’re related?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

“Maybe I will.”

“You could ask her what happened to my copy of Metherell’s video while you’re about it.”

“You think Gabriel Tozer tricked you out of it?”

“Somebody did.”

“That lad who spilt his drink on me last time I was here.” Harding noted with grim satisfaction the confusion his sudden change of subject had clearly caused Trathen. “Darren Spargo.”

“What about him?”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No. I see him in here off and on. That’s it. What d’you want with him?”

“It’s a-”

“Did you say you’re looking for Darren Spargo?” put in a man standing next to them at the bar.

“Er, yes.”

“Can’t imagine why.” The man laughed. “Bit of a pillock, if you want my opinion.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with you.”

“He lives out at Treneere, if you want to know, next door to my aunt. Worse luck for her.”

It was a cheerless walk out to Treneere, a large estate of council housing on the northern edge of the town. The Spargo residence blended drably but durably with its neighbours. There were lights at the windows. Rock music thumped from an upper room. Two bicycles lay where they had fallen next to the front path. Harding cast a leery eye about him before pressing the doorbell.

A child with Marmite smeared round her lips opened the door and stared up at Harding. Then a bustling, broad-hipped woman with tired eyes and a wary expression took her place.

“Can I help you?”

“Is Darren in?”

“No. He won’t be back for hours yet, I shouldn’t think.”

Harding had half-expected something like this and was uncertain how to proceed. But he did not have to consider the problem for long.

“Is your name Harding?”

“Yes,” he cautiously admitted.

“Darren said you might look round.”

“He did?”

“Left this for you.” She stepped briefly back, then reappeared… with Harding’s mobile phone. “Picked it up by mistake, he said. Is that right?”

Harding smiled despite himself. “Sort of.”

She handed him the phone. “No harm done, then.”