Name To a Face (3 page)

Harding had explored the historic heart of Penzance and was walking aimlessly along the promenade late the following morning, heading towards the fishing harbour of Newlyn, when the call came he had been expecting since breakfast.

“Hi, Tim. How’s it going?”

“Fine, thanks, Barney. How was Abu Dhabi?”

“Dry What’s it like in the old home town?”

“Overcast. If you really want to know.”

“What I really want to know is how you got on with Humph.”

“As well as could be expected. I wouldn’t say there was an outburst of gratitude, but he seems… happy enough.”

“Good.”

“He’s going to Heartsease this morning. I plan to take a look this afternoon at the ring
and
the famous starburst box.”

“Carol said you’d spotted the connection.” Harding had agreed with Carol that she would mention his call-one of his calls, at any rate. “Dad was always going on about it when we were kids. The name just stuck in my memory, I suppose.”

“The ring’s three hundred years old, Barney. Has it been in your family all that time?”

“Doubt it, old son. Dad never actually said which ancestor first laid hands on it. Probably didn’t know. And it certainly doesn’t matter. Just keep an eye on Humph till the auction and wait to see if he cracks a smile for the first time in decades when you plonk the bloody thing in his paw straight afterwards.”

“OK, Barney. Leave it to me.”

Heartsease was in a tree-shaded road lined with large family homes that looked to date from the inter-war years. It was a big, inelegant pile of a house, with timbered gables, squat chimneys, irregular dormers and uneven bays, dankly flanked by limp palms, overgrown evergreens and a spectacularly feral camellia.

The neighbourhood was probably quiet as a rule, but Isbister’s advertisement had brought double-parked cars and a steady stream of bargain-hunters to Polwithen Road. Harding trailed behind several of them up the drive to the side-door, taking the route prescribed by a sign out on the pavement. He reflected that Humphrey had been wise to come early. A chance to inspect the belongings of Gabriel Tozer (deceased) and to prowl round his house was evidently the high spot of quite a few people’s Saturday.

The auctioneer had put the conservatory adjoining the entrance into service as a cloakroom, where coats and bags had to be left. Catalogues were on sale at a fiver a throw, but Harding kept his money in his pocket. His interest, after all, was confined to one lot and one lot only.

As he was waiting for the ticket for his coat, he was suddenly jostled to one side by a burly, scruffily dressed figure, demanding the return of a bag he had deposited. The man was middle-aged, with grey-shot black hair cut in a rudimentary short-back-and-sides. His jowly face was flushed and pockmarked and sheened with sweat. And there was a smell of whisky on his breath.

“Leaving so soon, Mr. Trathen?” the cloakroom attendant enquired as he passed Harding his ticket and the other man a bulging Co-op carrier-bag.

“I’ve seen enough,” Trathen replied, jostling Harding still further as he took his leave.

“Doesn’t take long to see enough when you’re seeing double,” the attendant murmured. “Sorry about that,” he said, smiling at Harding. “Probably shouldn’t have let him in. I don’t think he was here as a serious buyer. As any kind of buyer, come to that.”

“No?”

“Bit of a sad case, Ray Trathen. But you don’t want to know about him, believe you me.”

Harding moved on into the house, having established that Lot 641 was to be found in bedroom 2. He paused in the large, square hallway at the foot of the stairs, up and down which his fellow punters were coming and going. Doors stood open to the drawing room, dining room and kitchen. Only one door, beneath the stairs, was marked PRIVATE. Everywhere else they were free to roam.

The interior of Heartsease was a stolid, spacious family abode, with a lot of handsomely burnished wood, well-proportioned rooms and stained-glass flourishes in several of the windows. Solitary occupant as he was, Gabriel Tozer had done a good job of filling it with possessions rather than people. Cabinets, bookcases, bureaux and tables groaned under the weight of his meticulously catalogued belongings, every chair, every lamp, every doorstop, every jug, every spoon, every neatly stacked run of
Country Life
and the
Illustrated London News
, every rug across which the punters moved, every humdrum object they picked up and put down again, bearing its telltale numbered tag.

It was the same upstairs as down. If anything, the concentration of material was even greater, with toys, models, train sets, coins, banknotes, stamps, postcards, cigarette cards, wrist-watches, pocket watches, musical boxes, snuffboxes, cameos, figurines, compasses, candlesticks and yet more accumulated back copies of magazines-
Reader’s Digest, The Countryman, Punch
and journals too obscure to be remembered-filling glass-fronted cabinets in all four bedrooms or standing in dusty stacks on the broad landing.

But only one cabinet, in only one bedroom, interested Harding. It contained tie-pins, cufflinks, signet rings, a couple of silver cigarette cases, a baffling number of hourglasses and… a small box decorated with radiating panels of black and white, the lid standing open to reveal its contents, nestling on a bed of satin: a gold ring with an emerald set within a circle of diamonds.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Harding looked round to find, standing close beside him, a representative of the auctioneers, identified by a badge pinned prominently to his lapel. He was a big, bluff, tweed-suited fellow with thinning fair hair, beetling eyebrows and a broad, yellow-toothed grin. And according to the badge he was none other than Clive Isbister, auctioneer-in-chief.

“I can open the cabinet if you want to take a closer look.” “That’s all right. Don’t bother. I, er… see you’re Clive Isbister.”

“For my sins, yes.”

“I’m a friend of Barney Tozer. I gather-”

“You wouldn’t be Mr. Harding, would you?”

“Yes. Tim Harding.” They shook hands. “How did you-”

“I spoke to Barney on Wednesday when he set up an account for the auction. He mentioned a Tim Harding would be attending on his behalf. Then there was his brother Humphrey paying that particular ring a lot of attention earlier today. And now you, sporting a tan that clearly isn’t the product of a Cornish winter. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Harding laughed. “Going well, is it-the viewing?”

“Bit of a nightmare in some ways, to be honest, but it’s much the best way to stimulate interest.”

“I think I might know what you mean about nightmares. I met a bloke called Trathen on my way in.”

“Ray Trathen?” Isbister winced. “Bad luck. I’m sorry for Ray of course. He and I were at school together. But he’s his own worst enemy.”

“You were at school with Barney as well, weren’t you?”

“Yes. That’s right. I expect that’s why Barney gave Ray a job a few years back. For old times’ sake. It didn’t work out, I’m afraid. Most things don’t in Ray’s life. Excuse me, will you? One of my colleagues is waving rather frantically at me. Probably another breakage. Just as well there’s so much here, hey? I don’t think you’ll have any serious trouble getting the ring, by the way. It’s a lovely piece, but sadly not fashionable. And fashion is all in this business, as in most others. See you on Tuesday, no doubt.”

Harding had been tempted to ask Isbister how much he knew about Gabriel Tozer’s alleged theft of the ring. Yet perhaps, he reasoned, it was best he had not had the chance to do so. It did not really matter, after all, given the apparent confidence of all concerned that it would not be leaving the Tozer family.

Looking at the ring, its emerald and surrounding diamonds glittering in the light of the overhead lamp, switched on so that the contents of the cabinet might be seen to their best advantage, Harding could not help but feel it was too small and trifling an object to justify a feud of several decades’ standing, however valuable it might be. But a ring could have a symbolic as well as a monetary value. So could a starburst box, come to that. There was something about this ring in this box that mattered to Humphrey Tozer and
had
mattered to his Uncle Gabriel. As for Barney, Harding was unsure. The indifference could have been sham, the willingness to delegate responsibility a ploy of some kind.

Not that it really mattered. Harding had agreed to do Barney this favour and it would not take much to see it through. He had promised to keep an eye on Humphrey but proposed to do the bare minimum in that direction. He
would
bid as high as he needed to to secure Lot 641 at the auction, however. And then, he told himself, he would fly home and forget all about it.

After a mooch round the other bedrooms, Harding felt he had seen enough. Spectating at the avaricious mass scrutiny of a dead man’s belongings rapidly palled. He sensed that Gabriel Tozer had been an obsessively private man. It was strange, then, and faintly obscene, that his goods and chattels should be priced and tagged and fingered by dozens upon dozens of strangers. Harding headed downstairs.

He was most of the way down when he noticed a young woman crossing the hallway from the direction of the conservatory. She was conspicuous because she was wearing a short, belted mac, had a small rucksack slung over one shoulder and was also carrying a well-filled canvas bag. She was petite, almost elfin, with boyishly cropped dark hair, and still darker eyes set saucer-like in a delicate, heart-shaped face.

Harding stopped dead at the sight of her and she glanced up at him as he did so, then slipped a key out of the pocket of her mac, unlocked the door marked private and stepped through out of sight, closing it behind her.

Harding leant back against the newel post behind him as other people moved past. There had been no recognition in the young woman’s glance; not so much as a flicker. But
he
recognized
her.
There was no doubt of that in his mind. He recognized her, even though, for the moment, he could not place her, could not fix her in his memory, could not put a name to a face he felt disablingly certain he knew very well.

Harding drifted from one ground-floor room to another, paying the sale lots no attention but probing his memory for the identity of the young woman he had just glimpsed. The answer was bound to come to him soon, he reasoned. But it refused to. It hovered tantalizingly at the very edge of his mental vision, out of focus and reach. It was there, but he could not grasp it.

Tiring of his own unaided efforts, he went out to the conservatory and asked the cloakroom attendant who she was.

“That’s Hayley Winter,” the man replied. The name failed to jog Harding’s memory. “She’s the late Mr. Tozer’s housekeeper. She lives in the basement.”

“I thought Gabriel Tozer lived alone.”

“I believe he took her on a year or so ago. Needed help around the place as his health began to fail, I suppose. Anyway, she’s staying on until the house is sold, as far as I know.”

“How would I… get to speak to her?”

“There are steps from the patio down to a separate entrance. Just… ring the bell.”

Harding had not noticed the existence of a basement on his way in, though its windows were obvious enough when he left the house and headed round to the rear. He passed the garage on his way, where yet more lots were on display-lawn-mower, gardening tools and a big old Mercedes. The garden itself was overgrown and neglected, ornamental shrubs engulfed by straggling thorns and rampant weeds. These had colonized much of the patio as well. It certainly did not look as if Gabriel Tozer had been in the habit of taking tea there on sunny afternoons.

Steps led down, as promised, to a narrow, deeply shadowed basement area. As he descended, Harding felt nervous as well as puzzled. The name Hayley Winter meant nothing to him. Yet he knew her. He was certain of that. But how? Still his mind could not fix upon the answer.

The paint was peeling on the basement door. Dust layered the hexagonal frosted-glass window set in it. He hesitated for a second before prodding at the bell-push.

A few moments passed, then the door opened and Hayley Winter gazed cautiously out at him. Close to, she seemed even smaller than she had looked from the stairs, plainly dressed in jeans and sweater, her face a barely made-up. The familiarity of her face struck him more acutely than ever. But still he could not place it.

“Can I help you?” she asked, frowning.

“I… saw you upstairs. I…”

“I’m nothing to do with the auction.”

“No, but… haven’t we met? I mean, don’t we… know each other?”

“I don’t think so.”

“My name’s Tim Harding.”

The frown deepened. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“You’re Hayley Winter, right? The auction people told me.”

“Did they?”

“Yes,” he replied. Her voice, light and accentless, meant as little to Harding as her name. But he had looked into her wide, dark eyes before. He had no doubt of that. “I know this must seem odd, but, although you don’t recognize my name and I don’t recognize yours, we
have
met. Honestly. We know each other. Somehow.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you come from round here?”

“No. I moved down from London last year. What about you?”

“No. I… live abroad. I haven’t been to Penzance for… six or seven years.”

Hayley Winter’s frown was suddenly tinged with curiosity. “Which is it?” she asked, bizarrely “Six or seven?”

“I was here-briefly-in August 1999.”

“August 1999,” she repeated.

“Yes.” Harding shaped a smile. “Is that important?”

“Is this… something to do with the accident?”

“What accident?”

“I’ve told Ray Trathen. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s all in Isbister’s hands.”

Harding shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I bumped into Ray Trathen upstairs. Literally. He used to work for Barney Tozer, apparently. I’m over here on Barney’s behalf, actually. But-”

“You’re the guy he sent for the ring?”

“Yes. How did-”

“Mr. Isbister mentioned it. I know about the ring, of course. Gabriel told me. Look…” She pressed her hands together in a strange, almost prayerful gesture. “Do you want to come in? I’ve just made some tea. It’ll probably be stewed by now, but… you’re welcome to a cup.”

“OK. Thanks.”

The basement was a haven of neatness and order after the cluttered chaos of the rest of the house. Harding was shown into an antiquely equipped but spotlessly clean kitchen, glimpsing a simply furnished lounge and bedroom through open doors along the way. He found himself wondering how old Hayley Winter was. A lot younger than he was, certainly, but maybe not as young as she looked. There was something bemusingly mature yet childlike about her, something weathered but vulnerable.

She poured the tea, in cups and saucers rather than the mugs he might have expected. As she moved to the fridge to fetch the milk, he noticed just how slightly built she was. He tried to stop actively searching his memory for a trace of her. The recollection would come to him eventually, he felt sure. They stood either side of a large, bare, scrubbed table, sipped their tea and looked at each other.

“It’s quite a scrum up there,” said Harding.

“I’m trying to keep out of the way.”

“Good idea.”

“We really have never met, you know.”

“Not even in… August 1999?”

“I wasn’t here then.”

“But the date struck some kind of a chord with you.”

“Only because that’s when the accident was.”

“What accident was that?”

“It’s only what I’ve heard. Barney’s never mentioned it to you?”

“Was Barney involved?”

“Oh yes. He was there. He was very much involved. According to Ray Trathen, that’s why he-” She broke off, frowning again, more suspiciously than before. “Barney hasn’t told you?”

“No. He hasn’t. Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s common knowledge. Pretty common, anyway. But…”

“I won’t tell anyone I heard about it from you, Hayley If you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t mind. Why should I?” She bridled at the implication, then looked slightly abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… You really don’t know?”

“Not a thing.”

“But you’re a friend of Barney’s?”

“Friend. Employee. Bit of both. But the employee part’s strictly freelance. I’m doing him a favour where the ring’s concerned, that’s all. My day job is garden maintenance. Barney’s one of my clients.”

“Has he ever explained to you why he left Cornwall?”

“People move to Monaco for one reason and one reason only. To dodge the taxman.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. Gabriel reckoned he left because of the accident. And Ray Trathen will tell you the same.” She sat down at the table. Harding took the hint and sat down opposite her. “It’s none of my business, of course. None at all. It’s only what Gabriel said. It was a diving accident, off the Scillies, in August 1999.” Harding’s ears pricked up. The Scillies, in the summer of 1999, was where Barney had met Carol. “Barney was diving with a girl called Kerry Foxton. They were exploring a wreck. Anyway, there was some problem with Kerry’s oxygen supply. They got separated and she somehow became trapped underwater. By the time they’d found her and brought her to the surface, she’d stopped breathing. She was resuscitated, but had already suffered brain damage. She never recovered.”

“She died?”

“Some time later, yes. I don’t know the details. But a lot of people blamed Barney, apparently. He left for good not long after. Gabriel didn’t seem to think tax was the reason. Neither did anyone else. Officially, no one was blamed. But fingers were pointed. You know how it is. A tragedy like that has to be laid at someone’s door. And Barney was the more experienced diver. So…”

“Was Kerry Foxton from round here?”

“I’m not sure. Like I say, I don’t know the details. Ray Trathen’s the man to ask about that.”

“What makes him such an expert?”

“Well, he was-”

Hayley was cut off by the bleeping of Harding’s phone. Cursing himself for having left the thing switched on, he pulled it out of his pocket, spotted the caller’s number as Carol’s and switched it straight to voicemail. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“Just that Ray Trathen was on the boat they dived from.”

“He was?”

“I guess he didn’t drink so much then. And he was still working for Barney of course. Though not for much longer.”

“Are you saying that’s why Barney sacked him? Because he was a witness to what happened?”

“I’m not saying anything. But it’s what Ray says to anyone who’s willing to listen.”

“But surely if Barney was culpable in some way and Ray knew it, that would be a reason for
not
sacking him.”

“You’re right. It would.” Hayley smiled faintly. “The guy’s not strong on logic.”

“What did you mean earlier when you said you’d told him everything was in Isbister’s hands?”

“Well, it is. The auction, I mean. All Gabriel’s… things. Have you seen how much there is?”

“I’ve taken a look round, yes.”

“Did you spot the videos?”

“I… don’t think so.”

“In the drawing room. There’s a corner cupboard stacked with them. Hundreds, I should say. All unlabelled.”

“What’s on them?”

“Old documentaries. Gabriel loved that kind of thing. Global warming. Ancient civilization. Life on Mars. He’d watch stuff like that for hours.”

“What’s that to do with Ray Trathen?”

“It’s why he’s been round here so often lately making a nuisance of himself.” Hayley sighed, as if weary of the subject she was about to embark upon. “Ray claims he lent Gabriel a video a couple of years ago. He got it back. But then, recently, when he played it, he found what Gabriel had actually returned to him was, well, wouldn’t you guess, an old edition of
Horizon.
”

“Gabriel had recorded over it?”

“No, no. He never recorded over anything. That’s why there are so many. Ray claims Gabriel deliberately gave him back the wrong video so he could hang on to the one Ray had lent him.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“Because of what was on it, I guess.”

“And what was that?”

“Ray’s not saying. Something important, apparently, something he badly wants back-but isn’t going to get unless he buys the entire collection at the auction. Assuming his video really is among them, of course. Assuming he hasn’t imagined the whole thing.”

“Do you think he has?”

“How would I know? It’s like the family feud about the ring. The likes of you and me are never going to find out what the truth is, even if we want to.”

“And do you want to?”

“Not really. I’m more concerned with finding another job. And somewhere to live when this place is sold.”

“Will you go back to London?”

“Not if I can help it. All the reasons I left… are still there.”

“Maybe that’s where we met. I used to live in London. When I was first married.”

“It’s a big city.” Hayley went swiftly on. Perhaps, Harding thought, she wanted to forestall a discussion of where in that big city they might plausibly have met. “Is your wife over here with you?”

“No. She died… a few years ago.”

“Sorry.” And a look of genuine sorrow did indeed cross Hayley’s face.

“That’s OK. I’m used to it now.”

“Do you ever get used to something like that?”

“No,” Harding admitted at once, feeling strangely happy to be caught out in the pretence. “As a matter of fact, you don’t.” She knew as much herself, he sensed, quite possibly from personal experience. Maybe bereavement was one of the reasons for her flight from London. “Well,” he said, swallowing the last of his tea and standing up, “I’d better be going.”

“It’s been nice talking to you,” she said, smiling up at him. “Even if we don’t know each other.”

“But we do, of course.” He returned the smile. “Somehow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure we don’t.”

“Quite a stand-off.”

“How could we settle it?”

“We’d have to… compare notes, I suppose. About our lives. Our pasts. That kind of thing.”

“Yeah.” Hayley frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose we would.”

“I’m… at a loose end until the auction,” said Harding. “Maybe you’d like a… break from the circus upstairs. It’ll be going on again tomorrow.”

“I know. In fact, I was already planning to make myself scarce.”

“Really?”

“There’s a Turner exhibition on at the Tate in St. Ives. I was thinking of going up there tomorrow. If you want, you could come along… and have another go at convincing me we’ve met before.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” Her smile acquired a sheepish edge. “So would I.”