Name To a Face

by Robert Goddard

  Harding had lunged at Whybrow before he was even aware of the intention forming in his brain. His need to shut the man’s mouth was overwhelming and irresistible, as much a physical reflex as a mental reaction. The blow he aimed would have driven Whybrow’s teeth down his throat.

  But the blow never landed. Whybrow dodged it with ease, twisting out of reach and sliding off the couch, then countering with a crunching kick to Harding’s midriff and a deftly imposed arm-lock. Suddenly, Harding was on his knees, the side of his head pressed down heavily against the glass table top, his left arm scissored up between his shoulderblades, his right anchored to the floor by the weight of Whybrow’s foot on his hand.

  “Thanks for being stupid enough to try that, Tim,” Whybrow hissed into his ear. “Your attempt to blackmail me earlier today made me angry. And I don’t like feeling angry. It upsets me. It disrupts my sense of order. It provokes me.” His grip was tightening, the force he was exerting steadily increasing. Harding’s view through the window of the tower blocks of Monte Carlo was blurring as the pressure and the pain mounted. He wondered which would break first: his arm, or the glass his cheekbone and temple were being ground against. He had clenched every muscle and was straining to break free. But Whybrow was too strong for him. In truth, he always had been. “Do you understand, Tim? This is your fault. This is all your fault.” He grasped a handful of Harding’s hair by the roots, raised his head an inch or so, then slammed it down. Harding heard something crack. “Do you understand?” Harding’s head was yanked up again, higher than before.

  And suddenly Whybrow’s grip slackened. There was a gurgling noise in his throat. Something hot and wet was flooding onto Harding’s back. His head was pushed down almost gently. His left arm was released. Then his right. Whybrow dropped onto one knee. Blood, thick and vivid red, flowed across the table and down onto the floor. Harding raised his head and looked round. He saw Carol standing above him, a long-bladed kitchen knife in her hand, the blade glistening red to the hilt. Then he saw Whybrow clutching his stomach, from which blood was gushing freely, struggling to rise, grimacing with the effort, jaw tight, eyes squeezed into slits, breath snorting in and out, feet scrabbling.

  Somehow, he made it. There was blood everywhere now. On the carpet, the table, the couch. On Harding’s shirt and Carol’s suit. Whybrow tried to speak, but only a strangled slur emerged. He staggered forward, his shoes squelching in the blood pooling beneath him. Three stooping, tottering strides took him to the window. He turned and squinted at Harding and Carol, as if trying to focus on distant, receding objects he was no longer sure were actually still within sight. He stretched out a hand towards them. He opened his mouth. He gagged. Then he fell back heavily against the window. The pane shuddered but did not break. He slid slowly down into a sitting position, blood-tracks smeared on the glass behind him. Still he tried to focus. Then something went out inside him. His head fell forward. He slumped to one side.

  All movement ceased. Time froze. And the only sound was blood dripping onto blood.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Carol put the knife down on the table with exaggerated care. Harding laid a hand gently on her shoulder. Something between a gasp and a sob escaped her. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, then held up her hands to signal that she was not about to break down; she was in control.

  “Listen to me carefully, Tim,” she said. “I’ll have to phone the police soon. You shouldn’t be here when they arrive. It would only… complicate things. Put something of Barney’s on. His clothes will hang off you, but… you can’t leave looking like that. There’s blood all over you. You weren’t here when it happened, OK? It was just… me and Tony. He admitted hiring Barney’s killer. He taunted me. I cracked and let him have it. Crime of passion. They go easy on that kind of thing here, don’t they? So, don’t worry about me. I’ll get off lightly. You see if I don’t. I’ll need you to testify in my defence, though. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

  “Carol-”

  “You will do that, won’t you?”

  “Of course. But-”

  “I don’t regret it, you know.” She turned and stared unflinchingly at the sagging, crumpled, still-bleeding mess of clothing and flesh that was all there was left of the coiled strength and nimble cunning of Tony Whybrow “I used the same knife Hayley held to my throat. It was in my hand when the fight started. I’d already decided what to do with it. Barney was a good man. A rogue, of course.” She shook her head in fond remembrance. “But a lovable one. Except that I didn’t love him, did I? Not enough, anyway. Well, I’ve made up for some of that… neglect… today.” She looked round at Harding, as if she had suddenly remembered he was still there. “Go, Tim. Now. Leave me to it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Or noble. Or… whatever it is you’re being. Just go.”

  “There’s bound to be lots of forensic evidence that a third person was involved in this, Carol. You’ll never be able to cover it up. Once the police realize you’re trying to trick them, they’ll treat you as a murderer. But it wasn’t murder. You and I both know that. Whybrow meant to kill me. Something in him had snapped. He was… angry. Like he said. Angry-and dangerous.” Harding touched the side of his face and winced. “I think he broke my cheekbone. And he wouldn’t have stopped there. You had to do it. OK? You had no choice.”

  “They’ll never believe that.”

  “Yes. They will. Because it’s the truth. And it fits the facts the way the truth does. I for one have had enough of lies and deceptions and carefully manipulated versions of events. This is where we stop running from the truth, Carol, you and I. This is where we face up to every part of it.”

  “What about Hayley? You could go to her now. Take off somewhere. Be free.”

  “We’re all going to face up to it. Hayley included. And then we’ll all be free.”

  “Is that really how it’ll be?”

  “Yes. I truly believe it is.”

  “And I have to trust you on that?”

  “You do.”

  “One last time.”

  “Exactly.” Harding shaped a smile. “One last time.”

  Several seconds passed. Carol’s breathing slowed as she held Harding’s gaze and studied him, checking something she saw in him against something she knew in herself. Then she nodded. It was a moment of complete understanding between them; perhaps the very first such moment. “I’ll make that call,” she said softly.

  They waited outside for the police to arrive. Carol paced the terrace, chain-smoking, while Harding stood by the pool, staring into the water. When his phone rang, he answered at once.

  “It’s me,” said Hayley “Don’t worry. I’m in a call-box. I haven’t broken your rules. I just wanted… needed… to check you were OK.”

  “I’m OK. Where are you?”

  “Is it safe to tell you?”

  “Oh yes. It’s safe.”

  “We’re in Harrogate.” How far away was Harrogate? Harding wondered. A thousand miles? It felt at that moment more like a million. “When can we leave?”

  “Anytime you like.”

  “So, you’ve… dealt with Whybrow?”

  “He’s been dealt with, yes.”

  “And everything’s going to be all right?”

  He had planned to return to London after visiting Carol, travelling via Munich in order to alter the statement he had made to the police and to retrieve Polly’s painting from the airport. He had been wondering how Hayley would react to her first sight of it. And wondering was all he could do now. He would have to tell her what had just happened-and soon. He did not know how to set about it. But he would have to find a way. There was something else he had to say first, though, something more important, more lasting. The future-their future-began here. He needed her to understand that. He needed her to believe it. “Yes, Hayley,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right. For you and me. For us. I promise.”

  “I can hear a siren,” Carol called t
o him.

  “What was that?” Hayley asked.

  “That?” Harding gazed down into the clear blue water beneath him: a mirror of the sky; a vision of lightness, of liberation, from the past and present. He smiled. “That was nothing. Nothing important, anyway. Whybrow’s dead, Hayley. But that doesn’t matter. We’re alive. And we’re going to go on living. That’s what really matters.”

  EPILOGUE

  The Cornishman, Thursday, 9 March 2006:

  BABY’S MIRACLE SURVIVAL

  AFTER TRAGIC DEATH OF MOTHER

  A Scillonian family was this week mourning one member and welcoming another after a tragic but life-affirming incident last Saturday when 21-year-old expectant mother Josephine Martyn died after falling downstairs at her home, Pregowther Farm, St. Mary’s.

  A doctor who attended the scene with an ambulance crew detected a heartbeat in the womb and successfully delivered a baby boy by emergency Caesarean section eight weeks prematurely. The child was later transferred to the special care baby unit at Treliske Hospital. A spokesperson said medical staff were “amazed” by how well he was doing.

  Many islanders will remember that Josephine Martyn, née Edwards, cheated the medical odds herself as a child by recovering from a particularly virulent form of leukaemia. Speaking on behalf of Josephine’s husband Frederick Martyn, Mr. Martyn’s brother, Alfred who also lives at Pregowther Farm, said the baby’s survival was a “miracle” that made Josephine’s death easier to bear. “It’s what she’d have wanted,” he added. “The family line will go on.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The known facts concerning the loss of HMS Association and three other men-of-war off the Isles of Scilly during the night of 22/23 October 1707 are faithfully represented in this novel, as are the circumstances of the theft of an emerald-and-diamond ring from Admiral Sir Clowdisley Shovell’s body when it was washed up at Porth Hellick. There is no evidence either way as to whether this was the same ring later supposed to have been returned to the Shovell family.

  Francis Gashry is a genuine if minor historical figure. He thrived under the patronage of Admiral Sir Charles Wager, whose Cornish estate he ultimately inherited. Born in Stepney in 1702, the son of a Huguenot perfumer, he held a number of posts at the Admiralty before securing his most lucrative appointment as Treasurer of the Ordnance. He served as MP for East Looe from 1741 until his death in 1762.

  William Borlase, the famous Cornish antiquarian, was rector of Ludgvan from 1722 until his death in 1772. The construction of an extension to the rectory early in 1736 (to accommodate Borlase’s growing family) might well have obliged him to lodge a visiting antiquarian at his brother Walter’s house, Castle Horneck, on the outskirts of Penzance.

  Historians are increasingly inclined to doubt that King Edward II died, as generally supposed, during his imprisonment at Berkeley Castle in 1327. His son and successor, Edward III, is now believed to have met his father in secret on at least one subsequent occasion and to have been successfully blackmailed by an Italian priest who possessed evidence of the former king’s survival. Where, when and how Edward II actually died no one can say.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ROBERT GODDARD is the author of nineteen bestselling novels, including Never Go Back, Into the Blue, Play to the End, Hand in Glove, Borrowed Time, Sight Unseen, and In Pale Battalions. He lives in England, where he is at work on his upcoming novel, Made to Be Broken.

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