“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.

“It’s simple enough really. Kerry Foxton worked for you, didn’t she?”

“Cub reporter to my sourpuss editor. Yes. She soon moved on, though-on and up. But she stayed in touch. I liked her. And I like to think she liked me. She wasn’t terribly good at her job, to be honest. Council committee meetings and magistrates’ hearings bored her rigid and she didn’t hide it well. She was a rotten team player too. But that didn’t really matter. She had this… dazzling personality… that made even a sourpuss editor cut her a lot of slack. Besides, if you put her onto a story with some meat in it, well, she gave it everything. And she got results. She had Fleet Street written all over her. When she left, I never seriously expected to see or hear from her again. But, as I say, she stayed in touch. She liked to get my views on things. I was a little like her when I was her age and I think she sensed that. I was considered a high-flyer in my day. Before I… bottled out, you could say if you were of a punning disposition. But you don’t want to hear about my problems.”

“When we spoke on the phone, you said you’d be reluctant to talk about Kerry”

Shepherd smiled. “So I did. But that was partly to see how easily put off you’d be. And I thought about it afterwards, especially when I had my daughter and the grandchildren over. Family’s important. Probably more important than what I choose to call my principles. Kerry didn’t talk much about her sister. But she said enough for me to know she’d want me to do anything I can to help her. So, how’s she placed?”

“Oh, she’s OK.” Harding winced inwardly at the scale of his misrepresentation. “Most of the time.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Well, there’s this idea she can’t get out of her mind that Kerry may have been… murdered.”

“Murdered?” Shepherd frowned sceptically. “I was going through a bad patch when they held the inquest and wasn’t well enough to attend, but I read the reports later. The lead diver may have been sloppy, but it came across as a straightforward accident to me. Tragic. But no one’s fault other than Kerry’s for entering the wreck. Which sounded to me like the kind of mistake she might make. She always was headstrong. That was part of her appeal.”

“I’m sure you’re right. And I think Hayley could bring herself to accept that. If only there weren’t so many unanswered questions about what Kerry was working on in the weeks and months before the accident.”

“Ah. I see. You reckon I know, do you?”

“Her friend Carol says she was often on the phone to you while she was staying with her on St. Mary’s.”

“Yes. She was.” Shepherd drank the last of his whisky and gazed for a moment at the empty glass. “You couldn’t top me up, could you?”

“Sure.” Harding obliged with the Johnnie Walker and Shepherd took another sip.

“After I retired from the Mercury, Kerry started using me to do background research for her freelance stories. It was a good arrangement for both of us. Kept me busy and off the booze and saved her having to do all the checking and double-checking she never really had the patience for anyway. She certainly had something on the boil that summer, though she never told me exactly what. She liked to tease me about where the research she palmed off on me was leading and I enjoyed trying to second-guess her. Sadly I never got the chance to find out where we were heading that time. I kept my files on the work I did for her. I looked through them after you called. Reminded myself what it was all about. And I can honestly say there was nothing in them to suggest Kerry had strayed into… dangerous territory.”

“What did you do for her?”

“You’re going to be disappointed if you’re expecting anything sensational.”

“I won’t be disappointed,” said Harding, sticking to his cover story. “The less sensational the better. For Hayley”