Harding thought of Hayley’s apparently serious suggestion that he and Kerry had met in some cosmically real alternative existence. In which case he and Hayley had also met there, with a different result. A happier one, surely. “Going back to my old life isn’t exactly possible.”

“Make it the nearest approximation, then.”

An approximation of life sounded uncannily like what did await him in France. And what he had left behind there when he first set off for Penzance on Barney Tozer’s behalf. The truth was that it was no longer enough. He realized now that he had coped with Polly’s death by withdrawing from the world he knew. And he had still found no other world to replace it.

“I get the feeling I’m wasting my breath,” said Shepherd, breaking into Harding’s thoughts. “You won’t be content until you’ve explored every last avenue and proved it to be a dead end.”

“Perhaps one of them isn’t.”

“Perhaps.” Shepherd eyed Harding over his whisky glass. “For your sake, I hope so.”

Harding slept poorly, as he had each night since the shooting at Nymphenburg. Whenever he closed his eyes, his mind would replay for him the last few seconds of Barney Tozer’s life, over and over again, until eventually it tired and let him sleep-though never for long. He found it restful by comparison to lie awake and hear Shepherd snoring in the adjoining bedroom, to gaze into the darkness and wonder, almost neutrally what the future held; and to know it had never been less certain.

Shepherd was still snoring away when Harding got up the following morning, made himself a cup of coffee and composed a farewell message for his host on a Post-It note he stuck to the toaster. Thanks for hospitality. Gone to explore those other avenues. Let you know if I find anything. TH.

Harding could think of at least two leads he could still follow: Nathan Gashry’s reluctance to talk to him; and Darren Spargo’s claim to know who had stolen the Shovell ring from Heartsease. He would start with Nathan. Ann Gashry had said he worked for an executive recruitment consultancy in the City called Caddick Pearson. That was where the police had contacted him, to his considerable embarrassment. So, why not find out how he would react to an office visit from Harding?

About halfway through the two-hour train journey to London, Harding’s phone rang. Seeing the number of the caller, he was tempted not to answer. But he reasoned in the end that Whybrow was a man more safely misled than ignored.

“Hi, Tony. What can I do for you?”

“Where are you, Tim?”

“Oh, in… transit.”

“Only I was puzzled when Carol told me the time you left yesterday morning. It didn’t seem to fit with any of the scheduled flights to Nice.” So, he had checked, which was worrying in itself.

“I’m in England, actually, Tony. I decided… I needed a break… after everything that’s happened. Thought I’d see the folks and a few old friends.”

“Good idea. Just a little odd you didn’t mention it.”

“It was a last-minute thing. No problem, is there?”

“Only that they still haven’t found Hayley”

“But they will.”

“Yes. Of course. But tell me, this break… wouldn’t be cover for some… ill-advised attempt to do the police’s job for them, would it, Tim?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, you haven’t taken it into your head to try and find Hayley yourself, have you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I wouldn’t know where to look. Don’t worry Tony. I’ll be back next week.”

“Fine.” There was a momentary silence that felt significant. Then Whybrow concluded, “We’ll talk then.”

It was mid-morning when Harding arrived in London, late morning by the time he reached the offices of Caddick Pearson: one floor of a steel-and-glass tower near Liverpool Street station. His plan to catch Nathan unawares in his workaday environment was stillborn, however. Nathan had phoned in sick that morning.

Harding reckoned it was no better than fifty-fifty he would find Nathan at his flat. He did not suppose for a moment the man’s illness was genuine; he was up to something. Harding was not discouraged by the thought, however. Quite the contrary. It meant he was on to something.

The first warning he had that all was not well came as he approached the apartment block across Vauxhall Bridge. There were assorted vans and cars drawn up in the courtyard area below the flats-at least one of them a police vehicle.

As he drew nearer, he saw a line of police tape, with a constable standing just beyond it, barring access to the courtyard and the adjoining riverside walkway. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered, although they were in the process of dispersing. The incident, whatever it was, had evidently already lost some of its novelty value.

An Asian man dressed in dark-green uniform overalls was among those drifting away. Harding caught sight of the name of the block displayed on his breast pocket. He intercepted.

“Excuse me. Has something happened?”

“A tragedy. Someone has fallen. From one of the flats. They have just taken the body away.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Oh yes. I saw him. Before the police came. Nasty. Very nasty. Poor fellow. Suicide, I suppose. But who would have thought it? Such a nice man. There was always a joke or a smile from Mr. Gashry”

“Nathan Gashry?”

“Yes. You are a friend?”

“Sort of. You’re saying… Nathan Gashry’s dead?”

“Fifth floor. Straight down into the courtyard. You could not survive. He did not want to, I suppose. A desperate, terrible thing. But there it is.” The man spread his hands helplessly. “Yes. I am sorry. Mr. Gashry is dead.”

Harding waited till dark before presenting himself at Ann Gashry’s door. This was not only to allow time for the police to contact her with the news of her brother’s death. Harding had needed time himself, to come to terms as best he could with an event that seemed to make no sense in the context of what had gone before-unless, he was coming more and more to suspect, what had gone before was not as he had believed it to be.

Ann’s greeting suggested she had been expecting his visit. She invited him in and he found himself once more in the sombre, fustily decorated drawing room, which was thickly curtained and fire-lit against the chill of the evening. There was no obvious sign of distress on her part. She was dry-eyed and calm, though perhaps paler than ever. A photograph album lay open on the table beside her chair. Harding glimpsed faded snaps of seaside holidays long ago: stiffly smiling parents; a teenage girl in an unglamorous swimsuit; a pouty little boy brandishing a plastic spade like a weapon.

“I haven’t looked at these photographs in years,” said Ann, gently closing the album. “They date from before my parents divorced: the brief period when Nathan and I were brother and sister under one roof.”

“I’m sorry Ann.”

“Thank you. It’s a shock, of course. There can be little true grief. We led such different lives. And yet…”

“He was your flesh and blood.”

“Indeed.” She picked up a glass from the table and sipped some of the contents. Brandy, Harding assumed. Her tipple, especially at times of stress. “Would you like a drink?”

“Thanks.”

“Help yourself.”

He poured himself a whisky and tilted the Courvoisier bottle enquiringly towards Ann. She shook her head and sat down. Harding joined her.

She drew a deep breath. “How did you hear?”

“I went to see him. It had just happened.”

“Was it… very dreadful?”

“They’d screened everything off.”

“Did you speak to the police?”

“No. They’d have… queried my being there.”

“So you want me to tell you what they make of it.” She looked him in the eye, defying him to pretend his principal reason for visiting her was to offer his condolences. “Well, perhaps we could start with why you went to see Nathan today. You didn’t seem to have it in mind yesterday.”