“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.”

The cupboard stacked with unlabelled videos was attracting little attention when Harding returned to the drawing room after leaving Hayley’s basement flat. The note on the lot-number tag-SOME BETAMAX-might have gone a long way towards explaining why. If Ray Trathen really meant to buy them up in search of the one that supposedly belonged to him, Harding reckoned he was unlikely to face fierce competition.

First a ring in a starburst box. Now a switched video. Gabriel Tozer had apparently been determined to auction several secrets along with a lifetime’s worth of possessions. The minor mysteries wrapped round them would have intrigued Harding even without the personal interest he had in some of the questions they raised. Why had Carol never mentioned the diving accident? Where had he met Hayley before? What did all the contradictions and coincidences amount to? Something? Or nothing?

“Ray Trathen’s the man to ask about that,” Hayley had told him, meaning the accident. But maybe there was more Trathen was an expert on. Maybe a lot more.

Harding went back upstairs and tracked down Clive Isbister in one of the bedrooms.

“Still here, Mr. Harding?” Isbister asked, looking surprised to see him again.

“Just leaving, actually. But I wondered if you could… help me with something.”

“Happy to. If I can.”

“Do you know where Ray Trathen lives?”

“Taroveor Terrace. I’m not sure of the number. But… why do you ask?”

“Oh, I… just wanted to check if he’d be… bidding against me at the auction.”

“Unlikely, given the state of his finances. Plus his”-Isbister smiled-“interest in another lot.” The smile faded. “I don’t think you need worry about Ray”

“I’m just trying to… cover all bases.”

“Well, it’s up to you. I expect he’s in the phone book. But you might do better to try the Turk’s Head in Chapel Street around six. I believe he starts there most evenings.” The smile returned. “A creature of habit, our Ray.”

Harding had wandered through the subtropical haven of Morrab Gardens earlier in the day. He returned there after leaving Heartsease and listened to Carol’s voicemail message while sitting on a bench near the bandstand.

Barney’s playing golf, so I thought I’d give you a call. What are you doing? Treating Humph to a cream tea? It’d be wasted on him. He doesn’t appreciate the good things in life. But I do. Our afternoons together are very good, Tim, very, very good. Shall we pencil one in for Thursday? You’ll be back by then. And I’ll be… well, you just wait and see. Call me before five if you can. Otherwise, I’ll call you Take care. And take it easy. I want you firing on all cylinders. Know what I mean? Of course you do. Bye for now.

It was gone four o’clock, gone five in Monaco. He was surprised at how relieved he felt not to have to respond to the message. He had been in Penzance for less than twenty-four hours, but already the Côte d’Azur seemed a long way away. He was aware that something more than déjà vu had infected his encounter with Hayley Winter. His inability to recall where and when they had previously met was only part of the reason he had suggested they spend the following day together. The other part he did not care to examine too closely. But its existence he did not doubt. Though as for what it amounted to… only time would tell.

It was not yet six when he entered the Turk’s Head, but Ray Trathen was already installed at one end of the bar, puffing at a cigarette between gulps of bitter, a tightly rolled copy of the auction catalogue parked by his elbow.

Harding ordered a pint and turned to look at Trathen, whose bleary gaze suggested he had visited several other pubs since leaving Heartsease. Perhaps that was his normal Saturday routine. Or perhaps this had been a particularly trying Saturday.

“We met at Heartsease this afternoon,” said Harding, smiling warily. “You’re Ray Trathen.”

“Yeah.” Trathen frowned. “I am. But I don’t…”

“I’m Tim Harding. Quite a place, that house, don’t you think?”

“How did you… know my name?”

“Clive Isbister told me. He said… you know all there is to know about the Tozer family.”

“He did?”

“Can I get you another?” Harding nodded at Trathen’s glass.

“Yeah. Thanks.” A moment later, the glass was empty. “Wouldn’t say no.” And, a few moments after that, it was full again.

“I gather you used to work for Barney Tozer.”

“I did, yeah. You know him?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s how a lot of people know him.”

“He lives in Monaco now, right?”

“Yeah. Tax exile. Exile, anyway.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t come over for the auction.”

“I’m not. He’s afraid to show his face round here.”

“Because of the diving accident?”

“Accident? That’s not what I’d call it.”

“No?”

Trathen shaped another frown. “Why are you so interested?”

“Well…” Harding lowered his voice theatrically. “Truth is, Barney’s offered to put some money into my business. And I’m just wondering if he’s the sort of bloke I should get mixed up with. Financially-or in any other way.”

“Take a long spoon.”

“Sorry?”

“You’ll be supping with the Devil.”

Harding smiled. “He can’t be that bad.”

“You can find out the hard way if you want. Or you can take my advice. Give Barney Tozer a wide berth.”

“Why?”

“Because, sooner or later, he’ll shaft you. Take my word for it. What sort of business are you in, anyway?”

“Landscape gardening.”

Trathen emitted a derisive grunt, though whether at the expense of Harding’s choice of occupation or Tozer’s suitability as a partner in it was hard to tell. “Barney likes to dabble. No question about it. He’d just moved into fish farming when he took me on to handle his PR. But that all went by the board when he vamoosed to Monte Carlo. And my job with it.”