Sight Unseen

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Where better to start?’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t have a proper breakfast. A breath of fresh air will set you right. Let’s take a walk.’

  * * *

  It was a cold, grey morning. A wind had got up, driving slashes of rain into their faces. A solitary customer emerged from the post office as they left the car park. Otherwise, they seemed to have the village to themselves.

  Sharp led the way towards the Red Lion, but crossed the road before he reached it and took up position beneath the trees on the opposite corner. Moving slowly and reluctantly, Umber joined him.

  ‘Nothing much has changed, has it?’ Sharp asked rhetorically.

  Umber took a deep breath and looked across at the Adam and Eve stones in the field behind Silbury House, at the gate in the fence through which Miranda Hall had run that day they were both replaying in their minds. Then he looked along Green Street, towards the other gate, through which Tamsin Hall had been carried to the waiting white van. And then, almost as an act of mercy, a lorry rumbled round the bend from the north, blocking his view.

  ‘If you’d been standing here rather than sitting outside the pub,’ said Sharp, once the lorry had gone, ‘you’d have seen for certain whether there were two men in the van, or only one.’

  ‘There were two.’

  ‘Yes. Two.’ Sharp nodded thoughtfully. ‘Paedophiles don’t generally work in pairs. And Tamsin was a lot younger than Radd’s other victims.’

  ‘He was lying, George. You know it. I know it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I thought you reckoned he did a deal with your successor.’

  ‘Who’d not have been above such a thing, let me tell you. But what was the deal? There was nothing we could offer him. He was going away for life whatever he admitted to. So, what was in it for him?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘That’s the point.’ Sharp looked round at Umber. ‘I can’t.’

  To Umber’s relief, they soon started back along the High Street. But they did not stop at the car park. Sharp had something other than a swift departure in mind.

  ‘I thought we’d pay the Nevinsons a call.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘How about some other time, when I’m feeling more like myself?’

  ‘Wait with Molly if you like.’

  ‘No. I’ll come with you.’

  Sharp smiled. ‘Thought you would.’

  They crossed the churchyard and followed a narrow footpath between some cottages to the western edge of the old village. The footpath headed on to a river-bridge, then continued to a field-gate. There the tarmac ended, leaving Sharp and Umber to dodge muddy patches the rest of the way to Avebury Trusloe, a huddle of utilitarian brown-brick houses and bungalows straight ahead. An old man carrying a shopping bag, bound presumably for the post office, passed them on the way and nodded a wordless good morning.

  The transplanted village was served by a lane off the main road. Crossing it, Umber wondered why they had not driven round, a thought he did not bother to utter, but which Sharp seemed to respond to anyway.

  ‘I always used to cover the last few hundred yards to a suspect’s home on foot. Most of my colleagues thought I was mad. But the lie of the land can be the key to the mystery. Understanding it can give you an edge.’

  ‘So you’ve walked this route before?’

  ‘No. I never have. Because Nevinson wasn’t a suspect twenty-three years ago. But he is now.’

  ‘And what has the lie of the land told you? Apart from the unlikelihood of an early spring.’

  ‘That old man we passed.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Eighty if he’s a day. Probably born in one of the cottages that were demolished, then rehoused here.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Still goes back, doesn’t he? They move the people out of the village, but they can’t move the village out of the people. Maybe I should have looked for the answer to this … a lot closer to home.’

  Home for the Nevinsons was a poorly maintained semidetached house with windows in need of painting, an unkempt garden and a fence with several pales missing. The neighbouring property was not in much better condition, the only splash of colour in its garden being a bright yellow toy car, lying on its side.

  Sharp flung open the Nevinsons’ gate and strode up the fissured concrete path to the door. He had given the bell two jabs with his forefinger before Umber caught up.

  A woman answered, with surprising promptness. The sister, Umber assumed. Short and plump, clad in a voluminous sweater worn over tracksuit bottoms and ancient plimsolls, she had iron-grey curly hair framing a round, placidly smiling face. Sixty or so, he would have guessed. She might well have attended the inquest, if only to lend her brother moral support. But Umber had no memory of her.

  She, on the other hand, appeared to have a memory of him – of both of them, in fact. A quizzical smile dimpled her cheeks. ‘Good morning,’ she said, a local accent wrestling gamely with Home Counties elocution. ‘I believe I know you gentlemen.’

  ‘I believe you do,’ said Sharp.

  ‘But it’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Sharp, as ever is.’

  ‘Retired now, Miss Nevinson. Plain Mr Sharp.’

  She looked intently at Umber. ‘And you’d be …’

  ‘David Umber.’

  ‘Of course. Mr Umber. The other witness. We were never introduced, were we? I’m Abigail Nevinson. Percy’s sister.’ She held out her hand, which Umber stepped forward to shake. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re looking for Percy,’ said Sharp.

  ‘I suppose you would be.’ She treated them to an appraising squint. ‘You make a strange pair, if you don’t mind me saying. Not a pair I’d have expected to find on the doorstep. Certainly not after all these years.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘You’ve not … found her, have you?’

  ‘Found her?’ Sharp seemed momentarily not to understand who she meant.

  ‘The girl.’

  ‘No,’ said Umber, determined to stop this hare from running. ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Oh. What a shame.’ And the expression on Abigail Nevinson’s face suggested that it truly was a shame. ‘But it’ll be about her you’ve called, I dare say.’

  ‘In a sense,’ said Sharp. ‘Is Percy at home?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He’s off on his morning walk.’

  ‘Nice weather for it,’ said Umber.

  ‘Oh, he pays no heed to the weather, Mr Umber. It could be blowing a gale and he’d still head off.’

  ‘Will he be gone long?’ asked Sharp.

  ‘Hard to say. Could be back any minute, or gone till lunchtime. Would you like to step in for a cup of tea and see if he arrives meanwhile?’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ Sharp replied. ‘We’d be glad to.’

  An eloquent glance over his shoulder at Umber as they entered suggested that Sharp’s acceptance of the invitation was not prompted by an eagerness to socialize with Abigail Nevinson. The house was warm and comfortably furnished, albeit in a style several decades out of date. There was a brief discussion of milk and sugar requirements, then Abigail waved them into the sitting room and headed for the kitchen. Umber sat down in an armchair by the fire, while Sharp prowled around, inspecting the contents of a bookcase and a china cabinet.

  ‘Has much changed here, George?’ Umber enquired sotto voce.

  ‘Nothing’s changed at all.’ There was a rattling of cups and the singing of a kettle from the kitchen. ‘Except Old Mother Nevinson’s not weighing down that chair you’ve parked yourself in.’

  ‘Great. What about Abigail?’

  ‘Fatter and older. Like her brother, I expect.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her – or him – about the letter?’

  ‘Not until I rule him out as the sender.’ />
  ‘How are you going to explain our visit, then?’

  ‘Simple. I’ll say it was your idea.’

  A few minutes later, Abigail arrived with tea and biscuits, frowning pensively. She went on frowning as she distributed the cups and plates, then sat down opposite them, looked solemnly at Umber and said, ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife’s death, Mr Umber. We both were. It’s terrible how that one day all those years ago ruined so many people’s lives.’

  ‘Actually, it’s on Sally’s account that we’re here.’ Umber launched himself at once on his hastily prepared cover story. ‘Since her death, I’ve wanted to take another look at what happened and see if I can’t … resolve some of the doubts she always had about the official version of events.’

  ‘I offered to help,’ said Sharp. ‘Least I could do.’

  ‘I thought the police had decided that dreadful man Radd was responsible,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I don’t go along with my former colleagues on that.’

  ‘No? How interesting. Neither does Percy.’

  ‘Oh? What’s his theory?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him, Chief Inspector. Percy has so many theories. About so many things.’

  ‘Including the stone circle, as I recall.’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s quite the expert on that. It’s been virtually a lifelong study.’

  ‘You’ve always lived here?’

  ‘Well, we used to live in the village proper, of course. But our cottage was pulled down and we were moved over here when Percy and I were children.’

  ‘The Nevinsons go back a long way in these parts, do they?’

  ‘No. But the Bates do. My mother’s side of the family. Did, I should say. There are none left round here now.’

  ‘Except you and Percy.’

  ‘Except us.’

  ‘Last of the line.’

  ‘It’s turned out that way, yes.’

  ‘Did you ever think of …’

  ‘Marrying? I’ve had offers in my time, Chief Inspector, I can tell you. None I cared to accept, though. Besides …’

  ‘There was always Percy to look after.’

  Abigail bridled faintly at that. It seemed to Umber that she had suddenly realized she was being drawn in a direction she did not wish to take. ‘Will you be … speaking to everyone involved in the tragedy?’ she asked with conspicuous deliberation.

  ‘If they’ll speak to us,’ Sharp replied.

  ‘The Halls got divorced, you know.’

  ‘I did know, yes.’

  ‘Mrs Hall – Mrs Questred as is – still lives locally.’

  ‘Do you happen to know where?’

  ‘Over near Ramsbury. It’s a picture-postcard house at the bottom of Hilldrop Lane. Swanpool Cottage. Not really what you’d expect her to make do with, pretty or no, but there it is. Her husband keeps a wine shop in Marlborough, so I suppose it’s handy, though how she can bear to stick so close to Avebury I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘You think she should live somewhere … grander?’

  ‘Well, she did live somewhere grander when she was married to Mr Hall, didn’t she? And I suppose he’ll have had to pay her a goodly sum to settle the divorce.’

  ‘Do you ever see her?’

  ‘In Marlborough, from time to time. Shopping and such. She doesn’t know me, of course.’

  ‘But she’d know Percy?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I’m not sure she’d show it.’

  ‘Maybe she’s trying to put it all behind her,’ suggested Umber, to an irritated frown from Sharp.

  ‘Maybe she is,’ said Abigail. ‘No-one could blame her for that.’

  ‘No,’ said Umber. ‘No-one could.’

  Percy Nevinson had still not returned when, half an hour later, Umber and Sharp took their leave. Abigail had noted down Umber’s mobile number and assured them she would ask her brother to ring them as soon as possible.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to undermine my questioning of suspects in future,’ Sharp complained as soon as they were clear of the estate.

  ‘Abigail’s hardly a suspect,’ said Umber.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘You were pressing too hard, George. Do you want Percy on the defensive before you even speak to him?’

  ‘I have a feeling he’ll be on the defensive anyway. His sister’s hiding something. Which means he’s hiding something.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I sense it. In this game, that’s as good as knowing. If not better.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘How many murders have you investigated, Umber?’

  ‘Come off it, George.’

  ‘How many?’

  Umber sighed. ‘None, of course.’

  Sharp nodded. ‘Exactly.’ And with that he quickened his pace.

  Neither Sharp nor Umber looked much about them during this spat. As a result, they did not notice the figure in the telephone box at the corner of the lane that led them down to the footpath back to Avebury. He was a short, tubby man dressed in hiking boots, pale-green corduroy trousers and a faded brown anorak. The brim of a dark-green Tilley hat, worn low, obscured his features. He had his back turned as they passed and appeared as oblivious of them as they were of him.

  He shifted his stance once they had reached the footpath, however, and could hardly have failed to see them as they moved ahead. A moment later, he put the telephone down, exited the box and headed into the estate, moving at an anxious clip.

  SIX

  ‘WHERE ARE WE going now, George?’ Umber asked as they drove out of Avebury past the surviving stones of an ancient avenue that led south from the circle.

  ‘Worried I’ll go straight to Swanpool Cottage and antagonize Jane Questred, are you?’ Sharp responded.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Credit me with some sensitivity, Umber. I let her down twenty-three years ago. Badly. If she wrote me that letter, I could hardly complain. Doorstepping her on a Monday morning isn’t the way to break the ice. Besides, Abigail only gave us her address to get us off Percy’s case. I don’t like being manipulated.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘We’ll drop in on Edmund Questred’s wine shop and ask him – ever so politely – if his wife will talk to us.’

  ‘And if the answer’s no?’

  ‘It won’t be.’ There was the briefest of pauses before he added, ‘Unless she’s hiding something as well.’

  Marlborough was much as Umber remembered it. A gently curving High Street wide enough to turn a coach and four in was flanked by handsome buildings of several eras, mostly in brick, housing a genteel assortment of shops and cafés. They drove in past the teaching blocks and playing fields of Marlborough College, scanned for a parking space – and found one in the centre of the High Street. Almost exactly opposite them, Umber noticed, was the arcaded, tile-hung frontage of the Kennet Valley Wine Company. And Sharp had noticed it as well.

  ‘You a wine buff, Umber?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Nor me. More’s the pity.’ Sharp clicked his tongue. ‘We’ll just have to play it straight down the line.’

  A bell rang as they entered the shop. From an office at the rear, behind the counter, a tall, thin man with wiry grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard emerged, stooping to clear the lintel. He wore a soulful expression, his face set in lugubrious, bloodhound folds, and seemed instantly to sense that they were not there to buy wine, as their conspicuous failure even to glance at the ample array of middle-of-the-road whites and reds only confirmed.

  ‘Mr Questred?’ Sharp enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ Questred replied, cautiously.

  ‘This is going to come as a bit of a surprise. My name’s George Sharp. And my friend here … is David Umber.’

  A surprise it certainly should have been. But Umber felt, as Sharp’s explanation of their visit proceeded, that it was a surprise Questred had somehow anticipated, even if only subconsciously. He s
eemed more disappointed than dismayed, as if they were fulfilling some gloomy presentiment that he only now recalled. When Sharp had finished, Questred went to the door, flicked the sign round to read CLOSED and slipped a bolt across to ensure they were not interrupted. Momentarily, he rested his forehead against the door frame. And then he sighed.

  ‘We’re sorry about this, Mr Questred,’ said Sharp. ‘If I could find a different way to—’

  ‘You want to speak to Jane.’ Questred turned to face them. ‘You want to go over the same old ground again with her.’

  ‘Just a few questions. That’s all.’

  ‘All? I doubt you have any conception of what all really covers for her. She hasn’t got over it, you know. She never will. But she’s learned how to survive it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been a big factor in that, Mr Questred.’

  ‘I’d like to think so. I didn’t know Miranda or Tamsin. Or Jane while she still had them. We have a daughter of our own now. We’re happy. We have a good life. Jane doesn’t need any reminders of the life she used to lead.’

  ‘She’s moved on.’

  ‘If you want to put it like that.’

  ‘Except she hasn’t moved on,’ put in Umber. ‘I mean, not physically. She still lives in the area.’

  ‘My business is here.’

  ‘You could have relocated.’

  Questred looked narrowly at Umber, as if paying him more attention than he had so far. ‘She didn’t want me to. She doesn’t run away from things.’

  ‘In that case, she surely won’t mind speaking to us.’

  ‘But you’ll be encouraging her to run away, Mr Umber. From the truth.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That Tamsin’s dead, just like Miranda. That she isn’t coming back. That there are no miracles on offer.’

  ‘Does she believe Brian Radd killed her daughters?’