‘Yes,’ she said, confounding him. ‘That was it.’
FOURTEEN
HALF AN HOUR later Umber was walking fast along South Street. The probable futility of his journey to Mayfair had not restrained him. He stood a better chance of finding Oliver Hall at home in the evening, but he could not wait till then. He knew himself well enough to understand that he could not return to the British Library without first trying his luck at Kingsley House.
He recited to himself as he went the multiplying significances of what Claire Wheatley had told him. Oliver Hall did not believe Radd had killed his daughters. He did not believe Sally had killed herself. He did not even believe both of his daughters were necessarily dead. Wisby had been working for him all these years: probing, enquiring, ever seeking the answer. And the answer had something to do with Griffin.
‘Yes?’ It was Marilyn’s voice, responding just when Umber had convinced himself there would be no answer.
‘David Umber here.’
‘David?’
‘Yes.’
There was a fraction of a second’s pause. Then the door-release buzzed.
The door of the flat was ajar, as before, and the warmth had been restored to it. The music was back, more wall-papery this time, soothingly electronic. Marilyn walked along the passage from the bedrooms to greet him, towelling her hair as she came. She was wearing fluffy mules and a peach-coloured dressing gown, belted at the waist. The material of the gown was soft and clinging. She did not look to be wearing anything beneath.
‘This is a surprise,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d wait till Thursday.’
‘I was looking for your husband.’
‘In banking hours? Here?’
‘Sorry if I … disturbed you.’
‘That’s OK.’ She smiled. ‘I was just taking a shower. London’s such a dirty city, isn’t it?’
‘Er, yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’
‘No thanks. I won’t stop.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Oliver? Hard to say. Six? Seven? I don’t know.’ She tossed the towel over a radiator and padded past him into the drawing room. He followed, a few paces behind. ‘Do you want to leave a message for him? I think we’d better come clean about your visit this time, don’t you? We don’t want to push our luck.’ She caught his gaze in the mirror above the fireplace.
‘You could tell him I’ve found out about Wisby.’
‘Who?’
‘The private detective he’s hired.’
‘First I’ve heard of it. What was the name?’
‘Wisby. Alan Wisby.’
‘Are you sure about this, David?’ She turned to look at him directly. ‘How long has this man been working for Oliver?’
‘More than twenty years, off and on.’
‘And what’s he been investigating? Or is that a stupid question?’
‘Anything but, given how certain Oliver said he was that Radd was guilty.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll certainly tell him. Of course, he may deny employing the man.’
‘I expect he will.’
‘Then, what do you gain by asking him? If he’s been using a private detective, he’s been doing it without my knowledge. So, he’s pretty well certain to deny it. And if he hasn’t, he’ll deny it anyway. Either way, you won’t believe him.’
‘I can prove Wisby’s been working for him.’
‘How?’
‘Wisby approached Sally’s psychotherapist on Oliver’s behalf.’
‘Really?’
‘Claire Wheatley. She’s a disinterested professional. And she was emphatic on the point. Wisby made it clear to her he was working for Oliver.’
‘Perhaps he was lying.’
‘Somebody’s lying.’
‘If it’s Oliver, he’s not likely to stop now. Are you sure you want me to tell him you know about Wisby – assuming there’s anything to know?’
Suddenly, Umber was far from sure. Marilyn’s casual cynicism regarding her husband’s honesty was strangely disarming.
‘This trip he’s taking to Marlborough – wouldn’t you be better off challenging his word after he’s had his tête-à-tête with Jane?’
‘Whose side are you on, Marilyn?’
‘Whose do you think?’
‘Not mine.’
‘You could be wrong about that.’
‘Could I?’
‘Tell you what. I’ll make you an offer. As a sign of my … intentions.’
‘What kind of offer?’
‘I stand a much better chance than you do of finding out for certain whether Oliver’s had this man Wisby on some kind of long-term retainer – and, if so, why. As a matter of fact, I want to find out. In case I’m one of the subjects he’s been enquiring into.’
‘Surely not.’ Umber could not resist playing Marilyn at her own game to some degree.
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘And the offer?’
‘I’ll pass on everything I learn to you.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I know nothing about this, David. And Oliver isn’t supposed to have any secrets from me. If he has, well, I might need an ally. Someone I can trust.’
‘Think you can trust me?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Of course I do.’
‘I’m not sure you can.’
‘Well, maybe hope’s a better word, then.’
‘Ever heard of somebody called Griffin?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘I think I am.’ She gazed at him in silence for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. Then she said, ‘Or is hope a better word again?’
Umber felt both encouraged and disturbed by his visit to Kingsley House. He sat in a coffee shop in Curzon Street, trying to sift the good from the bad in his mind. He had a lead, of sorts, and a spy in the enemy camp whose reliability was questionable to say the least. The Halls were pursuing different and conflicting strategies, for reasons Umber was a long way from understanding. He was entangled in both. And entanglement with Marilyn, tempting though it undeniably was, seemed certain to lead to disaster. He could not trust her. But he could not afford to ignore her. By rights, he should agree his next move with Sharp. But Sharp was still en route to Jersey, phoneless and infuriatingly out of touch. For the moment, Umber was on his own.
The British Library was open until eight o’clock on weekdays. The books Umber had ordered could wait a while. Sensing he would not be able to concentrate on them until he had explored at least one other avenue where Wisby was concerned, he headed for Green Park Tube station.
His destination was Southwark, where Wisby Investigations Ltd operated out of an address in Blackfriars Road. Umber had learned this much from Claire Wheatley’s telephone directory. He had also learned the phone number, of course, and could have spared himself the risk of a wasted journey by calling ahead, but he wanted to see just what sort of an operation it was, so he decided to try his luck in person.
171A Blackfriars Road was a first-floor office above a shoe-repair business. 221B Baker Street it was very far from. A young, yawning Asian woman was the sole occupant. She broke off from typing on a word processor that looked about twenty years old to tell him, ‘They’re all out,’ without apparently feeling the need to explain who they were.
‘I’m looking for Alan Wisby.’
‘He’s retired.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh yes, he has. Since before I started here.’
‘When was that?’
‘Nearly a year now. Monica Wisby’s in charge. She’s out at the moment.’
‘When will she be back?’
‘I don’t know. Could be soon. Could be … late. Do you want to leave a message?’
‘For what it’s worth, yeah.’
She grabbed a notepad and pen. ‘What’s your name?’
; ‘Umber. David Umber. Monica’s already—’
‘You’re David Umber?’ She looked surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you … prove it?’
Umber took out his wallet and placed his brand-new British Library reader’s card on the desk. The young woman looked at the photograph on it, then up at him, then down at the photograph again. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Sorry. I had to be sure.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Monica said you might turn up, but I wasn’t to hand it over or even mention we had it – unless you had some ID.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This letter.’ She opened the desk drawer and took out a sealed buff envelope. ‘It’s for you.’ She handed it over.
Umber stepped back to the doorway before opening the letter, unsure how to react to such a turn of events.
His name had been printed on the envelope using an old-fashioned typewriter in need of a change of ribbon. There was one sheet of paper inside, so thin that some strikes of the keys had perforated it. It bore neither address nor date, but was signed at the bottom A.E.Wisby.
Dear Mr Umber
Monica apprised me of Sharp’s visit to my old place of business. He gave her your name and mobile number for me to contact. I don’t trust phones or policemen, so we’ll keep this between ourselves if you don’t mind. I’m willing to talk to you as long as you come alone. I’m on the Kennet and Avon at present, between Newbury and Kintbury. You’ll recognize the boat’s name when you see it. Don’t leave it too long, or I’ll have moved on.
Umber made it to Paddington in time to catch a crowded five o’clock commuter train bound for Bedwyn, stopping just about everywhere en route, including Newbury and Kintbury. From the guard he learned that Kintbury station was right next to the canal, which clinched his choice of destination. He somehow doubted Wisby would have moored in the centre of Newbury anyway.
The train reached Kintbury at 6.30. The sun had set by then, behind dark clouds rolling in from the west. A still, greying twilight filled the air. Umber lingered on the platform, watching the other passengers who had got off leave the station. The canal was separated from the railway line by the width of the small station car park. The village of Kintbury lay to the south, the lane into it crossing the canal over a humpback bridge. There was a pub on the other side of the bridge. One of the departing passengers was making straight for it. The others were clambering into their waiting cars.
The guard blew his whistle. The train rumbled off into the dusk. The level-crossing gates rose. The vehicles they had been holding back drove on. The car park emptied. Within a few minutes of the train’s arrival, there was no-one left in sight. Umber was alone in the descending silence and gathering gloom. He headed for the towpath.
It was plainly foolish to set off on such a search in failing light. But the truth was that biding his time had simply not occurred to him until he was on the train. He doubted he would have found the patience to wait until morning in any event. Besides, Wisby was more or less certain to be aboard his boat come evening. To that extent, this was exactly the right time to go looking for him.
On the other hand, it had to be five or six miles to Newbury and it would be pitch black long before Umber got there. He was pinning his hopes on finding Wisby’s boat within the first couple of miles. There were no boats moored ahead that he could see, but that was not far on account of the canal’s winding route. He walked faster and faster, breaking occasionally into a jog as the sky darkened.
Wisby’s choice of the Kennet and Avon Canal was not a matter of chance, of course. Umber was keenly aware of that. Marlborough lay no more than ten or twelve miles to the west, an easy bus-ride from Bedwyn, the canal’s closest approach to the town. Wisby was in the area for a reason and was content to let Umber guess what that reason might be. He could hardly know about the towpath walk Umber had taken with Sally after the inquest all those years ago, but the memory of it was hovering close to Umber. Nor was it the only memory crowding in on him. He was a man fleeing the past as well as pursuing it.
The silence was suddenly broken as a high-speed train roared into view beyond the wood-fringed fields to his left. The brightly lit carriages sped past in a barrage of sound – and were gone. Umber stood listening to the fading note of the engine. Then he pressed on.
A few minutes later, rounding the next bend, he saw a humpback bridge ahead and the pale line of a track leading up from it across the sloping field on the other side of the canal. And then he saw the dark shape of a boat moored just beyond the bridge. He stepped up the pace.
The bridge served only the track. There was no road in sight. An old wartime pillbox was half-buried in the undergrowth beside the towpath just beyond the bridge. The mooring was quiet and inaccessible. Umber could see no signs of life as he approached the boat. There were no lights showing at any of the windows. It was a smartly painted, well-maintained craft, roped fore and aft to stakes driven into the bank. Its name was lettered boldly on the prow: Monica.
Umber stepped into the bow area and voiced a hopeful ‘Hello?’ But the doors to the cabin were padlocked shut. Wisby was obviously not there. Umber peered in through one of the glazed panels in the doors, but could see nothing.
Then, as he stepped back, the padlock suddenly fell to the deck with a thump. Umber stared at it in bemusement. The loop had been snapped clean through. The pierced edges glinted up at him. Someone had cut through the lock, then replaced it loosely on the hasp. Umber’s movements had been sufficient to dislodge it. It had been rigged to appear secure, whereas in reality …
He flicked the hasp back and pulled the doors open. The cabin was in darkness, the twilight seeping through the half-curtained windows scarcely penetrating the deep, jumbled shadows. He felt for a light switch, but could not find one. His fumblings did chance on a torch, however, hanging just inside the doorway. He unhooked it and switched it on.
The torch beam revealed what seemed at first to be an immaculate interior of polished wood and burnished brass, with nothing out of place. Then, about halfway down the cabin, the light fell on a slew of papers across the floor. They lay at the foot of a three-drawer metal filing cabinet – an incongruous sight aboard a narrowboat. There were discarded folders amidst the scatter of papers. Someone had ransacked the cabinet.
Umber was about to step into the cabin when he felt the boat lurch beneath him. As he turned, he saw a gap opening between the boat and the bank. A man in a black tracksuit was standing on the towpath, staring straight at him – a man he knew from their encounter in Yeovil as John Walsh. Beside him, the stake was still planted firmly in the ground. But there was no rope tied around it.
For a second, Umber froze, his thoughts and reactions scrambled. Where had Walsh come from? The pillbox, perhaps? He could have hidden inside it as Umber approached. He must have broken into the boat, failed to find what he had been looking for, then lain in wait for Wisby. But it was not Wisby who had walked into his trap.
Walsh had untied the rope and shoved the boat away from the bank. But the rope at the other end of the vessel was still fastened, causing it to drift out diagonally across the canal. There was already too wide a gap to jump from the bow. Umber would have to reach the stern to get off. But he did not for a second believe Walsh meant to let him do that.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Walsh shouted, shaking his head. ‘You really shouldn’t.’ His gaze shifted suddenly away from Umber. In the same instant, there were heavy footfalls on the roof of the cabin.
Umber turned just in time to see a burly, camouflage-clad figure looming above him. He glimpsed the blurred arc of a baseball bat swinging towards him. He raised his arm to protect himself, the torch still clasped in his hand. The bat was aimed at his head, but the rubber barrel of the torch took the direct force of the blow.
Of this, Umber was in no real sense aware. Something had struck him a stunning blow. That was all he knew. Then something else str
uck the back of his head as he fell. And the rest was darkness.
FIFTEEN
UMBER WAS COLD. God, was he cold, shivering as he woke to a damp patter of rain on his face. Dreaming and consciousness collided in a jolt of blurred memory. He moved, wincing as a pain throbbed through his head. Slowly, he pulled himself up into a sitting position.
The night was inkily black. He could see virtually nothing. He put his hand behind his head and felt a tender, oozing lump. Then he noticed a feeble glimmer of light nearby and stretched towards it. It was the torch, its batteries all but exhausted. He switched it off.
He was still aboard the Monica. That was about all he could be sure of. The boat was rocking gently beneath him, the cabin doors creaking on their hinges. There was another sound, of wood thumping dully against wood.
He clambered awkwardly to his feet, his every movement slowed by dizzying pulses of pain in his head. The boat must be adrift, he reasoned. For all he knew, it was in the middle of the canal. But no. There was that thumping again. And he could make out the shadow of something beyond and above the cabin. A bridge, perhaps? No. It was too low. A lock gate, then? Yes. That had to be it. The Monica had drifted down to the next lock.
He felt his way round the bulwark to the side he had boarded by and reached out blindly into the darkness. Nothing. Then he scrabbled around the deck until he found the broken padlock. He tossed this in the direction of where he thought the bank should be and heard it fall to earth rather than into water. He pulled the left-hand cabin door wide open and, grasping its handle, stretched out further into the void, flapping his arm as best he could in search of a hold. Still nothing. He slumped back against the door, head pounding.
It was hopeless. He was going to have to phone for assistance: the police or an ambulance. He reached into his pocket for his mobile. Not there. It must have slipped out onto the deck. He lowered himself to his knees and felt around for it. The bow area was small. It did not take long to cover. But the phone was nowhere to be found. Then he understood. It was not there because Walsh had taken it, either to deny Umber the use of it or to listen to any messages left for him.
Sight Unseen Page 13
