‘Spotted what’s waiting for you in the hall, Shadow Man?’ he called.
‘Yes,’ Umber replied.
‘Take them. They’re yours.’
‘We want more than the books,’ shouted Wisby as he caught up with Umber. ‘You know what my terms are.’
‘Oh yes,’ Jeremy shouted back. ‘I know.’
‘Come down. Let’s talk. Like we agreed.’
‘Like you demanded, you mean. Remember the kestrel, Shadow Man?’
‘Yes. But—’
‘Predator or prey. We’re one or the other. Never both.’ He seemed to look beyond them, into the distance. ‘There’s so much air up here. So much sky. And everything’s so very, very simple.’
‘Come down,’ shouted Wisby.
‘All right,’ Jeremy responded. ‘I will.’
In that second, Umber knew what Jeremy was going to do. He stepped forward. And so did Jeremy. Out into the empty air beyond the parapet. Out into a place he could see so clearly. Out – and down.
Umber closed his eyes an immeasurable fraction of a second before Jeremy hit the ground. But the sound of the impact – the squelching thud of flesh and bone on tarmac, the fricative last gasp of breath forced from Jeremy’s mouth – was no easier to bear than the sight of it would have been. Umber could not keep his eyes closed for ever. When he opened them, he knew what he would see. And already, before he did so, he knew of the other death it would call to his mind. The mangled body; the wine-dark blood; the stillness and the silence: as it had been for the sister so it was now for the brother.
Umber opened his eyes.
By a small, scant miracle, Jeremy had fallen with his face angled away from them. Only the tide of blood seeping from his smashed body, carried towards Umber by the camber of the drive, declared his death as an unalterable fact.
Umber stepped back onto the lawn before the stretching red fingers reached him. He sank to his haunches and stared at the lifeless, crumpled figure in front of him, at Jeremy’s tousled blood-flecked hair, at the upturned palm of his nearest hand, cradled as if to receive some gift.
Umber thought of Jane Hall, standing in the cemetery above Marlborough, mourning her daughters and comforting herself with the knowledge that at least she still had a living, breathing son. Soon, all too soon, she would have that comfort snatched away from her.
Umber had done nothing to save the daughters. And now his action, for reasons he did not properly understand, had destroyed the son.
‘Oh God,’ he murmured. ‘Oh dear God.’
The car engine burst suddenly into life. Umber looked round and saw Wisby reversing the car away from him. It bumped up onto the lawn, then Wisby slammed it into forward gear, swerved round onto the drive and accelerated down the slope towards the gates.
Umber’s reactions were addled by shock. He could not comprehend what was happening. Where was Wisby going? What in God’s name did he think he was doing?
The probable answer hit Umber like a blow to the face. He jumped up and, skirting the pool of blood that had spread from Jeremy’s body, ran across the drive and up the steps to the front door.
It was wide open. In the hall, on the console table, the silver tray stood empty.
Wisby had stopped at the foot of the drive, waiting for the gates to open after the car had crossed the sensor-cable. The gates swung slowly and smoothly. The car idled. Umber started running down the drive, certain he would be too late, but running anyway, his feet pounding on the tarmac.
The car started forward as soon as there was a large enough gap between the gates for it to pass through. Wisby pulled straight out onto the road and put his foot down. The car sped away. It was out of sight before Umber reached the gateway.
Umber’s last few strides carried him out onto the road. He stared despairingly in the direction the car had taken – back the way they had come earlier. The gates were fully open by now. A few seconds later, they began to close again.
Umber had still not moved when they clanged shut behind him.
NINETEEN
UMBER WALKED SOUTH along the Waterworks Valley road through the encroaching dusk. Forward motion was the only strategy he was able to settle on. He had set off from Eden Holt telling himself he would flag down a car or call at the next house he came to in order to raise the alarm. He had done neither. He could have climbed the gates and phoned the police from Eden Holt, of course. Failure to do so had already set his course for him.
Jeremy Hall was dead. Nothing could restore him to life. The ugly truth was that Umber’s dread of the consequences of Jeremy’s death was stronger than the duty he felt to report it. Naturally, he would report it. But not from the scene. Not there and then. Not in any way that required him to account for his part in it. As yet, he was unable to do that even to himself.
After two or three miles, he reached the village of Millbrook, where Wisby had turned off the coast road on their way from St Helier. There was a call-box by the junction. Umber went in, dialled 999 and asked for the police.
‘There’s been a suicide at Eden Holt, a house in Waterworks Valley,’ he said, ignoring requests for his name and location. And then he promptly rang off.
He crossed the road and waited at the bus stop. He knew he was on the route of the half-hourly service to the Airport. And he knew for a rock-solid certainty that the Airport was where Wisby would have headed, fearing an encounter with Umber if he lingered on the island. He had what he wanted, after all. Not all of it, of course. Not the full explanation he might have been able to extract from Jeremy Hall. But he had the vellum-bound Junius. And no doubt he was determined to keep it.
The bus route to the Airport, as Umber also knew, ran through St Aubin. He did not get off, telling himself it was better if Chantelle heard the news from the police. That way, she could happily assume for a few more hours at least that Jeremy would return to her. Umber could only pray he would not see her in the street as the bus passed through. And his prayer was answered.
There was no sign of Wisby in the check-in area at the Airport. A word at the information desk revealed there were several flights to various British destinations he could already have left on. No doubt he had taken the first available one, whether it was to Gatwick, Bristol or even Manchester. But had he left at all – rather than returned to St Helier, if only to collect his belongings from his hotel? Umber prowled the car park, inspecting numerous lookalike hire cars, until he found one whose rear tyres were smeared with mud and grass from a recent lawn-skid. That clinched it. The bird had flown. Perhaps he had checked out of his hotel earlier, guessing he might need to make a hasty getaway after their meeting with Jeremy. Umber suspected Wisby had intended all along to spring some kind of double-cross as soon as the Juniuses’ authenticity had been confirmed. A glance at the books from ten feet away was hardly sufficient for Umber to do that, but Wisby had clearly decided to settle for it in the suddenly and savagely altered circumstances.
Umber had been so close to laying his hands on the fabled special copy of the 1773 Junius and reading what Griffin had described to him twenty-three years previously as ‘an illuminating and more than somewhat surprising inscription’ that he could scarcely believe he had let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He knew why, of course. He knew the reason only too well. The sight of Jeremy Hall lying dead in a spreading pool of blood burst into his mind whenever he closed his eyes. It had not been enough to stop Wisby, however. It had not been enough even to make him hesitate.
It was the galling thought of Wisby studying the inscription over an in-flight drink that suddenly alerted Umber to the one question above all he should have put to Vernon Garrard – but had failed to. He rushed back into the terminal building and made for the payphones.
It was way past Quires’ probable closing time. But a book dealer is always open to offers. The recorded message at Quires gave an out-of-hours number to try. Umber rang it – and Garrard answered.
‘David Umber here, Mr Garrard.’
<
br /> A sigh. ‘I rather thought our business was concluded, Mr Umber.’
‘There’s a question I forgot to ask. Just one.’
Another sigh. ‘Very well. What is it?’
‘What was the inscription in the Junius?’
‘Inscription?’
‘You must have inspected the book before selling it. Especially since you hadn’t even known it was in stock.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, yes, I cast my eye over it, naturally, as you say, if only in order to set a price.’
‘And?’
‘It’s rather odd, actually. Both you and Mr Wisby neglected to raise the point.’
‘Exactly. But now we’ve been able to compare notes. So, what was the inscription?’
‘There wasn’t one.’
‘No inscription?’
‘None.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure there wasn’t. But as to whether there had been …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The fly-leaves had been torn out of both volumes, Mr Umber. That’s what I mean.’
Umber booked a seat on a morning flight to Gatwick and took the bus back to St Helier. It was Thursday evening. A glance at his watch reminded him that he could even then have been sitting with Marilyn Hall in the theatre, watching All’s Well That Ends Well, with her stepson alive and none the wiser. But there was only one rule in the game of consequences: you could never go back. Jeremy Hall was dead. And his death made one thing certain. All was not going to end well.
Umber should have phoned Larter and warned him of his return, but could not bring himself to, knowing that, if he did, he would have to explain why he was leaving Jersey. It was not as if he had made any progress towards securing Sharp’s release from prison. He was, however he chose to present it, fleeing the scene of a crime. What the nature of the crime was he could not exactly have said. But to inflict the loss of another child on Jane Questred and Oliver Hall was unforgivably cruel. They would certainly not forgive him when they learned from Chantelle of the part he had played in driving Jeremy to his death. They would travel to Jersey as soon as the news reached them. Umber must not be there when they arrived. He could not look them in the face and tell them what had happened – how he had watched, helplessly but culpably, their son’s self-destruction. He could not. And he would not.
He took a taxi to the Airport in the morning, rather than a bus, thereby avoiding a diversion through St Aubin. Once inside the terminal building he behaved almost like a fugitive, fearing Oliver Hall might fly in before he left, improbable though that was. It did not happen. Umber boarded the flight to Gatwick and watched Jersey shrink behind him as the plane climbed away to the west. Then it turned, kestrel-like, across the sky. And the island vanished from his sight.
* * *
It was nearly one o’clock when Umber reached Ilford. He checked the Sheepwalk on his way to Bengal Road from the station. Larter was not there. Nor did he seem to be at home. There was no answer to the bell. Umber stood on the doorstep, wondering how long the old boy might be gone.
‘David!’
He turned, half-recognizing the voice before he saw who had called to him, but surprised nonetheless when he actually set eyes on Claire Wheatley. She was standing by a sleek blue TVR, holding open the driver’s door on the opposite side of the street. He hurried across to join her.
‘Surprised to see me?’ There was an edge to her tone, of hostility or anxiety – he could not decide which.
‘Yes, I am surprised. What’s brought you all the way out here, Claire?’
‘You. I got the address from Alice.’
‘What have I done?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Where have you been since Tuesday?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Alice told me about picking you up from the hospital in Reading, David. And why she had to. Your run-in with the people who were looking for Wisby. Remember that?’
‘Of course I remember it.’
‘It seems to have sparked something off.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Get in the car. I’ll tell you on the way.’
‘On the way where?’
‘Whipps Cross Hospital. You’ll be wanting to visit your friend, Bill Larter. According to one of his neighbours, that’s where he is.’
‘Bill’s in hospital?’
‘The house was burgled last night, apparently. He tackled the burglars and got beaten up. The neighbour didn’t know how badly. Shall we go and find out?’
Umber was too shocked to argue even if he had wanted to. Before he could articulate a response to Claire’s news, she had hustled him into the car and driven away. And then she had started to tell him the rest of her news.
‘The practice was broken into on Wednesday night. The police reckoned the intruders were looking for drugs and didn’t have the brains to realize a psychotherapist isn’t a psychiatrist. They certainly made a hell of a mess. But I think that was just camouflage. They went through my client files, yet nothing was taken. Do you know what they were looking for, David? Of course you do.’
‘Your notes on Sally,’ Umber responded glumly.
‘Has to be, doesn’t it? I destroyed them a year after Sally’s death, as it happens, so they went away empty-handed. Last night they tried their luck here. That’s three break-ins, counting the raid on Wisby’s boat. So, what exactly are they after, David?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Try guessing.’
‘All right. At a guess, I’d say they’re trying to figure out how close Sally was to the truth. And whether any of us know as much as she knew.’
‘That’s my guess too. So, thanks for dragging me into this. It’s all I was short of. I’ve had to move in with Alice in case they come to my house, though I’m not sure her house is much safer in the circumstances. My life’s been turned upside down since you called round for a confidential lunchtime chat. The way I see it, you were either followed or you told someone about me – someone you shouldn’t have trusted.’
‘Marilyn Hall,’ he murmured. The sequence of events assembled themselves with sickening logic in Umber’s mind. He had mentioned Claire when he had called at Kingsley House in search of Oliver Hall. He had mentioned Wisby too. ‘I am sorry, Claire. Really. I’m afraid things are worse than you think.’
‘How can they be?’
‘Easily. As you’ll understand when I tell you what I’ve been doing since Tuesday.’
Claire had pulled into the car park at Whipps Cross Hospital by the time Umber had finished his account. She turned off the engine and said nothing at first, tapping her nose against a crooked index finger, her lips parted, her gaze unfocused. When eventually she spoke, it was in a pensive undertone.
‘I guess I owe you an apology, David.’
‘What for?’
‘Denying you were onto something. Insisting Sally couldn’t have been murdered. Advising you, even if not in so many words, to pull yourself together.’
‘We’re even then. I never intended to drag you into this.’
‘No? Well, I’m in it now.’
‘I doubt you really need to worry. The raid on your practice was probably just a precaution. Like you said, they drew a blank. They can’t afford to attract too much attention to themselves. I think they’ll leave you alone from now on.’
‘You do, do you?’ She turned to look at him.
‘I hope so.’
‘Me too.’ She sighed. ‘Go and see your friend, David. I’ll wait here.’
Umber had to claim a blood relationship with Larter before he was allowed in to see him. The old man was in poor shape, broken ribs having led to a collapsed lung. He had a suction tube in his chest and oxygen on tap to aid his breathing. A split lip was a further obstacle to speech and the sister instructed Umber to keep their conversation to a minimum.
‘Lucky … I didn’t have …
my teeth in,’ Larter wheezily joked. ‘I’d probably have had them … knocked down my throat.’
‘Were there two of them, Bill?’
‘Yeah. Smug-looking geezer … and some shaven-headed bruiser … with a baseball bat.’
‘Did they say what they were after?’
‘Not what … Who.’ Larter pointed a shaky finger at Umber. ‘Thought I could … take them on.’ He managed a weak grin. ‘Bloody stupid of me.’
‘I’m sorry, Bill. This is all getting way out of hand.’
‘Yeah.’ Another grin. ‘I’ll have them … keep a bed for you … Maybe George is better off … where he is.’
‘Yes. Maybe he is.’
‘Word of advice, son.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t hold back … It’s too late … for that. It’s them … or you.’
Before leaving the hospital, Umber promised Larter he would board up the window Walsh and baseball-bat man had broken during the break-in. He had the keys to the house and permission to stay there as long as he needed to. As it turned out, however, Claire had other ideas about his accommodation.
‘I’ve just spoken to Alice. She suggested you stay at her house for the duration.’
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘Isn’t there?’ Claire’s look suggested otherwise.
‘Safety in numbers, you mean? All right. If Alice insists.’
‘It’s more than that. We have to decide what to do for the best, David. I don’t want to have to schlep out to Ilford to talk it over with you.’
‘We can talk it over now.’
‘No. I have to see a man about a new lock. Tonight, at Alice’s, the three of us: that’s when we’ll talk.’
At 45 Bengal Road, Umber found some chipboard and tools in the garden shed, as Larter had said he would. He knocked out the broken glass from the smashed pane in the back door and covered the gap as best he could.
Then he busied himself on the telephone. The one meagre consolation he could take from what had happened in Jersey was that Wisby had got away with less than he must have reckoned on. The inscription had been removed from his stolen Junius. There had to be a reason for that – a reason that might reveal some of what Jeremy Hall could have told them had he chosen to. The only advantage Umber possessed over Wisby was his historical training. There was still a trail he could follow that might lead to Junius – and the secret contained in the inscription.
Sight Unseen Page 17
