‘What?’
‘Know him, do you?’
‘Percy Nevinson?’
‘He didn’t give me a Christian name and I didn’t ask for one. But he’s been on several times this week.’ She held out the note for Umber to read. He assumed it had been written by the secretary for Monica’s attention. Mr Nevinson called again for Mr Wisby. Please call with any news. 01672-799332.
‘Mind if I use your phone?’
‘Haven’t you got one of your own?’
‘No. I lost my mobile on your ex-husband’s boat, as a matter of fact. I’ll pay you for the call if it’s such a big deal.’
Monica looked as if she wanted to refuse on principle but was unsure what the principle might be. ‘Oh, be my fucking guest, then,’ she said with a toss of the head.
Umber picked up the telephone and dialled. There was a distant, old-fashioned ringing tone. Then Abigail Nevinson answered.
‘Miss Nevinson? This is David Umber.’
‘Mr Umber. I was just thinking about you.’
‘You were? Why?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. What can I do for you?’
‘Is Percy there?’
‘No. Percy, er … Well … He’s gone away. To one of his … ufological conferences.’
‘Where’s it being held?’
‘I’m … not sure.’
‘How would you get in touch with him in an emergency?’
‘It would be difficult. I’d … have to wait for him to contact me.’
‘Is that normal when he goes to one of these things?’
‘Well … No. Not really. It’s a little … concerning, I have to admit.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Early this morning. Before I was up.’
‘And when’s he due back?’
‘I’m not sure. I imagine it’s just a weekend event, though. They normally are. Unless …’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just read about Jeremy Hall in the paper, Mr Umber. I suppose you know what’s happened.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t think Percy’s trip … has anything to do with that, do you?’
Umber did think so. In fact, he felt certain of it, though what dealings Nevinson might have had with Wisby were a mystery to him. That applied to a good deal else as well. Every step he took led him further into a labyrinth of lies. For every one he nailed there was another waiting to deceive him.
From Blackfriars Road he walked aimlessly towards Tate Modern, pausing amidst the ambling tourists on the Millennium Bridge to stare downriver and wrestle in his mind with the confusions and contradictions that threatened to swamp him. Nevinson had gone to Jersey. Umber’s every instinct told him so. The Halls and the Questreds were there and so were the clues to what had driven Jeremy Hall to suicide. Maybe Wisby had gone back there as well. And maybe Umber should follow. But what could he accomplish there? What could he hope to achieve? There was still no trail he could follow that promised to lead him to the truth.
Umber ended up walking most of the way back to Hampstead. Physical exhaustion seemed to be the only brake on the enervating whirl of his thoughts. He took a decision of sorts during the long trudge through Finsbury and Camden Town. It involved misleading Claire and Alice. But he reckoned he would be doing them a favour – just about the only favour he had in his gift.
They had already returned from Hampshire when he reached 22 Willow Hill, his arrival time handily consistent with the studious hours he had supposedly spent in the British Library. He expected to be told they had learned nothing from the Wilkinsons. The assumption had been factored into his decision. But it was an assumption that was to be rapidly confounded.
‘Alice is busy upstairs on her computer,’ Claire said as she let him in and led the way towards the kitchen. ‘We got back half an hour ago.’
‘Empty-handed?’
‘No.’ She glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘We found something all right, David.’
He recognized the object as soon as he saw it lying on the kitchen table: a spiral-bound crimson-covered scrapbook. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘I never thought I’d see that again.’
Sally had amassed a collection of newspaper cuttings relating to Miranda Hall’s murder and Tamsin Hall’s presumed murder. Triggered by Radd’s out-of-the-blue confession nine years after the event, she had bought a scrapbook and pasted the cuttings into it, along with new ones reporting Radd’s trial. Umber had urged her to throw them away, but that had only fired her determination to preserve them. The book was a testament to her belief that ‘Somebody has to keep a proper record in case they fiddle with the facts and hope we won’t notice’. It was around then that Umber had begun to understand the intractability of her plight. Time had hardened Sally’s wounds, not healed them.
‘You’ve looked through it?’ Umber asked, laying his hand lightly on the cover.
‘Yes’, said Claire from behind him.
‘Morbid reading, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Sally did read it. All too often.’
‘Unlike her parents, then. I don’t think they’d ever brought themselves to open it.’
‘No?’
‘Not her mother, anyway. Reg Wilkinson had a stroke the year after Sally died. He’s virtually mute, so there’s no way to tell what he might or might not have made of it.’
‘And Peggy?’
‘She’s fit and well. Sent you her love.’
Umber swallowed hard. ‘Did she?’
‘She was happy to let us borrow the scrapbook if it helped to make any sense of Sally’s death.’
‘Can’t see how it could do that. There’s nothing in these cuttings we don’t already know.’
‘That’s not strictly true, David. Turn to the back of the book.’
Umber opened the book at the last page, which, like several before it, was blank. A sheet of paper had been slipped inside the cover: a page torn out of a glossy magazine. Under the heading INSIDE STORY was an assortment of paparazzo-snapped celebrities, most of whose names registered, if only dimly, in Umber’s consciousness. It was a page from Hello!, of course. That, he knew at once, was the point.
‘As soon as I saw it I remembered,’ said Claire. ‘When I had that stupid row with Sally in the coffee-shop the day she died and she threw the magazine at me. You know? I told you about it.’
‘Yes?’ He looked round and frowned at her.
‘I’d forgotten, until I saw that. Sally tore a page out of the magazine before she threw it at me.’
‘And this is it?’
‘Has to be.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘It means she saw something significant in a month-old copy of Hello! she was looking at in my waiting room. That’s why she walked out. Because what she saw made a counselling session with me … suddenly irrelevant.’
Umber looked at the page again and turned it over. More INSIDE STORY zoom-lensed pictures of movie stars out shopping in sunglasses and baseball caps or sunbathing in cellulite-revealing swimsuits. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘What’s significant about any of this?’
Claire flipped the page back over. ‘There,’ she said, pointing to a spread of three photographs of what looked to be a friendly game of mixed-doubles tennis on a red-clay court featuring an actor and actress Umber had never heard of on one side of the net and a tennis player he had heard of, plus girlfriend, on the other. According to the captions, the actor and actress were taking a break from promoting their latest blockbuster at the Cannes Film Festival. The bronzed, honed, raven-haired tennis star entertaining them on a local court was Monaco-based Michel Tinaud, of whom great things were expected at the forthcoming French Open. ‘He’s why Sally went to Wimbledon that week,’ Claire continued. ‘Remember what she said to Alice? “I don’t need a ticket.” Don’t you see? She wasn’t going to watch tennis. She was going to speak to a tennis player.’
‘Why?’ Umber already knew the answer
, but the question was apt nonetheless. He knew. But he did not understand.
‘It has to be the girlfriend,’ said Claire.
And so it did. Unnamed by Hello! presumably because unidentified, Tinaud’s playing companion was dressed in a red T-shirt and white tennis skirt. She had long fair hair tied in a ponytail and featured in only one picture, biting her lower lip and wrinkling her brow in concentration as she waited to receive service.
‘Recognize the expression?’ Claire slipped the Hello! cutting out onto the table, then turned to a page nearer the front of the scrapbook, where one of the Halls’ photographs of Tamsin had been reproduced in a newspaper a few days after her abduction. The two-year-old Tamsin was wrinkling her brow at the camera and biting her lower lip.
‘It’s a common gesture,’ Umber murmured. ‘It doesn’t mean—’
‘Sally saw something. Probably more than just the expression. She was the girl’s nanny. She knew her as closely as her mother did. She knew her well enough to recognize the child in the woman. The girl on the tennis court looks about twenty to me. What do you think?’
‘Probably.’
‘The right age.’
‘Like thousands of others.’
‘But not like thousands of others – in some way that convinced Sally she’d found her.’
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘Sally was sure.’
‘Was she?’ Umber knew the answer to his question better than Claire could hope to. He was playing for time – the time he needed to think. Because he had seen something too. Not a tantalizing resemblance to a missing, presumed-dead two-year-old girl. But an unmistakable similarity to someone he had met only recently. The hair was a different colour, worn in a different style. The clothes were a bizarre contrast. The environment was alien to her. But there was absolutely no doubt in Umber’s mind. Michel Tinaud’s girlfriend … was Chantelle.
TWENTY-TWO
THE DECISION UMBER had taken was, in the event, merely reinforced by what Claire had shown him. Amid his general bemusement, he held on to the conviction that the only way he could atone for endangering innocents and bystanders and blameless friends alike was to ensure that he did not lead any of them further down a road whose end he could not foresee. He slipped the Hello! page back into the scrapbook and closed it. As he turned towards Claire, he saw Alice walk in through the door behind her.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she said, cocking her head at him. ‘Think you have?’
‘Maybe.’
‘We reckon Sally was more certain.’
‘So Claire tells me.’
‘I’ve just been catching the latest tennis news on the Web. Tinaud’s career isn’t what it was in ‘ninety-nine. He’s just gone out of the Nasdaq Open in Miami in the first round.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘The next big tournament in the calendar is the Monte Carlo Masters. Home ground for Tinaud. So, I guess he’ll already be back there.’
‘And you’re going to suggest we go see him?’
‘I was sceptical about this whole thing, David. You know that. But I’m convinced now. Sally went to Wimbledon the day before she died to confront that man. We’ve got to find out what happened.’
‘Do you agree?’ Umber looked at Claire.
‘It’s the obvious next step. The only next step. We have to go.’
‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘I thought it all through while you were down in Hampshire. Sally’s dead. We can’t bring her back to life. All we’ll do by chasing after answers to questions no-one’s forcing us to ask is to put ourselves in unnecessary danger. We have to give it up.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘I do. I’m taking your option one, Claire. I’m going back to Prague. I’m bowing out.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can. And I will. What’s more, I advise you to follow my example.’
‘What about George Sharp?’
‘I’m not responsible for what happens to George. He dragged me into this. He’ll have to drag himself out.’
‘Jesus,’ said Alice, staring at him with a mixture of surprise and contempt. ‘It didn’t take long for you to revert to type, did it? I thought you’d finally found some moral fibre. But no. It was just a passing phase. This is the real you, isn’t it? The man I urged Sally to have nothing to do with. The spineless shit she should never have—’
‘Alice.’ Claire glared round at her friend, commanding her silence. Then she turned back to Umber. ‘You’re not serious about this, are you, David?’
‘Never more so.’
‘We’ve just uncovered the biggest clue going to what Sally was up to. And you want to walk away from it?’
‘Self-preservation, Claire. That’s what it comes down to. Like Alice said. This is the real me. Someone who believes, at the end of the day, in looking after number one.’
‘I don’t think that’s the real you at all.’
‘Well, you’ll have to start getting used to the idea. I’m not going on with this. It’s as simple as that.’
‘We’ll go on with it.’
‘You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.’
‘Because of the risks?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Help us minimize them, then. Come with us.’
‘No.’
‘David, I—’
‘You’re wasting your breath, Claire,’ said Alice. ‘He’s got it all worked out. Sometimes the wrong thing to do is the only thing to do. Isn’t that so, David?’
Umber shrugged. ‘Sticks and stones.’
‘Yeah.’ Alice nodded grimly. Her low opinion of him made the deception all too easy to carry off, Umber realized. She wanted to believe in his loss of nerve too badly to question its genuineness. ‘You’re the living proof of words never hurting, David. You know that?’
‘Yes.’ He gave her a stoical little smile. ‘I suppose I am.’
* * *
It took Umber no more than a few minutes to pack his belongings. He hoped to make it out of the house without further debate. Certainly Alice seemed too self-righteously angry to spare him even a parting gibe. But Claire, still worryingly unconvinced by his change of heart, cornered him in the hall.
‘How soon are you going back to Prague?’ she asked with pragmatic coolness.
‘Not sure. Within a couple of days. I … thought I’d go and see my parents before I left.’
‘Are you going down to Yeovil now?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, altogether too quickly.
‘I’ll give you a lift to Paddington.’
‘No need. I’ll … take the Tube.’ He brushed past her to the door and opened it. ‘’Bye.’
‘This isn’t goodbye, David.’ She followed him out, ostentatiously pulling the door shut behind her. ‘We both know that.’
‘I’m quitting, Claire. OK? I’m out.’
‘Mind if I walk with you to the Tube?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Accept my offer of a lift, then.’
‘No.’
‘You’ve fooled Alice,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘You haven’t fooled me.’
‘I’m not trying to fool anyone.’
‘Fine. Have it your way. But I’ll go back indoors and persuade Alice to see it my way – unless you stop arguing and get in the car.’
Umber stopped arguing. The truth was that Claire left him little choice in the matter. A few minutes later, they were heading towards Swiss Cottage in her TVR. And Claire was doing all the talking.
‘Let’s cut the crap, shall we, David? Alice believed you because she’s prejudiced against you. But I don’t share her prejudice, so it won’t wash with me. You took an important decision while we were down in Hampshire, but chickening out wasn’t it. My guess is you decided to go it alone, probably out of some warped sense of chivalry, which I personally find more offensive than flattering. You think we’ll be saf
er if you leave us out of whatever it is you’re planning to do. I suspect you’ve worked something out you’re not telling us about. And I reckon that something involves Michel Tinaud’s girlfriend.’
Umber shook his head. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Claire.’
‘You thought we’d get nothing out of the Wilkinsons. That was the basis on which you took your decision. But we came back with a genuine lead. Yet you didn’t change your mind. You didn’t even hesitate. You ploughed straight on with your cover story. That can only be because you already knew about Tinaud and the girl.’
‘How could I?’
‘I don’t know. Unless—’ She braked sharply to a halt, throwing Umber forward in his seat against the lock of the seatbelt. A car behind them blared its horn. Claire held up a hand in apology, then pulled into a parking space at the side of the road and turned to stare at Umber. Her eyes were sparkling with the satisfaction of a sudden insight. ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you? Or at any rate you know where she is.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.’
He looked her in the eye. But he said nothing. He knew she would see through any lie he told. In fact, she already had.
She turned off the engine, her gaze still fixed on him. Then she said, calmly and quietly, ‘There’s no guarantee she’s still with Tinaud. Given the lifestyle of the average top tennis player, it’s quite likely she isn’t. But Tinaud can tell us what happened when Sally tracked him down, as I’m sure she did. It makes sense to ask him. He may also be able to tell us where the girl is. And he can certainly tell us who he believes her to be. There’s every reason to go and see him. And I will. Unless you’re prepared to tell me why I shouldn’t.’
Umber sighed. ‘Look Claire, I—’
‘Just tell me. OK?’
‘OK.’ He surrendered the point. ‘The reason’s obvious. The reason is what happened to Sally when she got too close. I don’t want that to happen to you. Or Alice.’ He ventured a smile. ‘But especially you.’
Sight Unseen Page 19
