Sight Unseen

by Robert Goddard

  Questred squinted at Umber in genuine bafflement. ‘What?’

  ‘Do Jeremy’s friends in Jersey say he was depressed?’

  ‘No. Well, not exactly. He’d been keeping himself to himself a lot lately, apparently. He hadn’t been seen around. Maybe that was the start of it. Even before Radd.’

  ‘Maybe it was.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to him, did you? You or Sharp, I mean. If Jane thought …’

  ‘Would it make it easier having us to blame?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘Then, tell her whatever you think it’s best she believes.’

  ‘Don’t make tomorrow any more difficult than it has to be, Umber. Please don’t do that to her.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was one promise Umber was sure he could keep, if only because the events of tomorrow were so comprehensively beyond his control. ‘It is.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  UMBER LEFT QUESTRED to puzzle over his intentions and headed along the High Street to the Ivy House Hotel, where he booked himself in for the night. Before going to his room, he borrowed the local Yellow Pages from behind the desk and hunted down the addresses and telephone numbers of Marlborough undertakers.

  There were only two, so it seemed easier to walk round than phone ahead. As it happened, the first one he tried, a short walk away at the eastern end of town, was the firm handling the Jeremy Hall funeral.

  He had harboured no wish to view the deceased, but felt bound to ask if he could do so, if only to camouflage his curiosity about who else had been to the chapel of rest for the same reason. The receptionist had been well schooled in the arts of discretion, however. She was giving nothing away, other than a coolly framed confirmation that he was the first person from outside the family to make such a request – which happened to be exactly what he wanted to know. So much for his hunch that Chantelle would not be able to stay away. Unless, of course, she had claimed to be a relative. A cousin, perhaps. Something like that. Anything, in fact, but what she really was.

  He had seen Sally only a few hours before her funeral, at a chapel of rest in Hampstead. He had wished later that he had not seen her, so hard did it prove to rid his mind of the memory of her white, drained, lifeless face. This time he knew better than to linger by the coffin. He prowled the room for a few minutes, just long enough to suggest he was a sincere mourner, which in one sense he was. He did no more than glance at Jeremy Hall. The young man’s face was unmarked. Either that or the marks his fatal fall had left on it had been expertly masked. You could imagine he was at peace, if that was the way your imagination worked. It was not the way Umber’s worked, however. He hurried out.

  The cemetery was his next destination. Chantelle’s sister was buried there, after all. And men were at work digging the grave, not far from Miranda Hall’s, where Jeremy Hall would be laid to rest tomorrow. There was a good chance Chantelle would go there.

  But there was no sign of her. She could have been and gone, of course. She might be planning to visit later, when the gravediggers had finished their work. Or she might be determined to stay away. She might be miles away – thousands of miles, even. In a part of his mind, Umber hoped she was. But in another part, the part where hope held no sway, he knew she was not.

  * * *

  He walked out along the Ridgeway, then on across the downs towards Avebury. The afternoon began to fade into evening. The light was pearly grey, the air cool but barely moving. He could hear skylarks singing above him, but he could not see them. Once he saw a larger bird that might have been a kestrel, hovering away to the north. But he could not be sure. He pressed on through the broad, rolling landscape.

  He had acknowledged the probable futility of his journey long before he reached Avebury. The simple truth was that even if he was right about the places Chantelle would feel drawn to, he had no way of calculating when or even if she would actually visit them. If he found her by this method, it would be pure luck.

  But he had no other method to apply. Passing Manor Farm and cresting the last hillock before the henge came into view, he half-expected he would see her, walking slowly along one of the banks, head bowed, lost in thought, her slim, dark-clad figure silhouetted against the wide, pale sky.

  But she was not there. Umber walked most of the way round the north-eastern bank, from which he had a clear view of the Cove. No-one was loitering by the Adam and Eve stones. Visitors to Avebury were few at this hour of the day. Umber could see nobody even remotely resembling Chantelle.

  He doubled back and completed a slow half-circuit of the henge, passing one dog-walker and a pair of hikers on the way. He finished up in the High Street of the village with nothing to show for his efforts but a renewed ache in his injured knee. It was growing cold now. The place was different, utterly different, from how it had been that blazing day of high summer twenty-three years ago. But still it was the same place. The ghosts remained, whether they showed themselves or not.

  Umber headed along the High Street towards the Red Lion. Chantelle might be waiting till dusk to put in an appearance, he told himself, till it was safe to follow in her own forgotten footsteps. He would wait at the pub, as he had waited before.

  But someone had got there before him. As Umber rounded the front gable of the pub, he saw a figure seated at one of the tables set in the angle of the L-shaped building, a figure muffled up against the encroaching chill, anorak collar turned up, Tilley hat brim turned down.

  ‘Good evening, David,’ said Percy Nevinson. ‘Thank goodness you’ve arrived. It’s getting decidedly nippy out here.’

  ‘Percy.’ That was all Umber could find to say. There had been a risk of bumping into Nevinson. He had realized that. But the pub was not the man’s natural territory. And it was clear that this encounter, unlike their last, was not a product of chance.

  ‘Shall we go inside? Perhaps I could buy you a drink?’

  ‘All right.’ Umber struggled to recover himself. If Chantelle did turn up, the last person he wanted for company was Nevinson. Getting rid of the man would be next to impossible, however. Maybe it was safer for them to be inside the Red Lion than out. ‘Let’s do that.’

  * * *

  The bar was quiet. Nevinson bought Umber a pint and another half for himself. They sat at a table by the window, Umber taking the chair facing it, so that he had a view of the road and the stones of the henge’s southern inner circle. Nevinson took off his hat and ruffled his hair, smiling at Umber with irritating mildness.

  ‘You came to no harm in Jersey, then,’ he said after a sip of beer.

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘When Abigail came back from shopping in Marlborough this afternoon, she told me she’d spotted you from the bus. I felt sure you’d come out here sooner or later if I waited long enough.’

  ‘And you were right.’

  ‘Gratifyingly so. Our last meeting was … rudely interrupted. It’s good to have this opportunity to take up where we left off.’

  ‘Look, Percy, I—’

  ‘It’s no good claiming to be in all kinds of a hurry this time, David. The last bus to Marlborough left at six fifteen. Even if you phoned for a taxi now, we’d have at least twenty minutes to chat.’

  ‘All right. Let’s chat.’ Umber smiled grimly and flung himself into an attempt to lead the discussion, since discussion there clearly had to be. ‘Talking of Abigail, did you tell her why you went to Jersey? Or are you sticking to the ufological-conference line?’

  Nevinson pursed his lips. ‘A white lie to spare my sister’s feelings, nothing more. Naturally, I’ve … come clean since returning home.’

  ‘Completely clean, Percy?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Did you mention hiring Wisby?’

  Nevinson grimaced. ‘That would only have confused her.’

  ‘Why did you hire him?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not really. I asked him … to share his findings with me, t
hat’s all. Which he never did, beyond what he judged sufficient to extract an exorbitant fee from me.’

  ‘Slippery character, Wisby.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘What about standing idly by while I was grabbed off the street by a couple of heavies in St Helier? Did you mention that to Abigail?’

  ‘There again …’

  ‘You didn’t want to confuse her.’

  Nevinson grinned nervously. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘As a law-abiding citizen, shouldn’t you have phoned the police? You’d witnessed a kidnapping, after all.’

  ‘Is that what it was, David? To be honest, I considered the possibility that it was – how shall I put it? – staged.’

  ‘Staged?’

  ‘For my benefit, I mean.’

  ‘Your benefit?’

  ‘Besides, in a sense, I did consult the police. A policeman, that is.’ Nevinson’s grin broadened. ‘Well, a retired policeman.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m referring to Mr Sharp.’

  ‘You visited George?’

  ‘There was no need to visit him. I spoke to him at the magistrates’ court after his hearing. Well, near the magistrates’ court, to be strictly accurate.’

  ‘Near?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a pleasant little park just round the—’

  ‘Never mind the bloody park. How come you’ve been strolling around St Helier with George? He’s in custody.’

  ‘Not since Tuesday. He was granted bail, you see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bail. In consideration of his status as a retired police officer, apparently. A thousand pounds and the surrender of his passport. The conditions seemed very—’

  ‘George is out?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what it amounts to. Out. Pending trial.’ Nevinson’s grin acquired a sickly thinness. ‘I’m rather surprised you didn’t know.’

  Nevinson’s surprise was nothing compared with Umber’s. Larter had not breathed a word about this. Yet he must have been aware of it. He had actually mentioned speaking to Sharp only yesterday. For some reason, the two men had decided to keep Umber in the dark. ‘Are you sure about this, Percy?’

  ‘How could I not be? I was there when the magistrates said their piece. And I certainly didn’t imagine our conversation in the park. We were standing by the statue of General Don. According to my Jersey guidebook, he was responsible for—’

  ‘Forget General Don. What did George say?’

  ‘Well, he was surprised to see me, naturally. But he rapidly deduced that news of Jeremy Hall’s death had brought me to the island. He was very interested by what I had to tell him about you. And about Wisby, of course. It was at his request that I took the matter of your apparent kidnapping no further. He said he’d deal with it.’

  ‘Deal with it?’

  ‘I confess I’m not entirely clear what he meant by that.’

  Neither was Umber. What in God’s name was Sharp up to? How had he wangled bail, which Burnouf had said was next to impossible? And where had he been since? Where – and why?

  ‘Wisby was up before the magistrates himself on Tuesday,’ Nevinson went on. ‘Caught trying to leave Jersey in possession of stolen money, apparently. No bail for him, of course. I think Mr Sharp meant to visit him before leaving Jersey himself.’

  ‘He said he was going to visit Wisby?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘And what about leaving Jersey?’

  ‘I took it as read. Why would he stay when the next stage in the Hall family drama is about to unfold here in Wiltshire? Lack of a passport is no bar to travelling from Jersey to England, after all. Just as I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about his release, however, I must confess to even greater surprise that he hasn’t been in touch with you since, given your previous … collaboration. You look, if I may say so, more than a little dismayed yourself.’

  ‘How very perceptive of you, Percy.’

  ‘Why would he be avoiding you, I wonder?’

  ‘I’m wondering the same myself.’

  ‘Could it be that Wisby has told him something that causes him to doubt your loyalty? If so, he may suspect you weren’t really kidnapped at all. Or that you were but subsequently struck some kind of deal to secure your release.’

  ‘Suggest that to him, did you?’

  ‘By no means. But the possibilities could have occurred to him. As I’m forced to admit they did to me.’

  ‘Well, you can take it from me it wasn’t a put-up job. And I’ve done no deals.’

  ‘I’m happy to take your word on both scores, David. Despite all the evidence to the contrary.’

  Umber would have felt angrier with Nevinson if he had not been so bewildered by the turn of events. ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Your current state of unfettered liberty, of course. Which I note you’ve conspicuously failed to explain.’

  ‘Now just a—’

  ‘None of my business, I’m sure. We must all shift for ourselves in this world. It was only a matter of time, after all.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Your removal from the chessboard.’ Nevinson leaned forward, fixing Umber with a stare and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The powers that be have decreed there can be no queening of pawns in this game.’

  The only way to shake off Nevinson, it became clear, was to return to Marlborough. And Nevinson had been uncannily accurate about the likely delay until a taxi arrived. Before he could make an exit, Umber had to endure a further twenty minutes of the man’s infuriatingly smug assumption that he had in some way sold out.

  Umber stopped listening once Nevinson had veered off onto his favourite topic: the role of the intelligence community in stifling research into the Martian origins of the stone circles and avenues scattered around Avebury. Umber’s mind filled instead with doubts and questions concerning Sharp’s activities since Tuesday.

  He began to suspect that Nevinson was right. Sharp had concluded he could no longer be trusted. That was why he had sworn Larter to secrecy about his release. Umber’s unannounced visit to Ilford, none the worse for his supposed kidnapping, must have seemed like confirmation of his treachery.

  He had lied to Nevinson in one crucial regard. He had done a deal, albeit one he did not intend to fulfil even if he got the chance. There were good reasons to believe he might have gone over to the opposition – whoever the opposition might be. The fact that he had not was no help. He could not prove his good faith. He could only demonstrate it. As long as Chantelle continued to elude him, there was no way he could do that. And maybe, even if he found her, there would still be no way.

  ‘Will you be attending the funeral tomorrow?’ was Nevinson’s parting question as he accompanied Umber out of the pub to the waiting taxi when it eventually arrived. ‘Mr Sharp may be intending to, don’t you think?’

  Umber offered no reply as he nodded to the taxi driver and opened the door.

  ‘For that reason alone, you may prefer not to, of course,’ Nevinson continued, catching Umber’s eye. ‘I suppose it boils down to a question of who can be warned off – and who can’t.’

  ‘Goodbye, Percy.’

  Umber did not glance back at the pub as the taxi joined the main road and headed south. Instead, he looked over his shoulder at the dwindling shapes of the Adam and Eve stones, at the empty quadrant of the henge where he had first set eyes on Sally and the Hall children.

  The view was a fleeting one, rapidly blanked off by the houses at the eastern end of the village. The face the past had briefly shown him turned away, leaving him with no choice but to turn away likewise.

  During the drive back to Marlborough, a suspicion somehow more disturbing even than the possibility that Sharp had written him off as a traitor formed in Umber’s mind. Maybe Sharp was the one who had done the deal. Maybe his release on bail had been a quid pro quo. If so, Umber was more isolated than ever and the danger to Chantelle was all the greater.
>
  Umber could do nothing about that. Tomorrow would tell. And he greatly feared it would tell against him.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE TAXI DROPPED Umber outside the Ivy House, but he did not go in. Instead, he walked along the High Street to the Green Dragon and took the edge off his anxiety with a couple of pints and double whisky chasers.

  The drinks, numbing though they were, only nourished his suspicions of Sharp. His silence since Tuesday, it seemed ever clearer to Umber, was the real giveaway. A week in prison could have sucked all the pride and determination out of a man of his age and former occupation, leaving him all too susceptible to whatever deal had been offered him. Release on bail might have been the down payment, a dropping of the charge held out as the ultimate reward, in return for … what? Had Sharp been set the same task as Umber? Could that be it? Were they each insurance against the failure or defiance of the other?

  It was gone ten o’clock when Umber made his woozy way back to the Ivy House. He had no plan now beyond a few hours’ sleep. He did not expect it to help. He did not expect anything at all. He was no longer thinking about tomorrow. He could not bear to.

  ‘Message for you,’ said the receptionist, handing him a note along with his key. ‘Could you phone this number? Urgent, apparently.’

  Umber stared at the piece of paper in his hand. A mobile number was written on it. And that was all. ‘There’s no name,’ he blearily objected.

  ‘He didn’t leave one. Declined to, actually. I did ask.’

  ‘When did he phone?’

  ‘Around eight o’clock. Then again about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Old? Young?’

  ‘Not young. Polite. Well-spoken. But …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Edgy. You know? Definitely edgy.’

  Umber dialled the number on the phone in his room. It was answered before the second ring.

  ‘That you, Umber?’

  It was not the voice Umber had expected to hear. Despite the receptionist describing the caller as well-spoken, which was hardly a perfect fit, he had convinced himself during the short walk along the hotel corridors that the message was from Sharp; that the old man had seen sense and decided they should rejoin forces. But the message was not from Sharp.