Sight Unseen

'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 semi-detached 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.'