Sight Unseen

'My business is here.'

'You could have relocated.'

Questred looked narrowly at Umber, as if paying him more attention than he had so far. 'She didn't want me to. She doesn't run away from things.'

'In that case, she surely won't mind speaking to us.'

'But you'll be encouraging her to run away, Mr Umber. From the truth.'

'Which is?'

'That Tamsin's dead, just like Miranda. That she isn't coming back. That there are no miracles on offer.'

'Does she believe Brian Radd killed her daughters?'

'What difference does it make who killed them? Someone did.'

'It made a difference to my wife.'

'Yes.' Questred's glance fell. 'I'm sorry.'

'We could have gone straight to your home, Mr Questred,' said Sharp softly. 'But Umber here insisted we consult you first.'

'I should be grateful, then.' But in Questred's voice there was far more resignation than gratitude. 'I'll tell Jane you want to see her. I won't try to stop her. Or to force her. It'll be her decision.'

'When -'

'This evening. Good enough?'

Sharp nodded his acceptance.

'Are you staying locally?'

'We will be now.'

'You'd better give me a number where she can contact you.' Umber moved to the counter and began writing his mobile number on the back of a Kennet Valley Wine Company card. 'If she wants to.'

* * *

Sharp had evidently noticed the Ivy House Hotel on their way into Marlborough. It was a handsome redbrick Georgian building on the southern side of the High Street. He led the way across to it, haggled briefly over the tariff and booked them in for two nights each, with an option on a third. Then they headed back to the van and drove it round to the car park behind the hotel.

'I'm going for a walk after we've unloaded,' he announced en route. 'Want to come?'

'No, thanks.'

'Need a break from my company, do you?'

'No, George. I just need a break.'

* * *

A beer and a sandwich on room service, followed by a bath and a sleep, was the break Umber had in mind. He reckoned only after that would he be fit to assess whether they had accomplished anything so far or not. Sharp seemed optimistic, but Umber suspected that was because he was enjoying being back in harness, albeit unofficially. Maybe an ex-policeman was never happier than when asking questions, no matter what answers he got.

* * *

A lot sooner than he would have wished, Umber was woken by the warbling of his mobile. He had been tempted to switch it off, but had not done so in case Percy Nevinson called. This turned out to have been a wise precaution.

'Hello?'

'David Umber?'

'Yes.'

'Percy Nevinson here.' The voice was indeed faintly familiar – oddly pitched and breathily nervous, with the receiver held too close to the mouth, so that the P of Percy exploded in Umber's ear. 'I gather you want to see me.'

'If you don't mind.'

'Not at all. Pleased to help. Naturally.'

'Good.'

'Where are you based, Mr Umber?'

'Marlborough. Ivy House Hotel.'

'Righto. Well, I can come into Marlborough this afternoon. Why don't we meet in the Polly Tea Rooms? Four o'clock, say?'

'All right.'

'One thing, though.'

'Yes?'

'Just you, Mr Umber. I'll meet you. Not the policeman.'

'There's really -'

'Not the policeman.'

* * *

It was a measure of Umber's exhaustion that puzzlement at Nevinson's bizarre condition for their meeting did not prevent him falling back to sleep – after setting his alarm clock for 3.30.

Well before 3.30, he was once again roused abruptly, this time by a knock at the door.

It was Sharp, back from his walk. And he was none too pleased to hear Umber's news. 'Bloody nerve of the man! I hope you told him where to get off.'

'I didn't feel I could, George.'

'Who does he think he is?'

'Someone whose cooperation we need, I suppose.'

'Inflated idea of his own importance. That's his problem.' Sharp ground his jaw in frustration. 'All right. Let him have it his way. This time.'

'He might be more likely to let his guard down with me.'

'Maybe.' Sharp eyed Umber with no great confidence. 'I'll just have to hope you can take advantage if he does.'

* * *

The Polly Tea Rooms were as close to the centre of Marlborough's small world as anyone could hope to penetrate at four o'clock on a Monday afternoon. Its doilied delights had drawn in a contented clientele, amidst which Percy Nevinson looked by no means out of place. When Umber arrived, on the dot of four, Nevinson was already ensconced towards the rear of the cafe. He was kitted out in a tweed jacket and dog-tooth-patterned sweater and was making rapid inroads into a large slice of fruit cake. He could have been an eccentric schoolmaster, it struck Umber, or a vicar in mufti. But an anonymous letter-writer? Yes. On balance, he could have been that too.

'Mr Umber.' Nevinson degreased his fingers as best he could and stood up. They shook hands. 'It's been a long time.'

'The years look to have been kind to you, Mr Nevinson.' It was true. The man seemed scarcely to have aged at all. He was balder, though not much. That was the only detectable change. They sat down. 'It was good of you to come.'

'Oh, any excuse to tuck into one of the Polly's fruit cakes. That's why I arrived early. In hopes of polishing off a slice before you joined me.'

'Carry on.'

'Thank you. And, please, call me Percy.'

'OK. I'm David.'

'Yes. Of course. It's odd, isn't it, to wait twenty-three years before getting onto first-name terms?'

'It was a brief acquaintance.'

'But a memorable one.'

'True.' Umber broke off as a waitress approached. He ordered coffee. 'It was certainly memorable.' Nevinson had by now embarked on a last mouthful of cake, too large to permit coherent speech. 'Your sister told you why Mr Sharp and I are here?' Nevinson nodded affirmatively. 'He retired from the Force years ago, you know. You have nothing to fear from him.'

'A representative of the authorities never truly retires, David,' Nevinson responded after a final swallow and a gulp of tea. 'You should tread carefully.'

'He's simply trying to establish whether there were any clues he missed – any leads he should have followed.'

'I gather neither of you believes Brian Radd was responsible.'

'Do you?'

'Certainly not. But who does, apart from the police? The authorities, you see. They're not to be trusted.'

'Who is, Percy?'

'You and I, of course.' Nevinson held up a hand to signal for silence as the waitress returned with Umber's coffee. Then he leaned forward in his seat and resumed, in a subdued tone. 'We were there. We know what we saw. The question we must both consider – have both had to live with ever since – is what did it mean?'

'Mean?'

'Why was the child taken, David?'

'Because some sicko got it into his head to do such a thing.'

'You believe that?'

'What else can I believe?'

'And your wife? Did she believe that? Please accept my condolences on your loss, by the way. She seemed… a charming person.'

'She was. And thank you. As for what she believed, well, she could never quite bring herself to accept that Tamsin was dead.'

'Perhaps she was right not to.'

'Do you have some reason, Percy – some good reason – to say that?'

'I think I do, yes.'

'Care to share it with me?'

'It's in your own best interests that I should.' Nevinson pulled out a roll of thickish paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, slid off the rubber band securing it and spread out in front of Umber a large black-and-white photograph, which he proceeded to anchor down using the sugar bowl and the teapot.