Sight Unseen

'What do you mean?'

'She got as far as the waiting room at Claire's practice, then walked out a few minutes before she was due to go in. Claire couldn't get any kind of an explanation out of her over the phone, so she asked me to find out why. But I got nowhere. Sally told me not to worry about it. Airily dismissed the whole thing. She was in a hurry to leave when we had the conversation. I remember she said she was going to Wimbledon. The Championships had just begun, but, hey, when was she ever interested in tennis?'

'Maybe she wasn't going to the tennis.'

'Oh, but she was. She told me so. I asked if she had a ticket and she said, "I don't need a ticket." It was all so unlike her. Claire thought she must have been yo-yoing by then – alternating between extremes of elation and despair. It was Wednesday morning when I spoke to her – the last time I ever spoke to her. By Thursday evening, she must have hit bottom.'

'Hard enough to kill herself – by electrocution?'

'You know she had a horror of pills. Maybe it was the only way she could think of. When I found her the next day…' Alice looked away. When she spoke again, her voice had thickened. 'I don't want to be reminded of this, David, I really don't. You could have asked me all these questions five years ago, but you chose not to. Why now?'

'Strange things have been happening.'

She turned back to face him. 'What kind of things?'

'The policeman who investigated the Avebury case got an anonymous letter recently, telling him Radd didn't do it. Now Radd's dead. And I've learned Sally tried to contact the Hall girls' mother the day she died.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'What did she want?'

'I don't know.'

'But you have a theory.'

'I think she may have been getting close to the truth.'

'The truth?'

'About what happened at Avebury.'

'But she'd accepted what had happened – and Radd's part in it. Claire told me so. It was a measure of the progress they'd made.'

'She never…' Umber stopped. He could not swear to what Sally had come to believe in the last months of her life. He had made certain of that by walking out on her.

'You didn't know, David. You weren't here. I was. Sally wasn't chasing after answers. If anything, she was running away from them. You've got this all wrong.'

'I don't think so.'

'She wasn't murdered. That idea's plain crazy.'

'This psychotherapist, Claire… whatever her name is…'

'Wheatley. Claire Wheatley. She's highly respected.'

'Could you fix it for me to meet her, Alice?'

'For Christ's sake. What purpose could that possibly serve?'

'Well, you seem to think I'm crazy. Maybe I need some counselling.'

'Maybe you do. But you can arrange that yourself. I take it you really want to see Claire so you can run your murder theory past her.'

'If she's as good as you say she is, I'm sure she could cope with it.'

'That's not the point.'

'Isn't it? Look, Alice, you're right about me. I wasn't anywhere close when Sally most needed me. But let's be honest, you and Psychotherapist of the Month didn't exactly bring her through smiling and dancing either, did you?'

Alice compressed her lips, clearly determined not to start trading insults. There was a brief, fragile silence. Then she said softly, 'All right. I'll ask Claire if she's willing to meet you.'

'Thank you.'

'I can't force her to agree.'

'I don't expect you to try.'

'But somehow I doubt you'll take no for an answer.'

Umber shrugged. 'Let's hope she says yes.'

'Nothing you do can bring Sally back.'

'Of course not.'

'Why stir it all up, then – to no real purpose?'

'Oh, there's a purpose.'

'Is there? Truly?'

'Remember what you said when I asked you what the point was of you and your peace sisterhood setting up camp at Greenham Common? "Sometimes the right thing to do is the only thing to do." That's what you said. I thought you were mad. But you know what? You were never saner. I just didn't understand what you meant. I understand now.'

* * *

Reviewing his visit to Alice on the Tube into central London, Umber could not decide whether it had gone well or badly. Alice had reacted as all Sally's friends might be expected to react. Umber stood accused of deserting Sally in her hour of need. Querying the circumstances of her death five years later looked at best futile, at worst ghoulish. But that could not be helped. It was far too late to tread carefully. Alice had not agreed to plead his case with Claire Wheatley because he had asked nicely.

* * *

From Euston he walked the short distance to the British Library and joined the queue at the admissions office. His membership had lapsed long before the move from Bloomsbury. He did not know how quick or easy re-registering would be. In the event, he was browsing the catalogue in the Humanities Reading Room within an hour of his arrival. Within another hour, he had placed his order for half a dozen of the most obvious Junius-related books. It was too late to expect them to be available that afternoon. He settled for first thing the following morning.

* * *

Umber had switched off his mobile while he was in the Library. He switched it back on as soon as he was outside and checked for messages. There was one, from Oliver Hall. Hall could not have timed his call better if avoiding a telephone conversation had been his specific intention.

'Mr Umber, this is Oliver Hall.' The voice was low-pitched and subdued, the enunciation surgically precise. 'Edmund's told me of your concerns. I'm willing to meet you. There's no need for you to come to Jersey. As it happens, I have to be in London on business next week. I'm flying over on Sunday. We can meet at my flat that evening. It's in Mayfair. Fifty-eight, Kingsley House, South Street. Would six o'clock be convenient for you and Mr Sharp? Perhaps you could leave a message for me there on the answerphone. 020-7499-5992. Thank you.'

* * *

Umber bought a coffee from the kiosk in the Library courtyard and sat on a bench, drinking it, while listening to the message over again. Oliver Hall sounded polite, even obliging. But his response was unmistakably calculating. Meeting in London rather than Jersey denied Umber and Sharp the opportunity to engineer an encounter with Jeremy. And giving them only the London number to reply to meant they could not argue about it even if they wanted to. Umber rang as requested and confirmed the appointment.

* * *

He was still sitting on the bench five minutes later, finishing his coffee, when his phone rang. Alice, it transpired, had wasted no time in keeping her promise.

'David, this is Claire Wheatley.' The voice was faintly familiar, but Umber could put only the fuzziest of faces to it.

'Thanks for calling… Claire. Alice must have spoken to you.'

'Yes. She has.'

'Can we meet?'

'If you like. But to be honest -'

'I know you think it's pointless. So does Alice. Shall we just take that as read?'

'I actually suggested you come and see me when we met at Sally's funeral, David. You obviously don't remember.'

'No. Sorry. I…'

'Look, I'm rather pressed for time. I'm going away for the weekend and I'm fully booked for Monday. But we could meet during my lunch break. How would that be?'

'Is that the soonest you can manage?'

'Yes.' The clipped reply instantly made him regret asking.

'OK. Monday it is.'

* * *

Oliver Hall and Claire Wheatley had both played for time. Umber turned the coincidence over in his mind during the train ride out to Ilford. They had agreed to meet him. But they had given themselves a breathing space. There was nothing he could do about that. He could force the issue, but not the pace. Besides, their delaying tactics were almost a vindication. They needed to prepare themselves. Which prompted an obvious question: what did they think they were preparing themselves for?