Sight Unseen

* * *

He was mentally drained and in no mood to hear Sharp and Larter describe their afternoon at the football. He drank a couple of pints in the pub opposite the Library, then, on a woozy whim, took the Tube to Green Park and made his way through the quiet streets of Mayfair to Kingsley House.

It was a five-floor red-brick apartment block, exuding an immaculately pointed air of reticent affluence. Quite why Umber had gone there he could not properly have explained. Oliver Hall had said he would fly over on Sunday, so there could be no question of catching him unawares. And yet, and yet… Umber stood on the other side of the road, gazing up at the few illuminated windows, wondering if he should try his luck. In the end, it seemed absurd not to.

He climbed the short flight of steps to the gleaming array of bell-pushes and pushed the one for number 58. He lingered for a few moments, expecting no response. Then there was a crackle and a female voice addressed him through the adjacent grille.

'Yes?'

'Mrs Hall?' It was the best guess as to her identity Umber could make.

'Yes.'

'Er, my name's David Umber.'

'You left a message for my husband.'

'Yes. So I did.'

'He's expecting you tomorrow. He's not here yet.'

'Tomorrow?' Umber decided to play dumb. 'Oh, I see. I'm sorry. I thought… I must have got the day wrong.'

'Yes. You must.'

'Can I… perhaps…'

'You'd better come up.' The door-release buzzed.

* * *

Why Mrs Hall had let him in was a question he found no answer to during the brief lift-ride to the third floor. She could easily have sent him packing. But she had chosen not to. It was not as if he had done much to talk his way in. She had simply decided that she wanted to see him.

* * *

The door of flat 58 was ajar when he reached it. He stepped inside, closing it behind him. The flat was warm and softly lit, decorated as if for an interior-design shoot, with lots of empty space round sleek, oversized furniture. Guitar music was playing in the high-ceilinged drawing room, smoke from a cigarette drifting up sinuously into cedar-scented air. Next to the ashtray on a long, low table in front of the artfully faked fire was a slew of magazines – Tatler, Vogue, Hello! - and a chunky tumbler containing what looked like a very large gin and tonic.

Mrs Hall had been peering into the huge oval mirror above the fireplace, removing an errant eyelash, when he entered. She was a slim, strong-featured, blonde-haired woman in her mid-forties, expensively dressed in a dark red shot-silk suit with high-heeled sandals. Umber assumed she was readying herself to go out. As she turned to greet him, he questioned his instant estimate of her age. Mid-forties was what she looked, but she could have been older. She was not a woman likely to deny herself whatever it took to maintain her appearance.

'There you are,' she said, her voice poised and neutral, devoid of accent. 'I'm Marilyn Hall.' They shook hands. 'Won't you sit down?'

'Thanks.' He sat opposite the sofa where the positions of the ashtray and tumbler suggested she had been sitting.

'Would you like a drink? I'm having a G and T.'

'The same for me would be fine.'

'Great.' She moved to a cabinet in the far corner of the room and poured his drink. The trim-jacketed, short-skirted suit flattered her. Umber could not fail to notice as much.

She returned with his drink and sat down. He half-raised the glass and sipped from it. 'It was… good of you to see me.'

'I could hardly turn you away when you'd come all this way.' She took a long draw on the cigarette. 'I often get confused over dates myself.'

'I suppose I'm lucky… there's anyone here.'

'I've been over doing some shopping. Oliver knows I have to hit Bond Street sooner or later. Jersey may be a tax haven. But fashion? Forget it.'

'Did he tell you… why we've arranged to meet?'

'Oh yes. Jane's been on to him. Everyone's in the loop, David.' The use of his first name sounded entirely natural, for all its suddenness. 'Radd's murder' – she smiled – 'has really put the cat among the pigeons.'

'You think so?'

'What do you do for a living?' she asked, blithely ignoring his question.

'I'm kind of… between livings at the moment.'

'Do you think that's why you've started down this road?' She gazed at him, defying him to be offended by her candour. 'Too much time on your hands?'

'I don't believe Radd killed your husband's daughters.'

'Somebody did.'

'Does Oliver… talk about them much?'

'No.'

'Do you ask him?'

'No.'

'A closed subject, then?'

Marilyn shrugged. 'Isn't that what the past should be?'

'I don't think so, no. Especially when we don't understand it.'

'Ah. I see.' She sipped at her drink. 'But, then, Oliver tells me you're a historian, so I guess… that makes you biased.'

'Not biased. Just… inquisitive.'

'Well, inquire away. I can't help you. And you'll get nothing out of Oliver.'

'Is that so?'

'Take it from one who knows.'

'How long have you been married?'

'Long enough.'

'How's your stepson?'

'Oh, Jeremy's fine. Just fine.'

'It must have been difficult for you, marrying a man with so much tragedy behind him.'

'Oliver's very resilient.'

'He's needed to be.'

'Are you in London for long, David?' Marilyn's ability to pose questions out of the blue was already apparent to Umber. Less apparent to him was the direction such questions were likely to take them in.

'Not sure.'

'I'm here for at least another week.'

'Really?'

'What's in the bag?' She nodded towards his holdall.

'I've been doing some research.'

'Into what?'

'Eighteenth-century politics.'

'Amazing.'

'But true.'

She chuckled. 'I'm sure it is.'

'Ever hear the name Junius?'

'No.'

'Or Griffin?'

'Some sort of… dragon?'

'Some sort. Yes.'

'Oliver tells me you're a widower as well as a historian.'

'That's true.'

'Being alone… after years of love… can't be easy.'

Umber could find no response to that. He was in truth surprised by the degree to which Marilyn had taken him aback. He stared into his glass and swallowed some gin.

'If you are alone… that is.'

He managed a smile. 'More or less.'

'Would you like to go to the theatre with me next Thursday?'

'What?'

'I have a couple of tickets. It's Shakespeare. Your sort of thing, I imagine. And Oliver's. But he's not going to be able to make it. It seems a pity to waste the seat.'

She was asking him out. It seemed barely credible. But it was true. She was a mature and attractive woman, unafraid to hold his gaze. She knew what she was doing. What she had said merely skimmed the surface of what she meant. An offer of some kind was on the table. Who ran the bigger risk – she by making it, he by accepting it – was far from clear. But in that uncertainty, her half-smiling expression implied, lay the object of the exercise.

Umber cleared his throat and swallowed some more gin. 'Which play?' he asked.

Marilyn leaned back in the couch and blew some smoke towards the ceiling. 'Does it matter?' she said softly.

TWELVE

Umber said nothing to Sharp about Marilyn Hall's theatre invitation. He told himself this was because it was not entirely clear he had accepted it and, besides, it was even less clear he would still be in London come Thursday. 'Call me on the day,' Marilyn had ambiguously concluded. She had been casting frequent glances at her wristwatch by then, as if this visit was threatening to make her late for something. It had been time for him to leave. Though there had been just time enough for Marilyn to pose a parting question.