Sight Unseen

* * *

He had to do his best by others before setting off, however. He tried Claire's mobile again as soon as he was out of the shower. And this time there was an answer.

'Hello.' Her voice sounded husky and slightly slurred, as if she had just woken up.

'Claire. It's me. David.'

'David. Where are you?'

'London. Sorry if I woke you. I thought you'd already be up. You're an hour on in Monaco, aren't you?'

'You must have been out to Hampstead, if you know where we are.'

'I thought you were going to wait until you'd heard from me, Claire.'

'For a few days. That's what we agreed. And that's as long as I could wait. Alice would have come without me otherwise. And I didn't reckon that was a good idea.'

'Have you spoken to Tinaud?'

'Not yet. His PA's blocking us. I haven't pushed it. I've been hoping you'd call and say there was no need. Is that what you're going to say?'

'In a sense.'

'Care to explain?'

'Can't. I'm in over my head, Claire. I know too much. I don't want to put you in the same position. Don't speak to Tinaud. And don't come back to London until you've heard from me again.'

'What?'

'Now would be a good time for that girls' jaunt to South America. It really would. Talk Alice into it. Talk yourself into it.'

'What's happening, David?'

'I don't know. But, whatever it is, I will know. All too soon.'

'You're not making any sense.'

'If only that was true. If you never trust me in anything, trust me in this. You'll learn nothing from Tinaud I don't already know. But speaking to him may get you the attention of some very dangerous people. Don't do it. And don't come back here. At least for a few days.'

'We're back to a few days, are we? A few more days for you to go it alone.'

'The last few. I can promise you that.'

'You're going to have to -'

'Goodbye, Claire.' He put the phone down, certain, because he had withheld his number, that she would not be able to call him back.

He skipped the Travel Inn breakfast, checked out, took a cab to Liverpool Street station and boarded a train for Ilford. The only place he could think of to store his box of Junius Papers was 45 Bengal Road. He planned to leave a note for Larter, then head west.

But his plan had taken no account of the pressure on beds in the National Health Service. Larter had been patched up and sent home, with stitched lip, reinflated lung and slowly healing ribs. He was moving gingerly around the kitchen, preparing a bacon-and-egg start to the day, when Umber let himself in.

'Where have you been hiding yourself?' was the old man's wheezily barbed greeting. 'And what's in that bloody box?'

'Some old research papers of mine. I was hoping you could hold on to them for me.'

'Till when?'

'Not sure.'

'You've got a nerve.'

'I boarded up the window for you, Bill.' Umber glanced at the back door. 'I see you've had it re-glazed.'

'Yeah, well, that was a kindness, I suppose. But this box…'

'No-one's going to come after it. I promise.'

'Better hadn't.' Larter hoiked an old cricket bat out from beside the fridge. 'I'll be ready for them this time.'

'Remember the one you called a smug-looking geezer?'

'What about him?'

'He won't be coming. Here or anywhere else. I can tell you that for a fact.'

Larter eyed Umber suspiciously. 'Do I want to know how you can be so sure?'

'No, Bill. You don't.'

'Spoke to George yesterday. Said he'd had a… message from you. "It isn't over." Right?'

'Right.'

'How long before it is?'

'Not long at all. One way or the other.'

'Shall I put in an extra rasher for you?' Larter gestured at the frying pan with his spatula.

'Can't stop.'

'Please yourself.' Larter nodded at the box. 'You can leave that if you've a mind to. It'll be good practice in case I have to go into left luggage to top up my pension.'

'I'll be in touch.' Umber dropped the spare set of keys Larter had given him on the table. 'Thanks, Bill.'

'Don't mention it.'

'I'll be off now.'

'Righto.' Then, after the briefest of pauses, he added, 'Good luck, son.'

* * *

Back to Liverpool Street, round the Circle line to Paddington, then a fast train to Reading. Door to door from 45 Bengal Road, Ilford, to the Royal Berkshire Hospital took Umber nearly two hours. Time was sliding through his fingers like sand. If the stitches in his head had not been causing him almost as much discomfort as his troublesome knee, he would probably have given the out-patients' clinic a miss, but, as the whims of the NHS would have it, he did not have to wait long for the stitches to be removed and felt instantly better for it, despite the nurse's less than encouraging assessment.

'How are you feeling, Mr Umber? You look a little under the weather.'

'I'm fine, thanks.' Which he was not, of course. But under the weather? No. That description did not do his condition any kind of justice.

* * *

By noon he was back at Reading station, waiting for a train to Bedwyn. And one and a half hours later, he was clambering off the connecting bus in Marlborough High Street. He had a plan. He knew what he was going to do. What it would achieve, however, was quite another matter.

* * *

His first port of call was W. H. Smith, where he grabbed a copy of the local weekly newspaper. He was still in the queue, waiting to pay for it, when he found what he was looking for among the funeral notices.

HALL, Jeremy. Died tragically in Jersey, Thursday 25th March, aged 33. Dearest son of Jane and Oliver, fondly remembered by Edmund and Katy. A service of celebration for his life will be held at Holy Cross Church, Ramsbury, on Friday 2nd April at 11 a.m., followed by interment at Marlborough Cemetery at noon. Family flowers only.

Umber reread the notice after he had left the shop. It had to be a coincidence, of course. But it did not feel like one. Jeremy Hall was due to be buried on the day and at the hour when the deadline Umber had been set to hand over Chantelle expired. The burial of the brother and the betrayal of the sister were paired events in a possible version of the all too near future.

* * *

He entered the Kennet Valley Wine Company little expecting to find Edmund Questred manning the till. In truth, he was faintly surprised to find the shop open at all. But Questred had found a stand-in – a plump, bespectacled, middle-aged woman with an engaging smile.

'Good afternoon,' she said. 'Can I help you?'

'I'm looking for Mr Questred.'

'I'm afraid he's not in today. There's been a family bereavement.'

'I know.' He held up his copy of the Gazette & Herald. 'A terrible business.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'I knew Jeremy as a boy. Nice lad. I, er, taught at his school.'

'Really?'

'Do you happen to know which undertaker is handling the funeral? The notice didn't say and I, er…'

'Umber.' The office door beyond the counter opened by a foot or so and Edmund Questred stared out through the gap. 'Come in here.' He glanced at the woman. 'It's OK, Pam. We know each other.'

Umber edged round the counter and moved through into the office. Questred closed the door behind him, then gestured for Umber to follow as he led the way out into the storeroom and switched on the lights. Fluorescent tubes flickered pallidly into life above the assorted boxes of wine.

'What are you doing here?' Questred looked and sounded too tired to summon up much in the way of overt hostility. 'And why do you want to know which undertaker we're using?'

The answer was that Chantelle might want to see Jeremy one last time before the funeral. But it was not an answer Umber could afford to give. 'I'm not sure. Just trying to draw something out, I suppose.'