Sight Unseen

He began to suspect that Nevinson was right. Sharp had concluded he could no longer be trusted. That was why he had sworn Larter to secrecy about his release. Umber's unannounced visit to Ilford, none the worse for his supposed kidnapping, must have seemed like confirmation of his treachery.

He had lied to Nevinson in one crucial regard. He had done a deal, albeit one he did not intend to fulfil even if he got the chance. There were good reasons to believe he might have gone over to the opposition – whoever the opposition might be. The fact that he had not was no help. He could not prove his good faith. He could only demonstrate it. As long as Chantelle continued to elude him, there was no way he could do that. And maybe, even if he found her, there would still be no way.

* * *

'Will you be attending the funeral tomorrow?' was Nevinson's parting question as he accompanied Umber out of the pub to the waiting taxi when it eventually arrived. 'Mr Sharp may be intending to, don't you think?'

Umber offered no reply as he nodded to the taxi driver and opened the door.

'For that reason alone, you may prefer not to, of course,' Nevinson continued, catching Umber's eye. 'I suppose it boils down to a question of who can be warned off – and who can't.'

'Goodbye, Percy.'

* * *

Umber did not glance back at the pub as the taxi joined the main road and headed south. Instead, he looked over his shoulder at the dwindling shapes of the Adam and Eve stones, at the empty quadrant of the henge where he had first set eyes on Sally and the Hall children.

The view was a fleeting one, rapidly blanked off by the houses at the eastern end of the village. The face the past had briefly shown him turned away, leaving him with no choice but to turn away likewise.

* * *

During the drive back to Marlborough, a suspicion somehow more disturbing even than the possibility that Sharp had written him off as a traitor formed in Umber's mind. Maybe Sharp was the one who had done the deal. Maybe his release on bail had been a quid pro quo. If so, Umber was more isolated than ever and the danger to Chantelle was all the greater. Umber could do nothing about that. Tomorrow would tell. And he greatly feared it would tell against him.

THIRTY-FOUR

The taxi dropped Umber outside the Ivy House, but he did not go in. Instead, he walked along the High Street to the Green Dragon and took the edge off his anxiety with a couple of pints and double whisky chasers.

The drinks, numbing though they were, only nourished his suspicions of Sharp. His silence since Tuesday, it seemed ever clearer to Umber, was the real giveaway. A week in prison could have sucked all the pride and determination out of a man of his age and former occupation, leaving him all too susceptible to whatever deal had been offered him. Release on bail might have been the down payment, a dropping of the charge held out as the ultimate reward, in return for… what? Had Sharp been set the same task as Umber? Could that be it? Were they each insurance against the failure or defiance of the other?

* * *

It was gone ten o'clock when Umber made his woozy way back to the Ivy House. He had no plan now beyond a few hours' sleep. He did not expect it to help. He did not expect anything at all. He was no longer thinking about tomorrow. He could not bear to.

* * *

'Message for you,' said the receptionist, handing him a note along with his key. 'Could you phone this number? Urgent, apparently.'

Umber stared at the piece of paper in his hand. A mobile number was written on it. And that was all. 'There's no name,' he blearily objected.

'He didn't leave one. Declined to, actually. I did ask.'

'When did he phone?'

'Around eight o'clock. Then again about half an hour ago.'

'Old? Young?'

'Not young. Polite. Well-spoken. But…'

'What?'

'Edgy. You know? Definitely edgy.'

* * *

Umber dialled the number on the phone in his room. It was answered before the second ring.

'That you, Umber?'

It was not the voice Umber had expected to hear. Despite the receptionist describing the caller as well-spoken, which was hardly a perfect fit, he had convinced himself during the short walk along the hotel corridors that the message was from Sharp; that the old man had seen sense and decided they should rejoin forces. But the message was not from Sharp.

'Know who this is?'

'Of course.'

'We need to meet. Tonight.'

'Why?'

'Want the truth? The whole truth? And a way out of it?'

'Yes.'

'Then don't argue. I'll pick you up at midnight. Wait in front of the Town Hall.'

'How did -'

'Will you be there?'

'Yes. All right. But -'

'See you then.' The line went dead.

* * *

Umber put the phone down, hoisted his feet up onto the bed and lay back against the pillows. He stared up into the shadows angled across the ceiling, his mind struggling with the implications of what had just happened. Oliver Hall wanted to see him. Oliver Hall was willing to tell him the truth. Oliver Hall was offering him an escape route. It was too good to be true. It was too alluring to be anything but a trap. And maybe it was a trap deadlier than any of those he had so far blundered into. But he had agreed to go. And he would. He could not ignore the summons. He could not resist the bait. He could not avoid the trap.

* * *

Umber got to the Town Hall several minutes early. Marlborough was quiet, the High Street largely empty. It had occurred to him by now that leaving an anonymous message at the Ivy House and nominating a pick-up point a little way from the hotel showed just how determined Hall was to avoid leaving any evidence that they had conversed, let alone met. Such precautions did not augur well. But there was of course no reason why they should. Umber waited, sitting on the steps that led up to the Town Hall entrance, staring along the curve of the High Street.

He had no way of knowing Hall would approach from that direction, of course. In the event, shortly after St Mary's Church clock struck twelve, a gleaming blue-black Bentley purred round the sharp-angled bend to Umber's left and pulled in.

Oliver Hall nodded at him through the driver's window, then jerked his head towards the passenger's door. Umber stood up, walked round and climbed in.

'You came, then.' Hall was dressed in a Barbour, open-necked shirt and dark trousers. His face was sallow in the filtered amber lamplight, his eyes hooded and weary, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a grim, charcoal-shadowed line.

'I said I would.'

'You said you'd wait to hear from me before visiting Jeremy. You didn't, though, did you?'

'Sharp's arrest forced my hand.'

'Did it really?'

'Yes. It really did.'

'Were you surprised to hear from me this evening?'

'What do you think?'

'It doesn't matter. You're here. That's what counts. Let's go.' Hall started away.

'Where are we going?'

'Not far. Not far at all.' He swung the car round into Kingsbury Street and headed up the hill Umber had climbed earlier on his way to the cemetery.

'How did you know where to find me?'

'Edmund told me you were in Marlborough. It was a fair bet you'd stay at the Ivy House again.'

'Where are you staying?'

'Worried about how close Marilyn is, are you, Umber?'

'Should I be?'

'No. She's still in London. I'm here on my own. On my own initiative, you might say.' Hall followed the road round to the right at the top of the hill. The cemetery, then, was not their destination. 'High time, you might also say. And you'd be entitled to. Don't think I'm not aware of that.' He took another right onto the main road.