Выбрать главу

'Where are we going?'

'Savernake Forest. Where my ex-wife has convinced herself Radd buried Tamsin. Where she often goes to mourn her, I believe.'

'Why there?'

'No possibility of interruption, Umber. No prying eyes or ears. That's why. That and something else we'll come to later.'

'You promised me the truth.'

'So I did.'

'When am I going to get it?'

'Soon enough. There are a few questions I want to ask you first.'

'Such as?'

'Why did you choose to study the letters of Junius?'

'What?'

'I mean, was there any particular reason?'

'Why in God's name should you care?'

'Humour me on the point.' Hall took the Salisbury road at the double-roundabout just beyond the bridge over the Kennet and headed towards the forest that was waiting ahead of them, still and silent in the moonless night. 'There's a good fellow.'

'I specialized in eighteenth-century British politics. Junius was an ideal case study.'

'No other reason? Nothing more… personal?'

'I'd always been curious about him. There was an old copy of the letters in the bookcase at home. Something of an heirloom in my father's family.'

'Was it now?'

'But I can't believe you're dragging me out here to discuss Junius.'

'He does have a bearing on what we need to discuss, Umber, take it from me. But that can wait.'

The road curved as it climbed Postern Hill. At the top, Umber knew, Savernake began. The old Norman hunting forest had once stretched for many miles to east and west. What remained was a remnant, but a large remnant nonetheless. Several square miles of heavily wooded land in which bodies could plausibly be buried – and secrets likewise.

'Jane believes our three children are all dead now, Umber. Do you believe that?'

'Do you?'

They drove in silence, the unanswered cross-questions contending in the darkness between them. The car's headlamps arced across the screen of trees ahead of them as they crested the rise. Then Hall said, with quiet emphasis, 'Of course not.'

Umber was at first too dumbstruck to respond. Hall was as good as admitting that Tamsin was alive and that he had never once thought otherwise in all the twenty-three years since her supposed death. 'You mean…'

'Tamsin is Cherie… is Chantelle. That's what I mean. You know it. And I've always known it.'

'You've known? All along?'

'Oh yes.'

'But -'

'Sometimes I've envied Jane her certainty. The simplicity of her grief. The finality of it. Tamsin dead rather than taken. Buried rather than hidden.' Hall sighed. 'But only sometimes.'

'I don't understand. How -'

'Wait.' Hall braked sharply and pulled in off the road. The cones of light from the headlamps tunnelled ahead of them along a track leading into the woods. Hall drove slowly, tyres crunching over the rough surface, suspension wallowing through the potholes. 'Let's get clear of the road,' he said.

Fifty yards or so sufficed. At that point Hall steered into the side of the track and stopped. He turned off the engine and, a second later, the lights. Darkness closed around them like a hood. Then Umber saw the glow of the dashboard lighter. Hall had taken a cigar out of his pocket. He lit it, replaced the lighter, then lowered the window. The damp night air drifted in, thinning the pungent smoke.

'What now?' Umber asked.

'I talk.' Hall drew on the cigar. 'And you listen.'

THIRTY-FIVE

'I've always done my best for my children, Umber. You may find that assertion ironic in the light of what you know. And you may find it even more ironic in the light of what you're about to learn. But it's true. I've done everything in my power to protect them. Everything.

'I'm going to tell you a story. In every important sense, it's the story of my life. It begins – and I suppose it ends – with money. The making of it. The multiplying of it. And the spending of it. I don't do much of the last. No need, really, with Marilyn on hand. And the first isn't strictly my line. But the second? I'm a past master at that. One of the best. One of the very best. The keeping, the concealing and the breeding of wealth. That's my speciality. My vocation, if you like.

'You could call it a gift, this skill of mine. Many have. I have. I don't any more, though. I understand all too clearly now how big a curse it can be. Not because of the money itself, but because of the sort of people it's brought me into contact with. My particular kind of talent attracted a particular kind of client. The kind I should never have trusted. Because they never trusted me. It's lack of trust that does for you in the end, every time.

'My career in banking was entirely above board until I met… let's call him Smith. I suspect you may have met him recently yourself, in Jersey. You may also have seen his oversized yacht moored in St Helier Harbour. At the outset of our relationship, I believed Smith was a bona fide businessman. Likewise the friends he recommended me to. Later, I realized they were all criminals. I could have stopped acting for them at that point. I should have. But I didn't. The commission they paid was generous. And there was a thrill, I don't deny, to working for them. Plus a good many fringe benefits. They were difficult people to say no to. Though, to be honest, I never put that seriously to the test. They weren't the sort of criminals you ever read about, of course – the sort who get caught. They were the big fish.

'I referred to Smith's network as the consortium, though needless to say they never called themselves anything of the kind. They thrived on caution and anonymity. They were powerful, with interests and associates around the world. But they were also invisible. And they wanted to stay that way. They had money to invest. Lots of it. More than they could handle. Which is where I came in. I made their money work for them – discreetly.

'I also laundered it, of course. The profits they made through me left no trail that could be followed to their doors. That was easier to do then than it is now. But I don't have to involve myself much in that kind of activity any more. After a certain point, which we passed long ago, the process becomes self-replicating. The system takes over. And it's a good system. Foolproof. I should know. I designed it.

'Let's be under no illusions. The crimes these people made their lavish livings out of were as vile as you can imagine. They wore smart suits. They spoke softly. But that was merely the side of them they chose to show me. The other side… I didn't want to see.

'I persuaded myself I deserved the considerable rewards that working for the consortium brought me. I acquired responsibility for managing the greater part of their finances. I set up my own business and became wealthy in my own right. I maintained a notional presence in conventional banking, but it was only cover for my activities on behalf of the consortium. I was their banker, exclusively, piloting the proceeds of their crime through legitimate and lucrative investments around the world via respectable institutions and untraceable accounts. It was a great time. I loved my work.

'I don't any more. I haven't for many years. I still act for them, of course. I don't actually have any choice in the matter. It's not the sort of job you can resign from. But I would if could. Like a shot.

'What it boils down to is this. They decided they couldn't continue to rely on my discretion. I knew too many of their secrets. I was their one potential weakness – an unacceptable risk, but also indispensable. They needed a way to bind me to them, to guarantee my loyalty absolutely. And they found such a way: the theft of my youngest child. That was their plan. Brutal, simple, effective. Such is the nature of men like Smith.