Sight Unseen

'And?'

'It's rather odd, actually. Both you and Mr Wisby neglected to raise the point.'

'Exactly. But now we've been able to compare notes. So, what was the inscription?'

'There wasn't one.'

'No inscription?'

'None.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure there wasn't. But as to whether there had been…'

'What do you mean?'

'The fly-leaves had been torn out of both volumes, Mr Umber. That's what I mean.'

* * *

Umber booked a seat on a morning flight to Gatwick and took the bus back to St Helier. It was Thursday evening. A glance at his watch reminded him that he could even then have been sitting with Marilyn Hall in the theatre, watching All's Well That Ends Well, with her stepson alive and none the wiser. But there was only one rule in the game of consequences: you could never go back. Jeremy Hall was dead. And his death made one thing certain. All was not going to end well.

* * *

Umber should have phoned Larter and warned him of his return, but could not bring himself to, knowing that, if he did, he would have to explain why he was leaving Jersey. It was not as if he had made any progress towards securing Sharp's release from prison. He was, however he chose to present it, fleeing the scene of a crime. What the nature of the crime was he could not exactly have said. But to inflict the loss of another child on Jane Questred and Oliver Hall was unforgivably cruel. They would certainly not forgive him when they learned from Chantelle of the part he had played in driving Jeremy to his death. They would travel to Jersey as soon as the news reached them. Umber must not be there when they arrived. He could not look them in the face and tell them what had happened – how he had watched, helplessly but culpably, their son's self-destruction. He could not. And he would not.

* * *

He took a taxi to the Airport in the morning, rather than a bus, thereby avoiding a diversion through St Aubin. Once inside the terminal building he behaved almost like a fugitive, fearing Oliver Hall might fly in before he left, improbable though that was. It did not happen. Umber boarded the flight to Gatwick and watched Jersey shrink behind him as the plane climbed away to the west. Then it turned, kestrel-like, across the sky. And the island vanished from his sight.

* * *

It was nearly one o'clock when Umber reached Ilford. He checked the Sheepwalk on his way to Bengal Road from the station. Larter was not there. Nor did he seem to be at home. There was no answer to the bell. Umber stood on the doorstep, wondering how long the old boy might be gone.

'David!'

He turned, half-recognizing the voice before he saw who had called to him, but surprised nonetheless when he actually set eyes on Claire Wheatley. She was standing by a sleek blue TVR, holding open the driver's door on the opposite side of the street. He hurried across to join her.

'Surprised to see me?' There was an edge to her tone, of hostility or anxiety – he could not decide which.

'Yes, I am surprised. What's brought you all the way out here, Claire?'

'You. I got the address from Alice.'

'What have I done?'

'I don't know. You tell me.'

'I'm not with you.'

'Where have you been since Tuesday?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'Alice told me about picking you up from the hospital in Reading, David. And why she had to. Your run-in with the people who were looking for Wisby. Remember that?'

'Of course I remember it.'

'It seems to have sparked something off.'

'Oh yes?'

'Get in the car. I'll tell you on the way.'

'On the way where?'

'Whipps Cross Hospital. You'll be wanting to visit your friend, Bill Larter. According to one of his neighbours, that's where he is.'

'Bill's in hospital?'

'The house was burgled last night, apparently. He tackled the burglars and got beaten up. The neighbour didn't know how badly. Shall we go and find out?'

* * *

Umber was too shocked to argue even if he had wanted to. Before he could articulate a response to Claire's news, she had hustled him into the car and driven away. And then she had started to tell him the rest of her news.

'The practice was broken into on Wednesday night. The police reckoned the intruders were looking for drugs and didn't have the brains to realize a psychotherapist isn't a psychiatrist. They certainly made a hell of a mess. But I think that was just camouflage. They went through my client files, yet nothing was taken. Do you know what they were looking for, David? Of course you do.'

'Your notes on Sally,' Umber responded glumly.

'Has to be, doesn't it? I destroyed them a year after Sally's death, as it happens, so they went away empty-handed. Last night they tried their luck here. That's three break-ins, counting the raid on Wisby's boat. So, what exactly are they after, David?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Try guessing.'

'All right. At a guess, I'd say they're trying to figure out how close Sally was to the truth. And whether any of us know as much as she knew.'

'That's my guess too. So, thanks for dragging me into this. It's all I was short of. I've had to move in with Alice in case they come to my house, though I'm not sure her house is much safer in the circumstances. My life's been turned upside down since you called round for a confidential lunchtime chat. The way I see it, you were either followed or you told someone about me – someone you shouldn't have trusted.'

'Marilyn Hall,' he murmured. The sequence of events assembled themselves with sickening logic in Umber's mind. He had mentioned Claire when he had called at Kingsley House in search of Oliver Hall. He had mentioned Wisby too. 'I am sorry, Claire. Really. I'm afraid things are worse than you think.'

'How can they be?'

'Easily. As you'll understand when I tell you what I've been doing since Tuesday.'

* * *

Claire had pulled into the car park at Whipps Cross Hospital by the time Umber had finished his account. She turned off the engine and said nothing at first, tapping her nose against a crooked index finger, her lips parted, her gaze unfocused. When eventually she spoke, it was in a pensive undertone.

'I guess I owe you an apology, David.'

'What for?'

'Denying you were onto something. Insisting Sally couldn't have been murdered. Advising you, even if not in so many words, to pull yourself together.'

'We're even then. I never intended to drag you into this.'

'No? Well, I'm in it now.'

'I doubt you really need to worry. The raid on your practice was probably just a precaution. Like you said, they drew a blank. They can't afford to attract too much attention to themselves. I think they'll leave you alone from now on.'

'You do, do you?' She turned to look at him.

'I hope so.'

'Me too.' She sighed. 'Go and see your friend, David. I'll wait here.'

* * *

Umber had to claim a blood relationship with Larter before he was allowed in to see him. The old man was in poor shape, broken ribs having led to a collapsed lung. He had a suction tube in his chest and oxygen on tap to aid his breathing. A split lip was a further obstacle to speech and the sister instructed Umber to keep their conversation to a minimum.

'Lucky… I didn't have… my teeth in,' Larter wheezily joked. 'I'd probably have had them… knocked down my throat.'

'Were there two of them, Bill?'

'Yeah. Smug-looking geezer… and some shaven-headed bruiser… with a baseball bat.'

'Did they say what they were after?'

'Not what… Who.' Larter pointed a shaky finger at Umber. 'Thought I could… take them on.' He managed a weak grin. 'Bloody stupid of me.'