Sight Unseen

She was dressed in jeans, leather jacket and polo-neck sweater, the unisex look of a piece with the cool, unastonished, appraising stare she gave him before slamming the car door and starting up the steps as the locking system beeped behind her.

'Who did you expect to find here, David?' She threw the question at him like a challenge. 'A ghost?'

He nodded, determined to seem unabashed. 'In a sense. I was looking for Chantelle.'

'Who?'

'You must know about her.'

'No.'

'Really? Why don't you seem surprised to see me, then?'

She frowned at him in apparent puzzlement, then plucked a key out of one of the zip-pockets of her jacket. 'We can talk inside.'

She unlocked the door and he followed her in, stepping over the waiting post. Already, the flat had an indefinable air of desertion about it. The living room was tidier and emptier than he remembered. A sense of absence was everywhere.

Marilyn strode halfway down the room towards the Catherine-wheel window, then stopped and turned to face him. 'Oliver wanted me to pick up a couple of things,' she explained. 'He hadn't the heart to come himself.' She was sombre and unsmiling, the flirtatiousness buried deep. Yet there was a guardedness about her too. She seemed unsure of her ground – as Umber was of his. 'Lucky for you it was me he sent.'

'Why lucky?'

'Because I'm the only member of the family who knows you were at Eden Holt when Jeremy died.' She held his gaze. 'You're not going to deny it, are you?'

'How did you find out?' he asked, as calmly as he could.

'That can wait. Tell me about Chantelle.'

'She was here. When I called round last week. Living here, I mean. I thought she was Jeremy's girlfriend. Well, I suppose they let me think that.'

'But you don't think that now?'

'No.'

'What, then?'

'You don't know?'

'I've never heard of such a person. There was a girl in Jeremy's life. But they split up more than a year ago. And she wasn't called Chantelle.'

Some instinct held Umber back from telling Marilyn who he believed Chantelle really was. Their exchanges were hedged about with half-truths and evasions. He could not afford to show his hand until he knew what she held in hers.

'If she was living here,' Marilyn resumed, 'where is she now?'

'I don't know.'

'I don't see any sign of her, do you?' Marilyn looked around. 'Just Jeremy's bachelor stuff.'

'She was here.'

'Let's try the bathroom.'

Marilyn strode past him. He followed meekly and watched as she first opened the door of the airing cupboard, then peered into the tiny cabinet above the handbasin. But the sight of a single toothbrush propped in the mug on the end of the bath told its own story.

'No knickers or bras, David,' said Marilyn matter-of-factly. 'No girlie toiletries.' She folded her arms and gazed at him. 'No Chantelle.'

'She's gone. She must have left… as soon as she heard about Jeremy.'

'Why would she do that? And how would she hear? The police contacted Oliver and no-one else. They were on the scene promptly.' She arched an eyebrow. 'Thanks to an anonymous phone call.' She walked past him, back into the living room. He followed and there they faced each other once more. 'Are you sure Chantelle isn't just a figment of your imagination?'

It was a faintly odd choice of phrase, odd enough to make Umber read into it a disturbing double meaning. 'Are you suggesting I made her up? Or do you think I'm suffering from delusions?'

'I can't say. But Wisby didn't mention her. And I think he would have.'

The name plunged into Umber's thoughts like a spike into a gearwheel. ' Wisby?'

'That's how I knew you were there when Jeremy threw himself off the roof. Wisby told me what happened.'

'When? When did he tell you?'

'Yesterday. He came up to me as I was parking my car in St Helier. He'd followed me from Eden Holt. He'd been waiting for the chance to speak to me alone, he said, and guessed he'd get it sooner or later. The atmosphere at the house… well, you can imagine. Jane's barely coherent. And Oliver's as close to broken as I've seen him. I had to get away. Shopping for essentials was a decent excuse. Wisby had banked on me doing something like that. There's a lot of the rodent about him, don't you think? Including a sharp little brain.'

'What happened was his fault. Did he tell you that?'

'It hardly matters whose fault it was, David. I can tell you who Oliver and Jane and her washout of a husband will blame if they ever find out you were there at the time. And it isn't Wisby.'

'Why haven't they found out?'

'Because Wisby's put me in a difficult position.' Disarmingly, she smiled. 'He's blackmailing me.'

'With what?' But even as he asked the question, Umber guessed the answer.

'Junius. Your speciality, I believe.'

'The vellum-bound edition?'

'Yes.'

'What's that to you?'

'Nothing. But it was in Jeremy's possession, wasn't it? Wisby can prove that. Which as good as proves Jeremy sent the letters to Wisby and Sharp that stirred all this up. And that he clearly didn't believe Radd was his sisters' murderer. Jeremy's death has been a savage blow to Oliver. And to Jane. If they learn their son didn't trust them… well, I'm not sure either of them could cope with that, I'm really not. And I don't intend to find out.'

'Wisby's selling the books to you?'

'That's what it come comes down to, yes. Without them, he can't back up his allegations. And he won't want to, anyway. He'll have turned a big enough profit to keep his mouth shut.'

'He's alleged more than that Jeremy sent the letters, Marilyn, hasn't he?'

'Some crazy stuff about the man who originally owned the books being murdered, you mean? Oh, he fed that into the works as well, yes. I didn't know what to make of it – what it really amounted to. As far as I can see, though, it would only make everything worse for Oliver. My priority is limiting the damage you and Wisby caused by pressurizing Jeremy. God knows, it's bad enough already. I don't want it to get any worse.'

'For your husband's sake?'

'And mine. My life with Oliver runs on smooth and predictable lines. I like it that way. I want to keep it that way.'

'It's a funny thing, Marilyn.' Umber took a step towards her. 'The more candid you are with me, the more duplicitous I suspect you of being.'

'Duplicitous?' Her eyes twinkled. 'There's a big word for a Sunday morning.'

'How much are you paying Wisby?'

'A hundred thousand.'

Umber failed to suppress a gasp. 'That's a hell of a lot of damage limitation.'

'It's loose change, actually. Thanks to Oliver. He's always been very generous to me.'

'Is that why you married him?'

'It was a consideration,' she replied, with unblinking coolness. 'Do you want a cut of that generosity, David?'

'What?'

'I didn't tell you about my dealings with Wisby to make myself feel better, you know. Finding you here was actually… fortuitous, to say the least.' Was it merely fortuitous? Umber asked himself. Within one set-up might lie another. He could be certain of nothing. 'I've been worrying he might try to trick me into accepting duplicates of the Junius, leaving him free to go ahead and do what I'll already have paid him not to. He strikes me as the type to want the penny and the bun.'

Wisby had obviously not mentioned the missing fly-leaves to Marilyn. It would have undermined his bargaining position to do so. Umber knew better than to mention them himself. It was not hard to guess why Marilyn had told him about Wisby's blackmail pitch. She meant to ask a favour of him, enabling him to ask one in return. 'You want me to authenticate the Junius for you?'

'Yes. In fact…' She hesitated.

'What?'

'I want you to conduct the exchange for me. Never having to see or speak to Wisby again would suit me rather well.'