He opened the front door, carried the box out and put it down on the doormat while he locked up. Then he turned and picked up the box again.
That was the moment at which Umber saw the man smiling at him from the front gate. He was tall, broadly built and middle-aged, wearing a dark suit and a sober tie, his grey-brown hair cut short, his tanned face split by a sparkle-toothed grin beneath darting, humorous eyes. His left hand was resting on the latch, his right was curled round the handle of a black briefcase. He opened the gate.
‘Mr Umber?’ he asked, his voice neutral and low-pitched.
‘Er … No.’
‘But this is the Umber house, isn’t it? Number thirty-six?’
‘Yes. But …’ Umber reached the end of the path and rested the box on the gate between them. ‘They’re not in.’
‘Right.’ The man looked quizzically at Umber. ‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’
‘Not really. I …’ Some kind of explanation was clearly called for, preferably one close to the truth. ‘I’m their son. David Umber.’
‘I see. Of course. My name’s Walsh. John Walsh. Lynx Aluminium Windows. I have an appointment with your parents at eleven thirty. Did they mention it to you?’
‘No. But … I don’t actually live here.’
‘Ah. That would explain it.’
‘Anyway, aren’t you rather early?’
‘Terribly. The truth is I had a previous appointment in the area which has just been cancelled, so I called round in the hope of bringing this one forward. Looks like no dice.’
‘Yes. It does. I’m sure they’ll be back by eleven thirty if that’s when they’re expecting you.’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘Actually—’
‘Can I give you a hand getting that box to your car? It looks a real handful.’
‘I don’t have a car.’
‘No? Well, can I give you a lift somewhere? I may as well, with this gap in my schedule. Besides, doing a favour for a potential customer’s son can’t be a bad idea, can it?’
‘Okay. Thanks. I need to get to the station.’
‘Pen Mill?’
‘Yes.’
‘No problem.’
Umber was happy to accept the lift for a reason unconnected with the weight of the box. In the course of it, he needed to give Walsh a good and compelling reason not to mention their encounter to his parents. Such a reason began to shape itself in his mind as Walsh helped him load the box into the boot of his BMW and had attained its final, appealing form by the time they set off.
‘There’s another favour I need to ask you, Mr Walsh.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, it’s my father’s eightieth birthday in a few weeks.’ (A few months was nearer the mark, but the distortion was necessary.) ‘We’re planning a surprise party for him. I’ve been to the house making some … preparations. I’d be awfully grateful if you didn’t …’
‘Spill the beans? You can rely on me, Mr Umber. Would it be better to say nothing about running into you?’
‘It would.’
‘You coming out of the house lugging a heavy box. Me giving you a lift to the station. It never happened.’
‘Exactly.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I like surprises. They make life more interesting. What’s in the box, then?’
‘I, er …’
‘No, no. Don’t tell me.’ Walsh flashed a grin at Umber. ‘The less I know the better.’
A few minutes later, they turned down the approach road to Pen Mill station. Walsh swung the car round in the forecourt next to the ticket-office entrance and stopped.
‘Need a hand with the box?’ he asked.
‘I can manage, thanks,’ Umber replied.
‘OK. Well, have a good journey. And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Umber climbed out, closed the door and walked round to the boot.
His thumb was about an inch from the boot-release when the car suddenly surged forward and accelerated away. It was out of sight round the bend before Umber had moved a muscle.
He started running after the car. But it was a futile effort. By the time he could see the top of the approach road, the BMW had vanished.
Umber stood where he was. It had happened, but he could not for the moment believe it had happened. Walsh had stolen his box of Junius papers. But the man was not really Walsh, of course. He did not work for Lynx Aluminium Windows. He had no appointment with Umber’s parents. He had come to Yeovil for the same reason as Umber. And he was leaving with what he had come for. Umber took a few faltering steps and sat down on a metal stanchion next to the cycle rack. He slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead, then slowly spread his fingers down across the eyes, pressing them shut. ‘You fucking idiot,’ was all he could find to say to himself. And he said it several times.
The tortuous journey back to Marlborough gave Umber ample opportunity to contemplate his stupidity and to measure its cost. The word JUNIUS had been plainly visible on the box. Walsh could hardly have missed it. His theft of it meant he knew what was inside. Which meant that what was inside mattered. It was important. It held a clue. Umber had been right about that. But he had let the clue slip through his fingers.
He switched his mobile off. He did not want to speak to anyone, let alone Sharp. He stared morosely at the passing scenery. Time stood still. ‘What do I do now, Sal?’ he murmured under his breath. But he heard no answer.
The 49 bus from Trowbridge got him to Avebury just after 1.30. He went into the Red Lion and bought a large scotch. While he was drinking it, he saw the Marlborough bus drive past the window. He did not care that he had missed it. He had no clear idea of what he would do when he reached Marlborough anyway. He finished his scotch and ordered another.
When he left the pub, he crossed the road and went through the gate into the Cove – the gate Miranda Hall had run through to her death. He stood by the Adam and Eve stones and stared about him. The circle was emptier than it had been that day. There was not a living soul in sight.
He walked out by the other gate into Green Street and headed east along the lane, through the enclosing rampart of the henge and on past Manor Farm. A keen wind was blowing ragged cloud across the downs. The air was cold and cleansing. The lane became a track as it steepened. He did not look back.
Two hours later, Umber was standing outside the Kennet Valley Wine Company shop in Marlborough High Street. The walk across the downs had cleared his mind. He had been stupid. But he did not have to go on being stupid. What Walsh had done he had been put up to do. And the list of people who might have put him up to do it was a short one.
The man Umber had seen enter the shop a few moments previously emerged, clutching a clinking carrier-bag, and headed off along the street. Even before the door had swung shut behind him, Umber was through it.
He closed the door, slipped the bolt and flicked the sign round. Then he turned to face Edmund Questred.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Questred demanded, rounding the counter.
‘Making sure we’re not disturbed.’
‘I have—’
With a shove in the chest, Umber pushed him back against the edge of the counter. ‘You had me followed to Yeovil, didn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Just tell me why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why Junius? What in God’s name is it all about?’
‘You’re making no sense. If you don’t leave – now – I’ll—’
‘Call the police? It’s me who should be calling them. To report a theft.’
‘Have you come here … to accuse me of something?’
‘No-one knows I’m in Marlborough except you, your wife and the Nevinsons. I don’t see Percy or Abigail hiring someone like Walsh – or
whatever his real name is. It has to be you – with or without your wife’s knowledge.’
‘I’ve hired no-one.’
‘But he was hired.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I was followed to Yeovil and robbed. I think you know something about it.’
‘I can assure you I don’t.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s up to you. But it happens to be true. All I want you to do is to leave Jane alone.’ Questred did not look or sound as if he was lying. Umber’s confidence faltered. Maybe he was on the wrong track after all. ‘If someone’s stolen something from you, you should tell the police. It’s got nothing to do with me. Or Jane.’
The telephone in the office behind the counter began to ring. The two men looked at each other. Then Questred pushed past Umber, strode into the office and picked up the telephone.
Umber expected to hear some brief and vapid discussion of a wine order. But what he actually heard was very different. ‘Kennet Valley Wine Company … Jane? … What’s the matter, darling? … Who? … But what did he want? … Say that again … You’re sure? … I don’t believe it … But this, on top of everything else … Yes, of course … I’ll come straight away … Never mind that … Yes … Don’t worry … I’ll see you shortly, darling … ’Bye.’
Questred slowly put the telephone down and stared into space. There was an expression of shocked confusion on his face.
‘What’s happened?’ Umber asked.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Questred murmured. ‘Why now? After all this time.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Sorry?’ Questred seemed to snap out of his brief reverie. His gaze focused on Umber. ‘Jane’s had a reporter on to her. Asking for her reaction to the news. It was on the radio at lunchtime, apparently, but she hadn’t heard. She’s quite upset. I have to go home.’ He took his jacket down from a hook and put it on. Then he stopped and frowned at Umber. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Know what?’
‘You didn’t, did you? You really didn’t.’
‘For God’s sake, man, just—’
‘Brian Radd’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Umber gaped at Questred in amazement. ‘How?’
‘They say he was …’ Questred swallowed hard. ‘They say he was murdered.’
NINE
WHEN UMBER SWITCHED his mobile back on, he found a message from Sharp waiting for him. He already knew, of course, what Sharp had phoned to tell him.
‘I heard the news in a pub at lunchtime. The locals were full of it. Radd’s dead. Murdered by another prisoner, apparently. Details are sketchy at the moment, but I imagine all hell’s broken loose at the prison. No point me staying here now. I’ll head back. I don’t know what to make of this, Umber, I really don’t. We’ll talk later. ’Bye.’
Umber went back to the Ivy House and learned a little more from the Ceefax service on the television in his room. Radd had been found bleeding from a stomach wound, probably inflicted with a knife, in a toilet cubicle at the prison at about nine o’clock that morning. He had been rushed to hospital, only to be pronounced dead on arrival. A police murder inquiry was under way.
Umber stared at the words on the screen for several long minutes, shock giving way slowly to something closer to fear. The media would regard this as a fittingly violent end for a child murderer and rapist: rough justice dispensed by a fellow prisoner. But they were unaware of the pattern it fitted into. Even Sharp did not yet know what had happened that day in Yeovil and what both events seemed to imply. Someone was on to them. Someone had decided to stop their investigation in its tracks. And they were willing to kill to do it.
The trilling of his mobile fractured Umber’s thoughts. He answered, guessing it would be Sharp, calling en route from Cambridgeshire. But he had guessed wrong.
‘Hello?’
‘David? Percy Nevinson here.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I felt I had to call in view of the extraordinary turn of events. You’ve heard about Radd, I take it?’
‘I’ve heard.’
‘Another mouth’s been shut, it seems. There’s no chance of him withdrawing his confession now, is there? At least this time no-one’s in any doubt that it was murder.’
‘I can’t talk about this, Percy. Not now.’
‘I understand your reticence, David. Perhaps you’re wondering who to trust in such a situation. I can assure you—’
Umber switched the phone off. He could take no more of Nevinson. The report of Radd’s murder was still there, on the television screen. He pressed the standby button on the remote. The screen went blank. He lay back on the bed.
He was not thinking about Radd any more, or the theft of his Junius papers. It was Sally’s death five years ago and the circumstances surrounding it that filled his mind.
* * *
Umber had been in Turkey when it happened, roasting in the heat of Izmir. Sally had been living in a flat in Hampstead, lent to her by her friend Alice Myers. Late June had not brought tropical conditions to London. And Sally had always felt the cold more than most. The bathroom of the flat was unheated. It was possible to believe – just – that she had trailed a fan heater into the bathroom to warm it. There was a chair close to the bath, on which the coroner theorized she might have stood the heater, then somehow tipped it into the bath as she reached for a towel. Alternatively, she might have deliberately pulled the heater into the bath with her, fully knowing what the consequences would be. That was what most of her friends believed, grateful though they were to the coroner for not concluding as much. The absence of a note and Alice’s testimony that Sally had been in better spirits than for some time sufficed for him to give her the benefit of the doubt. No-one had suggested murder, of course. No-one had considered such a possibility, nor looked for evidence of it. The idea would have been dismissed as absurd, not least by Umber. He had felt certain that Sally had taken her own life.
Now, five years later, he was certain of nothing.
He headed out for dinner, the thoughts still running round in his brain. Was it possible? Could Sally have been murdered? ‘She must have strayed too close to the truth,’ Nevinson had said. Could he be right after all?
From the restaurant, Umber went to the Green Dragon. He had hoped to slink into a quiet corner, but the pub was staging a quiz night and there were no quiet corners. He swallowed one pint and left.
Back at the Ivy House, the receptionist told him Sharp had returned in his absence. He went straight up to Sharp’s room.
He could hear a newscaster’s voice through the door as he approached. In response to his knock there was a gruffly bellowed ‘Come in’.
Sharp looked a weary man, slumped in front of the television with a glass of whisky, waiting for a report on Radd’s murder to crop up on Sky News. He muted the sound and poured Umber a generous slug from the bottle of Bell’s he had bought somewhere along the road.
‘I didn’t see this coming, Umber,’ he said. ‘It never crossed my mind.’
‘Child murderers aren’t top of anyone’s popularity list, George.’
‘That’s not why he was killed and you know it.’
‘I do, yes. You could say I’ve had … independent confirmation of that.’
Umber described his experiences in Yeovil, keen to have the anticipated outburst of scorn from Sharp over and done with. Drained of much of his pepperiness by his own experiences, however, Sharp merely grunted and growled and rolled his eyes during Umber’s account. Then he topped up both their whiskies and switched off the television altogether.
‘Shall I tell you where we are, Umber? Out of our bloody depth. That’s where.’
‘You ought to know I’m beginning to think Sally may have been murdered.’
‘Yes. I suppose you were bound to. Which means you won’t be prepared to drop it now, will you?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Thought so.’ Sharp r
asped his hand round his unshaven chin. ‘Only you should bear in mind Radd may have been taken out in order to warn us off.’
‘I can’t let that stop me, George. Not if they killed Sally.’
‘All right, then. We go on.’
‘You’re not going to allow yourself to be … warned off?’
‘Good God, no. What do you take me for? My professional pride’s been dented. I need to hammer it back into shape. Starting with the question of who – deliberately or not – tipped off these people we’re dealing with. Hardly anyone knew I was even thinking of going to see Radd.’
‘Your friend Rawlings knew.’
‘He promised to keep it under his hat. He wouldn’t break a promise to an old mate.’
‘Are you sure about that, George?’
‘A lot surer than I am about Jane Questred. She knew.’
‘Not until yesterday morning.’
‘No. But she said emphatically she was going to do whatever she could to stop us. So, let’s find out what she did. And who she contacted.’
‘If anyone.’
‘Like you say. If anyone. But everything we try is a long shot. It’s bound to be. Take Donald Collingwood for example. I stopped in Swindon on the way back and checked his old address.’
‘Dead and gone?’
Sharp nodded. ‘More than ten years.’ He mulled over that for a moment, then said, ‘A drop in the bucket compared with two hundred and fifty odd, though. What was in your Junius box that made it worth stealing?’
‘I don’t know. My Ph.D research notes aren’t exactly state secrets.’
‘No? Well, somebody wanted them, Umber. Badly. And since they were your notes, you’re the only one likely to know why.’
‘There’s no reason that makes any sense.’
‘What were they about?’
‘Well …’ Umber shrugged. ‘Junius.’
‘Can’t you be a bit more specific?’
‘All right.’ Umber rubbed his face. ‘Let’s see. I’d started going through the list of candidates – all the people who’d ever been accused, even semi-seriously, of being Junius. There were fifty or sixty of them all told. My idea was to disprove each one conclusively before proceeding to the next. That involved checking their whereabouts at times when we could be sure where Junius was, based on the content of his letters, comparing their known political opinions with Junius’s expressed views, examining examples of their handwriting and prose style for similarities to—’
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