Sight Unseen

by Robert Goddard

  He crouched where he was, gathering his resources. To get off the boat, he was going to have to reach the stern. He could go through the cabin, but the aft door was bound to be locked. Walsh would hardly have broken in at both ends. No, the only ways off were along the outside of the cabin or over the top. There was a ledge either side of the cabin, Umber vaguely recalled, but it was desperately narrow. The roof was a marginally better option. He scrambled to his feet, waited for the ache in his head to subside, grasped what felt like a rail fixed to the roof, put one foot on the bulwark and pulled himself up.

  In the same instant, the boat bounced against something, pitching Umber forward. His hand slipped from the rail. He lost his balance and fell.

  It was the ground he hit, not water. The Monica had drifted into the bank. A jarred shoulder and a red mist of pain behind his eyes were worth it to feel mud and grass beneath him. He levered himself slowly upright and blundered forward like a blind man until he reached the jutting balance beam of the lock gate. He leaned against the beam for a minute or more, recovering his breath and what was left of his wits. He looked at his wristwatch. The luminous dial told him the time was a few minutes before nine. He would have guessed it was the middle of the night. But then so, in a sense, it was – for him.

  The shaly surface of the towpath crunched beneath his feet as he took a few tentative steps away from the beam. Logically, if he kept to the path, with the canal to his right, he would make it to Newbury in the end. Kintbury was probably closer, but the frightening possibility that Walsh and the man who had attacked him were still waiting for Wisby by the bridge meant Newbury it had to be. He started walking.

  He never made it to Newbury. A slow, stumbling mile or so later, he reached another lock, and a road-bridge over the canal. He was feeling worse than when he had left the boat by now. Nausea and dizziness were sweeping over him ever more frequently. Seeing the lights of a house a short distance along the road, he headed towards it.

  * * *

  A bloody-headed stranger staggering in out of the night would alarm many a rural resident. But the couple whose door Umber knocked at responded with genuine concern and practical assistance, never once querying his explanation that he had injured himself in a fall on the towpath. The woman disinfected his wound as best she could, then her husband volunteered to drive him to hospital for a check-up. Umber accepted the offer with more gratitude then he could express – and slept like a baby throughout the journey.

  The speed with which he was processed through Casualty gave Umber his first indication that he might actually be seriously ill. Concussion, the doctor told him after stitching the gash at the back of his head, should not be taken lightly. He could have suffered a brain injury whose full effects were not yet apparent. They would have to take him in for observation. He did not argue. He did not have the strength to.

  Before being admitted, however, he did force himself to make a phone call – to Bill Larter.

  ‘Where are you, boy?’

  ‘Royal Berkshire Hospital, Reading. Knocked myself out in a fall.’

  ‘Knocked yourself out?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it when I get back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Not sure. Tomorrow, I hope. Have you heard from George?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have done by now?’

  ‘Maybe the ferry was delayed. Maybe he’s trying to get through at this very minute. He’ll like as not call you first anyway.’

  ‘He can’t. I’ve lost my mobile.’

  ‘How’d that happen?’

  ‘Never mind. Tell him not to call me on that number.’

  ‘All right. Though he’ll want to—’

  ‘Got to go, Bill. I’ll be in touch. ’Bye.’

  A nurse gave him some painkillers once he was on the ward. Maybe they were more than just painkillers. He certainly knew very little after taking them until morning. Even then, connected thought seemed beyond him. He knew he should feel angry about what had happened, but relief that he was still alive blotted out everything else. He asked if there had been any phone calls for him and was told there had not. He asked when he would be allowed to leave and was told that was for the doctor to decide. He asked no more.

  The doctor came to see him around midday with the news that his X-rays had shown no abnormalities. Since he was conscious, coherent and complaining of nothing worse than a headache, he could leave provided a friend or relative came to pick him up and kept an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours.

  This was easier stipulated than accomplished. Larter had no car. Sharp was in Jersey. Umber considered phoning his parents, but soon rejected the idea. In the end, he could think of only one person to ask.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be discharged?’ was Alice’s less than encouraging greeting when she arrived several hours later. ‘You certainly don’t look it.’

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, judging by the amount of traffic heading into London on the M4, I’ll have plenty of time to hear it. Let’s go.’

  Fobbing off Good Samaritans and night-shift nurses with a story about hitting his head on a canal-lock balance beam had been surprisingly easy. Umber had no intention of trying the same trick with Alice. Indeed, he was happy to tell her the truth in the hope it would persuade her he really was onto something. In that, however, he was to be disappointed.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police about this?’

  ‘They’d probably have arrested me for breaking into Wisby’s boat.’

  ‘Which you didn’t do.’

  ‘No, Alice. I didn’t.’

  ‘And where is Wisby?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘But you went to the canal basically because he invited you?’

  ‘Yes. He sent me a letter. You want to see it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You can ask Claire about Wisby. She’ll vouch for his existence.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’

  ‘You think I made all this up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, David. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know was made to know,’ Umber muttered under his breath. But she did not hear.

  It was nearly six o’clock by the time Alice delivered him to 45 Bengal Road, Ilford. Larter was not at home. Umber had little doubt as to where the old man could be found, but Alice, having accepted a degree of responsibility for his welfare, insisted on driving him to the Sheepwalk to check on the point.

  The pub was less crowded than on Friday. Larter was installed with a pint at his favourite fireside table. He surprised Umber by appearing pleased to see him, though he added a suitably grouchy, ‘You look like death warmed up.’ He volunteered nothing more in Alice’s presence, seeming to sense her ingrained suspicion of policemen, even retired ones. She declined a drink and did not linger.

  ‘Strange people you’re mixing with,’ she said when Umber walked her out to her car.

  ‘Just people I can rely on, Alice.’

  ‘I came and got you, didn’t I?’ she snapped, bridling at the implied contrast.

  ‘You did. And I’m grateful.’

  ‘You should get some rest, David. You really should.’

  ‘So the doctor said.’

  ‘Going back to Prague might not be a bad idea.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ She climbed into her car, slammed the door and lowered the window. ‘Do something for me, will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take more care.’

  ‘Who was she?’ Larter demanded as soon as Umber returned to the pub.

  There was a pint waiting for him and Umber took a long and healing swallow before answering. ‘An old friend of my wife’s.’

  �
��How much does she know?’

  ‘More than she wants to.’

  ‘Did you tell her George was going to Jersey?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘George is in trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘The big sort. The Jersey police stopped him as he was leaving the ferry last night and searched the van. They found a bag of heroin inside each wheel arch.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Wish I was, boy. George is in the slammer. No joke.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘The duty solicitor who got his case phoned me a few hours ago. George was up before the magistrates this morning. They remanded him in custody on smuggling charges. He’s looking at a few years inside if he can’t talk his way out of this, you know.’

  ‘They fitted him up.’

  ‘Someone did, yeah. Planted the drugs in transit, then tipped off Customs at St Helier. That’s how I read it, anyhow. Happen to know who that someone might be?’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’d be far out in guessing they had something to do with whatever scrape you got into last night, though, would I?’

  ‘No. You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I’d better give you the message George’s solicitor asked me to pass on to you, then.’

  ‘Message?’

  ‘From George. You’re not to go to Jersey. Under any circumstances.’

  ‘Not go?’

  ‘I reckon he thinks it’d be too dangerous. Look what’s happened to him.’

  ‘I can’t just … abandon him.’

  ‘It’s what he’s telling you to do.’ Larter took a thoughtful sup of beer. ‘Of course, George never has been the best judge of what’s good for him. Not by a long shot. So …’ He looked expectantly at Umber. ‘When do you leave?’

  SIXTEEN

  BOOKING A FLIGHT to Jersey was the easy part. The hard part for Umber – much harder – was knowing what to do when he got there. Sharp’s plan had been to put some pressure on Jeremy Hall while his father was away and see what resulted. Whether the people who had framed Sharp for drugs smuggling had anticipated such a move was unclear. What was clear was that they must have followed Sharp to Portsmouth and hence had probably been following him for some time. The same might apply to Umber himself, despite his certainty that no-one had followed him to Kintbury. Walsh had seemed surprised to see him aboard Wisby’s boat, but that could have been play-acting, at which the man was something of an expert.

  In the final analysis, it hardly mattered. They could easily guess how Umber would react to news of Sharp’s arrest. He could not seriously hope to travel to Jersey undetected. He was not sure he even wanted to. Stealth and caution had landed Sharp in prison and Umber in a predicament he could see no obvious way out of. It was time to step into the open – and see who might be waiting for him.

  * * *

  ‘Make sure they don’t pull the same stunt on you,’ was Larter’s farewell piece of advice the following morning. ‘Don’t let anyone near your bag or your pockets.’

  Crossing London at the start of the working day made it virtually impossible to follow such advice, but Umber reached Victoria confident no-one had planted anything on him. The painkillers he had taken and the beer he had drunk the night before were ganging up to undermine his watchfulness, however. He fell comprehensively asleep aboard the Gatwick Express and stumbled onto the Airport Transit in a daze, conducting a fuddled search of himself and his bag as he went.

  Two hours later, he was hurrying through an unattended Green Channel on arrival at Jersey Airport. He exited the terminal into more of the dazzling sunlight and chilling breeze he had encountered on leaving the plane and made straight for the head of the taxi rank.

  Umber had never been to Jersey before. The view he had from the taxi during the drive to St Helier was of an undulating, daffodil-spattered English landscape, with French place names and architectural styles grafted on – a pretty island, but a small one nonetheless: that had been apparent from the air. Oliver Hall had settled there because of its tax-haven status, but maybe he had found another kind of haven in the process and his son along with him. And maybe now their seclusion was about to come to an end.

  * * *

  The approach to St Helier was a busy main road round a wide, south-facing bay, with the rooftops of the town, the lofty ramparts of Fort Regent and the piers and derricks of the harbour growing ever closer ahead. Umber had asked to be taken straight to the offices of Le Templier & Burnouf of Hill Street. He had not thought much further ahead than what he meant to do there, which included learning all he could about Sharp’s prospects. He had a strong suspicion they were far from bright.

  It was lunchtime in St Helier, the pavements crowded, the traffic thick. The taxi stopped and started and eventually reached Umber’s destination: a brass-plaqued legal practice in an elegant Georgian building opposite the Parish Church.

  Umber had half-hoped Sharp’s solicitor, Nigel Burnouf, might be lunching in the office and would agree to see him there and then, but it was not to be. The receptionist told him to come back at 2.30.

  He filled the hour and a bit this left him with by booking himself into the nearest hotel – the Pomme d’Or in Liberation Square – and doing a small amount of research on the Halls. Oliver was not listed in the Jersey telephone directory, which came as no surprise. But Jeremy was less shy. His entry gave an address in Le Quai Bisson, St Aubin, an address he shared, according to the Yellow Pages, with Rollers Sail & Surf School. The map lodged with the stationery in Umber’s room showed St Aubin to be a village a few miles back round the coast. And the timetable in the bus station right opposite the hotel promised a half-hourly service in that direction. Tracking down Jeremy Hall would clearly not have tested Sharp – if he had ever had the chance.

  Back at Le Templier & Burnouf promptly at 2.30, Umber was sent straight into Nigel Burnouf’s office.

  Burnouf was a plump, placid, middle-aged man with sandy hair, gold-framed spectacles and a reassuring air of unflustered efficiency.

  ‘I was a little surprised when Janet said I was to expect you, Mr Umber,’ he said after they had shaken hands and sat down. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

  ‘Oh, I got it, yes.’

  ‘And proceeded to ignore it. Well, I confess the possibility you might do so had occurred to me. As I suspect it has to Mr Sharp.’

  ‘I’m here to do whatever it takes to get him out of trouble.’

  ‘That’s rather a tall order, I’m afraid. He was caught red-handed. We need a witness who saw a third party plant the material on his van – or a confession by said party. I’m not holding my breath.’

  ‘You do understand he was definitely framed, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s what he tells me. And he’s certainly an unlikely candidate for drugs smuggling. But facts are facts. It would help me if you could suggest who might have framed him – and why.’

  ‘Hasn’t George come up with a name?’

  ‘No. Though I have the feeling there is a name. Could you enlighten me, perhaps?’

  Sharp had said nothing about the Halls. It seemed, in fact, that he had said nothing at all beyond protesting his innocence. Umber had guessed it would be so. In the circumstances he could only follow Sharp’s lead. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you at the moment. I need to … make a few enquiries.’

  ‘Thus exposing yourself to those risks Mr Sharp is so anxious you shouldn’t run?’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell him that? Or will you do so yourself? I can arrange for you to visit him.’

  ‘I’ll hold off on that, thanks. In fact …’

  ‘You’d rather he didn’t know you were here?’

  ‘Well … yes.’

  ‘You’re not asking me to deceive my client, are you, Mr Umber?’

  ‘No. But you don’t ha
ve to volunteer information, do you?’

  Burnouf considered the question for a moment, then said, ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘He’d only worry about me.’

  ‘And he already has plenty to worry about. Point taken.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Much as you’d expect. Imprisonment comes hard to a man of his age and former occupation. On the other hand, La Moye isn’t Pentonville. His problem is time. It hangs heavy. And it’s likely to go on doing so. He’ll reappear before the magistrates next week, when a further and lengthier remand in custody is more or less inevitable.’

  ‘No chance of bail?’

  ‘Realistically, none. Drugs smugglers are notorious for jumping bail, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And when will the case come to trial?’

  ‘Not for several months at least.’ Burnouf leaned forward. ‘The best way to help your friend in the meantime, Mr Umber, is to let me have any information that’s even marginally relevant. For instance, if Mr Sharp didn’t come to Jersey for the purpose of trafficking in drugs, why did he come?’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Burnouf smiled wanly. ‘Rather like you.’

  ‘I do have something that might help, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘This.’ Umber took a sealed envelope out of his pocket and placed it on Burnouf’s desk.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A statement, I suppose you’d call it. My record of certain recent events not unconnected with what’s happened to George.’

  ‘You want me to read it?’

  ‘No. That is, not unless … I should happen to meet with a fatal accident.’

  Burnouf’s eyes widened. ‘Aren’t you being rather … melodramatic?’

  ‘I hope so. But I have good reason to doubt it. So, just in case …’ Umber patted the envelope. ‘The contents may be enough to get George off. I’m not sure. They’ll give you some material for his defence, anyway.’

  ‘I see.’ Burnouf picked up the envelope. ‘Or, rather, I don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t say any more.’

  ‘So am I.’