'Umber. David Umber. Monica's already —'

'You're David Umber?' She looked surprised.

'Yes.'

'Can you… prove it?'

Umber took out his wallet and placed his brand-new British Library reader's

card on the desk. The young woman looked at the photograph on it, then up

at him, then down at the photograph again. 'Satisfied?'

'Sorry. I had to be sure.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Monica said you might turn up, but I wasn't to hand it over or even mention

we had it — unless you had some ID.'

'What are you talking about?'

'This letter.' She opened the desk drawer and took out a sealed buff

envelope. 'It's for you.' She handed it over.

Umber stepped back to the doorway before opening the letter, unsure how to

react to such a turn of

events.

* * *

His name had been printed on the envelope using an old-fashioned

typewriter in need of a change of ribbon. There was one sheet of paper

inside, so thin that some strikes of the keys had perforated it. It bore neither

address nor date, but was signed at the bottom A.E. Wisby.

Dear Mr Umber

Monica apprised me of Sharp's visit to my old place of business. He gave

her your name and mobile number for me to contact. I don't trust phones or

policemen, so we'll keep this between ourselves if you don't mind. I'm

willing to talk to you as long as you come alone. I'm on the Kennet and

Avon at present, between Newbury and Kintbury. You'll recognize the boat's

name when you see it. Don't leave it too long, or I'll have moved on.

* * *

Umber made it to Paddington in time to catch a crowded five o'clock

commuter train bound for Bedwyn, stopping just about everywhere en route,

including Newbury and Kintbury. From the guard he learned that Kintbury

station was right next to the canal, which clinched his choice of destination.

He somehow doubted Wisby would have moored in the centre of Newbury

anyway.

The train reached Kintbury at 6.30. The sun had set by then, behind dark

clouds rolling in from the west. A still, greying twilight filled the air. Umber

lingered on the platform, watching the other passengers who had got off

leave the station. The canal was separated from the railway line by the width

of the small station car park. The village of Kintbury lay to the south, the

lane into it crossing the canal over a humpback bridge. There was a pub on

the other side of the bridge. One of the departing passengers was making

straight for it. The others were clambering into their waiting cars.

The guard blew his whistle. The train rumbled off into the dusk. The levelcrossing gates rose. The vehicles they had been holding back drove on. The

car park emptied. Within a few minutes of the train's arrival, there was noone left in sight. Umber was alone in the descending silence and gathering

gloom. He headed for the towpath.

It was plainly foolish to set off on such a search in failing light. But the truth

was that biding his time had simply not occurred to him until he was on the

train. He doubted he would have found the patience to wait until morning in

any event. Besides, Wisby was more or less certain to be aboard his boat

come evening. To that extent, this was exactly the right time to go looking

for him.

On the other hand, it had to be five or six miles to Newbury and it would be

pitch black long before Umber got there. He was pinning his hopes on

finding Wisby's boat within the first couple of miles. There were no boats

moored ahead that he could see, but that was not far on account of the

canal's winding route. He walked faster and faster, breaking occasionally

into a jog as the sky darkened.

Wisby's choice of the Kennet and Avon Canal was not a matter of chance, of

course. Umber was keenly aware of that. Marlborough lay no more than ten

or twelve miles to the west, an easy bus-ride from Bedwyn, the canal's

closest approach to the town. Wisby was in the area for a reason and was

content to let Umber guess what that reason might be. He could hardly know

about the towpath walk Umber had taken with Sally after the inquest all

those years ago, but the memory of it was hovering close to Umber. Nor was

it the only memory crowding in on him. He was a man fleeing the past as

well as pursuing it.

The silence was suddenly broken as a high-speed train roared into view

beyond the wood-fringed fields to his left. The brightly lit carriages sped

past in a barrage of sound — and were gone. Umber stood listening to the

fading note of the engine. Then he pressed on.

A few minutes later, rounding the next bend, he saw a humpback bridge

ahead and the pale line of a track leading up from it across the sloping field

on the other side of the canal. And then he saw the dark shape of a boat

moored just beyond the bridge. He stepped up the pace.

The bridge served only the track. There was no road in sight. An old

wartime pillbox was half-buried in the undergrowth beside the towpath just

beyond the bridge. The mooring was quiet and inaccessible. Umber could

see no signs of life as he approached the boat. There were no lights showing

at any of the windows. It was a smartly painted, well-maintained craft, roped

fore and aft to stakes driven into the bank. Its name was lettered boldly on

the prow: Monica.

Umber stepped into the bow area and voiced a hopeful 'Hello?' But the doors

to the cabin were padlocked shut. Wisby was obviously not there. Umber

peered in through one of the glazed panels in the doors, but could see

nothing.

Then, as he stepped back, the padlock suddenly fell to the deck with a

thump. Umber stared at it in bemusement. The loop had been snapped clean

through. The pierced edges glinted up at him. Someone had cut through the

lock, then replaced it loosely on the hasp. Umber's movements had been

sufficient to dislodge it. It had been rigged to appear secure, whereas in

reality…

He flicked the hasp back and pulled the doors open. The cabin was in

darkness, the twilight seeping through the half-curtained windows scarcely

penetrating the deep, jumbled shadows. He felt for a light switch, but could

not find one. His fumblings did chance on a torch, however, hanging just

inside the doorway. He unhooked it and switched it on.

The torch beam revealed what seemed at first to be an immaculate interior of

polished wood and burnished brass, with nothing out of place. Then, about

halfway down the cabin, the light fell on a slew of papers across the floor.

They lay at the foot of a three-drawer metal filing cabinet — an incongruous

sight aboard a narrowboat. There were discarded folders amidst the scatter

of papers. Someone had ransacked the cabinet.

Umber was about to step into the cabin when he felt the boat lurch beneath

him. As he turned, he saw a gap opening between the boat and the bank. A

man in a black tracksuit was standing on the tow-path, staring straight at him

— a man he knew from their encounter in Yeovil as John Walsh. Beside

him, the stake was still planted firmly in the ground. But there was no rope

tied around it.

For a second, Umber froze, his thoughts and reactions scrambled. Where had

Walsh come from? The pillbox, perhaps? He could have hidden inside it as

Umber approached. He must have broken into the boat, failed to find what

he had been looking for, then lain in wait for Wisby. But it was not Wisby

who had walked into his trap.

Walsh had untied the rope and shoved the boat away from the bank; But the

rope at the other end of the vessel was still fastened, causing it to drift out

diagonally across the canal. There was already too wide a gap to jump from

the bow. Umber would have to reach the stern to get off. But he did not for a

second believe Walsh meant to let him do that.

'You shouldn't be here,' Walsh shouted, shaking his head. 'You really

shouldn't.' His gaze shifted suddenly away from Umber. In the same instant,

there were heavy footfalls on the roof of the cabin.

Umber turned just in time to see a burly, camouflage-clad figure looming

above him. He glimpsed the blurred arc of a baseball bat swinging towards

him. He raised his arm to protect himself, the torch still clasped in his hand.

The bat was aimed at his head, but the rubber barrel of the torch took the

direct force of the blow.

Of this, Umber was in no real sense aware. Something had struck him a

stunning blow. That was all he knew. Then something else struck the back of

his head as he fell. And the rest was darkness.