TWENTY-ONE

The bloated Saturday edition of the Guardian arrived in Alice's hallway with

a loud thump, though it was probably the higher-pitched rattle of the

letterbox that roused Umber from an uneasy sleep in the rear drawing room.

Alice's sofa-bed was several comfort points up on Bill Larter's, but that had

hardly been sufficient to provide him with a good night's rest. The stitches in

his scalp were becoming more of an irritant the longer they stayed in. And

the demons inside his head never paused for slumber.

* * *

He struggled into his clothes, collected the Guardian from the doormat, then

headed for the kitchen — and the coffee jar.

The kettle had not even come to the boil when his idle leafing through the

newspaper took him to a headline he had hoped against false hope not to see.

TRAGEDY RETURNS TO MURDER FAMILY 23 YEARS ON. He

anxiously scanned the paragraphs below, relieved at least not to find his own

name — or George Sharp's — staring back at him. But that was the full

extent of his relief. Events at Avebury in July 1981 were back in the public

eye. And its gaze was unblinking.

Less than two weeks after the murder in prison of Brian Radd, the serial

child killer held responsible for the deaths of Miranda and Tamsin Hall in

1981, the girls' brother, Jeremy Hall, has been found dead at his father's

house in Jersey.

A police spokesperson said Mr Hall, who was 33, had died as the result of a

fall from the roof of the house. He had been alone at the time and the

circumstances surrounding the incident were as yet unclear.

The dead man's father, Oliver Hall, aged 66, said Jeremy's loss had come as

a great shock to him and to Jeremy's mother. He appealed to the media to

respect their privacy at 'this terrible time'.

The original murder case has dogged many of those involved in it. Five

years ago, the children's nanny, Sally Wilkinson, died in what was officially

ruled an accidental electrocution. She was among those who had cast doubts

on Brian Radd's confession, which he volunteered shortly before his trial on

multiple murder charges in 1990. Jeremy Hall's death will only fuel

speculation that—

'The press were bound to pick up on it,' said Claire, causing Umber to jump

with surprise as she leaned over his shoulder to examine the article. She was

dressed in a navy-blue tracksuit and mud-spattered trainers. Her hair and

face were damp with sweat. Umber had supposed himself to be awake

before the rest of the house, but that was clearly not the case. 'You must

have seen this coming, David. Surely.'

'I didn't think they'd make such a splash of the story.'

'Coming hard on the heels of Radd's murder? They were never going to

ignore it.'

'They even mention Sally.'

'But they use her maiden name, I see. Maybe you should be grateful for that.'

'Will the Wilkinsons be grateful?'

'Only one way to find out. Isn't there?'

* * *

Claire and Alice set off for Hampshire in Claire's TVR at 10.30. There was

no guarantee the Wilkinsons would be at home, of course. But the risk of a

wasted journey was preferable to the possibility that Reg would forbid them

to come if they phoned ahead. Alice predicted he would not let them past the

door even without Umber for company, but her pessimism was partly a

symptom of her hangover. Claire seemed altogether more confident. 'They'll

be happy to talk about Sally. Silence is never golden for bereaved parents.'

The professional had spoken.

As far as she and Alice were concerned, Umber was planning to spend the

day at the British Library, boning up on Junius. He had, of course, already

established that the Ventry Papers, which represented his only remaining

lead to Junius's identity — and hence Griffin's — were lodged in the

Staffordshire Record Office. It was therefore unnecessary for him to do any

more research in London and, in fact, he had no such intention. Alan Wisby

had given him the slip in Jersey, cunningly and clinically. That did not mean

he could go on doing so. Monica would remain in the boatyard at Newbury,

deserted by her owner. Umber had no doubt Wisby would stay well away

from her. But the man had to stay somewhere. And that put another Monica

in the frame.

* * *

Umber's trip to Southwark was little more than a fishing expedition. He did

not seriously expect to find anyone in the office at 171A Blackfriars Road on

a Saturday morning. His ambitions were fixed no higher than extracting a

home address or telephone number for Monica Wisby from the shoe-repair

man in the ground-floor shop. He turned the handle of the door leading to

the stairs up to the first floor fully expecting to find it locked. But it was not.

* * *

A tall, broad-hipped, big-bosomed woman in tight jeans and a clinging

sweater was fingering her way through a set of bulging folders in one of the

middle drawers of a battered filing cabinet when Umber stepped into the

room at the top of the stairs. She had a mane of bottle-blonde hair and a rawboned face done no favours by cigarettes and a career of private inquiring.

'Monica Wisby?' he ventured, already certain it was her.

She started violently, scattering cigarette ash down her sweater as she

turned. 'Who the fuck are you?'

'David Umber.'

'How did you get in?'

'The door was open.'

'Bloody well shouldn't be. We're not open for business.' She hip-barged the

drawer of the filing cabinet shut. 'Come back Monday.' Then recognition of

his name kicked in. 'Hold on. Did you say Umber?'

'Yes. You know. The guy you were holding a letter for last week on your exhusband's behalf.'

'Yeah. That's right.' She had absorbed the surprise of his arrival by now and

Kleenexing the ash off her sweater gave her a few more moments for tactical

thought before she looked him in the eye. 'Well, what about it?'

'Where is he?'

'Alan?'

'He and I need to meet. Urgently.'

'He obviously doesn't agree. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking me. But you

got it spot-on. Ex- husband. Ex as in gone, separated, finished — for good.'

'I know you keep in touch with him.'

'No. He keeps in touch with me. When he wants to. Which he currently

doesn't seem to. Tried the boat?'

'You're joking, of course. I'm sure he's told you what happened when I "tried

the boat".'

'I've heard nothing from Alan since he sent me the letter for you. And that

was only a few words on a covering note.'

'He didn't get everything he wanted in Jersey, Mrs Wisby. Small matter of a

missing inscription.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Maybe not. But he will. Tell him I've got the missing pages.' A lie designed

to smoke out Wisby counted as a white one in Umber's book. 'He can't do

anything without them.'

'Tell him yourself. You're more likely to get the chance than I am. And you

can give him a message from me if you do. He's supposed to be retired, for

Christ's sake. I'm fed up having to explain to his clients that his freelance

activities have nothing to do with me. He seems to be doing more work now

than when he was supposed to be in charge of the business. First there was

that pensioned-off policeman. Then you. And then… what's his name?' She

grabbed a scrap of paper from the nearest desk and squinted at it. 'Nevinson.'

'What?'

'Know him, do you?'

'Percy Nevinson?'

'He didn't give me a Christian name and I didn't ask for one. But he's been on

several times this week.' She held out the note for Umber to read. He

assumed it had been written by the secretary for Monica's attention. Mr

Nevinson called again for Mr Wisby. Please call with any news. 01672-

799332.

'Mind if I use your phone?'

'Haven't you got one of your own?'

'No. I lost my mobile on your ex-husband's boat, as a matter of fact. I'll pay

you for the call if it's such a big deal.'

Monica looked as if she wanted to refuse on principle but was unsure what

the principle might be. 'Oh, be my fucking guest, then,' she said with a toss

of the head.

Umber picked up the telephone and dialled. There was a distant, oldfashioned ringing tone. Then Abigail Nevinson answered.

'Miss Nevinson? This is David Umber.'

'Mr Umber. I was just thinking about you.'

'You were? Why?'

'Oh, it doesn't matter. What can I do for you?'

'Is Percy there?'

'No. Percy, er… Well… He's gone away. To one of his… ufological

conferences.'

'Where's it being held?'

'I'm… not sure.'

'How would you get in touch with him in an emergency?'

'It would be difficult. I'd… have to wait for him to contact me.'

'Is that normal when he goes to one of these things?'

'Well… No. Not really. It's a little… concerning, I have to admit.'

'When did he leave?'

'Early this morning. Before I was up.'

'And when's he due back?'

'I'm not sure. I imagine it's just a weekend event, though. They normally are.

Unless…'

'What?'

'I've just read about Jeremy Hall in the paper, Mr Umber. I suppose you

know what's happened.'

'Yes.'

'You don't think Percy's trip… has anything to do with that, do you?'

Umber did think so. In fact, he felt certain of it, though what dealings

Nevinson might have had with Wisby were a mystery to him. That applied

to a good deal else as well. Every step he took led him further into a

labyrinth of lies. For every one he nailed there was another waiting to

deceive him.

* * *

From Blackfriars Road he walked aimlessly towards Tate Modern, pausing

amidst the ambling tourists on the Millennium Bridge to stare downriver and

wrestle in his mind with the confusions and contradictions that threatened to

swamp him. Nevinson had gone to Jersey. Umber's every instinct told him

so. The Halls and the Questreds were there and so were the clues to what

had driven Jeremy Hall to suicide. Maybe Wisby had gone back there as

well. And maybe Umber should follow. But what could he accomplish

there? What could he hope to achieve? There was still no trail he could

follow that promised to lead him to the truth.

* * *

Umber ended up walking most of the way back to Hampstead. Physical

exhaustion seemed to be the only brake on the enervating whirl of his

thoughts. He took a decision of sorts during the long trudge through