Sight Unseen

EIGHT

Umber's enquiries the previous afternoon had prepared him for a protracted and circuitous journey come Wednesday morning. The distance he had to travel was actually quite modest. But a man reliant on public transport cannot dictate his route. So it was that shortly after daybreak he was standing outside Ladbroke's betting shop on Marlborough High Street, waiting for the number 48 bus.

To his chagrin, the timetable required him to change buses at Avebury. He had no wish to go back there so soon, if only because he feared Percy Nevinson would somehow contrive to wander past the bus stop at some point during the seven-minute interval between the arrival of the 48 and the departure of the 49. But he had no choice in the matter.

In the event, Nevinson did not materialize during his brief visit to Avebury and the banalities of village gossip, as exchanged by the other two passengers waiting at the stop, kept assorted ghosts at bay. The 49 arrived on time. And Umber climbed gratefully aboard.

Just over an hour later he was pacing the platform at Trowbridge railway station, debating with himself once again whether there was any good excuse for the covert nature of his journey. His parents would not think there was if they ever got to know about it. But explaining to them why he had come back to England was something he was willing to go to considerable lengths to avoid. One thing could not be avoided, however. He needed to establish who the mysterious Mr Griffin was – now more than ever, given that Sharp's approaches to the problem were generating more heat than light. Griffin brought him back to Junius – and the necessity to revisit all he had once known about that enigmatic, unidentified figure from two and a half centuries ago. Maybe he had missed some clue that would have taken him to Griffin long since. Maybe not. There was only one way to find out.

The train reached Yeovil at ten o'clock. It was a fifteen-minute walk from the station to the red-brick semi in which Umber had spent his youth and where his parents seemed content to spend their old age. They were creatures of habit. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were shopping mornings. There was close to no chance of their being at home. And there was scarcely any greater chance that one of the neighbours would recognize Umber. The few who might remember him no longer lived in the area.

As it happened, the street was quiet and empty when Umber hurried along it to the front gate of number 36. A few steps took him to the front door. He let himself in and stood in the hall for a few moments, testing the silence. It was total. He was alone.

This was unusual, if not unprecedented, since he had moved out for good more than twenty years ago. The sensation was strange to the point of eeriness. There were ghosts here as well as at Avebury, albeit more benign ones. In many ways, they were ghosts of himself, of his several former selves, of turnings taken in life – and turnings not taken.

He ran up the stairs to the landing, opened the door of the cupboard straight ahead of him and lifted out a metal rod with a curiously fashioned hook on one end. Then he positioned himself beneath the loft-hatch, fitted the other end of the rod to the hatch fastening and turned it. The hatch fell open. He used the hook to pull down the loft-ladder, locked it in position and climbed up into the roof.

There was a switch to his left. When he pressed it, a fluorescent light above him flickered into life. The loft was much as he remembered, an elephants' graveyard of possessions his parents no longer had any use for but had failed to dispose of: plastic bags full of old clothes and blankets, tea chests crammed with books and redundant crockery, a gramophone, an ancient television, a dodgily wired convector, an unstable ironing board; and there, in the shadow of the water tank, the thing he was looking for.

It was a white cardboard box, fastened with string. When he pulled it round, he saw, written on the side in felt-tip block capitals, the single word JUNIUS. And the writing was his.

He dragged the box to the hatchway and, cradling it awkwardly in his arms, climbed down. He was panting with the effort by the time he reached the foot of the steps and had to sit on the box for a moment to recover himself. Then he scrambled back up to switch the light off before pushing the ladder back into place and closing the hatch. He replaced the rod in the cupboard, then carried the box down to the hall: mission accomplished.

It was going to be an arduous walk back to the station. The box was heavier than he remembered. But that could not be helped. He should be there in ample time for the 11.45 train. And his parents would be none the wiser.

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 mat. 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.'