Sight Unseen

TWENTY-THREE

British Airways flight 8035 hit the runway at the States Airport just before 9.30 on a cool, breezy Sunday morning. Umber had accepted an inclusive car-hire deal when he booked the flight. After a few minutes of form-filling, he was on his way from the terminal to the waiting Peugeot. And a few minutes after that, he was on the road to St Aubin.

All was quiet at le Quai Bisson. Nothing had outwardly changed at Rollers Sail & Surf. The parking space in front of the office was empty. There was no sign of life, nor yet sound of it. As Umber mounted the steps to the door of the flat, no rock music was pounding through its walls. Chantelle, he felt certain, was not there. He had come more in hope than expectation, knowing that the only other step open to him – going to Eden Holt to confront Jeremy's parents with his suspicions – was a step into the profoundest unknown.

He pressed the bell. There was no response. He pressed it again, with the same result. He lowered himself onto his haunches and pushed up the flap of the letterbox. The bare wall at the end of the hall and part of the bathroom doorpost met his gaze unrevealingly. Leaning forward, however, he could glimpse some letters lying on the mat, where they had presumably lain since Saturday morning. Chantelle must have left as soon as she heard of Jeremy's death.

The purr of a car engine behind and below him seeped almost unnoticed into his consciousness. Only when it stopped did he realize that it was directly below him. He glanced round to see the driver's door of a sleek navy-blue Mercedes SL open – and Marilyn Hall climb out.

She was dressed in jeans, leather jacket and polo-neck sweater, the unisex look of a piece with the cool, unastonished, appraising stare she gave him before slamming the car door and starting up the steps as the locking system beeped behind her.

'Who did you expect to find here, David?' She threw the question at him like a challenge. 'A ghost?'

He nodded, determined to seem unabashed. 'In a sense. I was looking for Chantelle.'

'Who?'

'You must know about her.'

'No.'

'Really? Why don't you seem surprised to see me, then?'

She frowned at him in apparent puzzlement, then plucked a key out of one of the zip-pockets of her jacket. 'We can talk inside.'

She unlocked the door and he followed her in, stepping over the waiting post. Already, the flat had an indefinable air of desertion about it. The living room was tidier and emptier than he remembered. A sense of absence was everywhere.

Marilyn strode halfway down the room towards the Catherine-wheel window, then stopped and turned to face him. 'Oliver wanted me to pick up a couple of things,' she explained. 'He hadn't the heart to come himself.' She was sombre and unsmiling, the flirtatiousness buried deep. Yet there was a guardedness about her too. She seemed unsure of her ground – as Umber was of his. 'Lucky for you it was me he sent.'

'Why lucky?'

'Because I'm the only member of the family who knows you were at Eden Holt when Jeremy died.' She held his gaze. 'You're not going to deny it, are you?'

'How did you find out?' he asked, as calmly as he could.

'That can wait. Tell me about Chantelle.'

'She was here. When I called round last week. Living here, I mean. I thought she was Jeremy's girlfriend. Well, I suppose they let me think that.'

'But you don't think that now?'

'No.'

'What, then?'

'You don't know?'

'I've never heard of such a person. There was a girl in Jeremy's life. But they split up more than a year ago. And she wasn't called Chantelle.'

Some instinct held Umber back from telling Marilyn who he believed Chantelle really was. Their exchanges were hedged about with half-truths and evasions. He could not afford to show his hand until he knew what she held in hers.

'If she was living here,' Marilyn resumed, 'where is she now?'

'I don't know.'

'I don't see any sign of her, do you?' Marilyn looked around. 'Just Jeremy's bachelor stuff.'

'She was here.'

'Let's try the bathroom.'

Marilyn strode past him. He followed meekly and watched as she first opened the door of the airing cupboard, then peered into the tiny cabinet above the handbasin. But the sight of a single toothbrush propped in the mug on the end of the bath told its own story.

'No knickers or bras, David,' said Marilyn matter-of-factly. 'No girlie toiletries.' She folded her arms and gazed at him. 'No Chantelle.'

'She's gone. She must have left… as soon as she heard about Jeremy.'

'Why would she do that? And how would she hear? The police contacted Oliver and no-one else. They were on the scene promptly.' She arched an eyebrow. 'Thanks to an anonymous phone call.' She walked past him, back into the living room. He followed and there they faced each other once more. 'Are you sure Chantelle isn't just a figment of your imagination?'

It was a faintly odd choice of phrase, odd enough to make Umber read into it a disturbing double meaning. 'Are you suggesting I made her up? Or do you think I'm suffering from delusions?'

'I can't say. But Wisby didn't mention her. And I think he would have.'

The name plunged into Umber's thoughts like a spike into a gearwheel. ' Wisby?'

'That's how I knew you were there when Jeremy threw himself off the roof. Wisby told me what happened.'

'When? When did he tell you?'

'Yesterday. He came up to me as I was parking my car in St Helier. He'd followed me from Eden Holt. He'd been waiting for the chance to speak to me alone, he said, and guessed he'd get it sooner or later. The atmosphere at the house… well, you can imagine. Jane's barely coherent. And Oliver's as close to broken as I've seen him. I had to get away. Shopping for essentials was a decent excuse. Wisby had banked on me doing something like that. There's a lot of the rodent about him, don't you think? Including a sharp little brain.'

'What happened was his fault. Did he tell you that?'

'It hardly matters whose fault it was, David. I can tell you who Oliver and Jane and her washout of a husband will blame if they ever find out you were there at the time. And it isn't Wisby.'

'Why haven't they found out?'

'Because Wisby's put me in a difficult position.' Disarmingly, she smiled. 'He's blackmailing me.'

'With what?' But even as he asked the question, Umber guessed the answer.

'Junius. Your speciality, I believe.'

'The vellum-bound edition?'

'Yes.'

'What's that to you?'

'Nothing. But it was in Jeremy's possession, wasn't it? Wisby can prove that. Which as good as proves Jeremy sent the letters to Wisby and Sharp that stirred all this up. And that he clearly didn't believe Radd was his sisters' murderer. Jeremy's death has been a savage blow to Oliver. And to Jane. If they learn their son didn't trust them… well, I'm not sure either of them could cope with that, I'm really not. And I don't intend to find out.'

'Wisby's selling the books to you?'

'That's what it come comes down to, yes. Without them, he can't back up his allegations. And he won't want to, anyway. He'll have turned a big enough profit to keep his mouth shut.'

'He's alleged more than that Jeremy sent the letters, Marilyn, hasn't he?'

'Some crazy stuff about the man who originally owned the books being murdered, you mean? Oh, he fed that into the works as well, yes. I didn't know what to make of it – what it really amounted to. As far as I can see, though, it would only make everything worse for Oliver. My priority is limiting the damage you and Wisby caused by pressurizing Jeremy. God knows, it's bad enough already. I don't want it to get any worse.'

'For your husband's sake?'

'And mine. My life with Oliver runs on smooth and predictable lines. I like it that way. I want to keep it that way.'

'It's a funny thing, Marilyn.' Umber took a step towards her. 'The more candid you are with me, the more duplicitous I suspect you of being.'

'Duplicitous?' Her eyes twinkled. 'There's a big word for a Sunday morning.'

'How much are you paying Wisby?'

'A hundred thousand.'

Umber failed to suppress a gasp. 'That's a hell of a lot of damage limitation.'

'It's loose change, actually. Thanks to Oliver. He's always been very generous to me.'

'Is that why you married him?'

'It was a consideration,' she replied, with unblinking coolness. 'Do you want a cut of that generosity, David?'

'What?'

'I didn't tell you about my dealings with Wisby to make myself feel better, you know. Finding you here was actually… fortuitous, to say the least.' Was it merely fortuitous? Umber asked himself. Within one set-up might lie another. He could be certain of nothing. 'I've been worrying he might try to trick me into accepting duplicates of the Junius, leaving him free to go ahead and do what I'll already have paid him not to. He strikes me as the type to want the penny and the bun.'

Wisby had obviously not mentioned the missing fly-leaves to Marilyn. It would have undermined his bargaining position to do so. Umber knew better than to mention them himself. It was not hard to guess why Marilyn had told him about Wisby's blackmail pitch. She meant to ask a favour of him, enabling him to ask one in return. 'You want me to authenticate the Junius for you?'

'Yes. In fact…' She hesitated.

'What?'

'I want you to conduct the exchange for me. Never having to see or speak to Wisby again would suit me rather well.'

'Wouldn't that be a little risky, Marilyn? I might take off with the Junius myself and do my worst with it.'

'And what would your worst be? You're hardly likely to inflict the truth on Oliver and Jane when you come out of it so badly yourself. Besides, you lack Wisby's cruel streak. I don't mind you hanging on to the Junius. It's no use to me. I only want it out of Wisby's hands. I only want to be sure it isn't going to come back to haunt Oliver and me.'

Umber paused for a momentary show of reflection before he responded. Then he said, 'All right. I'll do it. As long as you do something for me in return.'

She looked long and hard at him. 'What did you have in mind?'

'I want the keys to this place. All the keys. Including those for the office and the boat store.'

'Why?'

Umber allowed himself a smile. 'And no questions asked.'

'Think Chantelle will come back, do you?'

Umber did not think that. But he did think there might be clues to her whereabouts to be found on the premises. And he needed time to look for them. Alone. 'Like I said, Marilyn. No questions.'

'Who is she?'

'No-one, according to you.'

'Very cute.' She leaned against the chair-back behind her. 'You're a nicer person to negotiate with than Wisby, David. Much nicer. We have a deal.'

'Can I have the key you used to get us in, then?'

'I'm afraid not. I took it off the bunch Jeremy had in his pocket. If Oliver or Jane change their minds and decide to come here after all, lean hardly tell them I've given the key to you. But I can have duplicates of all the keys cut for you tomorrow. You can have them when I see the Junius.'

'What are your arrangements with Wisby?'

'The exchange is fixed for noon tomorrow. I can't get the money until the banks open. Do you have a car with you?'

'Yes.'

'All right. You know the Pier Road multi-storey in St Helier?'

'Beneath Fort Regent?'

'That's the one. Drive up past it to Mount Bingham. You'll see a small car park next to a play area with a view of the harbour. I'll meet you there at eleven, deliver the keys and the cash and tell you where Wisby will be waiting. He's going to phone me around then with his choice of rendezvous.' She raised her eyebrows. 'He seems to feel the need to behave like some character in a spy novel.'

'Perhaps he doesn't trust you.'

'We'll agree then how to meet up afterwards,' she went on blithely. 'I have to take my own precautions. Oliver's not paying me a lot of attention at the moment. But I can't go missing too often.'

'I'm sorry, you know.' He looked her in the eye, needing to be sure she believed him, about this if nothing else. 'For what happened to Jeremy. Sorrier than I can say.'

'We're all sorry.' She moved suddenly away and across the room, to the chest of drawers beside the bed. She picked up something that had been lying next to the alarm clock: an expensively chunky wrist-watch. 'The Rolex Oliver gave Jeremy for his eighteenth birthday,' she explained, flexing the metal strap between her fingers. 'One of the things I was sent to collect. He wasn't wearing it, you see. Didn't want to smash it in the fall, I suppose. Which means he'd already made up his mind to kill himself when he left here on Thursday afternoon. You didn't push him off the roof, David. He jumped. You didn't force him to send those letters. He did it on his own. He brought it all on himself.' She frowned. 'Unless you think… Chantelle was in it with him.'

'What else did you come for?' Umber asked, evading the point.

'There should be an address book.' She pointed. 'By the phone, maybe?'

Umber stepped over to where the telephone sat amidst crooked stacks of CDs in the lee of the hi-fi tower. There was indeed a dog-eared address book sitting beneath it. Umber slid it free.

'We need it to notify Jeremy's friends.' Marilyn held out her hand.

'Mind if I take a look?'

'Go ahead.'

Umber opened the book speculatively at T – T for Tinaud. There was no such entry, of course.

'You've gone way past C,' said Marilyn.

'So I have.'

'Do you know her surname?'

'Whose?'

'Maybe we should stop playing games, David.'

'Too late for that, don't you think?' Umber closed the book and handed it to her.

'I've got what I came for. We ought to leave.'

'You go ahead. I'll let myself out.'

'Nice try. But there's no deadlock on the door. I can't leave the flat unsecured. We leave together. After tomorrow, you can come and go on your own. But you'll have to be careful. If Oliver finds you here…'

'I'll have a lot of explaining to do.'

'And he won't be as easily fobbed off as me.'

'I don't think you're easily fobbed off at all,

Marilyn. I think you're just tolerant of other people's

secretiveness… on account of your own.'

'You really know how to sweet talk a girl, don't

you?' She gave him a fleeting, enigmatic little smile.

'Let's go.'

Marilyn took the accumulated post (an electricity bill and credit card statement) with her as they left, locked up carefully and led the way down the steps. Umber felt frustrated at having to walk away from the chance to search the flat for something – anything – that might lead him to Chantelle. But the chance was merely postponed and so gift-wrapped that it could not be spurned. He had got what he wanted and more then he expected. But, strangely, he sensed Marilyn had too.

'Where are you parked?' she asked, as she opened her car door.

'Behind the parish hall.'

'Jump in. I'll run you round there.'

'It's only a two-minute walk.'

'Jump in anyway. There's something else I want to say to you.'

Umber did not argue. Marilyn reversed out and turned right onto the Boulevard, planning, he assumed, to take a roundabout route to the car park – as roundabout as it needed to be, anyway.

'Wisby told me about Sharp's arrest,' she said as they cruised slowly past the harbourful of moored yachts, their bare masts clustered like winter saplings. 'You must be worried about him.'

'He was fitted up.'

'No doubt. But what are you going to do to get him unfitted?'

'What can I do?'

'Pull a few strings. It's the Jersey way. Get someone to have a word in the right ear. Sharp's not going to get off scot-free. But a light sentence – maybe suspended – could be arranged. If you set about it in the right way.'

'And what is the right way?'

'Royal Channel Islands Yacht Club,' she said, pointing to an imposing building ahead of them at the end of the Boulevard. 'A good place to start.'

'I'm not a member.'

'Neither am I.' Marilyn took the sharp bend by the club entrance at a crawl. 'But Oliver is.' The road narrowed as it climbed between the cottages of an older part of town. 'Through him, I've met most of the people who matter on this tight little members' only island. There are ways and means of achieving what you want, David. But they aren't written down anywhere. They aren't even spoken about. You just have to move in the right circles.'

'Do you move in the right circles, Marilyn?'

'Oh yes. I make a point of it.'

'Could you help George?'

'I'm sure I could. In fact, I'd be happy to.'

'Why?'

'Because this is getting messy.' She turned back towards the centre of town, along the higher, inland route. 'And I don't want it to get any messier.' She glanced round at him. 'We should all walk away from this, David. We really should.'