Sight Unseen

TWENTY-NINE

A limping forty-minute hike through a maze of lanes took Umber to the village of Maufant, where he had to wait more than half an hour for a bus back to St Helier. It was gone one o'clock by the time he was delivered to Liberation Square. Limping now more heavily than ever, he hurried up Pier Road to the multi-storey, hoping on balance he would find the hire car gone – and Chantelle with it.

But the car was where he had parked it. As he caught sight of it in the bay ahead of him, he hardly knew what to expect to find inside. Surely Chantelle could not still be waiting for him, more than three hours beyond the deadline he had set for his return.

She was not. It was a relief in a way, though also a disappointment. He did not like to consider what thoughts would be going through her head. She would be frightened, alone and uncertain what to do. And she had good reason to be frightened. The reason was if anything better than she knew.

The car was unlocked, the key still in the ignition. She must have left on foot, which worried him, since driving straight to the Airport would have been her best bet for a swift departure. He opened the boot. Her bag had gone, along with the Juniuses. His bag – and his box of Junius-related papers – remained.

Where had she gone? What would she have decided to do once it had become clear he was not coming back? She might have gone to look for him at Le Templier & Burnouf. If so, she would have drawn a blank. What then? The absence of the Juniuses suggested she had paid at least some attention to what he had said. Logically, she must have resolved to leave Jersey. But why not take the car? Perhaps, it occurred to him, she simply could not drive. Stupidly, he had not bothered to check the point. Or perhaps, it also occurred to him, she had left by ferry. St Malo was only an hour and a bit away.

He drove down to the Harbour, frustrated by the slowness of the lunchtime traffic, parked in front of the ferry terminal and hurried inside. The girl at the Condor information desk told him a ferry had sailed for St Malo at noon; the next one sailed at six. His description of Chantelle rang no bells.

The timings proved nothing anyway. It was equally possible Chantelle had taken a bus to the Airport and flown out. Umber had to assume she would do as he had told her and make for London. If so, she would contact Claire. He decided to call Claire himself and forewarn her.

But all he got on her practice number was the answerphone. And her mobile was switched off. He got no response from Alice's home number either. He left a message on none of them; there was no telling who might end up hearing it. Then he went back to the car and headed for the Airport.

He knew the BA flight times to Gatwick, having phoned an information line before leaving Greve de Lecq that morning. He was too late for the 1.30, though Chantelle of course would not have been. The next flight was at 5.30. There was no way he could be in London before early evening.

It was a quiet and orderly afternoon at the States Airport. Umber parked the car, heaved his bag and box of notes out of the boot and carried them into the terminal building. He dropped off the keys, then made for the BA desk.

There was no queue and the woman on duty was chatting with a female colleague as he approached. One of them had a newspaper open in her hands. The name 'Jeremy Hall' reached Umber's ears an instant before they noticed him and he peeled off to inspect a rack of leaflets, remaining within earshot as their conversation continued.

'The coffin was on the one-thirty flight. His mother was aboard. I saw her in the club lounge waiting for take-off. Like a ghost, she was. So pale.'

'Was the father with her?'

'Not sure. There was a man. But he didn't look like this picture of Oliver Hall.'

'The second husband, then.'

'I suppose so.'

'It must be dreadful for all of them. Just dreadful.'

Umber had heard enough. He interrupted and booked himself onto the 5.30 flight. His eye strayed to the newspaper they had been reading. It was that afternoon's Jersey Evening Post. He could see photographs of Jeremy and Oliver Hall beneath the headline MURDERED GIRLS' BROTHER TO BE BURIED IN ENGLAND. It seemed that in one way at least he had had a narrow escape. But what about Chantelle? Was it possible she had been on the same flight as her mother – and her dead brother? He felt sick at the thought, unable to imagine what the consequences of such a coincidence might be.

After checking-in his box of notes as hold luggage, Umber headed back to the news stand and bought a copy of the paper. He sat down and read the article through.

An inquest was opened and adjourned yesterday into the death last week of Jeremy Hall, proprietor of Rollers Sail & Surf, St Aubin, and brother of the two girls slain in the infamous 1981 Avebury murder case. Jeremy was found dead at the Waterworks Valley home of his father, Oliver Hall, who told the Post after the hearing that he was very grateful for the many messages of sympathy he had received since the news broke. Mr Hall said Jeremy would be buried next to his sister Miranda in Marlborough, Wilts, in accordance with his mother's wishes. Mr Hall also said he knew of no connection between his son's death and the arrest in St Helier earlier last week on smuggling charges of a retired police officer said to have been prominently involved in the 1981 murder inquiry.

The article only heightened Umber's fears, formless though many of them were. He made for the payphones and called Claire again. It was the same story: recorded messages at the practice and Alice's house and no joy on Claire's mobile. Nor did the story change at the second, third, fourth or fifth time of trying. Eventually, he gave up.

The flight, short as it was, felt agonizingly protracted to Umber. Several drinks failed to quell the whirl of his anxious thoughts. It was too late to expect an answer from Claire's practice by the time he made it through baggage reclaim and Customs at Gatwick. But she or Alice really ought to be answering on the Hampstead number. Except that they were not. And the mobile was still switched off.

Umber's only recourse now was to head for Hampstead and hope to find them in when he arrived. Even if he had not been in a hurry, he would have taken a taxi after the Gatwick Express had delivered him to Victoria; the box he was carrying seemed to weigh more every time he picked it up. Even so, the journey contrived to take longer than the flight from Jersey and it was gone 8.30 when the taxi pulled up outside 22 Willow Hill.

The hall light was on, but the ground and first-floor rooms were in darkness. Claire's TVR was not parked nearby. The auguries were far from good. Umber had wheedled an undertaking out of Claire to dissuade Alice from going to Monte Carlo to grill Michel Tinaud. But it was beginning to look as if they had both overestimated her powers of dissuasion. Or perhaps she had simply tired of waiting to hear from him. He had asked for a few days' grace and, technically, that is what he had already had.

The lights were on in the top-floor flat. It was occupied by an articled clerk called Piers. Alice had made several references to him, though Umber had not actually met him. Telling the taxi driver to wait, Umber clambered out, hurried to the door and pressed the bell next to the neatly printed label PIERS BURTON.

There was no intercom system and consequently no way to tell whether Piers was going to respond or not, until, just as Umber was about to give the bell a second prod, the door opened. A sleepy-eyed, curly-haired young man in fogeyish casual wear regarded him through owlish, black-framed glasses and ventured a wary hello.

'Piers, right?'

'Yes. I -'

'I'm David.' Some instinct deterred Umber from volunteering his surname, sharing it as he did with a deceased former tenant of Piers's flat. 'I'm, er… a friend of Alice's. I was staying here at the weekend.'

'I was out of town.'

'Well, we'd probably have bumped into each other if you'd been here.'

'Probably.'

'Look, the thing is -'

'Alice isn't here.'

'So I see. Has she gone away?'

'Yes. Last-minute decision, apparently. There was a note waiting for me when I got home this evening. She's taken off with her friend Claire. She's been staying here. I know that.' There was a hint in his tone that Claire's presence in the house was something he could vouch for, whereas Umber's was altogether more debatable.

'Did the note say where they'd gone?'

'No. Maybe she didn't want to make me feel envious.'

'What about for how long?'

'Open-ended, apparently. A few days. A week. She wasn't sure.'

'Right.' Monte Carlo it had to be. Claire's mobile had probably been switched off during the flight. If Chantelle had tried to contact her, she would not have succeeded. The fail-safe Umber had supplied her with had proved to be useless. 'Well, thanks.'

'No problem.'

No problem to Piers, perhaps. For Umber the situation was much more complicated. He went back to the cab and climbed in.

'Where to now, guv'?' the taxi driver prompted, when ten seconds or so had passed without a destination being supplied.

'I…' Umber thought of what Chantelle had done after fleeing Tinaud's rented apartment in Wimbledon five years ago. It was possible – just – that she had done the same after trying to speak to Claire. 'A hotel near Euston station.'

'There are quite a few, guv'.'

'Near as in opposite.'

'There's a Travel Inn on the other side of Euston Road. That'd be more or less opposite.'

'Then that'll do.'

It was a long shot and Umber was disappointed but not surprised to be told there was nobody called Fontanet – or even Hedgecoe – staying at the Euston Travel Inn. Fast running out of options, he booked himself in for the night. He thought about trying Claire's mobile again, then thought better of it for reasons that had only just begun to take shape in his mind.

He did some more thinking in the large and noisy pub a few doors along from the hotel. There was nothing Claire could do for Chantelle in Monte Carlo. If she and Alice were intent on confronting Tinaud, it might be better, in fact, if they knew as little as possible about his errant former girlfriend's whereabouts.

But that conclusion left Umber alone and resourceless. If he was no better placed come Friday, the roof would fall in on all of them. He had to do something. He had to seize the initiative. But how? With what? There was nothing: no answer; no hope. Then, quite suddenly, around the time a tsunami of cheers burst over him following a goal in the football match splashed across the pub's widescreen TV, the glimmer of an answer came to him. And with it a sliver of hope.

Junius held the key. Chantelle had said as much and maybe she was right. Wisby believed Griffin had been done away with by Tamsin's abductors. His special edition of Junius's letters had ended up in the hands of Marilyn Hall. Did that make her one of the abductors? If so, it was a chink in the armour of whoever she had been acting for – the juicy-voiced man in the car for one. If Umber could pin Griffin's murder on her, it would give him a bargaining chip, maybe a decisive one. It was a tall order. It required him to trace the previously untraceable Griffin. And that brought him back to the hunt for Junius himself, a hunt in which he had made only faltering progress. But something had changed now. Something had been returned to him. And it was time to remind himself what it contained.