FIFTEEN

Umber was cold. God, was he cold, shivering as he woke to a damp patter of

rain on his face. Dreaming and consciousness collided in a jolt of blurred

memory. He moved, wincing as a pain throbbed through his head. Slowly,

he pulled himself up into a sitting position.

The night was inkily black. He could see virtually nothing. He put his hand

behind his head and felt a tender, oozing lump. Then he noticed a feeble

glimmer of light nearby and stretched towards it. It was the torch, its

batteries all but exhausted. He switched it off.

He was still aboard the Monica. That was about all he could be sure of. The

boat was rocking gently beneath him, the cabin doors creaking on their

hinges. There was another sound, of wood thumping dully against wood.

He clambered awkwardly to his feet, his every movement slowed by

dizzying pulses of pain in his head. The boat must be adrift, he reasoned. For

all he knew, it was in the middle of the canal. But no. There was that

thumping again. And he could make out the shadow of something beyond

and above the cabin. A bridge, perhaps? No. It was too low. A lock gate,

then? Yes. That had to be it. The Monica had drifted down to the next lock.

He felt his way round the bulwark to the side he had boarded by and reached

out blindly into the darkness. Nothing. Then he scrabbled around the deck

until he found the broken padlock. He tossed this in the direction of where

he thought the bank should be and heard it fall to earth rather than into

water. He pulled the left-hand cabin door wide open and, grasping its handle,

stretched out further into the void, flapping his arm as best he could in

search of a hold. Still nothing. He slumped back against the door, head

pounding.

It was hopeless. He was going to have to phone for assistance: the police or

an ambulance. He reached into his pocket for his mobile. Not there. It must

have slipped out onto the deck. He lowered himself to his knees and felt

around for it. The bow area was small. It did not take long to cover. But the

phone was nowhere to be found. Then he understood. It was not there

because Walsh had taken it, either to deny Umber the use of it or to listen to

any messages left for him.

He crouched where he was, gathering his resources. To get off the boat, he

was going to have to reach the stern. He could go through the cabin, but the

aft door was bound to be locked. Walsh would hardly have broken in at both

ends. No, the only ways off were along the outside of the cabin or over the

top. There was a ledge either side of the cabin, Umber vaguely recalled, but

it was desperately narrow. The roof was a marginally better option. He

scrambled to his feet, waited for the ache in his head to subside, grasped

what felt like a rail fixed to the roof, put one foot on the bulwark and pulled

himself up.

In the same instant, the boat bounced against something, pitching Umber

forward. His hand slipped from the rail. He lost his balance and fell.

It was the ground he hit, not water. The Monica had drifted into the bank. A

jarred shoulder and a red mist of pain behind his eyes were worth it to feel

mud and grass beneath him. He levered himself slowly upright and

blundered forward like a blind man until he reached the jutting balance beam

of the lock gate. He leaned against the beam for a minute or more,

recovering his breath and what was left of his wits. He looked at his

wristwatch. The luminous dial told him the time was a few minutes before

nine. He would have guessed it was the middle of the night. But then so, in a

sense, it was — for him.

The shaly surface of the towpath crunched beneath his feet as he took a few

tentative steps away from the beam. Logically, if he kept to the path, with

the canal to his right, he would make it to Newbury in the end. Kintbury was

probably closer, but the frightening possibility that Walsh and the man who

had attacked him were still waiting for Wisby by the bridge meant Newbury

it had to be. He started walking.

* * *

He never made it to Newbury. A slow, stumbling mile or so later, he reached

another lock, and a road-bridge over the canal. He was feeling worse than

when he had left the boat by now. Nausea and dizziness were sweeping over

him ever more frequently. Seeing the lights of a house a short distance along

the road, he headed towards it.

* * *

A bloody-headed stranger staggering in out of the night would alarm many a

rural resident. But the couple whose door Umber knocked at responded with

genuine concern and practical assistance, never once querying his

explanation that he had injured himself in a fall on the towpath. The woman

disinfected his wound as best she could, then her husband volunteered to

drive him to hospital for a check-up. Umber accepted the offer with more

gratitude then he could express — and slept like a baby throughout the

journey.

* * *

The speed with which he was processed through Casualty gave Umber his

first indication that he might actually be seriously ill. Concussion, the doctor

told him after stitching the gash at the back of his head, should not be taken

lightly. He could have suffered a brain injury whose full effects were not yet

apparent. They would have to take him in for observation. He did not argue.

He did not have the strength to.

Before being admitted, however, he did force himself to make a phone call

— to Bill Larter.

* * *

'Where are you, boy?'

'Royal Berkshire Hospital, Reading. Knocked myself out in a fall.'

'Knocked yourself out?'

'I'll tell you about it when I get back.'

'When will that be?'

'Not sure. Tomorrow, I hope. Have you heard from George?'

'Not yet.'

'Shouldn't you have done by now?'

'Maybe the ferry was delayed. Maybe he's trying to get through at this very

minute. He'll like as not call you first anyway.'

'He can't. I've lost my mobile.'

'How'd that happen?'

'Never mind. Tell him not to call me on that number.'

'All right. Though he'll want to —'

'Got to go, Bill. I'll be in touch. 'Bye.'

* * *

A nurse gave him some painkillers once he was on the ward. Maybe they

were more than just painkillers. He certainly knew very little after taking

them until morning. Even then, connected thought seemed beyond him. He

knew he should feel angry about what had happened, but relief that he was

still alive blotted out everything else. He asked if there had been any phone

calls for him and was told there had not. He asked when he would be

allowed to leave and was told that was for the doctor to decide. He asked no

more.

The doctor came to see him around midday with the news that his X-rays

had shown no abnormalities. Since he was conscious, coherent and

complaining of nothing worse than a headache, he could leave provided a

friend or relative came to pick him up and kept an eye on him for the next

twenty-four hours.

This was easier stipulated than accomplished. Larter had no car. Sharp was

in Jersey. Umber considered phoning his parents, but soon rejected the idea.

In the end, he could think of only one person to ask.

* * *

'Are you sure you're well enough to be discharged?' was Alice's less than

encouraging greeting when she arrived several hours later. 'You certainly

don't look it.'

'Thanks for coming.'

'What happened to you?'

'Long story.'

'Yeah? Well, judging by the amount of traffic heading into London on the

M4, I'll have plenty of time to hear it. Let's go.'

* * *

Fobbing off Good Samaritans and night-shift nurses with a story about

hitting his head on a canal-lock balance beam had been surprisingly easy.

Umber had no intention of trying the same trick with Alice. Indeed, he was

happy to tell her the truth in the hope it would persuade her he really was

onto something. In that, however, he was to be disappointed.

'Why didn't you tell the police about this?'

'They'd probably have arrested me for breaking into Wisby's boat.'

'Which you didn't do.'

'No, Alice. I didn't.'

'And where is Wisby?'

'Haven't a clue.'

'But you went to the canal basically because he invited you?'

'Yes. He sent me a letter. You want to see it?'

'Not really.'

'You can ask Claire about Wisby. She'll vouch for his existence.'

'Maybe I'll do that.'

'You think I made all this up?'

'No.'

'Then, what do you think?'

'I don't know, David. I just don't know.'

'Don't know was made to know,' Umber muttered under his breath. But she

did not hear.

* * *

It was nearly six o'clock by the time Alice delivered him to 45 Bengal Road,

Ilford. Larter was not at home. Umber had little doubt as to where the old

man could be found, but Alice, having accepted a degree of responsibility

for his welfare, insisted on driving him to the Sheepwalk to check on the

point.

The pub was less crowded than on Friday. Larter was installed with a pint at

his favourite fireside table. He surprised Umber by appearing pleased to see

him, though he added a suitably grouchy, 'You look like death warmed up.'

He volunteered nothing more in Alice's presence, seeming to sense her

ingrained suspicion of policemen, even retired ones. She declined a drink

and did not linger.

'Strange people you're mixing with,' she said when Umber walked her out to

her car.

'Just people I can rely on, Alice.'

'I came and got you, didn't I?' she snapped, bridling at the implied contrast.

'You did. And I'm grateful.'

'You should get some rest, David. You really should.'

'So the doctor said.'

'Going back to Prague might not be a bad idea.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Oh yeah?' She climbed into her car, slammed the door and lowered the

window. 'Do something for me, will you?'

'What?'

'Take more care.'

* * *

'Who was she?' Larter demanded as soon as Umber returned to the pub.

There was a pint waiting for him and Umber took a long and healing

swallow before answering. 'An old friend of my wife's.'

'How much does she know?'

'More than she wants to.'

'Did you tell her George was going to Jersey?'

'Of course not.'

'Did you tell anyone?'

'No. Why?'

'George is in trouble.'

'What sort of trouble?'

'The big sort. The Jersey police stopped him as he was leaving the ferry last

night and searched the van. They found a bag of heroin inside each wheel

arch.'

'You're joking.'

'Wish I was, boy. George is in the slammer. No joke.'

'Bloody hell.'

'The duty solicitor who got his case phoned me a few hours ago. George was

up before the magistrates this morning. They remanded him in custody on

smuggling charges. He's looking at a few years inside if he can't talk his way

out of this, you know.'

'They fitted him up.'

'Someone did, yeah. Planted the drugs in transit, then tipped off Customs at

St Helier. That's how I read it, anyhow. Happen to know who that someone

might be?'

'I wish I did.'

'I don't suppose I'd be far out in guessing they had something to do with

whatever scrape you got into last night, though, would I?'

'No. You wouldn't.'

'I'd better give you the message George's solicitor asked me to pass on to

you, then.'

'Message?'

'From George. You're not to go to Jersey. Under any circumstances.'

'Not go?'

'I reckon he thinks it'd be too dangerous. Look what's happened to him.'

'I can't just… abandon him.'

'It's what he's telling you to do.' Latter took a thoughtful sup of beer. 'Of

course, George never has been the best judge of what's good for him. Not by

a long shot. So…' He looked expectantly at Umber. 'When do you leave?'