EIGHTEEN

Partnering up with Wisby did not leave Umber with a pleasant taste in the

mouth. But he could not see, even when he reviewed matters back at the

hotel, how he might have managed their encounter any differently. They

stood a better chance of extracting the truth from Jeremy Hall by joining

forces. Theirs was only a temporary alliance, Umber told himself. Once they

had learned the truth — whatever it was — different rules would apply.

* * *

He phoned Larter during the empty few hours that separated him from their

meeting with Jeremy. He should have made the call sooner, as Larter

forcefully reminded him. The truth was that he had felt safer with no-one

knowing his exact whereabouts. But it was not a feeling he could afford to

indulge.

'What are you up to, boy?'

'Can't go into details, Bill.'

'Onto anything promising?'

'Depends what you mean.

'I mean something that will get George out of choky.'

'I might be.'

'I had him on the blower yesterday.'

'George?'

'Prisons ain't what they used to be. Inmates are allowed all sorts these days

— including phone calls.'

'How did he sound?'

'Down in the mouth.'

'Did he ask about me?'

'Of course he asked about you. I told him you'd scarpered, intentions

unknown. He didn't believe me, though. I could tell. He never said as much,

but I got the feeling he reckons you'll have ignored his message. That's why

he's keeping his lawyer in the dark. To give you a clear run.'

'I'll try and make the most of it.'

'You better had, boy. You better had.'

* * *

La Fregate was a cafe housed in an artful representation of the inverted hull

of a wooden ship, beached on St Helier's breezy seafront. The chill edge to

the breeze had driven its few customers inside, with the solitary exception of

Alan Wisby. He was sitting at one of the outdoor tables, hunched over a

cigarette and a cup of tea, when Umber arrived. There was nearly a quarter

of an hour to go till their appointment with Jeremy Hall, but beating Wisby

to any rendezvous was clearly next to impossible.

'Couldn't wait, hey?' said Wisby by way of greeting.

'Like you, it seems.'

'No, no. I got here early for the sea air. Ozone's good for the brain, they tell

me.'

Umber did not pursue the point. He went into the cafe and bought a coffee.

By the time he came back out, a way to wrongfoot Wisby had presented

itself appealingly to his mind. He sat down and looked at Wisby, who had

angled his chair to face the dual carriageway heading into St Helier from the

west — the direction Jeremy Hall would come from.

'We should hear him coming even if we don't see him,' Wisby said. 'Unless

he's already in town. As he may well be, if, as I suspect, he's been keeping

the books in a safe-deposit box somewhere.'

'You can tell me about your theory now.'

'No, no. Not until the books are in our hands.'

'You refused to tell me earlier on the grounds that I might cut my own deal

with Jeremy. Well, it's too late for that now, isn't it? So, there's no need for

you to hold out on me.'

Wisby squinted round at Umber in the dazzling sunlight. 'No need for me

not to, either.'

'Oh, but there is. Particularly if you want to be able to rely on my say-so as

to whether the Junius he brings with him is the one Griffin promised to show

me at Avebury. And that's central to your theory, isn't it?'

'Yes,' Wisby hesitantly and reluctantly agreed.

'So you need to be certain. Absolutely certain. And for that you need to give

me something in advance.'

'Don't you trust me, Mr Umber?'

'Not at all.'

Wisby drew smilingly on his cigarette. Well, it's good to know where we

stand, I suppose.'

'What's your theory?'

Wisby sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then said, 'All right. I'll tell

you. Since my good faith's being questioned. Griffin is central. Why didn't

he turn up at Avebury?'

'I don't know. I've never known.'

'It's a mystery.'

'Yes. A total mystery.'

'Perhaps not. If he did turn up.'

'What do you mean?'

'Donald Collingwood was already dead when I went back over the case five

years ago. That turned out to be to my advantage. I went to see his widow.

She was in an old people's home. With Collingwood six foot under, she

didn't mind telling me something she'd never have breathed a word about

while he was alive. Seems Collingwood came into money straight after the

Miranda Hall inquest. Not a fortune, but a tidy sum. He spun his missus a

yarn about a lucky bet on the horses, but she never believed him. Just like

she never believed he drove through Avebury on the twenty-seventh of July,

1981.'

'What?'

'Seems there was no reason for him to have been on that road.'

'And you're saying… he wasn't?'

'Exactly.'

'But —'

'He came forward three weeks into the inquiry to account for the car that

followed the van. Don't you see? He was put up to it. Paid… to cover

Griffin's tracks.'

'Griffin?'

'He was the car driver, not Collingwood. Griffin saw what happened and,

good citizen that he was, set off after the van. Well, I think he caught up

with it. Or was allowed to, once the driver realized he was tailing them. I

think he was murdered to stop him telling the police where the van had gone.

Plus its registration number, of course. Plus… who knows?'

'Can you prove any of this?'

'Not yet.'

'What about a body? If Griffin was murdered…'

'I've checked the records carefully. There were no unclaimed corpses within

any feasible radius of Avebury in late July of 'eighty-one. And no missingperson report anywhere for anyone called Griffin. If there had been, Sharp

would have picked up on it straight away.'

'Sounds like you've gone a long way to proving yourself wrong, then.'

'Not if Griffin was using an assumed name and/or his body was carefully

disposed of.'

'Come off it. You're stretching.'

'Wait till you hear what Jeremy Hall has to tell us, Mr Umber. The key is

how — and in whose hands — the book got from Avebury twenty-three

years ago to Jersey a few months ago. I don't believe for an instant Jeremy

found it on the shelf at Quires by chance. I reckon —'

'Mr Umber?' Both men turned at the call. 'One of you two Mr Umber?' It

was the serving girl leaning out through the door of the cafe. "There's

someone on the phone for you.'

Umber exchanged a glance with Wisby, then stood up and hurried into the

cafe. The girl pointed towards the telephone at one end of the counter,

receiver dangling off the hook. Umber picked it up.

'Hello?'

'That you, Shadow Alan?' It was Jeremy Hall. There was, of course, no-one

else it could have been. His voice was slightly slurred, as if he had been

drinking.

'Yes. It's me. Why aren't you here?'

'Wisby with you, is he?'

'Yes. As you arranged. I repeat: why aren't you here?'

'I thought about it and decided we ought to meet somewhere more…

private.'

'Where?'

'The old man's place. With him and Marilyn away, it's nice and quiet. I'm

there now. Wisby knows where it is. Come on over. I'll wait for you.'

'OK. But, Jeremy, you ought to know Wisby and I aren't —'

'Save it. I don't want to hear. Remember the day we first met, do you?'

'Of course.'

'There was a kestrel above us. I saw it. Turning and turning in the sky. Did

you see it?'

'I don't think so.'

'Predator or prey. We're one or the other. You want your Junius, Shadow

Man? You come and find him.'

* * *

Wisby had parked his hire car on the other side of the harbour. By the time

they had reached it and got onto the dual carriageway heading out of town,

twenty minutes had passed, testing both men's patience.

'I smell a rat,' said Wisby as he accelerated well beyond the sedate islandwide speed limit of 40 mph. 'He never intended to meet us in St Helier, did

he?'

'Maybe not. But what difference does it make?'

'If he's planning to play some kind of trick on us…'

'What kind could he play? I thought you had him where you wanted him.'

'I do. But despite that he seems to be calling the shots. Which is worrying.

Distinctly worrying.'

* * *

They turned inland halfway round the bay and headed north along a winding

road through a tree-filled valley — Waterworks Valley, according to Wisby,

named on account of its several reservoirs. Sunlight sparkled on the still blue

water and the bright yellow drifts of daffodils in the roadside meadows.

Oliver Hall had chosen a picturesque corner of Jersey to retire to.

Wisby slowed as they rounded a bend. A gated driveway led off the road to

the left, climbing through landscaped grounds towards a large house set

amongst trees. A sign at the foot of the drive identified it as Eden Holt.

'This is it,' said Wisby. He pulled up in front of the gates, lowered his

window and pressed a button set next to an intercom grille on a post. 'Let's

see if he's going to let us in.'

He was — without even bothering to confirm it was them. The gates swung

slowly open. Wisby drove through and started up the slope towards the

house.

Most of the building had been out of sight from the road. It was set on a

shelf of land halfway up the side of the valley, commanding an expansive

view of the rolling Jersey countryside. An elegantly meticulous recreation of

a three-storeyed Queen Anne mansion, with porticoed entrance, mullioned

windows and high, slender chimneys, its clean-cut grey stone glistened

opulently in the sunshine.

The drive ran between the house and a wide, oval lawn towards a treescreened triple garage. Jeremy's motorbike was standing in front of the

garage, propped at an angle, sunlight shimmering on its petrol tank. Wisby

stopped short of the balustraded steps that led up to the front door and turned

the engine off. They climbed out into crystalline air and suspended silence,

which the slamming of the car doors pierced like muffled gunshots. The two

men exchanged a glance of mild puzzlement that Jeremy had not come out

to greet them, but, as they started up the steps, they saw that the broad,

green, dolphin-knockered door was ajar. It was a greeting — of sorts.

Wisby pushed the door open, giving them a view of the hall — a vast

chequerboard of black and white marble tiles leading to a curving staircase.

Doors stood open to ground-floor rooms on either side. But Jeremy did not

step out of any of them, aware though he must have been that they had

arrived.

'Where is he?' muttered Wisby. 'What's he —'

'Look,' Umber cut in. 'Look, man.'

Umber's gaze had drifted round to the console table standing against the wall

a little way along the hall — and had gone no further. There was a silver tray

on the table, intended for post, perhaps. There were no letters lying on it. But

it was not empty.

Two small books, held together by a rubber band, had been placed on the

tray. The books' smooth white covers identified their binding as vellum. And

the gold-lettered titles on their spines identified them as particular, exclusive

and unquestionably unique.

'That's them, isn't it?' Wisby asked, glancing at Umber.

'Oh yes.' Umber nodded. 'That's them.' And it was. There could be no doubt.

There had only ever been one vellum-bound gilt-titled Junius, specially

prepared to the author's specification and left for him by Woodfall at one of

their secret coffee-house delivery points early in the month of March, 1773.

Left — and later collected. 'At last,' Umber added, in a dreamy murmur. 'At

long — What was that?'

He whirled round at a sound behind him: a sharp, metallic ping. Almost at

once, there was a second ping and, this time, he saw what had caused it. A

small pebble struck the roof of the car as he watched and bounced off.

Another pebble followed.

Umber rushed down the steps onto the driveway and looked up, backing

away towards the lawn as he did so. There were dormer windows set in the

grey-slated roof, their lower halves obscured by a parapet running round the

edge of the roof. In the centre of

the parapet, directly above the front door, was a pediment. Jeremy Hall was

leaning nonchalantly against its sloping left-hand side. He nodded, as if

satisfied now he had got some attention, and tossed

the remaining pebbles into the gully behind the pediment. Then he propped

one foot on the parapet and gazed down.

'Spotted what's waiting for you in the hall, Shadow Man?' he called.

'Yes,' Umber replied.

'Take them. They're yours.'

'We want more man the books,' shouted Wisby as he caught up with Umber.

'You know what my terms are.'

'Oh yes,' Jeremy shouted back. 'I know.'

'Come down. Let's talk. Like we agreed.'

'Like you demanded, you mean. Remember the

kestrel, Shadow Man?'

'Yes. But —'

'Predator or prey. We're one or the other. Never both.' He seemed to look

beyond them, into the distance. 'There's so much air up here. So much sky.

And everything's so very, very simple.'

'Come down,' shouted Wisby.

'All right,' Jeremy responded. 'I will.'

In that second, Umber knew what Jeremy was going to do. He stepped

forward. And so did Jeremy. Out into the empty air beyond the parapet. Out

into a place he could see so clearly. Out — and down.

* * *

Umber closed his eyes an immeasurable fraction of a second before Jeremy

hit the ground. But the sound of the impact — the squelching thud of flesh

and bone on tarmac, the fricative last gasp of breath forced from Jeremy's

mouth — was no easier to bear than the sight of it would have been. Umber

could not keep his eyes closed for ever. When he opened them, he knew

what he would see. And already, before he did so, he knew of the other

death it would call to his mind. The mangled body; the wine-dark blood; the

stillness and the silence: as it had been for the sister so it was now for the

brother.

* * *

Umber opened his eyes.

* * *

By a small, scant miracle, Jeremy had fallen with his face angled away from

them. Only the tide of blood seeping from his smashed body, carried

towards Umber by the camber of the drive, declared his death as an

unalterable fact.

Umber stepped back onto the lawn before the stretching red fingers reached

him. He sank to his haunches and stared at the lifeless, crumpled figure in

front of him, at Jeremy's tousled blood-flecked hair, at the upturned palm of

his nearest hand, cradled as if to receive some gift.

Umber thought of Jane Hall, standing in the cemetery above Marlborough,

mourning her daughters and comforting herself with the knowledge that at

least she still had a living, breathing son. Soon, all too soon, she would have

that comfort snatched away from her.

Umber had done nothing to save the daughters. And now his action, for

reasons he did not properly understand, had destroyed the son.

'Oh God,' he murmured. 'Oh dear God.'

* * *

The car engine burst suddenly into life. Umber looked round and saw Wisby

reversing the car away from him. It bumped up onto the lawn, then Wisby

slammed it into forward gear, swerved round onto the drive and accelerated

down the slope towards the gates.

Umber's reactions were addled by shock. He could not comprehend what

was happening. Where was Wisby going? What in God's name did he think

he was doing?

The probable answer hit Umber like a blow to the face. He jumped up and,

skirting the pool of blood that had spread from Jeremy's body, ran across the

drive and up the steps to the front door.

It was wide open. In the hall, on the console table, the silver tray stood

empty.

* * *

Wisby had stopped at the foot of the drive, waiting for the gates to open after

the car had crossed the sensor-cable. The gates swung slowly and smoothly.

The car idled. Umber started running down the drive, certain he would be

too late, but running anyway, his feet pounding on the tarmac.

The car started forward as soon as there was a large enough gap between the

gates for it to pass through. Wisby pulled straight out onto the road and put

his foot down. The car sped away. It was out of sight before Umber reached

the gateway.

Umber's last few strides carried him out onto the road. He stared

despairingly in the direction the car had taken — back the way they had

come earlier. The gates were fully open by now. A few seconds later, they

began to close again.

Umber had still not moved when they clanged shut behind him.