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 un fitted?'

'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.'