TWENTY-SIX

'What are we going to do?'

It was the third or fourth time Chantelle had asked the question and Umber

was no surer how to answer it. They were sitting on the bed, facing the

Catherine-wheel window, neither caring to glance back at the shape in the

kitchen doorway. Umber had covered Walsh's body as best he could with the

hall mat, though that did nothing to conceal the pool of blood on the tiled

floor of the kitchen or the patches of it on the hall carpet. Chantelle had

removed her blood-smeared T-shirt and trousers and was now enveloped in

Jeremy's dressing gown, but bloodstains remained on the trainers she would

at some point have to put back on. Walsh's death and her responsibility for it

were facts they could not ignore.

'What are we going to do, Shadow Man?' Chantelle's voice was tremulous

and plaintive. But the we was important. Umber had asked her to trust him.

And now it seemed she did.

'We can't stay here,' he said, forcing his brain to reason its way through the

shock of what had happened. 'They'll come looking for him sooner or later.

And you know who they are, don't you, Chantelle? Or should I call you

Cherie?'

'Chantelle's my name now. And I don't know who they are. Or what they are.

The people my parents work for, I mean. My foster parents, I ought to call

them. My false parents. That man…' She gestured with her chin towards the

door.

'Walsh?'

She shook her head. 'Waldron. Eddie Waldron. Uncle Eddie, he wanted me

to call him. But I never did. I was always frightened of him.'

'You don't have to be frightened of him any more.'

'He'd have forced you to tell on me. When I saw his car and realized it wasn't

Marilyn who'd come…' Her head sank. 'I knew it was him or me.'

'We've got to get out of here, Chantelle. That's about all I'm certain of.

We've got to get out.'

'I was going to make a run for it,' she went on, hardly seeming to hear him. 'I

wasn't sure of you. I reckoned it was safer not to trust you. But when I saw

the car… I went back for the knife. I thought, finish Uncle Eddie this time,

girl. I thought… stop him ever hurting you again.'

'You did that, Chantelle. You truly did.'

'You're not going to let me down, are you, Shadow Man?' She looked up at

him, her eyes moist and red-rimmed. 'I don't think I can… go on alone.'

'We'll get out of this. Together.'

'How?'

'Is there anything in this flat or the office or the boat store to lead them to

you?'

'No. Nothing. Jem was always careful about that.'

There were questions — a host of them — Umber longed to put to her. But

they would have to wait. The need now was to act. And to make sure they

acted for the best. 'My car's just round the corner. We'll walk to it and drive

away.'

'What about Eddie?'

'We leave him here. He'll be found soon enough, but I'm betting those who

find him won't want to set the police on us. On you, anyway.'

'I can't walk down the street looking like this.'

'Could you put some clothes of Jeremy's on?'

'I suppose.'

'Do that. And fast. We should go as soon as we can. But there's something I

have to do first.'

She made no move and merely went on staring at him.

'Please, Chantelle. Do it.'

She flinched at the forcefulness of his tone, which he instantly regretted. But

it had its effect. 'Sorry,' she murmured, rising unsteadily and stumbling

across to the chest of drawers. 'Sorry.'

Leaving her to it, Umber jumped up and hurried out into the hall. Taking a

deep breath, he pulled the rug clear of the body of the man he now knew as

Eddie Waldron. Deliberately avoiding a glance at the bloody, oozing mess of

the fatal knife wound, he unclipped the small bunch of keys he had seen

hanging from one of Waldron's belt-loops. The remote for the BMW was

among them. Noticing the bulge of a wallet in Waldron's hip pocket, he took

that as well. Then he folded the rug back into place.

He pocketed the wallet and keys and stepped gingerly into the kitchen,

keeping clear of the pool of blood. There he hunted down a tea towel,

Sellotape and a roll of black plastic rubbish sacks. He took these out into the

hall, wrapped the knife in the tea towel, put the bundle inside one of the

rubbish sacks, folded it over and taped down the ends. Then he returned to

the kitchen one more time — to collect the Juniuses.

'I'm ready,' said Chantelle, watching from beside the bed as he edged past

the rug-shrouded shape. She was wearing jeans baggy enough to cover all

but the toes of her bloodstained trainers, even though they were rolled up

several inches at the ankle, and a navy-blue sweater, with some kind of

yachting motif on it, that hung to just above her knees. Only the tips of her

fingers were visible beneath the sleeves. Umber saw her glance fall to

Waldron's feet protruding from the rug. 'Christ,' she murmured. 'I really did

it, didn't I?'

'Don't think about it,' said Umber. 'We're leaving now. OK?'

There was a long silence. Finally, she wrenched her gaze back to Umber.

'OK.'

'Put your clothes in this.' He peeled off a second rubbish sack and tossed it to

her, then moved to the front door and edged it open. There was neither sight

nor sound of movement on the steps. He waited a few seconds to be sure.

Then he stepped back and signalled to Chantelle. 'Come on.'

She hesitated, then hurried out to join him by the door, the sack containing

her discarded clothes clutched in one hand.

'Go down to the office and wait there. I'm going to check his car. It won't

take long. Then we'll go.'

Chantelle nodded and headed past him. With a parting glance behind, Umber

followed, pulling the door shut as he left. Chantelle was already out of sight

as he descended the steps. He flicked the remote at the BMW. The sensor

behind the rear mirror flashed. The door locks released. There was no-one

close by. The nearest passers-by were on the Boulevard and were paying

events in le Quai Bisson no heed. He glanced into the car, but could not see

what he was looking for. He strode round to the boot and opened it.

Inside was a smart-looking camcorder, nestling in an unzipped shoulder-bag.

And there, to his astonishment, towards the rear of the boot space, was a

white cardboard box, fastened with string. The word JUNIUS stared at him

in his own, long-ago handwriting. He shook his head in disbelief and smiled

despite himself.

'What is it?' called Chantelle, frowning at him from the doorway of the

office.

'Something I never expected to see again.' He hauled the box out and

dropped it on the ground, wedged the black plastic bundle under the string

and hoisted the camcorder-bag onto his shoulder. 'Come on.'

Chantelle hurried over. Umber handed her the Juniuses, then picked up the

box. The strap of the bag slipped off his shoulder as he did so. Chantelle

hoiked it back into place, squinting in puzzlement at the titles on the books

she was holding and the word on the side of the box.

'I'll explain later. Let's get moving.'

* * *

The walk to the hotel was brief and uneventful. Conspicuous though they

felt, no-one in fact paid them any attention. They loaded everything they

were carrying into the boot of Umber's hire car, then he went into the hotel

and booked out.

'Where have you been staying?' Umber asked Chantelle when he returned to

the car.

'A small hotel on the other side of St Helier.'

'Right. We'll drive there, pick up your stuff, pay your bill and make for the

Airport. There should be an evening flight to Gatwick we can get a couple of

seats on.'

'We're leaving Jersey?'

'The sooner the better.'

* * *

Umber's every instinct told him they would be safer off the island. What

they were going to do back in England he had literally no idea. The next step

was all he could focus on. The step after that lay beyond his power to

imagine.

* * *

'Where did you grow up, Chantelle?' he asked as they headed round the coast

road towards St Helier through ever thickening traffic: the rush hour was

upon them.

'South Africa. Hong Kong. Gibraltar. We moved about a lot. My parents —'

She broke off. 'Roy and Jean Hedgecoe. That's what they're called. Not Dad

and Mum to me any more. Roy and Jean.'

'What did they do for a living?'

'Good question. I never really knew. Roy was in import-export, whatever

that meant. He had business with… strange people.'

'Like Eddie Waldron?'

'His sort, yeah. All his sort.'

'Any brothers or sisters?'

'No. Just me. Carted around the world by… Roy and Jean. When I was

sixteen, we moved to Monaco. A new opening, they said. More like a

reward, I guess. For looking after me so carefully. We lived high there.'

'And you met Michel Tinaud?'

'Yeah. He thought he was God's gift. So did I. I was pretty stupid back then.

I had no idea what was going on. Any of it, I mean. Not just what was really

going on. I was a different person. Not me. Not this me, anyway. Some…

other girl they'd brought me up to be. Only it didn't work out. I was crazy

about Michel. I didn't really think about much else. I went to Paris with him.

Then Wimbledon. And that's when everything changed. Because of Sally.

Your wife. How long were you two married?'

'Eight years. But we were together a lot longer than that.'

'You want me to tell you what happened when she tracked me down, don't

you?'

'Yes. I do.'

'Do you blame me for her death?'

'Of course not.'

'Maybe you should.' She gazed ahead for a long, vacant interval, then said,

'Can I tell you later? I just … don't want to talk about it right now.'

'OK.'

'But I will talk about it.' She glanced at him. 'I promise.'

* * *

They entered St Helier and drove through the Fort Regent tunnel, then

followed the main road out to the east until Chantelle pointed out the Hotel

Talana ahead of them. Umber pulled into the car park at the rear and

Chantelle went in to change her clothes, pack her few belongings and check

out.

While she was gone, Umber fetched the camcorder from the boot and

unloaded the cassette. The tape was only part-used, as good a confirmation

as he needed that it held the recording of his meeting with Wisby. He

dropped the cassette onto the ground and stamped on it several times,

smashing the plastic case and the spools inside. He dragged the tape out of

the wreckage and shoved it into his pocket for later destruction. At least he

did not have to worry about being fitted up as Wisby's accomplice now,

though there was no telling what Wisby would say about him to the police.

For that reason if for no other, an early departure from Jersey was essential.

Back in the car, Umber checked through Waldron's wallet. It turned out to

contain several hundred pounds and a couple of credit cards, one for John E.

Walsh, the other for Edward J. Waldron. There was nothing else.

It was only as he closed the wallet that a thought caught up with Umber

relating to Wisby. And a disturbing thought it was.

Wisby had no way of knowing Umber was not party to the plot against him.

He would in fact assume Umber was very much a party to it. His best hope

of persuading the police to believe he had been framed was to tell at least

some of the truth about his reasons for visiting Jersey and to finger Umber as

a treacherous accomplice. As matters stood he could not prove Umber had

played any part in blackmailing Jeremy Hall, but he could prove Umber had

been working with George Sharp, another self-proclaimed victim of a frameup. If the police then learned there had been a killing at Jeremy's flat, they

would eventually go to see Sharp's solicitor. Burnouf would probably be

sufficiently alarmed by what had happened, and genuinely concerned for the

safety of a client he had heard no more from since the previous week, to give

them sight of the statement the client had left with him — a statement in

which Umber had made it very clear he was in Jersey to extract information

from Jeremy Hall by whatever means he could devise.

Umber glanced at his watch. It was nearly six o'clock. If it was not already

too late for conducting business at Le Templier & Burnouf, it surely would

be by the time he got there. So, either he left the statement where it was… or

he was not leaving Jersey as soon as he wanted to.

* * *

Another quarter of an hour had passed before Chantelle returned to the car.

She must have read Umber's heightened anxiety in his expression, because

the first words she spoke to him were, 'What's wrong?'

Plenty was the answer. But what Umber actually said was, 'There's been a

change of plan.'