TWENTY-SEVEN

'I'm not going alone.'

It was the third or fourth time Chantelle had said so and Umber had

reluctantly concluded that she meant it. They were sitting in Umber's hire

car in a desolate corner of the Airport car park, watching the light fade

slowly beyond the terminal building as the last flights of the day came and

went. Chantelle's refusal to leave without him that night would soon become

unalterable, because leaving that night would soon become impossible.

'Jem put me on a ferry to St Malo on Thursday and told me he'd join me

there the next day. But he was dead by then. I waited for him. But he never

came. I don't want to do that again. I've spent too much of the past few years

alone, Shadow Man. I can't do it any more.'

'It's too risky to stay, Chantelle.'

' You're staying.'

'Because I've got to get that statement out of Burnouf's office. I have no

choice.'

'Fine. Get the statement first thing tomorrow. Then we'll go.'

'OK,' said Umber, glumly accepting the reality of her decision. 'Have it your

way.'

'Do you think they'll have found Eddie's body yet?'

'Maybe.'

'And do you think they'll be looking for us?'

'If they've found him, for certain.'

'Better not stay here, then, had we?'

'Where do you suggest we go, Chantelle? It's a small island.'

'But not too small to hide in. Let's get moving.'

* * *

Trade was slack at the Prince of Wales, the hotel overlooking the beach at

Greve de Lecq on Jersey's north coast. Postcards for sale at reception

depicted the bay in all its kiss-me-quick, bucket-and-spade summer jollity.

The story on a windy night at the end of March was rather different. A

couple of rooms were readily to be had at a knock-down rate.

Umber tried to persuade Chantelle to eat something, but she insisted she was

not hungry and in truth he had no appetite himself. After booking in, they

walked down to the beach and stood among the deserted cafes and souvenir

stalls as the sea crashed in, the surf a ghostly grey rim to the blackness of the

night-time ocean.

'You saw me that day, didn't you, Shadow Man? The day my first life ended.

The life I don't even remember. You were at Avebury on the twenty-seventh

of July, 1981.'

'Me and a few others, yes.'

'But most of them are dead, aren't they? My sister. My brother. Your wife.

All gone now.'

'What about the day your second life ended, Chantelle? Can you bear to tell

me about that?'

'Reckon I've got to.'

'It'd be good if you wanted to.'

'I do. But it's like…' She looked round at him, her expression indecipherable

in the darkness. 'Jem never thought you'd team up with Wisby. That was a

real shock to him, y'know.'

'I didn't team up with him.'

'No. Guess you didn't. But it looked like you had. And that tore something

out of Jem. He'd thought of you as a… fellow-victim. He didn't blame you.

He only sent the letters to people he blamed… for not getting it right.'

'Why did he send the letters, Chantelle? I mean, really, why?

'Why didn't I stop him's a better question. But that's starting at the wrong

end. I have to tell you about Sally first.' She shivered. 'Let's go inside.'

* * *

There was a trayful of paraphernalia for making tea and coffee in Umber's

room. He turned the radiator up to maximum while the kettle was boiling

and went to pull the curtains, but Chantelle asked him to leave them open.

He did not argue.

He sat on the bed and Chantelle took the only chair, which she dragged close

to the radiator. Energy was failing her almost visibly now. She looked

drained and haunted and, somewhere deep inside, damaged. She sat hunched

in the chair, holding her mug of coffee in both hands, sipping from it as she

spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

* * *

'I suppose I knew from my early teens there was something iffy about the

way Da —' She broke off for a second, then resumed. 'About the way Roy

made a living. And about the people he did business with. I never came out

and asked. That wasn't encouraged. I was spoiled rotten and I liked it. We

had it soft in Monte Carlo. Big duplex looking straight out onto the Med.

Everything I wanted. Plus loads of things I didn't even know I wanted.

Except… background. There was no family. No grandparents, aunts, uncles

and cousins like my friends had. Unless you counted Uncle Eddie, which

you can bet I didn't. Just a blank. Only children of dead only children. That

was Roy and Jean's story. And they were sticking to it.

'It didn't bother me anyway. I was having too much fun. After I finished

school, they wanted me to go to university and I thought, great, that'll be in

England. But no. They didn't want that. Easy to see why now. At the time, I

thought they were just being … over-protective. They were keen on Nice, so

I could come home at weekends. My French was certainly up to it. We

argued. In the end, I went nowhere. That pissed them off. I went with boys

they didn't approve of. That pissed them off some more. Then I met Michel

and it was, like, all is forgiven. He was perfect as far as they were

concerned. Even when I went to Paris with him.

'Then came the Wimbledon trip. They couldn't really object after going such

a bundle on him. He was a tennis player, after all. And I didn't know there

was any reason why they should object. A fortnight in Paris had been no

problem. So, what did they do? They came with us. Michel got them tickets

for the tennis, of course. He more or less had to. He'd rented a flat near the

club and I stayed with him there. Roy and Jean booked themselves into a

plush hotel on Wimbledon Common. I thought — I honestly did — that they

were just using my trip as an excuse to visit London. We saw some of the

sights together while Michel was busy practising. Everything was OK. I

mean, I'd have preferred them not to be mere, but it wasn't so bad. They

didn't crowd me. Though now, when I look back, I see what they really did

was… mind me. Keep an eye on me. Make sure that whatever they couldn't

help worrying might happen didn't happen.

'But it happened anyway. Despite them. Despite all the precautions they'd

taken over the years; all the things they'd ever done to prevent me asking or

checking or finding out or wondering or somehow, against the odds,

remembering… why there were no photographs of me as a baby, why we

had no relatives, why that was the first time I'd ever been to England, why…

why… why…'

'Wednesday evening, it was. June twenty-third, 1999. Michel was still at the

club, warming down after his second-round match. I'd gone back to the flat.

Hadn't been there more than a few minutes when Sally arrived. She'd

followed me from the club, she said, after waiting all afternoon for me to

leave. She told me who she was. Then she told me who I was.

'I thought she was mad. Well, what else would I think? Michel thought the

same when he arrived. More or less threw her out. Told me to forget about

her. She was a crazy woman trying to get to him through me. Typical of him

to decide it was all about him. We rowed. I went for a walk to clear my head.

I didn't believe Sally. But I didn't exactly dis believe her either, even then.

What she'd said made a horrible kind of sense. It slotted into those holes in

my life. It wasn't something I could just ignore, however much I wanted to.

'Sally hadn't gone far, of course. She was waiting for me at the corner of the

street, as I suppose I'd half-hoped she would be. Mad or sane? I didn't know.

But I wanted to hear more.

'It was still light. I walked with her to Southfields Tube station. I listened as

she talked. I even… let her hold my hand. I made a deal with her. I'd think

about what she'd said. I'd ask my… "parents" … some questions and see

what answers I got. I'd meet her on Friday morning, while Michel was with

his coach, to talk some more. We agreed the boating lake in Wimbledon

Park as a rendezvous. She kissed me and went into the station. There were

lots of people about, trickling home from the tennis. I lost sight of her in the

crowd. And I never saw her again.

'I never got the chance to put any questions to Roy and Jean either. Michel

had called them while I was out and they were at the flat when I got back.

They were the ones asking the questions. Why had I let her in? Why had I

talked to her? Why had I encouraged her? I was gobsmacked. It was like I'd

done something wrong — really wrong. And I had, of course. Just when it

ought to have been impossible, too late, way past any danger — I'd learned

the truth.

'I didn't know that then, of course. I only knew their reaction was all wrong.

It was so out of proportion if Sally was just a nutter. They were taking me

back to Monte Carlo right away, they said. Michel sided with them, said he

couldn't concentrate on his tennis with so much going on. I saw through him

that night as well. I didn't bother to argue. I could tell it was a waste of

breath. I said OK, fine, we'll go. They were happy with that. They believed I

meant it. They believed most things I said, actually. Just like I believed most

things they said. Until then.

'Roy and Jean went back to their hotel, saying they'd collect me in the

morning. I decided there and then I wasn't going to be collected. I started

another row with Michel, knowing he'd react by storming out and driving

round London in his sponsored Ferrari. He was a pretty predictable kind of

guy. Once he was out of the way, I packed as much as I could into a

rucksack — and left.

'I walked all the way into the centre of London. It was a warm night. I

remember sitting on the Embankment at dawn thinking you've done it now,

girl, you really have. I wasn't short of money, of course. I wasn't homeless,

like other people my age I saw on the streets. I bought breakfast, tried to stop

feeling sorry for myself and asked a policeman where I could look up back

copies of national newspapers. He said he'd never been asked that one

before. But he knew the answer.

'So, I ended up spending most of the day in the Newspaper Library at

Colindale. As soon as I saw one of the photographs of Tamsin Hall, I knew.

Sally had told me the truth. I read every report there was to read on the case.

I stayed there till closing time. I went in as Cherie Hedgecoe. I came out…

as someone else.

'I spent that night at a hotel opposite Euston station. Early next morning, I

went back to Wimbledon. It was risky, of course. I knew that. But I had to

see Sally again. I had to tell her I believed her and ask her… what the fuck I

was supposed to do next. I waited for her in the park for hours. Hours and

hours. She never turned up, obviously. She was already dead by then. I

didn't find that out till I read it in the paper next morning, though. I was

checking through it to see if I'd been reported missing. It looked like I hadn't.

Then I saw Sally's photograph and the words in the headline: FOUND

DEAD.

'They'd killed her. I was certain of that. Not Roy and Jean. But whoever

they'd told about her. Whoever was behind the whole crazy fucking thing.

They'd ordered her death like they'd ordered Tamsin's abduction — my

abduction. Eddie Waldron might have carried out the order. If not him, then

someone like him. But who actually did it doesn't matter. What matters is

who gave the order. And why.

'I still don't know the answer. And back then I didn't even want to find out. I

was so frightened. So alone and so frightened. There was no-one I could

trust. Sally had said my real parents had been suspiciously eager to believe

Radd's confession and that's how it looked to me too. Like they might be in

on it as well, whatever it was. I couldn't fit all the possibilities inside my

head. I was just… running scared.

'So that's what I did… I ran. For a long time. For years. India. Hawaii. South

America. All over. I went wherever I wouldn't be known. A guy I met in

Nepal fixed me up with a fake French passport and I became Chantelle

Fontanet. I'll always be Chantelle now, Shadow Man. Never Cherie. Never

even Tamsin. Chantelle is them added together. Them transcended.

'But not forgotten. You can only run for so long. Sooner or later, pretending

you don't care what the truth is about your life doesn't cut it any more. Last

summer, or winter where I was, in Brazil, I came face to face with the

realization that I couldn't leave the mystery alone any longer. That I had to

try… to find the real me… and the answers to all those questions.

'Sally had told me Oliver and Jane were divorced. She'd also told me Jeremy

was living with his father here in Jersey. Whatever was behind my

abduction, however much my real parents knew, I felt sure Jeremy had to be

innocent. He was only ten years old at the time, after all. I reckoned he was

the one member of the family I might be able to trust. Might. I had to check

him out first. I came to Jersey and tracked him down to St Aubin. I watched

him going out with his sailing classes. I spied on him at the flat. I hung

around, trying to work up the courage to approach him.

'As it turned out, I didn't have to. He approached me. He'd noticed the

attention I was paying him and one day he surprised me on the steps up to

Market Hill. Demanded to know what I was up to. I ummed and ahhed a bit.

And then… then he said he recognized me. What would you call it? Sibling

instinct? I don't know. But it was true. I saw it in his eyes. Just as he saw

something in mine. "It's you, isn't it?" he said. "You've come back." And I

had.

'Jem was on pretty poor terms with Oliver by then. He didn't quite trust him

any more. Or Marilyn. Things had never been the same since Radd's

confession, he said. There was no good reason to believe Radd was telling

the truth. But they did. That left Jem out in the cold. The way he saw it, my

turning up was his reward for keeping the faith. He was… exultant. High on

the joy of it. So was I. Those first few months, last summer and autumn…

were the best. Just the absolute best.

'We rented a flat in St Malo. It seemed safer to spend most of our time

together in France. Once the sailing season was over, Jem was hardly ever

here. I had him all to myself. We were careful. I dyed my hair. And we

never used mobiles. Too easy to trace, Jem said. He came up with the idea of

coloured contact lenses as well. And he taught me to stop doing that thing

with my lower lip that had caught Sally's eye in Hello! People must have

taken us for boyfriend and girlfriend. I suppose that's how it felt to us too, in

a way. It was a kind of romance. A voyage of rediscovery, Jem called it.

'But there were still those questions, niggling away at us, itching to be

asked… and answered. It seemed worse for Jem than for me. Our parents

were two people I'd never known. But he'd loved and trusted them

implicitly. He needed to know the truth more than I did. He couldn't let it go.

'It was Marilyn he was most suspicious of. She was spending more and more

time in London. Oliver and her were virtually separated. When I described

Eddie Waldron to Jem, he thought it sounded like a man he'd once seen

Marilyn with, at the marina in St Helier. She came over for Christmas. Jem

was expected to spend the holiday at Eden Holt and it would have looked

odd if he'd refused, so off he went. He got into a row with them about Radd,

he told me afterwards. And he asked Marilyn a lot of pointed questions

about how she and Oliver had met.

'He got more of a reaction then he'd bargained for. He was due to join me in

St Malo on New Year's Eve. The day before that, when he was shopping in

St Helier, he spotted Marilyn on the other side of the road, hurrying out of a

bank, with a brown-paper parcel in her hand, looking… furtive, he reckoned.

She didn't notice him and he followed her into Royal Square, where he hung

back and watched as she sat down on a bench and unwrapped the parcel.

Inside were two small antique books. Well, Marilyn's no book collector, is

she? Jem didn't know what to make of it. But he was more than curious. He

was suspicious. Specially when she tore the front page out of each of the

books and folded them away in her handbag. Then she put the books into a

carrier-bag, chucked the wrapping paper in a bin and headed off.

'Jem followed. And you can guess where he followed her to. Quires, in

Halkett Place. He watched her through the window from behind a delivery

van on the other side of the street and saw her slip the books out of the bag

and onto the shelf. Then she left.

'Jem let her go, then went into the shop and took a look at the books. When

he saw what they were, he knew he had to buy them. They were evidence.

Evidence Marilyn had been eager to get off her hands. He'd got hold of a

transcript of the original inquest at the time of Radd's confession to check

for contradictions. So, he knew what you'd told the coroner about Griffin

and the special edition of the Junius letters. And there they were. Minus the

flyleaves. The fact that Marilyn had torn them out clinched it for him. His

probing over Christmas had panicked her. She'd decided to cover her tracks.

Maybe she'd meant to get rid of the books for years but hadn't bothered to.

Maybe the distance opening up between Oliver and her was a factor. Maybe

she didn't expect to be back in Jersey that often. It doesn't matter why she

made her move that day. What matters is that Jem caught her in the act.

'I wish to Christ now he hadn't. He'd still be alive. We'd still…' She

swallowed hard. 'Sorry. Can't stop now, can I? Can't go all weepy on you.

'The Junius letters were clearly the key to it all, but Jem didn't really

understand why. He couldn't get the idea out of his head of using them in

some way to expose the truth — and to punish Marilyn for her part in it.

Eventually, he decided to construct a message out of words and phrases in

the letters and send it to three people outside the family he hoped could be

goaded into going back into the case. Sharp. Wisby. And Hollins — the

policeman who put Radd away. Looks like Hollins ignored the letter. But

Sharp and Wisby didn't. They rose to the bait.

'Jem didn't kill himself because he was afraid you'd expose his campaign to

his parents, y'know. He did it to shield me. To draw a line, with me on the

safe side of it. He was spooked by the ruthlessness of whoever's behind all

this. He felt guilty for stirring up trouble for me. He didn't quite believe

they'd killed Sally, y'see. But when they killed Radd? Then he believed. He

didn't know where they'd stop. He wanted the truth to come out. All he got

for his pains was unwelcome attention from you and Wisby. And he was

worried who might follow after you. You meeting me was the last straw, I

reckon. He was determined no-one else would get the chance. So, he sent me

to St Malo, knowing he never would meet up with me there. And then he

went to finish it with you and Wisby the only way he could.

'I'm alone now, like I guess I always have been. Miranda, the sister I can't

even remember. Jem, the brother I had for a few precious months. They're

gone. It's just me left. I don't know what to do. I can't run. I can't stay. I can't

hide. I can't show myself. I want a mother and a father who don't lie to me or

betray me or insist I'm dead or someone else or Christ knows what. I want

justice for Jem. And for myself. I want everyone to face the truth. And I

want to know what the truth is. But I don't expect to get what I want. I don't

expect at all. I can't see the future. Any future. I can't see a way out. Or

ahead. Or even back.' She paused, frowning into what remained of her

coffee. Then, for the first time since she had begun speaking, she looked

Umber in the eye. 'Can you, Shadow Man? Tell me honestly, can you?'

* * *

Chantelle had not had much of an answer to her question when she went

back to her room. She was so clearly exhausted by then that Umber hoped

she would sleep for the rest of the night. He held out no such hope for

himself. He lay on his bed, not even bothering to undress, staring into the

darkness above his head. And darkness was all he saw.

* * *

He rose at dawn and slipped out of the hotel, carrying the knife in its bundle

of black plastic. He fetched the bag containing Chantelle's bloodstained

clothes from the boot of the car and followed the coast path as it climbed the

hill to the west. Cliffpath to Plemont, the sign at the bottom had promised.

But soon, infuriatingly, it turned inland. He had to cut through a small copse

and a bank of bracken beyond to reach the edge of the cliff. He tossed the

bag and the bundle over. They fell amongst rocks and foaming sea, lost to

the eye almost at once. Safe enough, he reckoned. He headed back.