The bloated Saturday edition of the Guardian arrived in Alice's hallway with a loud thump, though it was probably the higher-pitched rattle of the letterbox that roused Umber from an uneasy sleep in the rear drawing room. Alice's sofa-bed was several comfort points up on Bill Larter's, but that had hardly been sufficient to provide him with a good night's rest. The stitches in his scalp were becoming more of an irritant the longer they stayed in. And the demons inside his head never paused for slumber.
He struggled into his clothes, collected the Guardian from the doormat, then headed for the kitchen – and the coffee jar.
The kettle had not even come to the boil when his idle leafing through the newspaper took him to a headline he had hoped against false hope not to see. TRAGEDY RETURNS TO MURDER FAMILY 23 YEARS ON. He anxiously scanned the paragraphs below, relieved at least not to find his own name – or George Sharp's – staring back at him. But that was the full extent of his relief. Events at Avebury in July 1981 were back in the public eye. And its gaze was unblinking.
Less than two weeks after the murder in prison of Brian Radd, the serial child killer held responsible for the deaths of Miranda and Tamsin Hall in 1981, the girls' brother, Jeremy Hall, has been found dead at his father's house in Jersey.
A police spokesperson said Mr Hall, who was 33, had died as the result of a fall from the roof of the house. He had been alone at the time and the circumstances surrounding the incident were as yet unclear.
The dead man's father, Oliver Hall, aged 66, said Jeremy's loss had come as a great shock to him and to Jeremy's mother. He appealed to the media to respect their privacy at 'this terrible time'.
The original murder case has dogged many of those involved in it. Five years ago, the children's nanny, Sally Wilkinson, died in what was officially ruled an accidental electrocution. She was among those who had cast doubts on Brian Radd's confession, which he volunteered shortly before his trial on multiple murder charges in 1990. Jeremy Hall's death will only fuel speculation that-
'The press were bound to pick up on it,' said Claire, causing Umber to jump with surprise as she leaned over his shoulder to examine the article. She was dressed in a navy-blue tracksuit and mud-spattered trainers. Her hair and face were damp with sweat. Umber had supposed himself to be awake before the rest of the house, but that was clearly not the case. 'You must have seen this coming, David. Surely.'
'I didn't think they'd make such a splash of the story.'
'Coming hard on the heels of Radd's murder? They were never going to ignore it.'
'They even mention Sally.'
'But they use her maiden name, I see. Maybe you should be grateful for that.'
'Will the Wilkinsons be grateful?'
'Only one way to find out. Isn't there?'
Claire and Alice set off for Hampshire in Claire's TVR at 10.30. There was no guarantee the Wilkinsons would be at home, of course. But the risk of a wasted journey was preferable to the possibility that Reg would forbid them to come if they phoned ahead. Alice predicted he would not let them past the door even without Umber for company, but her pessimism was partly a symptom of her hangover. Claire seemed altogether more confident. 'They'll be happy to talk about Sally. Silence is never golden for bereaved parents.' The professional had spoken.
As far as she and Alice were concerned, Umber was planning to spend the day at the British Library, boning up on Junius. He had, of course, already established that the Ventry Papers, which represented his only remaining lead to Junius's identity – and hence Griffin's – were lodged in the Staffordshire Record Office. It was therefore unnecessary for him to do any more research in London and, in fact, he had no such intention. Alan Wisby had given him the slip in Jersey, cunningly and clinically. That did not mean he could go on doing so. Monica would remain in the boatyard at Newbury, deserted by her owner. Umber had no doubt Wisby would stay well away from her. But the man had to stay somewhere. And that put another Monica in the frame.
Umber's trip to Southwark was little more than a fishing expedition. He did not seriously expect to find anyone in the office at 171A Blackfriars Road on a Saturday morning. His ambitions were fixed no higher than extracting a home address or telephone number for Monica Wisby from the shoe-repair man in the ground-floor shop. He turned the handle of the door leading to the stairs up to the first floor fully expecting to find it locked. But it was not.
A tall, broad-hipped, big-bosomed woman in tight jeans and a clinging sweater was fingering her way through a set of bulging folders in one of the middle drawers of a battered filing cabinet when Umber stepped into the room at the top of the stairs. She had a mane of bottle-blonde hair and a raw-boned face done no favours by cigarettes and a career of private inquiring.
'Monica Wisby?' he ventured, already certain it was her.
She started violently, scattering cigarette ash down her sweater as she turned. 'Who the fuck are you?'
'David Umber.'
'How did you get in?'
'The door was open.'
'Bloody well shouldn't be. We're not open for business.' She hip-barged the drawer of the filing cabinet shut. 'Come back Monday.' Then recognition of his name kicked in. 'Hold on. Did you say Umber?'
'Yes. You know. The guy you were holding a letter for last week on your ex-husband's behalf.'
'Yeah. That's right.' She had absorbed the surprise of his arrival by now and Kleenexing the ash off her sweater gave her a few more moments for tactical thought before she looked him in the eye. 'Well, what about it?'
'Where is he?'
'Alan?'
'He and I need to meet. Urgently.'
'He obviously doesn't agree. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking me. But you got it spot-on. Ex-husband. Ex as in gone, separated, finished – for good.'
'I know you keep in touch with him.'
'No. He keeps in touch with me. When he wants to. Which he currently doesn't seem to. Tried the boat?'
'You're joking, of course. I'm sure he's told you what happened when I "tried the boat".'
'I've heard nothing from Alan since he sent me the letter for you. And that was only a few words on a covering note.'
'He didn't get everything he wanted in Jersey, Mrs Wisby. Small matter of a missing inscription.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Maybe not. But he will. Tell him I've got the missing pages.' A lie designed to smoke out Wisby counted as a white one in Umber's book. 'He can't do anything without them.'
'Tell him yourself. You're more likely to get the chance than I am. And you can give him a message from me if you do. He's supposed to be retired, for Christ's sake. I'm fed up having to explain to his clients that his freelance activities have nothing to do with me. He seems to be doing more work now than when he was supposed to be in charge of the business. First there was that pensioned-off policeman. Then you. And then… what's his name?' She grabbed a scrap of paper from the nearest desk and squinted at it. 'Nevinson.'
'What?'
'Know him, do you?'
'Percy Nevinson?'
'He didn't give me a Christian name and I didn't ask for one. But he's been on several times this week.' She held out the note for Umber to read. He assumed it had been written by the secretary for Monica's attention. Mr Nevinson called again for Mr Wisby. Please call with any news. 01672-799332.
'Mind if I use your phone?'
'Haven't you got one of your own?'
'No. I lost my mobile on your ex-husband's boat, as a matter of fact. I'll pay you for the call if it's such a big deal.'
Monica looked as if she wanted to refuse on principle but was unsure what the principle might be. 'Oh, be my fucking guest, then,' she said with a toss of the head.
Umber picked up the telephone and dialled. There was a distant, old-fashioned ringing tone. Then Abigail Nevinson answered.
'Miss Nevinson? This is David Umber.'
'Mr Umber. I was just thinking about you.'
'You were? Why?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter. What can I do for you?'
'Is Percy there?'
'No. Percy, er… Well… He's gone away. To one of his… ufological conferences.'
'Where's it being held?'
'I'm… not sure.'
'How would you get in touch with him in an emergency?'
'It would be difficult. I'd… have to wait for him to contact me.'
'Is that normal when he goes to one of these things?'
'Well… No. Not really. It's a little… concerning, I have to admit.'
'When did he leave?'
'Early this morning. Before I was up.'
'And when's he due back?'
'I'm not sure. I imagine it's just a weekend event, though. They normally are. Unless…'
'What?'
'I've just read about Jeremy Hall in the paper, Mr Umber. I suppose you know what's happened.'
'Yes.'
'You don't think Percy's trip… has anything to do with that, do you?'
Umber did think so. In fact, he felt certain of it, though what dealings Nevinson might have had with Wisby were a mystery to him. That applied to a good deal else as well. Every step he took led him further into a labyrinth of lies. For every one he nailed there was another waiting to deceive him.
From Blackfriars Road he walked aimlessly towards Tate Modern, pausing amidst the ambling tourists on the Millennium Bridge to stare downriver and wrestle in his mind with the confusions and contradictions that threatened to swamp him. Nevinson had gone to Jersey. Umber's every instinct told him so. The Halls and the Questreds were there and so were the clues to what had driven Jeremy Hall to suicide. Maybe Wisby had gone back there as well. And maybe Umber should follow. But what could he accomplish there? What could he hope to achieve? There was still no trail he could follow that promised to lead him to the truth.
Umber ended up walking most of the way back to Hampstead. Physical exhaustion seemed to be the only brake on the enervating whirl of his thoughts. He took a decision of sorts during the long trudge through Finsbury and Camden Town. It involved misleading Claire and Alice. But he reckoned he would be doing them a favour – just about the only favour he had in his gift.
They had already returned from Hampshire when he reached 22 Willow Hill, his arrival time handily consistent with the studious hours he had supposedly spent in the British Library. He expected to be told they had learned nothing from the Wilkinsons. The assumption had been factored into his decision. But it was an assumption that was to be rapidly confounded.
'Alice is busy upstairs on her computer,' Claire said as she let him in and led the way towards the kitchen. 'We got back half an hour ago.'
'Empty-handed?'
'No.' She glanced over her shoulder at him. 'We found something all right, David.'
He recognized the object as soon as he saw it lying on the kitchen table: a spiral-bound crimson-covered scrapbook. 'My God,' he said. 'I never thought I'd see that again.'
Sally had amassed a collection of newspaper cuttings relating to Miranda Hall's murder and Tamsin Hall's presumed murder. Triggered by Radd's out-of-the-blue confession nine years after the event, she had bought a scrapbook and pasted the cuttings into it, along with new ones reporting Radd's trial. Umber had urged her to throw them away, but that had only fired her determination to preserve them. The book was a testament to her belief that 'Somebody has to keep a proper record in case they fiddle with the facts and hope we won't notice'. It was around then that Umber had begun to understand the intractability of her plight. Time had hardened Sally's wounds, not healed them.
'You've looked through it?' Umber asked, laying his hand lightly on the cover.
'Yes', said Claire from behind him.
'Morbid reading, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'And Sally did read it. All too often.'
'Unlike her parents, then. I don't think they'd ever brought themselves to open it.'
'No?'
'Not her mother, anyway. Reg Wilkinson had a stroke the year after Sally died. He's virtually mute, so there's no way to tell what he might or might not have made of it.'
'And Peggy?'
'She's fit and well. Sent you her love.'
Umber swallowed hard. 'Did she?'
'She was happy to let us borrow the scrapbook if it helped to make any sense of Sally's death.'
'Can't see how it could do that. There's nothing in these cuttings we don't already know.'
'That's not strictly true, David. Turn to the back of the book.'
Umber opened the book at the last page, which, like several before it, was blank. A sheet of paper had been slipped inside the cover: a page torn out of a glossy magazine. Under the heading INSIDE STORY was an assortment of paparazzo-snapped celebrities, most of whose names registered, if only dimly, in Umber's consciousness. It was a page from Hello!, of course. That, he knew at once, was the point.
'As soon as I saw it I remembered,' said Claire. 'When I had that stupid row with Sally in the coffee-shop the day she died and she threw the magazine at me. You know? I told you about it.'
'Yes?' He looked round and frowned at her.
'I'd forgotten, until I saw that. Sally tore a page out of the magazine before she threw it at me.'
'And this is it?'
'Has to be.'
'But what does it mean?'
'It means she saw something significant in a month-old copy of Hello! she was looking at in my waiting room. That's why she walked out. Because what she saw made a counselling session with me… suddenly irrelevant.'
Umber looked at the page again and turned it over. More INSIDE STORY zoom-lensed pictures of movie stars out shopping in sunglasses and baseball caps or sunbathing in cellulite-revealing swimsuits. 'I don't get it,' he said. 'What's significant about any of this?'
Claire flipped the page back over. 'There,' she said, pointing to a spread of three photographs of what looked to be a friendly game of mixed-doubles tennis on a red-clay court featuring an actor and actress Umber had never heard of on one side of the net and a tennis player he had heard of, plus girlfriend, on the other. According to the captions, the actor and actress were taking a break from promoting their latest blockbuster at the Cannes Film Festival. The bronzed, honed, raven-haired tennis star entertaining them on a local court was Monaco-based Michel Tinaud, of whom great things were expected at the forthcoming French Open. 'He's why Sally went to Wimbledon that week,' Claire continued. 'Remember what she said to Alice? "I don't need a ticket." Don't you see? She wasn't going to watch tennis. She was going to speak to a tennis player.'
'Why?' Umber already knew the answer, but the question was apt nonetheless. He knew. But he did not understand.
'It has to be the girlfriend,' said Claire.
And so it did. Unnamed by Hello! presumably because unidentified, Tinaud's playing companion was dressed in a red T-shirt and white tennis skirt. She had long fair hair tied in a ponytail and featured in only one picture, biting her lower lip and wrinkling her brow in concentration as she waited to receive service.
'Recognize the expression?' Claire slipped the Hello! cutting out onto the table, then turned to a page nearer the front of the scrapbook, where one of the Halls' photographs of Tamsin had been reproduced in a newspaper a few days after her abduction. The two-year-old Tamsin was wrinkling her brow at the camera and biting her lower lip.
'It's a common gesture,' Umber murmured. 'It doesn't mean -'
'Sally saw something. Probably more than just the expression. She was the girl's nanny. She knew her as closely as her mother did. She knew her well enough to recognize the child in the woman. The girl on the tennis court looks about twenty to me. What do you think?'
'Probably.'
'The right age.'
'Like thousands of others.'
'But not like thousands of others – in some way that convinced Sally she'd found her.'
'You can't be sure.'
'Sally was sure.'
'Was she?' Umber knew the answer to his question better than Claire could hope to. He was playing for time – the time he needed to think. Because he had seen something too. Not a tantalizing resemblance to a missing, presumed-dead two-year-old girl. But an unmistakable similarity to someone he had met only recently. The hair was a different colour, worn in a different style. The clothes were a bizarre contrast. The environment was alien to her. But there was absolutely no doubt in Umber's mind. Michel Tinaud's girlfriend… was Chantelle.