Sight Unseen (13 page)

'Probably not. But he's worth a visit. You see, it's occurred to me Junius may have sent the same letter I got to anyone else who was involved in investigating the case. And Wisby falls squarely into that category.'

* * *

Sharp dropped Umber in Hampstead High Street and headed on his way. They had agreed to meet later at Bill Larter's home in Ilford. Umber had fewer qualms about his reception there than at Alice Myers' home, where he had last set foot, lingering for all of ten excruciating minutes, on the afternoon of Sally's funeral.

Alice lived in a tall, elegant Victorian house about halfway between the High Street and Hampstead Heath. She occupied the ground and first floors, where she worked as well as lived, while renting out the basement and the top floor. It was the top-floor flat she had given Sally the use of following her return from Italy. And it was there, on the evening of Thursday, 24 June 1999, that Sally had died by supposedly accidental electrocution.

Alice's multiple occupations of fabric designer, curtain-maker, cello teacher and political activist all had 22 Willow Hill as their hub. Umber was therefore confident he would find Alice in. But there his confidence ended.

There was no immediate response to the bell, but he hesitated to ring again. Then -he heard a faintly vexed cry of 'Coming'. Alice, it seemed, was already preparing a less than fulsome welcome before she even knew who her caller was. A second later, the door was yanked open.

Umber never ceased to be surprised by Alice's size. Her name and her feathery voice created in the mind's eye an altogether slighter person than she actually was. Her outfit on this occasion -- a baggy paint-spattered boilersuit -- merely exaggerated her bulk. There were flecks of paint in her hair as well, flamingo pink amidst the pigeon grey, and one on the arm of her round, gold-framed spectacles, through which her large brown eyes regarded Umber with widening dismay.

'Oh my God,' she said. 'David.'

'Long time no see,' Umber responded, smiling uncertainly. 'Can I come in?'

'Sure. I'm... in the middle of decorating.' She led the way down the hall. They passed one room, bare of furniture, where a tide of pink had advanced halfway across the ceiling and a roller stood propped in a paint-tray against a stepladder. The next room contained the furniture displaced from the first room, crammed in with its own. By simple elimination, they ended up in the kitchen. 'Do you want some tea?'

'All right. Thanks.'

Alice filled the kettle and switched it on, then plucked two tea bags from a jar. 'Green OK? Well, it's all I drink, so...'

'It's OK.'

'You should've told me you were coming.'

'What would you have said if I had?'

'That I was decorating.'

'Anyway, it was a last-minute decision.'

'Just passing through?'

'Not exactly.'

Alice leaned back against the worktop and gave him a long gaze of scrutiny. 'You look kind of strung-out.'

'I feel kind of strung-out.'

'I heard you were in Prague.'

'I was.'

'Home for good?'

'I doubt it.'

The kettle boiled. Umber sat down at the kitchen table while Alice dunked the tea bags. A rumpled copy of the
Guardian
lay by his elbow, folded open at an inside page. There was a different headline from the one in Questred's paper, but the same grainy mugshot beneath it of Brian Radd, lately deceased paedophile.

'I owe you an apology, Alice.'

'You do?' She glanced over her shoulder at him.

'Leaving like that. Without even saying goodbye.'

'It was a tough day for everybody. Tougher for you than for most, I guess.'

'I bet that's not what you thought at the time.'

'It was five years ago. I'd just lost my best friend. I thought lots of things.' She delivered the mugs to the table and sat down opposite Umber. 'I'm sure I thought I'd never see you again, for instance. Certainly not here.'

'Read this?' He turned the newspaper round to face her.

She frowned. 'That's surely not what's brought you here.'

'Do you know why I left so abruptly after Sally's funeral?'

'Afraid people would give you a hard time, I guess.'

'I reckoned I deserved one. I felt ashamed for running out on her. Guilty for what had happened.'

'It wasn't your fault.'

'Whose fault was it, then?'

'No-one's. There's no blame... in situations like that.'

'But what
was
the situation? I should have asked more questions. I should have forced myself to understand. We all should have.'

'Things just got too much for her. There's nothing else to say.'

'I think there is. Everyone was so eager not to challenge the verdict for fear we'd have to admit it was suicide that no-one asked whether it could have been... something else altogether.'

'Such as?' Alice stared at him in bemusement.

He folded his hands together and looked at her over them. 'Has it ever occurred to you, Alice, that Sally might have been murdered?'

'What?

'It's occurred to me, you see. As a very real possibility.'

'I don't believe this. I really don't.' She shook her head to emphasize the point. 'You turn up out of the blue after five years -- five years of
silence --
and you tell me you think my best friend might have been murdered. In my house. Without me noticing. I mean, what did I do, David? Mistake the murderer for the plumber and let him in, saying hello, help yourself, you know where everything is?'

'Obviously not.'

'Sally was alone when it happened.
On her own.
And you know what? It takes two to murder as well as tango. Give me a break.'

'How do you know she was alone?'

'How?'

'Yes. It's a simple question.'

Alice's expression suggested that it was less simple than stupid. 'She was in the bath, David. Have you forgotten that? Where did this murderer suddenly spring from? There was no sign of a break-in, down here or up there.'

'Perhaps he tricked his way in.'

'And she decided to take a bath while he was still there? You know as well as I do how ludicrous that would be. Her problem wasn't people coming to see her. It was people
not
coming to see her.'

'You said at the inquest she'd been in good spirits.'

'Irrationally
good spirits, I thought, when I looked back on it, though I didn't say so to the coroner, obviously. She'd broken her last appointment with Claire, you know.'

'Who?'

'Claire Wheatley. Her psychotherapist. And a good friend of mine. She was at the funeral. I think you spoke to her. Don't you remember?'

'No.' Such conversations as Umber had had at Sally's funeral he had done his level best to forget. 'I can't say I do.'

'Sally was supposed to see her earlier that week. She'd been doing well, according to Claire. They had regular Monday afternoon sessions. I remember seeing Sally set off at the usual time. She just never turned up at the other end. Well, that's not strictly true, but --'

'What do you mean?'

'She got as far as the waiting room at Claire's practice, then walked out a few minutes before she was due to go in. Claire couldn't get any kind of an explanation out of her over the phone, so she asked me to find out why. But I got nowhere. Sally told me not to worry about it. Airily dismissed the whole thing. She was in a hurry to leave when we had the conversation. I remember she said she was going to Wimbledon. The Championships had just begun, but, hey, when was she ever interested in tennis?'

'Maybe she wasn't going to the tennis.'

'Oh, but she was. She told me so. I asked if she had a ticket and she said, "I don't need a ticket." It was all so unlike her. Claire thought she must have been yo-yoing by then -- alternating between extremes of elation and despair. It was Wednesday morning when I spoke to her -- the last time I
ever
spoke to her. By Thursday evening, she must have hit bottom.'

'Hard enough to kill herself -- by electrocution?'

'You know she had a horror of pills. Maybe it was the only way she could think of. When I found her the next day...' Alice looked away. When she spoke again, her voice had thickened. 'I don't want to be reminded of this, David, I really don't. You could have asked me all these questions five years ago, but you chose not to. Why now?'

'Strange things have been happening.'

She turned back to face him. 'What kind of things?'

'The policeman who investigated the Avebury case got an anonymous letter recently, telling him Radd didn't do it. Now Radd's dead. And I've learned Sally tried to contact the Hall girls' mother the day she died.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'What did she want?'

'I don't know.'

'But you have a theory.'

'I think she may have been getting close to the truth.'

'The truth?'

'About what happened at Avebury.'

'But she'd accepted what had happened -- and Radd's part in it. Claire told me so. It was a measure of the progress they'd made.'

'She never...' Umber stopped. He could not swear to what Sally had come to believe in the last months of her life. He had made certain of that by walking out on her.

'You didn't know, David. You weren't here. I was. Sally wasn't chasing after answers. If anything, she was running away from them. You've got this all wrong.'

'I don't think so.'

'She wasn't murdered. That idea's plain crazy.'

'This psychotherapist, Claire... whatever her name is...'

'Wheatley. Claire Wheatley. She's highly respected.'

'Could you fix it for me to meet her, Alice?'

'For Christ's sake. What purpose could that possibly serve?'

'Well, you seem to think I'm crazy. Maybe I need some counselling.'

'Maybe you do. But you can arrange that yourself. I take it you really want to see Claire so you can run your murder theory past her.'

'If she's as good as you say she is, I'm sure she could cope with it.'

'That's not the point.'

'Isn't it? Look, Alice, you're right about me. I wasn't anywhere close when Sally most needed me. But let's be honest, you and Psychotherapist of the Month didn't exactly bring her through smiling and dancing either, did you?'

Alice compressed her lips, clearly determined not to start trading insults. There was a brief, fragile silence. Then she said softly, 'All right. I'll ask Claire if she's willing to meet you.'

'Thank you.'

'I can't force her to agree.'

'I don't expect you to try.'

'But somehow I doubt you'll take no for an answer.'

Umber shrugged. 'Let's hope she says yes.'

'Nothing you do can bring Sally back.'

'Of course not.'

'Why stir it all up, then -- to no real purpose?'

'Oh, there's a purpose.'

'Is there? Truly?'

'Remember what you said when I asked you what the point was of you and your peace sisterhood setting up camp at Greenham Common? "Sometimes the right thing to do is the only thing to do." That's what you said. I thought you were mad. But you know what? You were never saner. I just didn't understand what you meant. I understand now.'

* * *

Reviewing his visit to Alice on the Tube into central London, Umber could not decide whether it had gone well or badly. Alice had reacted as all Sally's friends might be expected to react. Umber stood accused of deserting Sally in her hour of need. Querying the circumstances of her death five years later looked at best futile, at worst ghoulish. But that could not be helped. It was far too late to tread carefully. Alice had not agreed to plead his case with Claire Wheatley because he had asked nicely.

* * *

From Euston he walked the short distance to the British Library and joined the queue at the admissions office. His membership had lapsed long before the move from Bloomsbury. He did not know how quick or easy re-registering would be. In the event, he was browsing the catalogue in the Humanities Reading Room within an hour of his arrival. Within another hour, he had placed his order for half a dozen of the most obvious Junius-related books. It was too late to expect them to be available that afternoon. He settled for first thing the following morning.

* * *

Umber had switched off his mobile while he was in the Library. He switched it back on as soon as he was outside and checked for messages. There was one, from Oliver Hall. Hall could not have timed his call better if avoiding a telephone conversation had been his specific intention.

'Mr Umber, this is Oliver Hall.'
The voice was low-pitched and subdued, the enunciation surgically precise.
'Edmund's told me of your concerns. I'm willing to meet you. There's no need for you to come to Jersey. As it happens, I have to be in London on business next week. I'm flying over on Sunday. We can meet at my flat that evening. It's in Mayfair. Fifty-eight, Kingsley House, South Street. Would six o'clock be convenient for you and Mr Sharp? Perhaps you could leave a message for me there on the answerphone. 020-7499-5992. Thank you.'