Sight Unseen (17 page)

'I'm fine, thanks.'

'You don't look it.'

'Sorry?' He stopped and stared at her.

'You don't look fine.' She smiled blithely. 'I'm just telling it like it is.'

'Do you take that line with your patients?'

'They're clients, not patients. And no, I don't. But this is my lunch hour. So, you get the real me, not the therapist. Please. Sit down.'

He lowered himself into one of the armchairs. Oddly, Claire made no move to sit down herself. She stood behind the chair opposite him, leaning over its back and frowning at him. 'Well,' he said, with an effort at ingratiation, 'it
was
good of you to agree to see me. Thanks.'

'What have you been doing since Sally died, David?'

'Teaching, mostly. In Prague for the last two or three years.'

'Prague's a beautiful city.'

'So it is.'

'I'd have looked you up when I was there, if I'd known.'

'When was that?'

'Summer before last.' She grimaced. 'Not good timing, actually.'

'The floods.'

'Exactly. Of course, I was just a visitor, so there was a kind of grim fascination about it. How did it affect you?'

'I was in England at the time. My flat had the Vltava flowing through it and there wasn't a thing I could do.'

'Lose much?'

'Not much. Just everything.'

Claire nodded thoughtfully, then walked slowly round the chair and sat down in it. She straightened her legs and leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped between her knees. She fixed him with her round-eyed gaze. 'Alice seems to think you're out of work. Is that right?'

'Yes and no.'

'It doesn't take a psychotherapist to spot the equivocation in that answer, David.'

'How I make a living is irrelevant.'

'Not really. You lost your wife five years ago. You lost most of your possessions -- including most of your tangible reminders of Sally, I assume -- eighteen months ago. Now you've lost your job. Sounds like there's a gaping hole where most people your age have a family, a career and a fairly clear idea of the direction they're headed in.'

'A hole you think I'm trying to fill by chasing after Sally's ghost?'

'That's not exactly how I'd put it.'

'How would you put it, then?'

'Are you sure you want to know?'

'I can take it, Claire.' Umber forced a smile. 'Remember. It's your lunch hour.'

'OK.' She smiled too, gently acknowledging the riposte. 'I have the advantage of knowing you quite well already, you see, through Sally. And through Alice too. Of course, that doesn't necessarily give me a balanced view, but even Alice admits you have some redeeming qualities. You're not a monster in anyone's eyes. You left Sally because you were worn out by her. Maybe you'd have gone back to her eventually. We'll never know, will we? Because Sally's dead. She committed suicide, David. You know it. I know it. Those left behind tend to blame themselves for not doing enough to prevent a suicide. We know that as well. Because we've both blamed ourselves for not saving Sally. But if she didn't kill herself -- if she was murdered -- well, we wouldn't be to blame, would we? We'd be off the hook.'

'Did Alice tell you
why
I think Sally was murdered?'

'Yes.'

'It obviously didn't impress you.'

She shrugged. 'I saw Sally at weekly intervals during the last months of her life. You didn't.'

'You never suspected she might do away with herself, though, did you?'

'I was aware we were... treading a thin line. I thought we were the right side of it. I was wrong.'

'Why do you think she did it?'

'Because she'd spent eighteen years believing in the possibility that Tamsin Hall wasn't dead, but couldn't go on believing it. Because she'd lost you for the sake of that fantasy and ruined her life in the process. Because, in the end, she'd run out of hope.'

'Not a success story for your style of therapy, then?'

'All right. I'm not going to hide behind some elaborate conspiracy theory so I can deny failing her. I should have done more. I should have intervened.'

'Why didn't you?'

'It's not always easy to spot the warning signs.'

'Maybe there weren't any.'

'Perhaps there weren't enough. The change in her behaviour was certainly sudden. It became irrational by anyone's standards. You've spoken to Alice. You know what I mean.'

'She might have walked out on her appointment with you because she'd suddenly realized you weren't doing anything for her.'

'OK.' Claire smiled weakly. 'I guess I deserved that.' She leaned back in the chair. 'I admit our last meeting went badly.'

'The appointment before the one she broke, you mean?'

'No. I saw Sally the day she died.'

That stopped Umber in his tracks. He stared at Claire in silence for a moment, then said, 'Alice didn't mention that.'

'She doesn't know. I guess I was too ashamed to tell her. Though I'd have told you, if you'd given me the chance... after the funeral.'

'You've got the chance now.'

'Yes. That's really why I agreed to see you, to be honest. Even psychotherapists need to unburden themselves sometimes. And hearing how she was that day... may help you understand.'

'Go on.'

'Well, I was worried about her. It's as simple as that. Nothing I'd heard from Alice had reassured me. And I couldn't get Sally to speak to me on the phone. So, I went to Hampstead to see her. As it turned out, I never got to Alice's house. I spotted Sally sitting in a coffee shop near the Tube station. This was about... ten o'clock in the morning. I went in and tried to talk to her. It didn't go well. Truth is, her attitude annoyed me. Stupid of me to let it happen. Very unprofessional. But there it is. I asked her about the broken appointment and she just dismissed the subject. "Something else cropped up." That was her answer. Which made no sense, obviously. Then I spotted the magazine she'd been reading. It was from my waiting room. My PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE STICKER was still on the cover. That riled me. Such a petty thing, too. Anyway, I asked if and when she was planning to return it. I must have sounded so pompous. She got up, threw the magazine at me and walked out. "You don't need to worry about me any more," she shouted. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me. I should have realized, of course, what they really meant.'

'Which was?'

'That I needed to worry about her like never before.' Claire rubbed her hands together, then parted them in a gesture of helplessness. 'I'm sorry I let her go like that, David. Sorry I didn't... save her from herself.'

'Don't be.'

'Because it wasn't herself she needed saving from? That won't wash. You know it won't.'

'Maybe something else really had cropped up. Maybe
something else
is why she was murdered.'

'The truth about what happened at Avebury twenty-three years ago?'

'Exactly.'

'Don't you think Oliver Hall would have uncovered that, given the lengths he went to?'

'Sally told you about the private detective he employed, did she?'

Claire frowned. 'No. How could she?'

'We're taking about Alan Wisby, right? The guy Oliver Hall hired when he gave up on the police investigation. The guy who came out to Barcelona to question Sally and me.'

Claire was still frowning. 'Wisby was his name, yeah. But he came to see me a few months
after
Sally's death.'

'He did?'

'Yes. I had no idea he'd been working for Hall from way back. He never said so.'

'But he did say he was working for Hall
then
?'

'Yes. He explained that Oliver Hall wanted to find out why Sally had killed herself in case it had some bearing on his daughters' deaths.'

Wisby had still been on the trail five years ago. That meant Oliver Hall had been on the trail. Why would he have been? He had claimed only yesterday to have accepted Radd's guilt long since. Had Sally been in contact with him, despite his assurances to the contrary? 'What did you tell Wisby?' Umber asked, hastening to catch up with the lie he had caught Hall out in.

'Nothing. I don't discuss my clients with passing strangers. I'm only discussing Sally with you because you were married to her.'

'So you gave Wisby the brush-off?'

'I told him his employer had no reason to enquire into the matter.'

'Wisby accepted that?'

'He asked a few questions. When he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere, he gave up and left.'

'What sort of questions?'

'He wanted to know what had been on Sally's mind in the months before her death. He quoted a name at me. Asked if Sally had mentioned it. Well, she hadn't and I said so. It seemed the easiest way to get rid of him.'

'What was the name?'

'Gosh, I can't remember now. Somebody linked with the Avebury case, I suppose. I didn't recognize it.'

'Nevinson?'

'He was the other witness, right? No. That wasn't it.'

'Collingwood?'

'No.'

'Sharp?'

'The policeman? No.'

Umber hesitated, then threw out one more name, sure in his own mind of the answer Claire would give. 'Griffin?'

'Yes,' she said, confounding him. 'That was it.'

Half an hour later Umber was walking fast along South Street. The probable futility of his journey to Mayfair had not restrained him. He stood a better chance of finding Oliver Hall at home in the evening, but he could not wait till then. He knew himself well enough to understand that he could not return to the British Library without first trying his luck at Kingsley House.

He recited to himself as he went the multiplying significances of what Claire Wheatley had told him. Oliver Hall did not believe Radd had killed his daughters. He did not believe Sally had killed herself. He did not even believe both of his daughters were necessarily dead. Wisby had been working for him all these years: probing, enquiring, ever seeking the answer. And the answer had something to do with Griffin.

* * *

'Yes?' It was Marilyn's voice, responding just when Umber had convinced himself there would be no answer.

'David Umber here.'

'David?'

'Yes.'

There was a fraction of a second's pause. Then the door-release buzzed.

* * *

The door of the flat was ajar, as before, and the warmth had been restored to it. The music was back, more wallpapery this time, soothingly electronic. Marilyn walked along the passage from the bedrooms to greet him, towelling her hair as she came. She was wearing fluffy mules and a peach-coloured dressing gown, belted at the waist. The material of the gown was soft and clinging. She did not look to be wearing anything beneath.

'This is a surprise,' she said. 'I thought you'd wait till Thursday.'

'I was looking for your husband.'

'In banking hours? Here?'

'Sorry if I... disturbed you.'

'That's OK.' She smiled. 'I was just taking a shower. London's such a dirty city, isn't it?'

'Er, yes. Yes, it is.'

'Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?'

'No thanks. I won't stop.'

'That's a pity.'

'When will he be back?'

'Oliver? Hard to say. Six? Seven? I don't know.' She tossed the towel over a radiator and padded past him into the drawing room. He followed, a few paces behind. 'Do you want to leave a message for him? I think we'd better come clean about your visit this time, don't you? We don't want to push our luck.' She caught his gaze in the mirror above the fireplace.

'You could tell him I've found out about Wisby.'

'Who?'

'The private detective he's hired.'

'First I've heard of it. What was the name?'

'Wisby. Alan Wisby.'

'Are you sure about this, David?' She turned to look at him directly. 'How long has this man been working for Oliver?'

'More than twenty years, off and on.'

'And what's he been investigating? Or is that a stupid question?'

'Anything but, given how certain Oliver said he was that Radd was guilty.'

'I see. Well, I'll certainly tell him. Of course, he may deny employing the man.'

'I expect he will.'

'Then, what do you gain by asking him? If he's been using a private detective, he's been doing it without my knowledge. So, he's pretty well certain to deny it. And if he hasn't, he'll deny it anyway. Either way, you won't believe him.'

'I can prove Wisby's been working for him.'

'How?'

'Wisby approached Sally's psychotherapist on Oliver's behalf.'

'Really?'