Robert Goddard - Sight Unseen

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?'