* * *
Umber bought a coffee from the kiosk in the Library courtyard and sat on a bench, drinking it, while listening to the message over again. Oliver Hall sounded polite, even obliging. But his response was unmistakably calculating. Meeting in London rather than Jersey denied Umber and Sharp the opportunity to engineer an encounter with Jeremy. And giving them only the London number to reply to meant they could not argue about it even if they wanted to. Umber rang as requested and confirmed the appointment.
* * *
He was still sitting on the bench five minutes later, finishing his coffee, when his phone rang. Alice, it transpired, had wasted no time in keeping her promise.
'David, this is Claire Wheatley.' The voice was faintly familiar, but Umber could put only the fuzziest of faces to it.
'Thanks for calling... Claire. Alice must have spoken to you.'
'Yes. She has.'
'Can we meet?'
'If you like. But to be honest --'
'I know you think it's pointless. So does Alice. Shall we just take that as read?'
'I actually suggested you come and see me when we met at Sally's funeral, David. You obviously don't remember.'
'No. Sorry. I...'
'Look, I'm rather pressed for time. I'm going away for the weekend and I'm fully booked for Monday. But we could meet during my lunch break. How would that be?'
'Is that the soonest you can manage?'
'Yes.' The clipped reply instantly made him regret asking.
'OK. Monday it is.'
* * *
Oliver Hall and Claire Wheatley had both played for time. Umber turned the coincidence over in his mind during the train ride out to Ilford. They had agreed to meet him. But they had given themselves a breathing space. There was nothing he could do about that. He could force the issue, but not the pace. Besides, their delaying tactics were almost a vindication. They needed to prepare themselves. Which prompted an obvious question: what did they think they were preparing themselves
for?
Umber reached Ilford with a trainload of weary commuters, exiting the station into a damp and windy twilight. According to his
A-Z,
Bengal Road was close by, but he contrived to follow a tortuously indirect route to it thanks to mistaking which side of the station he was on.
His destination was a street of terraced, bay-windowed, red-brick houses. Number 45 was one of very few whose front garden had not been converted into a car port. There were no lights showing at the windows. But there was a folded sheet of paper wedged in the letterbox.
It was a note from Sharp.
Gone to the pub. Turn right into Riverdene Road and follow it to the Sheepwalk.
* * *
The Sheepwalk, it transpired, was the name of the pub. It was full to bursting at the close of the working week, the bar inaccessible through a smoke-wreathed ruck of drinkers. Umber blundered around aimlessly until he spotted Sharp at a fireside table in an alcove behind the blinking and beeping fruit machine.
Sharp's table-companion was a big, broadly built man of about the same age, with greased grey, centre-parted hair and a raw-boned, lantern-jawed face. He looked tall, even though he was seated, and had a red, bulbous nose that could as easily be owned by a boozer as a boxer.
'You made it, then,' was Sharp's growled greeting. He looked glum and liverish. 'Bill Larter. David Umber.'
Larter gave Umber a crushing handshake as he sat down and a peremptory nod. 'Want a drink, boy?'
'I'll get one in a minute. I just --'
'My local, my shout. Best bitter?'
'Er, yeah. Fine.'
Larter unwound himself from his chair and drained his beer glass. 'You ready for another, George?'
'Why not?'
Larter grabbed both glasses and steered a passage towards the bar, favouring his right leg as he went. Umber watched him go, then looked back at Sharp, whose expression suggested that his day had not gone well.
'To save you the trouble of asking, Wisby was a dead end.'
'Not literally, I hope.'
'Might as well have been. His ex-wife runs the business now, would you believe. Trades under Wisby's name on account of his reputation. Some people must have had a higher opinion of him than I did, that's for sure.'
'He's retired, then?'
'Yes. But not to any traceable address. Plies the canals on his narrowboat, apparently. Grand Union. Leeds and Liverpool. Take your pick. He could be anywhere.'
'Well, that cuts two ways, George. If we can't track him down, Junius can't have written to him, can he?'
'I suppose not.' Sharp thought for a moment, then seemed to brighten. 'How did you get on?'
'Do you want me to go into it all in front of Bill?'
'You can trust him with the secrets of your soul. He already knows a good few of mine.'
'Fair enough.'
* * *
Larter returned with the drinks part way through Umber's report of what, by comparison with Sharp's search for Wisby, constituted solid progress. It was obvious, though, that Sharp shared his suspicions of Oliver Hall. Hall was prepared to meet them, yes, but only at a time and place of his careful choosing.
'Business in London, my arse,' was Sharp's succinct assessment. 'He's trying to make sure we have no good excuse to go to Jersey.'
'You can't blame him for that.'
'We'll see about what we can and can't blame him for come Sunday.'
'And until then?'
'Well, you'll be busy poring over the archives. There's not a lot
I
can do. Looks like you get your wish, Bill.'
Umber watched the two old men exchange a smirk and waited for an explanation. Larter eventually supplied one after a lengthy swallow of beer.
'West Ham are playing at home tomorrow. George and me are going to take a stroll down memory lane.'
* * *
Another pint later and Sharp and Larter had decided not to wait until Saturday to wander the byways of the past. Umber was left to sup in silence as they reminisced about crimes and colleagues of long ago. His attention drifted. He thought of Sally and their life together -- and the short remainder of her life apart from him. He was tired and a little drunk by now. He could not seem to assemble all the implications of her death -- and the manner of it -- in his mind. He could not--
'Penny for them,' said Larter suddenly, leaning close to his ear.
'What?' Looking up, Umber saw that Sharp had gone -- to the loo, presumably.
'Not getting my old mate into more trouble than he can handle, are you, boy?'
'No more than he is me.'
'That's what I was afraid of. The pair of you, egging each other on. There's no telling what you might bring crashing down on your heads.'
'Reckon we should drop it, do you, Bill?'
'Bloody certain you should. But you won't. Not a chance. You've both got the same look in your eye.'
'What look's that?'
'The damn-the-consequences look. But consequences can be treacherous. You should never damn them till you know what they are.'
'I'll remember that.'
'No you won't.' Larter smiled. 'Not until it's too late, anyway.'
* * *
They returned at closing time to Larter's spotlessly clean and spartanly furnished house. Sharp took the bed in the spare room, leaving Umber the sofa in the sitting room downstairs. The arm at one end folded flat, which was a blessing, but the springs were pushing through the padding, squeaking and digging at every turn. And there was a lot of turning for Umber that night, as he dwelt on Larter's warning and all the good reasons why they should abandon their search for an elusive truth that they might not like much if and when they ever found it.
* * *
He did not feel a lot better come morning. But his determination was intact. Larter insisted on cooking him a bacon-and-egg breakfast to see him on his way. Sharp was still not up when Umber left. 'Sleeping it off,' was Larter's judgement as he walked him to the door. 'And he's not as young as he used to be.' To which the old man added, as Umber stepped out into a dank Ilford morning: 'You should remember that as well.'
* * *
Umber was not as young as he used to be either. A day's reading in the British Library proved a test for his eyesight as well as his concentration. It was also a sobering reminder of just how much he had forgotten about the subject he had once known so well, in every obscure detail.
Junius. The tormentor of politicians. The darling of the
Public Advertiser's
readership. The tantalizer of his many hunters. Who was he? Who
could
he have been? The editor of the OUP's
Letters of Junius
provided a list of sixty-one names. It was essentially the list Umber had set himself to work through for his thesis. Most of them had had a book or pamphlet written in support of their claim.
Junius Discovered. Junius Identified. Junius Revealed. Junius Unveiled. Junius Unmasked. Junius With His Vizor Up.
It was a morass as well as a mystery. A researcher could sink without trace in the murky depths where half-forgotten candidates for the role were silted up for posterity. And nowhere amongst them, Umber greatly feared, would he find Mr Griffin lying obligingly in wait.
* * *
He left when the Library closed, at five o'clock, with a sheaf of photocopied pages from various books and a bundle of notes. The copious note-taking with a pencil had given him a sore thumb, an aching wrist and a keen envy of those about him equipped with laptops. He had gone about his work the hard way, laboriously reassembling the basics of his long-lapsed mastery of all matters Junian, little good though it seemed to have done him. He could only hope that when he reviewed his findings with a fresh eye the next day something he had so far missed would reveal its hidden significance to him.
* * *
He was mentally drained and in no mood to hear Sharp and Larter describe their afternoon at the football. He drank a couple of pints in the pub opposite the Library, then, on a woozy whim, took the Tube to Green Park and made his way through the quiet streets of Mayfair to Kingsley House.
It was a five-floor red-brick apartment block, exuding an immaculately pointed air of reticent affluence. Quite why Umber had gone there he could not properly have explained. Oliver Hall had said he would fly over on Sunday, so there could be no question of catching him unawares. And yet, and yet... Umber stood on the other side of the road, gazing up at the few illuminated windows, wondering if he should try his luck. In the end, it seemed absurd not to.
He climbed the short flight of steps to the gleaming array of bell-pushes and pushed the one for number 58. He lingered for a few moments, expecting no response. Then there was a crackle and a female voice addressed him through the adjacent grille.
'Yes?'
'Mrs Hall?' It was the best guess as to her identity Umber could make.
'Yes.'
'Er, my name's David Umber.'
'You left a message for my husband.'
'Yes. So I did.'
'He's expecting you tomorrow. He's not here yet.'
'Tomorrow?' Umber decided to play dumb. 'Oh, I see. I'm sorry. I thought... I must have got the day wrong.'
'Yes. You must.'
'Can I... perhaps...'
'You'd better come up.' The door-release buzzed.
* * *
Why Mrs Hall had let him in was a question he found no answer to during the brief lift-ride to the third floor. She could easily have sent him packing. But she had chosen not to. It was not as if he had done much to talk his way in. She had simply decided that she wanted to see him.
* * *
The door of flat 58 was ajar when he reached it. He stepped inside, closing it behind him. The flat was warm and softly lit, decorated as if for an interior-design shoot, with lots of empty space round sleek, oversized furniture. Guitar music was playing in the high-ceilinged drawing room, smoke from a cigarette drifting up sinuously into cedar-scented air. Next to the ashtray on a long, low table in front of the artfully faked fire was a slew of magazines --
Tatler, Vogue, Hello! --
and a chunky tumbler containing what looked like a very large gin and tonic.
Mrs Hall had been peering into the huge oval mirror above the fireplace, removing an errant eyelash, when he entered. She was a slim, strong-featured, blonde-haired woman in her mid-forties, expensively dressed in a dark red shot-silk suit with high-heeled sandals. Umber assumed she was readying herself to go out. As she turned to greet him, he questioned his instant estimate of her age. Mid-forties was what she looked, but she could have been older. She was not a woman likely to deny herself whatever it took to maintain her appearance.
'There you are,' she said, her voice poised and neutral, devoid of accent. 'I'm Marilyn Hall.' They shook hands. 'Won't you sit down?'
'Thanks.' He sat opposite the sofa where the positions of the ashtray and tumbler suggested she had been sitting.