'You did that, Chantelle. You truly did.'
'You're not going to let me down, are you, Shadow Man?' She looked up at him, her eyes moist and red-rimmed. 'I don't think I can... go on alone.'
'We'll get out of this. Together.'
'How?'
'Is there anything in this flat or the office or the boat store to lead them to you?'
'No. Nothing. Jem was always careful about that.'
There were questions -- a host of them -- Umber longed to put to her. But they would have to wait. The need now was to act. And to make sure they acted for the best. 'My car's just round the corner. We'll walk to it and drive away.'
'What about Eddie?'
'We leave him here. He'll be found soon enough, but I'm betting those who find him won't want to set the police on us. On
you,
anyway.'
'I can't walk down the street looking like this.'
'Could you put some clothes of Jeremy's on?'
'I suppose.'
'Do that. And fast. We should go as soon as we can. But there's something I have to do first.'
She made no move and merely went on staring at him.
'Please, Chantelle.
Do it
.'
She flinched at the forcefulness of his tone, which he instantly regretted. But it had its effect. 'Sorry,' she murmured, rising unsteadily and stumbling across to the chest of drawers. 'Sorry.'
Leaving her to it, Umber jumped up and hurried out into the hall. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the rug clear of the body of the man he now knew as Eddie Waldron. Deliberately avoiding a glance at the bloody, oozing mess of the fatal knife wound, he unclipped the small bunch of keys he had seen hanging from one of Waldron's belt-loops. The remote for the BMW was among them. Noticing the bulge of a wallet in Waldron's hip pocket, he took that as well. Then he folded the rug back into place.
He pocketed the wallet and keys and stepped gingerly into the kitchen, keeping clear of the pool of blood. There he hunted down a tea towel, Sellotape and a roll of black plastic rubbish sacks. He took these out into the hall, wrapped the knife in the tea towel, put the bundle inside one of the rubbish sacks, folded it over and taped down the ends. Then he returned to the kitchen one more time -- to collect the Juniuses.
'I'm ready,' said Chantelle, watching from beside the bed as he edged past the rug-shrouded shape. She was wearing jeans baggy enough to cover all but the toes of her bloodstained trainers, even though they were rolled up several inches at the ankle, and a navy-blue sweater, with some kind of yachting motif on it, that hung to just above her knees. Only the tips of her fingers were visible beneath the sleeves. Umber saw her glance fall to Waldron's feet protruding from the rug. 'Christ,' she murmured. 'I really did it, didn't I?'
'Don't think about it,' said Umber. 'We're leaving now. OK?'
There was a long silence. Finally, she wrenched her gaze back to Umber. 'OK.'
'Put your clothes in this.' He peeled off a second rubbish sack and tossed it to her, then moved to the front door and edged it open. There was neither sight nor sound of movement on the steps. He waited a few seconds to be sure. Then he stepped back and signalled to Chantelle. 'Come on.'
She hesitated, then hurried out to join him by the door, the sack containing her discarded clothes clutched in one hand.
'Go down to the office and wait there. I'm going to check his car. It won't take long. Then we'll go.'
Chantelle nodded and headed past him. With a parting glance behind, Umber followed, pulling the door shut as he left. Chantelle was already out of sight as he descended the steps. He flicked the remote at the BMW. The sensor behind the rear mirror flashed. The door locks released. There was no-one close by. The nearest passers-by were on the Boulevard and were paying events in le Quai Bisson no heed. He glanced into the car, but could not see what he was looking for. He strode round to the boot and opened it.
Inside was a smart-looking camcorder, nestling in an unzipped shoulder-bag. And there, to his astonishment, towards the rear of the boot space, was a white cardboard box, fastened with string. The word JUNIUS stared at him in his own, long-ago handwriting. He shook his head in disbelief and smiled despite himself.
'What is it?' called Chantelle, frowning at him from the doorway of the office.
'Something I never expected to see again.' He hauled the box out and dropped it on the ground, wedged the black plastic bundle under the string and hoisted the camcorder-bag onto his shoulder. 'Come on.'
Chantelle hurried over. Umber handed her the Juniuses, then picked up the box. The strap of the bag slipped off his shoulder as he did so. Chantelle hoiked it back into place, squinting in puzzlement at the titles on the books she was holding and the word on the side of the box.
'I'll explain later. Let's get moving.'
* * *
The walk to the hotel was brief and uneventful. Conspicuous though they felt, no-one in fact paid them any attention. They loaded everything they were carrying into the boot of Umber's hire car, then he went into the hotel and booked out.
'Where have you been staying?' Umber asked Chantelle when he returned to the car.
'A small hotel on the other side of St Helier.'
'Right. We'll drive there, pick up your stuff, pay your bill and make for the Airport. There should be an evening flight to Gatwick we can get a couple of seats on.'
'We're leaving Jersey?'
'The sooner the better.'
* * *
Umber's every instinct told him they would be safer off the island. What they were going to do back in England he had literally no idea. The next step was all he could focus on. The step after that lay beyond his power to imagine.
* * *
'Where did you grow up, Chantelle?' he asked as they headed round the coast road towards St Helier through ever thickening traffic: the rush hour was upon them.
'South Africa. Hong Kong. Gibraltar. We moved about a lot. My parents --' She broke off. 'Roy and Jean Hedgecoe. That's what they're called. Not Dad and Mum to me any more. Roy and Jean.'
'What did they do for a living?'
'Good question. I never really knew. Roy was in import-export, whatever that meant. He had business with... strange people.'
'Like Eddie Waldron?'
'His sort, yeah. All his sort.'
'Any brothers or sisters?'
'No. Just me. Carted around the world by... Roy and Jean. When I was sixteen, we moved to Monaco. A new opening, they said. More like a reward, I guess. For looking after me so carefully. We lived high there.'
'And you met Michel Tinaud?'
'Yeah. He thought he was God's gift. So did I. I was pretty stupid back then. I had no idea what was going on. Any of it, I mean. Not just what was
really
going on. I was a different person. Not me. Not this me, anyway. Some... other girl they'd brought me up to be. Only it didn't work out. I was crazy about Michel. I didn't really think about much else. I went to Paris with him. Then Wimbledon. And that's when everything changed. Because of Sally. Your wife. How long were you two married?'
'Eight years. But we were together a lot longer than that.'
'You want me to tell you what happened when she tracked me down, don't you?'
'Yes. I do.'
'Do you blame me for her death?'
'Of course not.'
'Maybe you should.' She gazed ahead for a long, vacant interval, then said, 'Can I tell you later? I just ... don't want to talk about it right now.'
'OK.'
'But I
will
talk about it.' She glanced at him. 'I promise.'
* * *
They entered St Helier and drove through the Fort Regent tunnel, then followed the main road out to the east until Chantelle pointed out the Hotel Talana ahead of them. Umber pulled into the car park at the rear and Chantelle went in to change her clothes, pack her few belongings and check out.
While she was gone, Umber fetched the camcorder from the boot and unloaded the cassette. The tape was only part-used, as good a confirmation as he needed that it held the recording of his meeting with Wisby. He dropped the cassette onto the ground and stamped on it several times, smashing the plastic case and the spools inside. He dragged the tape out of the wreckage and shoved it into his pocket for later destruction. At least he did not have to worry about being fitted up as Wisby's accomplice now, though there was no telling what Wisby would say about him to the police. For that reason if for no other, an early departure from Jersey was essential.
Back in the car, Umber checked through Waldron's wallet. It turned out to contain several hundred pounds and a couple of credit cards, one for John E. Walsh, the other for Edward J. Waldron. There was nothing else.
It was only as he closed the wallet that a thought caught up with Umber relating to Wisby. And a disturbing thought it was.
Wisby had no way of knowing Umber was not party to the plot against him. He would in fact assume Umber was very much a party to it. His best hope of persuading the police to believe he had been framed was to tell at least some of the truth about his reasons for visiting Jersey and to finger Umber as a treacherous accomplice. As matters stood he could not prove Umber had played any part in blackmailing Jeremy Hall, but he
could
prove Umber had been working with George Sharp, another self-proclaimed victim of a frame-up. If the police then learned there had been a killing at Jeremy's flat, they would eventually go to see Sharp's solicitor. Burnouf would probably be sufficiently alarmed by what had happened, and genuinely concerned for the safety of a client he had heard no more from since the previous week, to give them sight of the statement the client had left with him -- a statement in which Umber had made it very clear he was in Jersey to extract information from Jeremy Hall by whatever means he could devise.
Umber glanced at his watch. It was nearly six o'clock. If it was not already too late for conducting business at Le Templier & Burnouf, it surely would be by the time he got there. So, either he left the statement where it was... or he was not leaving Jersey as soon as he wanted to.
* * *
Another quarter of an hour had passed before Chantelle returned to the car. She must have read Umber's heightened anxiety in his expression, because the first words she spoke to him were, 'What's wrong?'
Plenty was the answer. But what Umber actually said was, 'There's been a change of plan.'
'I'm not going alone.'
It was the third or fourth time Chantelle had said so and Umber had reluctantly concluded that she meant it. They were sitting in Umber's hire car in a desolate corner of the Airport car park, watching the light fade slowly beyond the terminal building as the last flights of the day came and went. Chantelle's refusal to leave without him that night would soon become unalterable, because leaving that night would soon become impossible.
'Jem put me on a ferry to St Malo on Thursday and told me he'd join me there the next day. But he was dead by then. I waited for him. But he never came. I don't want to do that again. I've spent too much of the past few years alone, Shadow Man. I can't do it any more.'
'It's too risky to stay, Chantelle.'
'
You're
staying.'
'Because I've got to get that statement out of Burnouf's office. I have no choice.'
'Fine. Get the statement first thing tomorrow. Then we'll go.'
'OK,' said Umber, glumly accepting the reality of her decision. 'Have it your way.'
'Do you think they'll have found Eddie's body yet?'
'Maybe.'
'And do you think they'll be looking for us?'
'If they've found him, for certain.'
'Better not stay here, then, had we?'
'Where do you suggest we go, Chantelle? It's a small island.'
'But not too small to hide in. Let's get moving.'
* * *
Trade was slack at the Prince of Wales, the hotel overlooking the beach at Greve de Lecq on Jersey's north coast. Postcards for sale at reception depicted the bay in all its kiss-me-quick, bucket-and-spade summer jollity. The story on a windy night at the end of March was rather different. A couple of rooms were readily to be had at a knock-down rate.
Umber tried to persuade Chantelle to eat something, but she insisted she was not hungry and in truth he had no appetite himself. After booking in, they walked down to the beach and stood among the deserted cafes and souvenir stalls as the sea crashed in, the surf a ghostly grey rim to the blackness of the night-time ocean.
'You saw me that day, didn't you, Shadow Man? The day my first life ended. The life I don't even remember. You were at Avebury on the twenty-seventh of July, 1981.'
'Me and a few others, yes.'
'But most of them are dead, aren't they? My sister. My brother. Your wife. All gone now.'
'What about the day your second life ended, Chantelle? Can you bear to tell me about that?'