'You a wine buff, Umber?' he asked.

'Not really.'

'Nor me. More's the pity.' Sharp clicked his tongue. 'We'll just have to play it straight down the line.'

A bell rang as they entered the shop. From an office at the rear, behind the counter, a tall, thin man with wiry grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard emerged, stooping to clear the lintel. He wore a soulful expression, his face set in lugubrious, bloodhound folds, and seemed instantly to sense that they were not there to buy wine, as their conspicuous failure even to glance at the ample array of middle-of-the-road whites and reds only confirmed.

'Mr Questred?' Sharp enquired.

'Yes,' Questred replied, cautiously.

'This is going to come as a bit of a surprise. My name's George Sharp. And my friend here… is David Umber.'

A surprise it certainly should have been. But Umber felt, as Sharp's explanation of their visit proceeded, that it was a surprise Questred had somehow anticipated, even if only subconsciously. He seemed more disappointed than dismayed, as if they were fulfilling some gloomy presentiment that he only now recalled. When Sharp had finished, Questred went to the door, flicked the sign round to read CLOSED and slipped a bolt across to ensure they were not interrupted. Momentarily, he rested his forehead against the door frame. And then he sighed.

'We're sorry about this, Mr Questred,' said Sharp. 'If I could find a different way to -'

'You want to speak to Jane.' Questred turned to face them. 'You want to go over the same old ground again with her.'

'Just a few questions. That's all.'

'All? I doubt you have any conception of what all really covers for her. She hasn't got over it, you know. She never will. But she's learned how to survive it.'

'I'm sure you've been a big factor in that, Mr Questred.'

'I'd like to think so. I didn't know Miranda or Tamsin. Or Jane while she still had them. We have a daughter of our own now. We're happy. We have a good life. Jane doesn't need any reminders of the life she used to lead.'

'She's moved on.'

'If you want to put it like that.'

'Except she hasn't moved on,' put in Umber. 'I mean, not physically. She still lives in the area.'

'My business is here.'

'You could have relocated.'

Questred looked narrowly at Umber, as if paying him more attention than he had so far. 'She didn't want me to. She doesn't run away from things.'

'In that case, she surely won't mind speaking to us.'

'But you'll be encouraging her to run away, Mr Umber. From the truth.'

'Which is?'

'That Tamsin's dead, just like Miranda. That she isn't coming back. That there are no miracles on offer.'

'Does she believe Brian Radd killed her daughters?'

'What difference does it make who killed them? Someone did.'

'It made a difference to my wife.'

'Yes.' Questred's glance fell. 'I'm sorry.'

'We could have gone straight to your home, Mr Questred,' said Sharp softly. 'But Umber here insisted we consult you first.'

'I should be grateful, then.' But in Questred's voice there was far more resignation than gratitude. 'I'll tell Jane you want to see her. I won't try to stop her. Or to force her. It'll be her decision.'

'When -'

'This evening. Good enough?'

Sharp nodded his acceptance.

'Are you staying locally?'

'We will be now.'

'You'd better give me a number where she can contact you.' Umber moved to the counter and began writing his mobile number on the back of a Kennet Valley Wine Company card. 'If she wants to.'

Sharp had evidently noticed the Ivy House Hotel on their way into Marlborough. It was a handsome redbrick Georgian building on the southern side of the High Street. He led the way across to it, haggled briefly over the tariff and booked them in for two nights each, with an option on a third. Then they headed back to the van and drove it round to the car park behind the hotel.

'I'm going for a walk after we've unloaded,' he announced en route. 'Want to come?'

'No, thanks.'

'Need a break from my company, do you?'

'No, George. I just need a break.'

A beer and a sandwich on room service, followed by a bath and a sleep, was the break Umber had in mind. He reckoned only after that would he be fit to assess whether they had accomplished anything so far or not. Sharp seemed optimistic, but Umber suspected that was because he was enjoying being back in harness, albeit unofficially. Maybe an ex-policeman was never happier than when asking questions, no matter what answers he got.

A lot sooner than he would have wished, Umber was woken by the warbling of his mobile. He had been tempted to switch it off, but had not done so in case Percy Nevinson called. This turned out to have been a wise precaution.

'Hello?'

'David Umber?'

'Yes.'

'Percy Nevinson here.' The voice was indeed faintly familiar – oddly pitched and breathily nervous, with the receiver held too close to the mouth, so that the P of Percy exploded in Umber's ear. 'I gather you want to see me.'

'If you don't mind.'

'Not at all. Pleased to help. Naturally.'

'Good.'

'Where are you based, Mr Umber?'

'Marlborough. Ivy House Hotel.'

'Righto. Well, I can come into Marlborough this afternoon. Why don't we meet in the Polly Tea Rooms? Four o'clock, say?'

'All right.'

'One thing, though.'

'Yes?'

'Just you, Mr Umber. I'll meet you. Not the policeman.'

'There's really -'

'Not the policeman.'

It was a measure of Umber's exhaustion that puzzlement at Nevinson's bizarre condition for their meeting did not prevent him falling back to sleep – after setting his alarm clock for 3.30.

Well before 3.30, he was once again roused abruptly, this time by a knock at the door.

It was Sharp, back from his walk. And he was none too pleased to hear Umber's news. 'Bloody nerve of the man! I hope you told him where to get off.'

'I didn't feel I could, George.'

'Who does he think he is?'

'Someone whose cooperation we need, I suppose.'

'Inflated idea of his own importance. That's his problem.' Sharp ground his jaw in frustration. 'All right. Let him have it his way. This time.'

'He might be more likely to let his guard down with me.'

'Maybe.' Sharp eyed Umber with no great confidence. 'I'll just have to hope you can take advantage if he does.'

The Polly Tea Rooms were as close to the centre of Marlborough's small world as anyone could hope to penetrate at four o'clock on a Monday afternoon. Its doilied delights had drawn in a contented clientele, amidst which Percy Nevinson looked by no means out of place. When Umber arrived, on the dot of four, Nevinson was already ensconced towards the rear of the cafe. He was kitted out in a tweed jacket and dog-tooth-patterned sweater and was making rapid inroads into a large slice of fruit cake. He could have been an eccentric schoolmaster, it struck Umber, or a vicar in mufti. But an anonymous letter-writer? Yes. On balance, he could have been that too.

'Mr Umber.' Nevinson degreased his fingers as best he could and stood up. They shook hands. 'It's been a long time.'