'Mr Umber?' he asked, his voice neutral and low-pitched.

'Er… No.'

'But this is the Umber house, isn't it? Number thirty-six?'

'Yes. But…' Umber reached the end of the path and rested the box on the gate between them. 'They're not in.'

'Right.' The man looked quizzically at Umber. 'Any idea when they'll be back?'

'Not really. I…' Some kind of explanation was clearly called for, preferably one close to the truth. 'I'm their son. David Umber.'

'I see. Of course. My name's Walsh. John Walsh. Lynx Aluminium Windows. I have an appointment with your parents at eleven thirty. Did they mention it to you?'

'No. But… I don't actually live here.'

'Ah. That would explain it.'

'Anyway, aren't you rather early?'

'Terribly. The truth is I had a previous appointment in the area which has just been cancelled, so I called round in the hope of bringing this one forward. Looks like no dice.'

'Yes. It does. I'm sure they'll be back by eleven thirty if that's when they're expecting you.'

'I'm sure they will.'

'Actually -'

'Can I give you a hand getting that box to your car? It looks a real handful.'

'I don't have a car.'

'No? Well, can I give you a lift somewhere? I may as well, with this gap in my schedule. Besides, doing a favour for a potential customer's son can't be a bad idea, can it?'

'Okay. Thanks. I need to get to the station.'

'Pen Mill?'

'Yes.'

'No problem.'

Umber was happy to accept the lift for a reason unconnected with the weight of the box. In the course of it, he needed to give Walsh a good and compelling reason not to mention their encounter to his parents. Such a reason began to shape itself in his mind as Walsh helped him load the box into the boot of his BMW and had attained its final, appealing form by the time they set off.

'There's another favour I need to ask you, Mr Walsh.'

'Oh yes?'

'Well, it's my father's eightieth birthday in a few weeks.' (A few months was nearer the mark, but the distortion was necessary.) 'We're planning a surprise party for him. I've been to the house making some… preparations. I'd be awfully grateful if you didn't

'Spill the beans? You can rely on me, Mr Umber. Would it be better to say nothing about running into you?'

'It would.'

'You coming out of the house lugging a heavy box. Me giving you a lift to the station. It never happened.'

'Exactly.'

'My lips are sealed.'

'Thanks.'

'I like surprises. They make life more interesting. What's in the box, then?'

'I, er…'

'No, no. Don't tell me.' Walsh flashed a grin at Umber. 'The less I know the better.'

A few minutes later, they turned down the approach road to Pen Mill station. Walsh swung the car round in the forecourt next to the ticket-office entrance and stopped.

'Need a hand with the box?' he asked.

'I can manage, thanks,' Umber replied.

'OK. Well, have a good journey. And don't worry. Your secret's safe with me.'

'Thanks a lot.' Umber climbed out, closed the door and walked round to the boot.

His thumb was about an inch from the boot-release when the car suddenly surged forward and accelerated away. It was out of sight round the bend before Umber had moved a muscle.

He started running after the car. But it was a futile effort. By the time he could see the top of the approach road, the BMW had vanished.

Umber stood where he was. It had happened, but he could not for the moment believe it had happened. Walsh had stolen his box of Junius papers. But the man was not really Walsh, of course. He did not work for Lynx Aluminium Windows. He had no appointment with Umber's parents. He had come to Yeovil for the same reason as Umber. And he was leaving with what he had come for. Umber took a few faltering steps and sat down on a metal stanchion next to the cycle rack. He slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead, then slowly spread his fingers down across the eyes, pressing them shut. 'You fucking idiot,' was all he could find to say to himself. And he said it several times.

The tortuous journey back to Marlborough gave Umber ample opportunity to contemplate his stupidity and to measure its cost. The word JUNIUS had been plainly visible on the box. Walsh could hardly have missed it. His theft of it meant he knew what was inside. Which meant that what was inside mattered. It was important. It held a clue. Umber had been right about mat. But he had let the clue slip through his fingers.

He switched his mobile off. He did not want to speak to anyone, let alone Sharp. He stared morosely at the passing scenery. Time stood still. 'What do I do now, Sal?' he murmured under his breath. But he heard no answer.

The 49 bus from Trowbridge got him to Avebury just after 1.30. He went into the Red Lion and bought a large scotch. While he was drinking it, he saw the Marlborough bus drive past the window. He did not care that he had missed it. He had no clear idea of what he would do when he reached Marlborough anyway. He finished his scotch and ordered another.

When he left the pub, he crossed the road and went through the gate into the Cove – the gate Miranda Hall had run through to her death. He stood by the Adam and Eve stones and stared about him. The circle was emptier than it had been that day. There was not a living soul in sight.

He walked out by the other gate into Green Street and headed east along the lane, through the enclosing rampart of the henge and on past Manor Farm. A keen wind was blowing ragged cloud across the downs. The air was cold and cleansing. The lane became a track as it steepened. He did not look back.

Two hours later, Umber was standing outside the Kennet Valley Wine Company shop in Marlborough High Street. The walk across the downs had cleared his mind. He had been stupid. But he did not have to go on being stupid. What Walsh had done he had been put up to do. And the list of people who might have put him up to do it was a short one.

The man Umber had seen enter the shop a few moments previously emerged, clutching a clinking carrier-bag, and headed off along the street. Even before the door had swung shut behind him, Umber was through it.

He closed the door, slipped the bolt and flicked the sign round. Then he turned to face Edmund Questred.

'What do you think you're doing?' Questred demanded, rounding the counter.

'Making sure we're not disturbed.'

'I have -'

With a shove in the chest, Umber pushed him back against the edge of the counter. 'You had me followed to Yeovil, didn't you?'

'What?'

'Didn't you?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Just tell me why.'

'Why what?'

'Why Junius? What in God's name is it all about?'

'You're making no sense. If you don't leave – now – I'll -'

'Call the police? It's me who should be calling them. To report a theft.'

'Have you come here… to accuse me of something?'

'No-one knows I'm in Marlborough except you, your wife and the Nevinsons. I don't see Percy or Abigail hiring someone like Walsh – or whatever his real name is. It has to be you – with or without your wife's knowledge.'

'I've hired no-one.'

'But he was hired.'

'Are you serious?'

'I was followed to Yeovil and robbed. I think you know something about it.'

'I can assure you I don't.'

'I don't believe you.'

'That's up to you. But it happens to be true. All I want you to do is to leave Jane alone.' Questred did not look or sound as if he was lying. Umber's confidence faltered. Maybe he was on the wrong track after all. 'If someone's stolen something from you, you should tell the police. It's got nothing to do with me. Or Jane.'