'No. I didn't want her upsetting Jane. So, I said nothing about it when I got home. And I said nothing about it when we heard she was dead either. In fact, this is the first time… I've mentioned it to anyone. I, er, didn't think it mattered. Well, I persuaded myself it didn't. And maybe I was right.'

'Or maybe not.'

Questred looked cautiously at Umber. 'I didn't expect you to take this so calmly.'

'I've already done a lot of thinking about Sally's death. What you've just said only reinforces my suspicion she was murdered.'

'Oh God. Do you really believe mat's possible?'

'Yes. I really do.'

'But that would mean…' Questred shook his head. 'Christ knows what it would mean.'

'I intend to find out.'

Questred rose and moved to the door, where he stared out at the wedge of sunlight advancing slowly across the yard. 'I'm frightened, Umber. That's the truth.'

'So am I.'

'Do you have to see Jane?'

'That's up to Sharp.'

'How would it be if I arranged for Oliver to speak to you? He's got state-of-the-art security at his place in Jersey. You won't get past the gate if he doesn't want you to.'

'In return for leaving Jane alone?'

'Yes.'

'That'd be up to Sharp as well.'

'But you could put it to him.'

'Yes.' Umber stood up. 'I could.'

And he did, over the breakfast he found Sharp polishing off back at the Ivy House.

'We only have his word for it that Jane didn't speak to anyone else,' Sharp objected.

'He didn't have to tell me about Sally's call, George.'

'True.'

'And Hall could refuse to see us if he was so minded.'

'Also true.'

'So what do you think?'

'I think we'd better accept his generous offer.' Sharp eyed Umber over a jagged triangle of toast. 'Don't you?'

It was unclear exactly how long it would take Questred to set up a meeting for them with Oliver Hall. Sharp gave him a twenty-four-hour deadline to concentrate his mind, then booked Umber and himself out of the Ivy House and headed for London.

'We can stay with an old pal of mine from the Met, Bill Latter, while we wait to hear from Hall,' he announced as they drove towards the M4. 'I gave him a call from the hotel. He'll be glad of the company. Not that he'll let you know it. Besides, he won't see much of us. We'll be busy. And this time you'll be calling the shots. Who can we talk to about Sally's activities in the days and weeks before her death?'

'Alice Myers was her best friend. She owned the flat Sally died in. Still does, presumably. If anyone knows what was going on in Sally's head at the time, it's Alice.'

'We'll start with her, then.'

'But there's a problem. Alice is anti-Establishment to her fingertips. Spent a whole winter in the Eighties camped out at Greenham Common. Obstructs the police on principle. She'll clam up in front of you.'

'What are you trying to say, Umber?'

'I'll get more out of her on my own, George. It's as simple as that.'

'Huh.' Sharp said nothing more for a mile or so, then resumed, the affront to his status evidently shrugged off. 'All right. Leave me out of it. There's something else I need to do anyway.'

'What's that?'

'Alan Wisby. Does the name ring any bells?'

'I don't think so.'

'He was a private detective Oliver Hall hired when my investigation ran into the sand. You and Sally would have been in Spain by then, but if Wisby was doing a thorough job, which I -'

'Hold on. Yes. A private detective did come to see us. I can't remember his name. Insignificant sort of bloke.'

'That would be Wisby. I can't blame Hall for going down the private route when it became obvious I was getting nowhere, but he could have done better than Wisby.'

Umber was not going to argue with that. He recalled a short, thin, whisper-voiced chain-smoker, a pale streak of English winter in the Catalan spring. Sally had taken an instant dislike to the man. But he had not stayed long enough to become a nuisance. He had asked his questions, they had answered them and he had gone, with little or nothing to show for his trouble.

'I don't know how long Hall kept him on the case, but he'll have got bugger all for his money. Wisby was a wash-out. Anyway, according to Yellow Pages, he's still in business, so I was thinking of dropping by his office.'

'Do you think you'll get anything out of him?'

'Shake a tree, Umber, and it's surprising what falls out. If Jane Questred didn't tip anyone off about our activities, you have to ask yourself: how were we rumbled?'

'And Wisby's the answer?'

'Probably not. But he's worth a visit. You see, it's occurred to me Junius may have sent the same letter I got to anyone else who was involved in investigating the case. And Wisby falls squarely into that category.'

Sharp dropped Umber in Hampstead High Street and headed on his way. They had agreed to meet later at Bill Larter's home in Ilford. Umber had fewer qualms about his reception there than at Alice Myers' home, where he had last set foot, lingering for all of ten excruciating minutes, on the afternoon of Sally's funeral.

Alice lived in a tall, elegant Victorian house about halfway between the High Street and Hampstead Heath. She occupied the ground and first floors, where she worked as well as lived, while renting out the basement and the top floor. It was the top-floor flat she had given Sally the use of following her return from Italy. And it was there, on the evening of Thursday, 24 June 1999, that Sally had died by supposedly accidental electrocution.

Alice's multiple occupations of fabric designer, curtain-maker, cello teacher and political activist all had 22 Willow Hill as their hub. Umber was therefore confident he would find Alice in. But there his confidence ended.

There was no immediate response to the bell, but he hesitated to ring again. Then -he heard a faintly vexed cry of 'Coming'. Alice, it seemed, was already preparing a less than fulsome welcome before she even knew who her caller was. A second later, the door was yanked open.

Umber never ceased to be surprised by Alice's size. Her name and her feathery voice created in the mind's eye an altogether slighter person than she actually was. Her outfit on this occasion – a baggy paint-spattered boilersuit – merely exaggerated her bulk. There were flecks of paint in her hair as well, flamingo pink amidst the pigeon grey, and one on the arm of her round, gold-framed spectacles, through which her large brown eyes regarded Umber with widening dismay.

'Oh my God,' she said. 'David.'

'Long time no see,' Umber responded, smiling uncertainly. 'Can I come in?'

'Sure. I'm… in the middle of decorating.' She led the way down the hall. They passed one room, bare of furniture, where a tide of pink had advanced halfway across the ceiling and a roller stood propped in a paint-tray against a stepladder. The next room contained the furniture displaced from the first room, crammed in with its own. By simple elimination, they ended up in the kitchen. 'Do you want some tea?'

'All right. Thanks.'

Alice filled the kettle and switched it on, then plucked two tea bags from a jar. 'Green OK? Well, it's all I drink, so…'

'It's OK.'

'You should've told me you were coming.'

'What would you have said if I had?'

'That I was decorating.'

'Anyway, it was a last-minute decision.'

'Just passing through?'

'Not exactly.'

Alice leaned back against the worktop and gave him a long gaze of scrutiny. 'You look kind of strung-out.'