Reviewing his visit to Alice on the Tube into central London, Umber could not decide whether it had gone well or badly. Alice had reacted as all Sally's friends might be expected to react. Umber stood accused of deserting Sally in her hour of need. Querying the circumstances of her death five years later looked at best futile, at worst ghoulish. But that could not be helped. It was far too late to tread carefully. Alice had not agreed to plead his case with Claire Wheatley because he had asked nicely.

From Euston he walked the short distance to the British Library and joined the queue at the admissions office. His membership had lapsed long before the move from Bloomsbury. He did not know how quick or easy re-registering would be. In the event, he was browsing the catalogue in the Humanities Reading Room within an hour of his arrival. Within another hour, he had placed his order for half a dozen of the most obvious Junius-related books. It was too late to expect them to be available that afternoon. He settled for first thing the following morning.

Umber had switched off his mobile while he was in the Library. He switched it back on as soon as he was outside and checked for messages. There was one, from Oliver Hall. Hall could not have timed his call better if avoiding a telephone conversation had been his specific intention.

'Mr Umber, this is Oliver Hall.' The voice was low-pitched and subdued, the enunciation surgically precise. 'Edmund's told me of your concerns. I'm willing to meet you. There's no need for you to come to Jersey. As it happens, I have to be in London on business next week. I'm flying over on Sunday. We can meet at my flat that evening. It's in Mayfair. Fifty-eight, Kingsley House, South Street. Would six o'clock be convenient for you and Mr Sharp? Perhaps you could leave a message for me there on the answerphone. 020-7499-5992. Thank you.'

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.