He never made it to Newbury. A slow, stumbling mile or so later, he reached another lock, and a road-bridge over the canal. He was feeling worse than when he had left the boat by now. Nausea and dizziness were sweeping over him ever more frequently. Seeing the lights of a house a short distance along the road, he headed towards it.

A bloody-headed stranger staggering in out of the night would alarm many a rural resident. But the couple whose door Umber knocked at responded with genuine concern and practical assistance, never once querying his explanation that he had injured himself in a fall on the towpath. The woman disinfected his wound as best she could, then her husband volunteered to drive him to hospital for a check-up. Umber accepted the offer with more gratitude then he could express – and slept like a baby throughout the journey.

The speed with which he was processed through Casualty gave Umber his first indication that he might actually be seriously ill. Concussion, the doctor told him after stitching the gash at the back of his head, should not be taken lightly. He could have suffered a brain injury whose full effects were not yet apparent. They would have to take him in for observation. He did not argue. He did not have the strength to.

Before being admitted, however, he did force himself to make a phone call – to Bill Larter.

'Where are you, boy?'

'Royal Berkshire Hospital, Reading. Knocked myself out in a fall.'

'Knocked yourself out?'

'I'll tell you about it when I get back.'

'When will that be?'

'Not sure. Tomorrow, I hope. Have you heard from George?'

'Not yet.'

'Shouldn't you have done by now?'

'Maybe the ferry was delayed. Maybe he's trying to get through at this very minute. He'll like as not call you first anyway.'

'He can't. I've lost my mobile.'

'How'd that happen?'

'Never mind. Tell him not to call me on that number.'

'All right. Though he'll want to -'

'Got to go, Bill. I'll be in touch. 'Bye.'

A nurse gave him some painkillers once he was on the ward. Maybe they were more than just painkillers. He certainly knew very little after taking them until morning. Even then, connected thought seemed beyond him. He knew he should feel angry about what had happened, but relief that he was still alive blotted out everything else. He asked if there had been any phone calls for him and was told there had not. He asked when he would be allowed to leave and was told that was for the doctor to decide. He asked no more.

The doctor came to see him around midday with the news that his X-rays had shown no abnormalities. Since he was conscious, coherent and complaining of nothing worse than a headache, he could leave provided a friend or relative came to pick him up and kept an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours.

This was easier stipulated than accomplished. Larter had no car. Sharp was in Jersey. Umber considered phoning his parents, but soon rejected the idea. In the end, he could think of only one person to ask.

'Are you sure you're well enough to be discharged?' was Alice's less than encouraging greeting when she arrived several hours later. 'You certainly don't look it.'

'Thanks for coming.'

'What happened to you?'

'Long story.'

'Yeah? Well, judging by the amount of traffic heading into London on the M4, I'll have plenty of time to hear it. Let's go.'

Fobbing off Good Samaritans and night-shift nurses with a story about hitting his head on a canal-lock balance beam had been surprisingly easy. Umber had no intention of trying the same trick with Alice. Indeed, he was happy to tell her the truth in the hope it would persuade her he really was onto something. In that, however, he was to be disappointed.

'Why didn't you tell the police about this?'

'They'd probably have arrested me for breaking into Wisby's boat.'

'Which you didn't do.'

'No, Alice. I didn't.'

'And where is Wisby?'

'Haven't a clue.'

'But you went to the canal basically because he invited you?'

'Yes. He sent me a letter. You want to see it?'

'Not really.'

'You can ask Claire about Wisby. She'll vouch for his existence.'

'Maybe I'll do that.'

'You think I made all this up?'

'No.'

'Then, what do you think?'

'I don't know, David. I just don't know.'

'Don't know was made to know,' Umber muttered under his breath. But she did not hear.

It was nearly six o'clock by the time Alice delivered him to 45 Bengal Road, Ilford. Larter was not at home. Umber had little doubt as to where the old man could be found, but Alice, having accepted a degree of responsibility for his welfare, insisted on driving him to the Sheepwalk to check on the point.

The pub was less crowded than on Friday. Larter was installed with a pint at his favourite fireside table. He surprised Umber by appearing pleased to see him, though he added a suitably grouchy, 'You look like death warmed up.' He volunteered nothing more in Alice's presence, seeming to sense her ingrained suspicion of policemen, even retired ones. She declined a drink and did not linger.

'Strange people you're mixing with,' she said when Umber walked her out to her car.

'Just people I can rely on, Alice.'

'I came and got you, didn't I?' she snapped, bridling at the implied contrast.

'You did. And I'm grateful.'

'You should get some rest, David. You really should.'

'So the doctor said.'

'Going back to Prague might not be a bad idea.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Oh yeah?' She climbed into her car, slammed the door and lowered the window. 'Do something for me, will you?'

'What?'

'Take more care.'

'Who was she?' Larter demanded as soon as Umber returned to the pub.

There was a pint waiting for him and Umber took a long and healing swallow before answering. 'An old friend of my wife's.'

'How much does she know?'

'More than she wants to.'

'Did you tell her George was going to Jersey?'

'Of course not.'

'Did you tell anyone?'

'No. Why?'

'George is in trouble.'

'What sort of trouble?'

'The big sort. The Jersey police stopped him as he was leaving the ferry last night and searched the van. They found a bag of heroin inside each wheel arch.'

'You're joking.'

'Wish I was, boy. George is in the slammer. No joke.'

'Bloody hell.'

'The duty solicitor who got his case phoned me a few hours ago. George was up before the magistrates this morning. They remanded him in custody on smuggling charges. He's looking at a few years inside if he can't talk his way out of this, you know.'

'They fitted him up.'

'Someone did, yeah. Planted the drugs in transit, then tipped off Customs at St Helier. That's how I read it, anyhow. Happen to know who that someone might be?'

'I wish I did.'

'I don't suppose I'd be far out in guessing they had something to do with whatever scrape you got into last night, though, would I?'