'No. You wouldn't.'

'I'd better give you the message George's solicitor asked me to pass on to you, then.'

'Message?'

'From George. You're not to go to Jersey. Under any circumstances.'

'Not go?'

'I reckon he thinks it'd be too dangerous. Look what's happened to him.'

'I can't just… abandon him.'

'It's what he's telling you to do.' Latter took a thoughtful sup of beer. 'Of course, George never has been the best judge of what's good for him. Not by a long shot. So…' He looked expectantly at Umber. 'When do you leave?'

Booking a flight to Jersey was the easy part. The hard part for Umber – much harder – was knowing what to do when he got there. Sharp's plan had been to put some pressure on Jeremy Hall while his father was away and see what resulted. Whether the people who had framed Sharp for drugs smuggling had anticipated such a move was unclear. What was clear was that they must have followed Sharp to Portsmouth and hence had probably been following him for some time. The same might apply to Umber himself, despite his certainty that no-one had followed him to Kintbury. Walsh had seemed surprised to see him aboard Wisby's boat, but that could have been play-acting, at which the man was something of an expert.

In the final analysis, it hardly mattered. They could easily guess how Umber would react to news of Sharp's arrest. He could not seriously hope to travel to Jersey undetected. He was not sure he even wanted to. Stealth and caution had landed Sharp in prison and Umber in a predicament he could see no obvious way out of. It was time to step into the open – and see who might be waiting for him.

'Make sure they don't pull the same stunt on you,' was Larter's farewell piece of advice the following morning. 'Don't let anyone near your bag or your pockets.'

Crossing London at the start of the working day made it virtually impossible to follow such advice, but Umber reached Victoria confident no-one had planted anything on him. The painkillers he had taken and the beer he had drunk the night before were ganging up to undermine his watchfulness, however. He fell comprehensively asleep aboard the Gatwick Express and stumbled onto the Airport Transit in a daze, conducting a fuddled search of himself and his bag as he went.

Two hours later, he was hurrying through an unattended Green Channel on arrival at Jersey Airport. He exited the terminal into more of the dazzling sunlight and chilling breeze he had encountered on leaving the plane and made straight for the head of the taxi rank.

Umber had never been to Jersey before. The view he had from the taxi during the drive to St Helier was of an undulating, daffodil-spattered English landscape, with French place names and architectural styles grafted on – a pretty island, but a small one nonetheless: that had been apparent from the air. Oliver Hall had settled there because of its tax-haven status, but maybe he had found another kind of haven in the process and his son along with him. And maybe now their seclusion was about to come to an end.

The approach to St Helier was a busy main road round a wide, south-facing bay, with the rooftops of the town, the lofty ramparts of Fort Regent and the piers and derricks of the harbour growing ever closer ahead. Umber had asked to be taken straight to the offices of Le Templier & Burnouf of Hill Street. He had not thought much further ahead than what he meant to do there, which included learning all he could about Sharp's prospects. He had a strong suspicion they were far from bright.

It was lunchtime in St Helier, the pavements crowded, the traffic thick. The taxi stopped and started and eventually reached Umber's destination: a brass-plaqued legal practice in an elegant Georgian building opposite the Parish Church.

Umber had half-hoped Sharp's solicitor, Nigel Burnouf, might be lunching in the office and would agree to see him there and then, but it was not to be. The receptionist told him to come back at 2.30.

He filled the hour and a bit this left him with by booking himself into the nearest hotel – the Pomme d'Or in Liberation Square – and doing a small amount of research on the Halls. Oliver was not listed in the Jersey telephone directory, which came as no surprise. But Jeremy was less shy. His entry gave an address in le Quai Bisson, St Aubin, an address he shared, according to the Yellow Pages, with Rollers Sail & Surf School. The map lodged with the stationery in Umber's room showed St Aubin to be a village a few miles back round the coast. And the timetable in the bus station right opposite the hotel promised a half-hourly service in that direction. Tracking down Jeremy Hall would clearly not have tested Sharp – if he had ever had the chance.

Back at Le Templier & Burnouf promptly at 2.30, Umber was sent straight into Nigel Burnouf's office.

Burnouf was a plump, placid, middle-aged man with sandy hair, gold-framed spectacles and a reassuring air of unflustered efficiency.

'I was a little surprised when Janet said I was to expect you, Mr Umber,' he said after they had shaken hands and sat down. 'Didn't you get my message?'

'Oh, I got it, yes.'

'And proceeded to ignore it. Well, I confess the possibility you might do so had occurred to me. As I suspect it has to Mr Sharp.'

'I'm here to do whatever it takes to get him out of trouble.'

'That's rather a tall order, I'm afraid. He was caught red-handed. We need a witness who saw a third party plant the material on his van – or a confession by said party. I'm not holding my breath.'

'You do understand he was definitely framed, don't you?'

'It's what he tells me. And he's certainly an unlikely candidate for drugs smuggling. But facts are facts. It would help me if you could suggest who might have framed him – and why.'

'Hasn't George come up with a name?'

'No. Though I have the feeling there is a name. Could you enlighten me, perhaps?'

Sharp had said nothing about the Halls. It seemed, in fact, that he had said nothing at all beyond protesting his innocence. Umber had guessed it would be so. In the circumstances he could only follow Sharp's lead. 'There's nothing I can tell you at the moment. I need to… make a few enquiries.'

'Thus exposing yourself to those risks Mr Sharp is so anxious you shouldn't run?'

'I'll be careful.'

'Do you want me to tell him that? Or will you do so yourself? I can arrange for you to visit him.'

'I'll hold off on that, thanks. In fact…'

'You'd rather he didn't know you were here?'

'Well… yes.'

'You're not asking me to deceive my client, are you, Mr Umber?'

'No. But you don't have to volunteer information, do you?'

Burnouf considered the question for a moment, then said, 'I suppose not.'

'He'd only worry about me.'

'And he already has plenty to worry about. Point taken.'

'How is he?'

'Much as you'd expect. Imprisonment comes hard to a man of his age and former occupation. On the other hand, La Moye isn't Pentonville. His problem is time. It hangs heavy. And it's likely to go on doing so. He'll reappear before the magistrates next week, when a further and lengthier remand in custody is more or less inevitable.'

'No chance of bail?'