'Realistically, none. Drugs smugglers are notorious for jumping bail, I'm afraid.'

'And when will the case come to trial?'

'Not for several months at least.' Burnouf leaned forward. 'The best way to help your friend in the meantime, Mr Umber, is to let me have any information that's even marginally relevant. For instance, if Mr Sharp didn't come to Jersey for the purpose of trafficking in drugs, why did he come?'

'What does he say?'

'Nothing.' Burnouf smiled wanly. 'Rather like you.'

'I do have something that might help, as a matter of fact.'

'You do?'

'This.' Umber took a sealed envelope out of his pocket and placed it on Burnouf's desk.

'What is it?'

'A statement, I suppose you'd call it. My record of certain recent events not unconnected with what's happened to George.'

'You want me to read it?'

'No. That is, not unless… I should happen to meet with a fatal accident.'

Burnouf's eyes widened. 'Aren't you being rather… melodramatic?'

'I hope so. But I have good reason to doubt it. So, just in case…' Umber patted the envelope. 'The contents may be enough to get George off. I'm not sure. They'll give you some material for his defence, anyway.'

'I see.' Burnouf picked up the envelope. 'Or, rather, I don't.'

'I'm sorry I can't say any more.'

'So am I.'

'You'll hold onto the statement for me?'

'If those are your instructions.'

'They are.'

'Very well, then.' Burnouf took a roll of Sellotape out of his desk drawer, tore off a strip and stuck it over the flap of the envelope. Then he tore off a couple more strips and stuck them over the envelope's seams. 'Sign across the seals, would you, Mr Umber?' He proffered a pen. Umber obliged. 'Your receipt.' Burnouf hastily filled in a form and handed it over. 'All done.'

'Thanks.' Umber rose to leave.

'Where are you staying?' Burnouf asked as he saw him out.

'The Pomme d'Or.'

'Nice hotel. Quite a history attached to it, actually. If you go along to the Occupation Museum, you can see film of the crowds gathered outside the Pomme to celebrate the end of German rule, with British troops sitting on the balcony waving -' Burnouf broke off. 'Sorry. I'm talking as if you're a tourist.'

'Jersey's changed a lot since the War, I imagine,' said Umber, feeling he had to respond in some way.

'Enormously. And not necessarily for the better, according to my father and quite a few of his generation.' Burnouf smiled. 'Tax exiles from the mainland are the problem, apparently. They've brought a lot of money to the island. And lucrative employment for the likes of me. But they've brought their troubles with them as well.' He looked Umber in the eye. 'I have a funny feeling you know that, though.'

Umber had not enjoyed holding out on Burnouf, but he did not regret it either. He did not know exactly what to allege or who to allege it against. He needed evidence. And only the truth seemed likely to furnish it. But the truth was as elusive as ever. The statement he had lodged with Burnouf proved nothing. Yet it was all he had to show for his and Sharp's efforts. He had to learn more – and soon.

The number 15 bus dropped him in the centre of St Aubin, a smart, bustling seaside town clustered round a harbour filled with yachts and motorboats clinking at their moorings in the late-afternoon sun. He asked directions of a passer-by and was pointed along the harbourside boulevard to the first turning.

Le Quai Bisson was a narrow side-street leading to several old stone warehouses functioning as small business premises. The doors of Rollers Sail & Surf were firmly closed, the small office to the rear locked and unattended. The place had a pre-season look about it, with last year's tide tables still displayed in

the office window.

A steep flight of steps led up beside the warehouse to a higher road. Halfway up the steps was the entrance to the flat which the roof area of the building had been converted into. Umber could hear the bass output of an amplifier within. He took an optimistic stab at the bell. No response. He tried again, adding a rattle of the letterbox for good measure.

The door opened suddenly to a gust of heavy metal and a blank stare from a slightly built young woman dressed in black combat trousers and a purple T-shirt. Dark, straggly hair fell either side of her narrow face, in which a vermilion slash of lipstick was the only trace of colour. The shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin did not suggest sailing and surfing were recreations she often indulged in.

'Hi,' she said with a lop-sided grin.

'Jeremy in?'

'Not right now.'

'Are you expecting him back soon?'

'Yeah. But that doesn't mean it'll happen. Is this… business?'

'Not exactly. He knows me from a long time back. I'm David Umber.'

'Umber? You said Umber?' She looked genuinely incredulous.

'That's right.'

'Fuck me. The Shadow Man.'

'What?'

'Never thought you'd show up. Bloody hell. I'm Chantelle, by the way.' The name went some way, Umber supposed, to explain the hint of a French accent. 'Do you want to come in?'

'OK. Thanks.' He stepped into a narrow hallway. A tiny kitchen and a scarcely bigger bathroom were to the right. To the left was a large lounge-diner-bedroom with dormer windows to either side and a Catherine-wheel window set in the gable at the front of the warehouse, through which there was a sparkling blue glimpse of the harbour between the opposite rooftops.

'Fancy a tea?' asked Chantelle.

'Sure.'

'I've just made some.' She stepped into the kitchen to fetch her mug and fill one for him. It was easy to believe, given the state of the bed and the dining table, that the tea had been intended to round off her breakfast. Umber edged his way to the hi-fi tower perched amidst the general chaos and nudged down the volume.

'There you go.' She was waiting with his mug as he turned round. He took it from her with a sheepish grin. 'Sorry the place is such a mess.'

'Don't worry about it.'

She cleared a drift of magazines and CDs from the couch so that he could sit down, then folded a blanket back over the unmade bed and plonked herself on the end of it, mug cradled in both hands as she looked at him with almost comic intensity.

'What's this about Shadow Man?' he asked.

'Oh, it's what Jem calls you. On account of your name. Umber. From the Latin for shadow, isn't it?'

'Yes. It is. But I'm surprised… Jem… talks about me at all.'

'Are you really surprised? I mean, it was quite a thing, what happened to his sisters. It stays with him. He likes to talk about it sometimes. Can't stop himself, to tell the truth. Not that I want him to.'

'How long have you known him?'

'About six months.' She smiled. 'Best six months of my life.'

'That's nice to hear.'

'Yeah.' She looked bashful, then said, 'So, what's brought you here?'

'It's, er, complicated. No offence intended, but it'd be best if I spoke to Jem about it.'

'Understood. But you could tell me about yourself, I suppose.' She grinned. 'Unless that's classified information.'

Umber chuckled. 'Boring, but not classified.'

'Great. So -' She broke off as the throaty roar of a motorbike engine half-drowned the music. 'Hold on. That sounds like him now.' She leaned across the bed for a view through the nearest window. 'Yeah. Thought so.'

A few moments later the front door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man entered at a slight stoop, then froze in mid-stride at the sight of Umber.

Jeremy Hall was barely recognizable as the small boy Umber had first seen at Avebury twenty-three years previously. He was in his early thirties now, a tanned and muscular figure in red and black motorcycling leathers, his fair hair curlier than in childhood, his eyes a greyer shade of blue. There was certainty in his steely gaze. He knew who Umber was. Alarmingly, there was also a simmer of anger. He knew – and he was far from pleased.