'Chief Inspector Sharp.' Even as he spoke the words, Umber realized that the man he knew as Detective Chief Inspector George Sharp of the Wiltshire Constabulary could by no stretch of the imagination still be a serving police officer, even though his appearance had not been much altered by the passage of years. He must have retired long since. 'Here on holiday?'

'Let's get one thing straight from the off.' Sharp discarded his parka and sat down. 'This isn't a chance meeting. I didn't sign up for that tour today and suddenly think, swipe me, isn't our guide that David Umber I remember from the Avebury case?'

'No?'

'I followed you from your flat this morning. I just didn't know I was going to have to wait this long for a word in private.'

'You call this private?'

Sharp glanced around. 'It'll do.' Then his gaze returned to Umber. 'And you can drop the "Chief Inspector". I was put out to grass years ago.'

'I suppose you must have been.'

At that moment Sharp's beer arrived. He eyed it suspiciously. 'Don't they ask what you want here?'

'It's taken for granted. Beer or nothing.'

Sharp took a gulp and grimaced. 'Not a patch on Bass.'

'What do you want… Mr Sharp?' Umber tried to drain the snappishness out of his voice as he finished the question.

'What do you think I want?'

'After more than twenty years? Search me.'

'It's not that hard to work out.'

They looked at each other for several seconds in uncongenial silence. Then Umber said, 'I thought your people reckoned they had the truth when they put Brian Radd away.'

'My people? I'll give you that. But not me. I never swallowed Radd's story. Not for a second.'

'Didn't you?'

'Did you?'

More silence, blanking out for the pair the burble and bustle of the pub. Then Umber shook his head. 'Of course not.'

'There you are, then.'

'You still haven't told me why you're here. Or why you've been tailing me. There was no need for the gumshoe routine, anyway. You could just have called round. Or phoned me without leaving England.'

'I like to know what I'm dealing with.'

'And what are you dealing with?'

'Unfinished business.'

'For Christ's sake.' Umber was beginning to feel angry, now the shock of Sharp's appearance had faded. 'You're not serious, are you?'

'Why do you think I'm here?'

'Bored by retirement. Writing your memoirs. God knows.'

Sharp smiled. 'Memoirs. That's a good idea. One I've thought about, matter of fact.'

'Really?'

'I handled quite a few big cases over the years. Mostly with the Met, before I transferred to Wiltshire. I thought it'd be a quieter life down there. Didn't turn out to be, though.'

'Bad luck.'

'Wrong place, wrong time. Like you, I suppose.'

'Not quite like me.'

'No. Maybe not. But you know what I mean.'

'I still don't, actually.'

'I put a lot of evil people behind bars. There were a good few more I couldn't pin anything on, but I knew what they were guilty of. As far as murder goes, there wasn't one I didn't crack. Not one. Except…'

'Avebury.'

'You said it.'

'Well, you'll just have to live with that, won't you? Like the rest of us.'

'Will I?'

Umber sat back as his by now empty glass was collected, letting slip the chance to decline a refill and take his leave. He looked at Sharp, steadily and disbelievingly. "What are you on – a conscience trip?'

'Sort of. I should have got to the bottom of it. And I didn't. It may not be as hard to bear as the what-ifs and why-didn't-Is of those who were there at the time, of course, but -'

'What the hell do you mean by that?'

'Well, you must have said to yourself often enough over the years, "If I'd reacted faster, if I'd moved more quickly… might have saved the girl."' Sharp broke off as Umber's second beer arrived, then went on: 'Don't tell me you never have.'

'All right. I won't tell you.'

'She'd be thirty this year. If she'd lived.'

Umber raised a hand to his brow and closed his eyes for a second. 'Oh, Christ.'

'What's the matter?'

'Nothing.' Umber opened his eyes. 'Nothing at all.'

'Is that the sort of thing Sally used to say?'

There was another wordless interval. Umber swallowed some beer and looked towards the window. 'I don't have to listen to this.'

'I only realized you'd married her when I heard about her suicide. The change of surname. It was a surprise, I don't mind admitting. How did that happen – you and her getting together?'

'None of your business.'

'Orphans of the storm, I suppose. But maybe the storm never quite blew itself out.'

Umber looked back at him. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

'Put me right, then.'

'It wasn't -'

'Suicide? Not according to the coroner, no. But that's what it sounded like to me. And to you, I'll bet.'

This was too close to the bone – and to the truth. Umber stood up and grabbed his tab. He would pay at the bar and go. He would leave and have done with it. 'I've had enough,' he declared.

'I can make trouble for you, Mr Umber.'

That stopped Umber in his tracks. He looked down at Sharp. 'What did you say?'

'I can call in a few favours if I need to and have your affairs given close attention. Uncomfortably close. Your tax status springs to mind. Always a promising place to start where expats are concerned. Catch my drift?'

'You're bluffing.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. Why take the risk? All I'm asking you to do is to sit down and answer a few questions.' Sharp smiled thinly. 'Help me with my enquiries. As the saying goes.'

Umber hesitated. Why was Sharp so determined to put him through this? It was all so pointless, so pitifully late in the day. He remembered Sharp as a bluff, no-nonsense policeman. There had been no hint of obsession. What was he trying to achieve?

'Sit down.'

With a sigh, Umber obeyed. 'I could do without going over it all again,' he said, almost to himself. 'I really could.'

'So could I.'

'Then spare us both.'

'Not in a position to, I'm afraid.'

'Why not?'

'All in good time. Besides, I'm not convinced you don't know why.'

'You're making no sense… Mr Sharp.'

'All right. Let's stick for the moment to the facts. Those we can agree on. Let's just… run through a few of them.'

'Must we?'

It was unclear if Sharp had even heard the question. 'Avebury: Monday, twenty-seventh July, 1981,' he said, Umber's heart sinking at the implacable declaration of place and date. 'Two days before the Royal Wedding, incidentally, which denied us a lot of valuable publicity in the early stages of the inquiry. Anyway, that's the where and when. Sally Wilkinson, nanny to the Hall family, takes the Halls' three children – Jeremy, aged ten, Miranda, seven, and Tamsin, two – to Avebury for fresh air and exercise. Also because Jeremy's been badgering her to go on account of a school project that sparked his interest in stone circles. They walk around. They look at the stones. Everything's very normal, very peaceful. But there's a white van parked in Green Street. A man gets out of the van, grabs little Tamsin while Sally's back is turned and drives off with her. Or is driven. We'll come back to that point later.'

'You're not telling me anything I don't already know,' Umber pointed out wearily.

'Tamsin's sister runs into the road, presumably to try and stop the van,' Sharp pressed on. 'She is struck. And killed. Outright.' He paused, as if encouraging Umber to interrupt again. But there was no interruption. 'Witnesses,' he continued. 'Other than Sally and Jeremy, we have three. Percy Nevinson, a local man with a comprehensive knowledge of the circle. Not exactly level-headed, though. Tells me he's working on a theory that Martians built Avebury – and Silbury Hill. That puts him in the nutter category in my book. Then there's Donald Collingwood, who drives through the village as all this is happening, but doesn't stop and only comes forward three weeks later. Explains he was afraid of losing his licence on account of his dodgy eyesight. As a result of said eyesight, he isn't too sure what he saw or where the van went. Finally, there's -'