Borrowed Time (12 page)

“Neither did I. Until I decided I wanted to. I shan’t go in. Keith’s forbidden me to. But I thought at least I could have lunch with you all. Perhaps dinner afterwards.”

“I’m sure Keith will be delighted to see you.”

“But you’re not?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. And you don’t say half the things you mean. But I was married to your brother for nearly twenty years. I know the signs.”

“I’m sure you do. And I’m glad you haven’t forgotten Hugh altogether.”

“So hard.” She looked at me more in disappointment than anger. “The living are more important than the dead, Robin. Remember that.”

“I’ll try to.”

“I’ll put your tetchiness down to nerves. This waiting can’t be easy for you.”

“I’m
not
nervous.”

“Good. That’ll make your evidence all the more convincing.” She lit a cigarette and offered me one, knowing I’d given up years ago but enjoying the momentary hesitation before I refused. “But then,” she added, blowing out a lungful of smoke, “what can be more convincing than the truth?”

What I’d have said in reply I’ll never know, because at that moment the door leading from the court opened and Rowena came out to join us. She was blinking rapidly and fingering her hair, much but not all of her composure gone. In its place I’d have expected to see relief, some visible sign of the liberation she should have felt. But instead there was more anxiety than when she’d gone in. As if testifying had added to her problems, not resolved them. As if she hadn’t said—or been allowed to say—what she really wanted to. And there was a furtiveness as well. She looked as if she wanted to run away and hide. From all of us.

She saw Bella first and shaped an uncertain smile. Then Sarah appeared at her elbow and led her towards us. I tried to think of something both meaningless and comforting to say. But, before I could, the usher beckoned to me. My turn had come. And there was time to exchange no more than a glance with Rowena as I went in. But a glance was enough. The mask had fallen now. Beneath it, there was despair.

The court had none of the Dickensian appurtenances I’d somehow imagined. Glass-topped partitions, pale wood panelling and discreet grey carpeting drained away the archaism of gown and wig. It was a place where divorce settlements and tax evasion could be discussed in a seemly atmosphere. Rape and murder surely weren’t topics that belonged in its antiseptic environment. Yet there was the judge, gorgeously robed. There was the coat of arms above his head. There, beneath him, were the lawyers and clerks in their orderly chaos of books and papers. And there, in the large glazed dock at the rear of the room, flanked by two prison officers, was the accused: Shaun Andrew Naylor.

I’d not seen him before, of course. And I hardly had the chance to study him now. A lean sallow-faced man with thick black hair leaning forward in his chair, as if straining to catch every word that was said. He looked up as I stepped into the witness-box and caught my eye for less than a second. I had the fleeting impression of someone bent on memorizing my features in every detail. Then I put the thought aside and took the oath.

The prosecuting counsel gave me an easy ride, as he was bound to. He let me present my well-rehearsed portrait of the relaxed and attractive woman I’d spoken to, briefly and inconsequentially, on Hergest Ridge. He encouraged me to specify the time at which we’d parted and to say how I could be so sure. And wisely he left it there.

The defence counsel didn’t, of course. He wanted to know about the offer of a lift. Could it have been construed as the offer of something else? All this I parried easily enough, as he must have anticipated. But I couldn’t deny the fact that she’d offered me a lift. Nor the theoretical possibility that she had more than a car journey in mind. These were purely negative points, of course. But he must have hoped they’d stick in the jurors’ minds. I hoped he was wrong. Glancing across at them, I reckoned he probably was. They’d heard the evidence to date. They were already convinced—like the rest of us—that the defendant was guilty as charged. It was going to take more than logic-chopping to shift them.

As if to ensure this was so, the judge asked me to clarify my statement that there was nothing in Lady Paxton’s manner or in anything she’d said to me that implied an ulterior motive. I was happy to do so. And while I was about it, he glared at the defending counsel as if to suggest he didn’t like the line his cross-examination had taken. With that I was discharged. Sir Keith nodded appreciatively to me as I passed him on the way out. And I risked a single parting glance in Naylor’s direction. But he was stooping close to the gap between glass barrier and wooden partition for a whispered word with his solicitor. He wasn’t interested in me any more. My encounter with the man I believed to have raped and murdered Louise Paxton had been more fleeting than my encounter with Louise herself. I didn’t expect ever to see him again. I didn’t expect I’d ever need to.

Lunch was a rushed and frugal affair in the bar of the Grand Hotel, a short walk from the courts. Rowena said little. None of us, in fact, seemed to have much of an appetite and the satisfaction we expressed at the events of the morning had a faintly hollow ring. I hadn’t heard Rowena’s testimony, of course, and she hadn’t heard mine. But, according to Sir Keith, who’d heard both, they’d been equally effective. As far as he was concerned, a convincing and coherent account of his wife’s behaviour during the last day of her life had been placed on the record and was now unchallengeable. As to that, I assumed the defence counsel might still have something to say. But he couldn’t know just how indefinable the doubts were that afflicted those who’d met Louise Paxton on 17 July 1990. We didn’t put them into words, Rowena and I. But I was coming more and more to realize that we were both aware of them. And they were the same. The impression Louise had left on her daughter was the impression she’d left on me. She’d been changing before our eyes. Altering in mood and intention. Slipping out of sight and understanding. Retreating into camouflage we could never hope to penetrate. Or else discarding some long-worn disguise. Her past. Her life. Her death. Her future. They were all one now. But that day had seen them trembling on a razor’s edge. And we’d watched, unwittingly, as they’d fallen.

Perhaps I should have tried to express some of this to Rowena. Not for the purpose of striking up a sympathetic rapport. Just so she’d know she wasn’t alone. But my thoughts were too confused. And nobody would have wanted me to, anyway, except perhaps Rowena herself. Her father and sister desired nothing more than a clean and simple end to the trial. Naylor convicted and locked up. The key thrown away. And the wife and mother they’d lost preserved for ever in the amber of their idealized memories.

Who could begrudge them? Not me. Nor Rowena, as I could tell by her strained but determined expression. She meant to see this through for their sakes. Perhaps Bella had reminded her, as she’d reminded me, that the living matter more than the dead. So we like to believe, anyway. So Rowena and I certainly believed. Then.

I didn’t go back to court with them after lunch. I’d said my piece and suddenly wanted to be away, right away, from that room full of strangers where Louise Paxton’s death was being slowly anatomized and her life progressively forgotten. But fleeing the scene achieved nothing. I couldn’t escape the process. It stayed with me, keeping perfect pace, as the train sped south towards home. Naylor’s face, half recalled, half imagined, in the flickering reflections of the carriage window. His eyes, resting on me as they’d rested on Louise. His mouth, curving towards a smile. Only he knew for certain why the mirror had been smashed that day. Only he knew the whole truth. Which he might never tell.

But what
would
he say? What version of the truth would he offer when he came to testify? He certainly couldn’t avoid doing so. That became obvious as the prosecution case wound towards its close. DNA analysis suggested he’d had sex with Louise Paxton shortly before her death. There were sufficient signs of violence to suggest rape even if the circumstances hadn’t been as conclusive as they were. His fingerprints had been found in several places around the house, including the bedroom
and
the studio. So had fibres which had been shown to match samples taken from a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans belonging to him. The jeans were also stained with three different types of oil paint shown to match paint types found on palettes, canvases and worktops in Bantock’s studio. An unlicensed gun and a switch-blade knife had been discovered concealed beneath floor boards in Naylor’s flat. Naylor himself had initially denied ever being at Whistler’s Cot, only volunteering—or inventing—his story of being picked up by Lady Paxton when confronted with the forensic evidence against him. Finally, there were the witnesses who’d heard him boast of “screwing the bitch and wringing her neck for her trouble.” A barman at a pub he used in Bermondsey called Vincent Cassidy, who’d phoned the police because what Naylor had done was “out of order,” “too much for me to stomach,” “just not on.” And a prisoner he’d shared a cell with on remand called Jason Bledlow. “He was proud of it. He wanted me to know. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Said he hadn’t realized she was nobility, like. But he reckoned that made it better. I reported what he’d said straightaway because I was disgusted, really sickened, you know?” And it was impossible to believe the jury didn’t know. It was inconceivable he could say anything to dislodge his guilt from their minds. He was going down.

But not without a struggle.
The trial will resume on Monday
, reported Saturday’s newspaper,
when the defence will present its case
. But what case? I knew then I’d have to hear it myself, in his own words. Every lie. Every evasion. Every badly constructed piece of the fiction he’d be forced to present. I needed to be certain. I’d never met the witnesses. I’d never studied forensics. I had to look him in the face as he protested his innocence to be sure of his guilt. Because that’s what I needed to be. Sure. Beyond even unreasonable doubt.

Telling Adrian I needed to take a few days’ leave so soon after the day I’d already spent in Birmingham was the easy part. Explaining myself to the Paxtons was next to impossible. In the end, I didn’t even try, travelling up by an early train on Monday morning and squeezing into the court just before proceedings began. Sir Keith spotted me at once, of course, and was clearly puzzled. But he was on his own, which was a relief as well as a surprise.

There was time for us to have a quick word before the judge entered. To my astonishment, Sir Keith seemed to think I’d come for his benefit. “Sarah’s had to go back to college for the start of the summer term and Rowena’s staying with her in Hindhead. Bella can keep an eye on her there. Besides, I didn’t see why she should have to listen to Naylor’s lies. It’s bad enough any of us should have to. I don’t mind admitting I’m glad I shan’t be sitting through it alone, though. This is much appreciated, Robin, believe me.”

The court was fuller than it had been on the day I’d given evidence. There was a buzz of expectancy, an unspoken but unanimous understanding that we’d come to the crunch. Naylor was already in the dock, staring into space and chewing at his fingernails, right leg vibrating where it was angled under his chair. His nervousness was hardly surprising in view of the sledgehammer blows the prosecution had been able to deliver. He looked what we all thought he was: a hardened over-sexed young criminal with a streak of malicious violence he couldn’t control. But he was trapped now. And the only way out was to persuade the jury he’d been wrongly accused. Which he didn’t look capable of doing. Not remotely.

The jury filed in. Then the judge made his entrance. And Naylor’s barrister rose to address the court. His opening speech was short and to the point. “Mr. Naylor has nothing to hide, members of the jury,” he concluded. “Which is why I propose to call him to give evidence in his own defence.”

And so it began. Naylor was taken from the dock to the witness-box and sworn in. He spoke firmly and confidently, almost arrogantly. His answers were casually phrased but cleverly constructed. Too cleverly, I suppose. Some mumbling show of awe might have won him a few friends. Instead, he came across as somebody so contemptuous of the world that he couldn’t believe it had turned against him now. And he seemed positively proud to admit how he made a living.

“I’m a thief. That’s what I am. I clock targets while I’m doing the day job. Call back later to collect. Thieving’s what I do. But I don’t murder people. I might lay somebody out if they tried to stop me getting away, though I’ve never had to. But I wouldn’t kill them.” And rape? What about that? “I’m no rapist. I reckon they’re the lowest form of life there is. Them and child molesters. I’m a married man with children. But like my wife’ll tell you, I’m no saint. I’ve never been able to say no to women. They like me. I’ve never had to force them into it. I’ve never wanted to. I never would.”

That much
seemed
credible. He had the cocksure manner and smouldering looks some women find attractive. But he also had such confidence in his own irresistibility that it was easy to imagine him reacting violently to rejection. As for murder, well, he’d more or less said it himself. If Bantock had tried to stop him, worse still to apprehend him, he’d have done whatever was necessary to escape. Candour was his only hope. But candour revealed him as a man quite capable of committing the crimes he’d been charged with.

So, what
was
his version of events? It took him the rest of the day to spell it out. But what it amounted to was this. He’d gone to stay with a friend in Cardiff while the dust settled on a row with his wife. The usual cause—his chronic infidelity—had been aggravated by the latest piece of skirt being her sister. He reckoned a trip to Disney World for her and the kids might patch things up. So, he set about raising some cash to pay for the holiday by breaking into likely looking rural properties, all of them far enough from Cardiff to avoid embarrassing his friend. A house near Ross-on-Wye on the night of 14/15 July. Another near Malvern on 15/16 July. And a third near Bridgnorth on 16/17 July. He stayed in the area next day and looked around the Ludlow-Leominster-Bromyard triangle, spotting a couple of possibilities. Then he drove towards Kington and stopped at the Harp Inn, Old Radnor, to while away the evening before deciding which one to try. And that’s when his plans changed.