Borrowed Time (31 page)

“I believe it is.”

“There you are, then. In a sense, you
have
persuaded me.”

Silence fell while a waitress cleared our plates and placed dessert menus in front of us. Bella emptied the bottle of wine into our glasses, lit a cigarette and sat back to study me across the table.

“Deal?”

“You’re not going to get anything out of it, Bella. All I can do is confirm Paul’s story. He’s telling the truth. You know that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You think he’s lying?”

“I think he may be.”

“The police will find out if he is.”

“But they won’t forewarn me, will they, if the truth turns out to be even more scandalous than the lie? Whereas you will.”

So that was to be my role. Bella’s scout into uncharted territory. But she wasn’t telling me all she knew. That was certain. And it was just as certain she never would. If I wanted to discover what it was, I’d have to go in search of it myself. Which was precisely what Bella wanted me to do. She’d dangled the carrot in front of me. And now she was showing me the stick. I should have been warier than I felt. I should have haggled for more information. But I doubt I’d have got it. And in the end it would have made no difference. I was curious now as well as suspicious. And curiosity always wins.

“Deal?” Bella repeated.

Nothing ever does turn out quite as you expect. I’d thought Bella was handing me victory on a plate. Actually, she was only giving me her vote, which amounted to the same thing in my mind but fell crucially short of it in reality. Adrian’s response to a challenge was the element I’d omitted from my calculations. He’d underestimated me often enough before. Now I underestimated him. I realized he’d guess something was up as soon as Bella notified him she was withdrawing her proxy and attending the meeting to vote in person. But I assumed he’d be powerless to do anything about it even if he deduced what Bella’s change of plan signified. And there I was wrong.

I phoned Uncle Larry that night to tell him I’d won Bella over to our side. He was as delighted as he was surprised. But by the following morning, when we all assembled in the boardroom, his mood seemed to have altered. He was still visibly pleased at the turn of events, but there was a sheepishness about his manner when I took him aside beforehand that puzzled me. I hadn’t had a chance to find out what lay behind it, however, before Simon sidled over and asked why we thought Bella had put in an appearance. She was looking unwontedly serious in a black suit and purple blouse, to Simon’s evident dismay. And she contrived, in mid-conversation with Jennifer, to glance across and catch my eye as I muttered a non-committal answer. Fortunately, before I could be backed into a lie, Adrian called us to order.

“You’ve all received details of the Bushranger bid,” he began, when we’d settled round the table. “Jenny’s worked very hard securing as many safeguards for us as possible and I’d like to pay particular tribute to her efforts. I’m sure we’re all very grateful to her.” There were murmurs of assent. Jennifer smiled in acknowledgement. “The offer document before you is now in its final and definitive form. The lawyers have been through it thoroughly and I take it there are no outstanding questions about its terms.” A mutual nodding of heads. “Very well. Before I put the offer to the vote, there’s only one other thing I wish to say.” He paused and glanced down the table at me, then went on. “If this board decides to reject the Bushranger offer, I shall resign, both as chairman
and
managing director.”

Jennifer and Simon turned and stared at him in astonishment. The meeting wasn’t going as they’d expected. “We aren’t going to reject it, Ade,” Simon put in with cheerful bafflement. “I should save your ultimatum for another day.” But when he looked round at the rest of us and saw only shifty unsmiling faces, his tone altered. “Well, we aren’t going to, are we?”

“That depends, doesn’t it?” said Adrian, “on why Bella’s joined us today.”

“Turned up for the books, certainly,” said Simon, still hoping he’d misunderstood. “Though always a pleasant one.” He treated Bella to a leery grin, which she conspicuously ignored.

“Why
are
you here, Bella?” Jennifer asked pointedly.

“To vote, of course. Like the rest of you. I do have a substantial stake in this company, even if I don’t work in it.”

“To vote which way?” enquired Adrian, looking her squarely in the face.

“Against acceptance,” she coolly replied.

“Bloody hell,” said Simon in surprise.

“Why?” asked Jennifer, rounding on her. “After clearly indicating your approval for so long.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Or had it changed,” suggested Adrian.

“You can put it that way if you like. The fact is that Robin’s persuaded me we’ll do better in the long run as an independent company.”

“The long run?” Simon gaped at her. “What about the short run? The quick bucks? The two and a half million quid?”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“I can’t believe you just said that. It’s like the Archbishop of Canterbury announcing he’s turned atheist.” Bella arched her neck and looked down her nose at him. She didn’t seem to be amused. “What about the losses we’ve been making?”

“We’ll have to ride them out.”

“But we’ll go bust.”

“Not in my opinion,” I intervened, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. “By divesting ourselves of Viburna straightaway and concentrating on our traditional—”

“Let me get this straight,” Jennifer interjected. “You three”—she glanced at Bella, Uncle Larry and me—“mean to vote against the offer?”

“Yes,” I said. At which Uncle Larry nodded and Bella straightened her neck in a graceful gesture of assent.

“Then the sale can’t proceed. The motion’s lost.”

“The motion’s not yet been put,” said Adrian. At once, the absence of panic in his voice sounded a worrying note in my mind. “As I’ve indicated, I’d have to resign if the offer was rejected out of hand. In view of the concerns that have been expressed, however, I’m willing to suggest a compromise. It would appear the bid as it stands is unacceptable to three members of the board. I’m therefore prepared to seek an improvement of the terms. More money up front, perhaps. More guarantees for the workforce. Whatever I can squeeze out of Bushranger.”

“That’ll be sod all,” said Simon. “You’ve got nothing to negotiate with.”

“I’m willing to try.”

He was playing for time. I knew as well as he did that Harvey McGraw wouldn’t give another inch. But if Adrian could persuade us to postpone a final decision, he might hope to lure Bella back to his side of the argument before the extension expired. No doubt he thought he could top my offer if he could only find out what she wanted. Which would have been sound reasoning, but for circumstances he had no inkling of. I almost admired his acumen. But I had no intention of allowing admiration to stand in my way. “The terms aren’t the problem,” I said calmly. “No offer from Bushranger is acceptable to me.”

“What about you, Uncle?” asked Adrian, smiling indulgently.

“Well, I . . .”

“I’m just asking for a little time.”

“Yes, but—”

“If I can’t get anywhere with Bushranger or if such improvements as I obtain aren’t sufficient to sway you, I’ll accept your decision as final.”

Uncle Larry stared fixedly at the papers in front of him and pursed his lips. “Well, that would avoid a . . . regrettable split . . . wouldn’t it?” He looked round at me, pleading for my agreement. “No sense forcing Adrian to resign, is there? Not when we can all . . . emerge from this with dignity.” He’d been nobbled. I could tell as much from his crumpled frown and his refusal to meet my gaze. Adrian had got to him before the meeting and forced him to choose between a family rift and a fallacious compromise. Fallacious because Adrian intended to use whatever breathing space he was granted to negotiate with Bella, not Harvey McGraw. And because his threat to resign would never have been carried out. With a wife, four children, two dogs and a mortgage to support, he couldn’t afford to pick up his ball and go home.

“I suggest we review the situation in a month’s time,” Adrian continued. “And leave the offer on the table until then.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” said Jennifer.

“And me,” mumbled Simon.

Adrian looked at Uncle Larry with raised eyebrows. The old fellow cleared his throat and adjusted the knot of his tie. “Fair enough,” he said at last.

Bella looked across at me and made a mocking little circle of her mouth, as if to say, “
Oh dear.
” But what she actually said was: “Well, why not?”

“Because this should be settled now,” I said, trying hard not to shout. “Once and for all.”

“But that’s not the sentiment of the meeting,” said Adrian, goading me with the placidity of his expression. “Is it?”

“Apparently not.”

“Very well, then.” He smiled and flicked open his diary. “I suggest we hold a special meeting to discuss progress on, let me see, Thursday the twenty-eighth of October.”

“No good,” objected Simon gloomily. “You and me are going up to Lancashire, remember? To persuade a certain rising star to flash a T and S bat in front of the TV cameras.”

“Of course. The following Thursday, then. The fourth of November.”

“That’s six weeks away,” I protested.

“Well, we’re all busy people, Robin,” Adrian replied. “Especially me, now I have to go to Sydney at short notice.”

“Yes, but you only asked for—” I gave up, sensing hostility growing around me. It was bad enough for me to have opposed what Simon, Jennifer and Uncle Larry all obviously considered to be a sensible compromise. I was now in danger of looking petty-minded into the bargain. “Oh, forget it,” I concluded impatiently. “The fourth of November it is.”

“Good,” said Adrian, so affably you might have thought an unfortunate clash of dates was all he was trying to resolve. “Will you be able to join us then, Bella?”

“I’ll be able to, certainly,” she replied. “As to whether I will . . .” She glanced across at me and shook her head faintly, as if to disclaim responsibility for the way things had gone. “That depends.”

Bella and I had agreed beforehand to leave Frenchman’s Road at different times, in order to avoid stoking up suspicion, and to rendezvous at the Five Bells in Buriton. I’d expected to feel in a celebratory mood, tolerant of her vagaries. Instead, I was angry and resentful. Angry with myself for not having foreseen what might happen at the meeting. And resentful of the enviable position events had placed her in. Instead of having to fulfil her half of our bargain first, then trust me to fulfil mine, she could now sit back and await the results of my efforts on her behalf, knowing it would be six weeks before I could call in her debt. By which time, if I’d achieved nothing of value, she could go back on our agreement, secure in the knowledge that there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it. There was no way I could stretch my enquiries out to fill six weeks. Long before the fourth of November, I’d have to come up with the goods. Or admit my failure. And the latter seemed much the likelier outcome. Which left me with no alternative but to seek a promise from her I knew she wouldn’t feel bound to keep.

“I’ll do what I can, Bella. But if I end up even more certain than I am now that Paul’s telling the truth . . .”

“Can you rely on me to vote with you on the fourth of November?”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just find out what Paul’s up to.”

“Yes, but—”

“You should be glad things turned out as they did, really.”

“Why?”

“Because this gives you just the incentive you need.” She smiled disingenuously. “I don’t know why you’re glowering at me like that. Anyone would think what happened was my fault.” It was a thought that until then hadn’t occurred to me. But now it had been planted in my mind, I knew it wouldn’t go away. Was it possible she’d tipped Adrian off in some way, foreseeing how he’d react? Was it conceivable she’d set me up from the start? “I’m going back to Biarritz tomorrow, Robin. I’ll phone you early next week to see how you’re getting on. And remember . . .” There was a twinkle in her eyes as she sipped her drink and looked up at me across the rim of her glass. “There’s no time to be lost.”

C  H  A  P  T  E  R
SIXTEEN

I
phoned the Bryants that night and asked if we could meet to discuss the implications of Paul’s confession. It was his father I spoke to and he seemed quite touched that a member of the Paxton family—as my connection with Bella somehow made him regard me—should want to see them at all in the circumstances. It was also clear that any help I could offer them would be gratefully received. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Timariot,” he said, “Dot and I have been beside ourselves with worry this past week. We just don’t know which way to turn.” I was obviously going to be greeted as a welcome visitor in Surbiton on Saturday afternoon. Though whether I’d be remembered as such was altogether less certain.

I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry when the weekend came. By then, I’d had a bellyful of the recriminations at Timariot & Small that had followed Thursday’s board meeting. Adrian and I said nothing to each other, biding our time for our own particular reasons. But Simon and Jennifer more than compensated for that with endless dissections of a situation both confessed they couldn’t understand. “What’s Bella up to?” demanded Jennifer. “The game you’ve persuaded her to play could lose us this offer, you know.” She treated me to more of the same, in innumerable variations. While Simon veered from bemusement to paranoia. From “Adrian can’t seriously think he’s going to get anything out of Harvey McGraw,” to “You’ve cooked this up with Joan, haven’t you, to stop me buying my way out of her clutches?” But however wild his theories became, they could never match the truth. I felt I was almost doing him a favour by keeping him in the dark where that was concerned.

The Bryants lived in Skylark Avenue, a long curving road of identical pebble-dashed mock Tudor semis on the Berrylands side of Surbiton. I knew from Paul, of course, that they’d lived there all their married life. Driving along it on a mild grey Saturday afternoon of lawnmowing and car cleaning, I sensed the stultifying predictability he’d rebelled against in his teens. Yet I couldn’t help identifying with it at the same time. The scrawny youth tinkering with his rust-patched car while a football commentator lisped at him from a badly tuned radio. The overweight commuter working up a weekly sweat by trimming his hedge to geometric perfection. They were each in their own frustrated way part of the fabric of life. Which Paul had ripped to shreds in a single night.

The first sign of which was the lack of outdoor activity at number 34. The silence and stillness of mourning reigned. And Norman Bryant invited me in with the subdued politeness of the recently bereaved. What I’d called to discuss was worse than a death, though. Paul’s mere extinction wouldn’t have left his father’s shoulders bent with shame as well as sadness. It would in fact, his bearing implied, have been preferable to the blow he’d suffered. He was a thin stooped timid-looking man in his early sixties, the tie beneath his pullover a testimony to forty years of dressing for the bank. His skin and hair were grey, his clothes brown, his mind set in ways not designed to meet their present challenge. “It’ll be a relief just to be able to talk about it to somebody else,” he admitted. “Bottling this up isn’t doing Dot any good.” Nor him, I strongly suspected. “Thank God at least we’ve both retired. How I’d have faced them at the bank . . .” He shook his head at the unthinkability of such a prospect, then showed me into the lounge.

Mrs. Bryant was waiting there with one of her daughters. I recognized them from the wedding, doleful though the contrast was. Mrs. Bryant was a small round pink-faced woman whose dimpled smile had been my clearest memory of her. But there was no sign of that now. She was trembling and fidgeting like a startled dormouse, her eyes alternately staring and darting. And her handshake was so limp I expected her arm to drop to her side the moment I let go. “You’re . . . Lady Paxton’s brother?” she said, so hesitantly I hadn’t the heart to correct her. “This is . . . our daughter . . . Cheryl.”

“Hi,” said Cheryl, smiling faintly. “We met last year.” She was a tall slim fashionably casual woman of thirty or so, not quite as smart and self-confident as Paul but nearly so, with short dark hair, a direct gaze and a hint somewhere at the back of her eyes that she was on her best behaviour for her parents’ sake.

“We told Cheryl you were coming,” said Mr. Bryant. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’m glad you did. Will your other daughter be—”

“Ally lives in Canada,” said Cheryl. “Well out of it.”

There was an edge to the remark her father seemed to feel he couldn’t ignore. “We haven’t told Allison, Mr. Timariot. There seemed no point burdening her with it. Not before we have to, anyway.”

“We’re forgetting our manners,” said Mrs. Bryant abruptly. “Please sit down, Mr. Timariot. Would you like some tea?”

“Thanks. That would be nice.”

“I’ll make it,” said Cheryl, heading for the kitchen with the eagerness of somebody glad of any excuse to leave the room.

“Use the cups and saucers,” her mother cried after her, before turning to me with a blush. “I do so hate mugs. Don’t you?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Mr. Timariot hasn’t come here to talk about crockery, love,” said Mr. Bryant, patting his wife’s hand. They sat on the sofa facing me, a pitiful optimism blooming in their expressions. Could I somehow, they seemed to be wondering, put matters right? Could I turn the clock back to their son’s blameless childhood and correct the fault before it was too late? “It goes without saying that we’re . . . very sorry . . . very sorry indeed . . . about all this . . .”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You wonder if it is, though,” he said, frowning down at the carpet between us. “You bring them up as best you can. You give them so many things you never had yourself. So many advantages. And then . . .”

“He was such a good-natured baby,” Mrs. Bryant remarked. Then, as if aware how irrelevant the observation was, she launched herself on another tangent. “Sir Keith must feel this dreadfully, he really must. My heart goes out to him.”

“It must be just as bad for you,” I said.

Mr. Bryant nodded and flexed his hands. “He came here last weekend. Paul, I mean. Sat us down and told us. From the chair you’re sitting in now. Calm as you like. Poured it all out.”

“Awful,” murmured Mrs. Bryant.

“Said he hoped we’d understand. But how can you understand
that
?” He sat forward and stared at me. “I’m afraid I lost my rag. I hit him, you know. For the first time in his life, I actually hit him. I was angry, you see. But he wasn’t. Even then. He was so . . . controlled. I hardly recognized him as my son.”

“He was never a violent boy,” said Mrs. Bryant. “Secretive. But never violent. That’s why I can’t believe it.”

Mr. Bryant gave me a confidential smile, as if to say: “
That’s motherhood for you
.” But fatherhood, apparently, wasn’t quite so blinkered. “He didn’t make it up, love. We’re going to have to accept it. At least he’s owned up. Better late than never.”

“Why do you think he’s owned up now?” I asked.

“He said it was because of Rowena,” answered Cheryl as she bustled into the room with the tea tray. “Said he couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“So some good’s come out of poor Rowena’s . . .” Mr. Bryant adjusted his glasses and looked at me as Cheryl moved between us with the cups.
Suicide
was the word. But he couldn’t bring himself to pronounce it. Or
murder
, come to that. The truth could only be approached obliquely. “At least an innocent man won’t be kept in prison much longer,” he concluded with a sigh.

“You’re sure he is innocent?” I said at once, seizing the opportunity now it had been presented to me.

“Well . . . aren’t you?”

“Not entirely. Bella . . . Lady Paxton, I mean . . . and I have considered the possibility that Paul might be confessing to the murders in order to punish himself for Rowena’s suicide.”

“You mean . . .” Mr. Bryant’s brow furrowed. He looked round at his wife and daughter. “You mean he might . . .”

“Not have done it?” put in Mrs. Bryant, her eyes wide with sudden hope.

But Cheryl was too realistic to be taken in. And in no hurry to let her parents be. “That’s crazy,” she said, looking straight at me.

“Not necessarily.”

“I heard him say it, Mr. Timariot. All of it. And it was all true.”

“I heard him myself. And it was convincing, certainly. But there’s a possibility—no more, I grant you—that he might be lying.”

“Because he feels responsible for Rowena’s death? Come on.”

“It’s true he’s never got over it,” said Mr. Bryant. “But I can’t believe—”

“What about the postcard?” His wife had seized her husband’s elbow and jerked forward in her chair, spilling tea into her saucer. “I told you I didn’t imagine it.”

Mr. Bryant sighed. “Not that again.” He shook his head and looked across at me. “You know Paul went round Europe by train that summer, Mr. Timariot?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, he sent us several postcards. Half a dozen all told, I should think. Just tourist stuff. The Eiffel Tower. The Acropolis. That sort of thing. I can’t remember much about them. But Dot seems to think—”

“One of them was of Mount Blank, Mr. Timariot,” his wife put in. “And that place he told his friend he was going to when they split up . . .”

“Chamonix?”

“Yes. It’s right underneath Mount Blank, isn’t it? I looked it up in the atlas.”

“Are you saying the card was posted in Chamonix?”

“Well . . . Not exactly. I don’t recall where . . .”

“And she’s thrown it away since,” Mr. Bryant explained.

“I thought I’d kept them,” Mrs. Bryant said stubbornly. “For the stamps. I can’t think how they came to be—”

“Dot’s a great one for clear-outs,” said her husband, with a rueful smile.

“It must have been some peak in the Austrian Alps, Mum,” said Cheryl, her tone suggesting she’d already heard enough of the topic.

But Mrs. Bryant wasn’t to be moved, even though her excruciating mispronunciation of Mont Blanc only underlined her capacity for error—as well as self-delusion. “It was Mount Blank,” she insisted.

“Maybe it was,” said Cheryl, glancing at me as she spoke. “Maybe Paul sent it specifically to make us think he’d been to Chamonix. But when and where was it posted? That’s the question.”

“I don’t know.” Her mother was becoming irritated now. “I didn’t take down the details of the postmark.”

“What does Paul say?” I asked, anxious to calm the waters.

“We haven’t asked him,” Mr. Bryant replied. “He’d gone by the time Dot thought of it.”

“And the card’s gone too,” said Cheryl. “So there’s not really much point talking about it, is there?”

“Perhaps not,” I said, still trying to sound like the embodiment of sweet reason. “But it’s the sort of thing that could be helpful. If Paul
is
lying, some little slip he’s made is what will find him out. I mean, if he wasn’t in Kington on the night in question, he must have been somewhere else, mustn’t he? And somebody must have seen him there.”

Cheryl sighed. “He wasn’t anywhere else.”

“But supposing he was . . . for the sake of argument . . . Then—and on those other occasions. In Cambridge and—”

“He did stay up there after the end of term,” tolled Mrs. Bryant’s mournful voice. “I remember that.”

“During the Easter vacation that year, then. Did he seem . . . in a strange mood?”

“He was always in a strange mood,” said Cheryl. “From birth, as far as I could tell.”

Mr. Bryant looked round sharply at her, then said: “Paul’s never been what you’d call open. It’s never been easy to know what’s going on inside his head.”

“We know now,” murmured Cheryl.

Her mother, meanwhile, had been casting her mind back to April 1990. “He seemed the same as usual, Mr. Timariot. Like Norman says, he’s always had a . . . private nature. Never one to make friends easily, our Paul.”

“Or at all,” Cheryl threw in.

“What about Peter Rossington?”

“We’ve never met him,” Mr. Bryant replied. “I think they were just travelling companions.”

“Paul must have
some
friends.”

Mr. Bryant shrugged. “Not really. The boy’s always been a bit of a lone wolf.” He seemed to wince, as if suddenly struck by the predatory connotations of the description. “That’s why we were so pleased when he and Rowena . . .” He tailed off into silence, realizing every word only took him in deeper.

“Somebody ought to check with that Peter Rossington,” his wife resumed. “He might know when Paul was in . . . what do you call it? . . . Chamonicks.”

“He was never in Chamonicks,” snapped Cheryl. She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her forehead before quietly correcting herself. “Chamonix.”

“The police
will
check with him, love,” Mr. Bryant consoled his wife.

“I’d be happy to speak to him myself,” I said, coming rapidly to terms with the likelihood that my visit was going to leave me with no other avenue to explore. “Do you know where he can be contacted?”

“Paul said he worked for some big advertising agency in London,” Mrs. Bryant replied. “But I can’t quite . . .”

“Schneider Mackintosh,” said Cheryl, smiling coolly at me. “You know? The people we can thank for the result of the last election.”

“Ah yes. Of course.”

“Are you going to see him?” asked Mrs. Bryant.

“If he’ll see me, certainly.”

“Good.” She risked a sidelong glance at her husband. “I’m glad somebody’s doing something.”

“You’re wasting your time,” said Cheryl. “He’ll only confirm what Paul’s already told us.”

“Perhaps. But—”

“And do you know why? Because it’s the truth.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he’s my brother, Mr. Timariot. I’ve known him all his life. I’ve watched him grow up. But I’ve never really understood him. Until now. He’s always been hiding something before. Keeping something back. But not any more. It’s all out in the open now. I wish it wasn’t. But it is. And the sooner we face up to it, the better.”

“Cheryl’s right,” said Mr. Bryant as he walked me to my car. “We have to accept what Paul did as best we can. There’s no sense in . . . blocking our ears to it.”