Borrowed Time (35 page)

“The further into the past her death slips,” said Sarah, “the more mysterious her life seems to become. I’ve wondered if this man, whoever he was, deserted her at the last moment. Didn’t turn up where he was supposed to be. Left her in the lurch. I’ve wondered if that’s why she encouraged Naylor. But unless you find him, we’ll never know, will we?”

“How can I find him? There are no clues left to follow.”

“I know. That’s why I think the question will never be answered. Unless Naylor knows. I mean, she may have said something to him. Given
him
a clue. Nobody’s ever asked him, have they? Nobody’s ever thought to. But we’ll get the chance soon enough.”

“When he’s released, you mean?”

“Yes. When he’s released.” The words were spoken almost as a sigh. She took the photograph back to the mantelpiece, positioned it carefully between a carriage clock and a china rabbit, then looked round and smiled wryly at me. “None of which helps get you off the hook with Bella, of course.”

I shrugged. “Can anything do that?”

“I doubt it. She wants you to disprove something you and I—and probably she—believe to be true. And that’s a game you can’t win, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.”

“But one you’ll go on playing?”

“I’m afraid I have to.” Now I too summoned a smile. “At least for a little longer.”

Sarah offered me a bed for the night, but I insisted I’d better press on home. It occurred to me, flogging across Salisbury Plain through the inky blackness as rain spat at the windscreen, that the offer might just possibly have been more than a friendly gesture. But then I dismissed the thought. In the prevailing circumstances, Sarah needed a friend far more than she needed an aspiring lover. And so did I.

Besides, my relations with the Paxton family were already quite complicated enough. As the three recorded messages from Bella on my answering machine testified. Each one ended with the same promise: “
I’ll call again
.” Early the following morning, when I was still only half awake, she did so. And it was immediately obvious the hour didn’t agree with her temper.

“You’ve turned up
nothing
?”

“It’s not for the want of trying, Bella.”

“Then you’ll just have to try harder.”

“But how? There’s nobody left to ask.”

“This postcard Mrs. Bryant remembers . . .”

“
Thinks
she remembers.”

“And
thinks
was sent from Chamonix. Where Paul claims he never went.”

“Not from Chamonix, according to Paul. Chambéry. A station on the main line from Lyon. It was a ruse. A deliberate blind.”

“Or else his explanation’s the blind. I went to the
pension
he says he stayed in here in Biarritz yesterday. Showed his photograph to the landlady. She’s never seen him before in her life.”

“You mean she didn’t recognize him.”

“Same difference.”

“No it isn’t, Bella. He spent a few days there more than three years ago. Did you seriously expect her to remember him?”

“The fact is she didn’t. But maybe somebody in Chamonix does.” I knew at once what she was going to say next. And I also knew what my answer was bound to be. “So you’re going to have to go there, Robin. Aren’t you?”

C  H  A  P  T  E  R
EIGHTEEN

I
flew out to Chamonix the following Friday, telling Adrian, Simon and Jennifer that a friend in Brussels needed helping out of an emotional crisis and I was going to see what I could do for him in the course of a long weekend. God knows what Adrian made of it, since he was due to have left for Sydney by the time I got back. Simon suggested I was hoping to discover an EC regulation that the Bushranger bid could be said to contravene. But I don’t
think
he was serious.

In the event, I might have been better employed on just such an errand. Several days of trekking round the hotels, restaurants, cafés and boarding-houses of an out-of-season Alpine skiing resort from which the vast shadow of the Mont Blanc massif seemed never to lift proved as futile as I’d anticipated—and even more frustrating. Nobody remembered the name Paul Bryant. Nobody recognized the bridegroom’s face in the photograph I’d brought with me of his and Rowena’s wedding. And nobody thought it remotely likely that anybody else would. “
Un étudiant, monsieur? Il y a plus de trois ans? Vous plaisantez, non
?”

I wasn’t joking, of course. But I might as well have been. I’d had enough by the end of the first day, but felt obliged to plug on. Come the third day, however, I called a halt at lunchtime and rode the cable-car—as Paul had told his mother he’d done—up the mountainside to the Aiguille du Midi. I stared out from the observation platform at the dazzling snowfields that stretched as far as Italy, breathed the clear cold air and reflected on the pointlessness of my journey. Paul had never been there. His footprints were nowhere to be found. But somehow I didn’t think that conclusion was going to satisfy Bella.

Answering to Bella, however, wasn’t the first problem to confront me when I flew home on Tuesday. Liz had left a recorded message saying that Detective Inspector David Joyce of West Mercia C.I.D. would be coming down to see me the following afternoon. And she’d added a disturbing rider.
“I tried to tell him I couldn’t confirm the appointment until I’d spoken to you, but he told me he wasn’t asking for an appointment; he was making one.”

He looked as irksomely youthful as he had three years before. I congratulated him on his promotion, which his desultory thanks implied was old news. He enquired after my mother and seemed genuinely sorry to hear of her death. And then, when Liz had delivered the tea and gone again, he weighed in.

“As you may know, sir, we’ve been asked to investigate Paul Bryant’s confession to the murders of Louise Paxton and Oscar Bantock.”

“I knew it was likely to come to that, Inspector, of course. But I didn’t know your investigation was actually under way.”

“Well under way. And already we’ve learnt from Mr. Bryant’s family and from a Mr. Peter Rossington that somebody else seems to be engaged on what you might call a parallel inquiry.”

“Ah. I see.”

“But I don’t, sir. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“The same as you, I imagine. I simply wanted to check Paul’s story before it became public. To spare the family any unnecessary—”

“The Paxton family, you mean?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Of which you’re not a member.”

“Not directly, no. More a friend. Although my sister-in-law—”

“Ah yes, the present Lady Paxton. With you. More complicated than the Borgias, isn’t it?” His smile would have been no more than irritating had I thought sarcasm his sole object. But I detected an implication that my connection with Sir Keith’s second wife had aroused his suspicion. Which I doubted could be dispelled by a simple explanation of how such a state of affairs had come about. “Do I take it you’re unconvinced of Mr. Bryant’s guilt?”

“No. But there must be a remote possibility he’s lying.”

“Why would he be lying?”

“I don’t know. But his wife killed herself only four months ago. A thing like that could . . . well . . . lead to irrational behaviour.”

“We’ve had a psychiatrist give him the once over. He’s pronounced Mr. Bryant as sane as you or me.”

“Really?”

Joyce’s smile took on a weary edge. “The point is, Mr. Timariot, we’re paid and equipped to enquire into all these matters. And we’re doing so. Thoroughly and expeditiously. Interference from amateurs, however well-meaning, is only likely to obstruct our efforts.” So we’d arrived where I’d assumed we would from the start. The warning off.

“I didn’t realize asking a few questions constituted interference.”

“Well, it does. Raking over the ashes of a dead case is disagreeable enough at the best of times.”

“Especially when you may have to admit you got the wrong man.”

It was a dig I’d been unable to resist. But the flush of anger in Joyce’s face and the steely hint of a threat in his voice made me regret it at once. “Exactly, sir. It could prove very embarrassing. For us—
and
the witnesses at Naylor’s trial who helped send him down.” He cleared his throat. “I have with me a copy of a statement you signed on the twenty-fifth of July, nineteen ninety.” He pulled the document out of his pocket and held it out. “Do you want to refresh your memory of what you said?”

“I can remember perfectly well, thank you.”

“And is there anything you want to add to it?”

“No.”

“Despite what you said on TV earlier this year?”

“I was the victim of selective editing.”

He treated me to a long sceptical frown, then took another piece of paper from his pocket and read my own recorded words back at me. “‘When she offered me a lift, I thought it was just a kindly gesture. Now I’m not so sure. I think she must have wanted me—wanted somebody—to stay with her.’ ” He looked up at me. “Not quite the same as your statement, is it?”

“What I said to Seymour was an impression, nothing more. But I certainly mentioned the offer of a lift in my statement. And in court.”

“Indeed you did, sir. I remember it well. I also remember your answer when I asked why you hadn’t accepted the lift. You said it was because you were planning to walk the whole of Offa’s Dyke eventually and didn’t want a gap left in the southern half of the route.”

I smiled. “You have a good memory, Inspector.”

“Finish it the following year, did you? Dabble your toes in the sea at Prestatyn, like me?”

“No. I didn’t. And I haven’t.”

“I see. So you might just as well have taken the ride.”

“Yes. And then everything might have turned out differently. You think I haven’t thought of that?”

“Difficult not to, I imagine.”

“Very. Just as it’s difficult not to wonder about other things.”

“Such as?”

He’d had his fun at my expense. It seemed only fair to respond in kind. “A solicitor I know tells me you keep back a certain amount of information in cases like this as a sort of litmus test for compulsive confessors.”

“What if we do?”

“Well, I assume Paul Bryant’s already passed the test. Otherwise you wouldn’t be going on with your inquiries, would you?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t comment on that.”

“Which means you must already realize Shaun Naylor’s innocent.”

“Is that what you think, sir?”

“What I think is that, if he is, those two witnesses who testified they’d heard him admit to the murders have a great deal of explaining to do. Unless, of course, you already know what their explanation’s going to be.”

He looked at me levelly. “You have one in mind, sir?”

“No. But it’s an anomaly, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps you think we put them up to it. Is that what you’re getting at?” His gaze was direct and challenging. He knew as well as I did it was what people would say. And already he felt compelled to present his rebuttal. “They both came forward of their own volition. Their statements were completely unsolicited.”

“And completely false.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Have you spoken to them yet?”

A recital of the “no comment” formula seemed to be on the edge of his lips. Then he evidently thought better of it. “Jason Bledlow, the witness who said Naylor confessed to him while they were sharing a cell on remand, is out of our reach, Mr. Timariot. He was shot dead while taking part in an armed raid on a bullion warehouse in September of last year.”

“Good God.”

“And Vincent Cassidy, the barman at Naylor’s local pub who said Naylor had boasted to him about committing the murders, has disappeared. Vanished without trace. Very recently, at that. As if he knew we’d be wanting to talk to him.”

“But he can’t have done.”

“No. Unless somebody forewarned him. Inadvertently, I mean. By asking him the sort of questions we want to ask him.” His stare grew cold and contemptuous. “I’m thinking of some well-meaning but interfering amateur. Know one, do you?”

“I haven’t spoken to Cassidy.”

“I really do hope that’s true, sir. For your sake.”

“Inspector, I can assure you—”

“Don’t say anything you might come to regret.” He smiled knowingly at me, softening and relaxing as he did so, a pose I somehow found more disturbing than open hostility. “We’ll find Cassidy sooner or later. He hasn’t the wit to stay hidden for long. When we do, we’ll also find out who tipped him off. Intentionally
or
unintentionally.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“In that case, you’ve nothing to worry about.” He finished his tea and craned towards me across my desk. “Either way, Mr. Timariot, please stay out of this from now on. It’s much the wisest thing for you to do.”

Joyce’s attempt to intimidate me would probably have been successful but for a single wholly understandable flaw in his logic. I knew what he couldn’t know: I
wasn’t
Cassidy’s informant. So the question I was left asking myself was unlikely even to have occurred to Joyce. If I hadn’t tipped Cassidy off, who had?

There seemed only one credible answer. And only one way to confirm it. I telephoned Cordwainer, Murray & Co. in Worcester straightaway and demanded to speak to Shaun Naylor’s solicitor. I was angry at the injustice of Joyce’s accusation and impatient to pin the blame where I thought it belonged: on Vijay Sarwate.

But Sarwate proved to be both quick-witted and emollient. “Your reaction is quite understandable, Mr. Timariot. Let me assure you, however, that I have had no contact, direct or indirect, with Vincent Cassidy. I entirely accept you did not alert him to the police inquiry but I must point out I did not do so either.”

“Who did, then?”

“I cannot say. But look here, would it not be helpful for us to meet in order to discuss this unfortunate misunderstanding? There are, as a matter of fact, several related issues I would value exploring with you.”

“I really don’t—”

“As it happens, I am travelling down to the Isle of Wight tomorrow to visit my client. It would be a simple matter to call on you afterwards. Would four o’clock suit you?”

It wasn’t just my inability to justify a refusal that made me agree to meet Sarwate. I also saw it as a sop to Bella; a demonstration that I was leaving no stone unturned on her behalf. In view of the blank I’d drawn in Chamonix, I reckoned it would be as well to have something else to report when she called. As it turned out, though, she hadn’t been in touch by the time I drove down to the Southampton Hilton for our appointment.

The venue was my suggestion, for which Sarwate had been effusively grateful, since it spared him a diversion from his route back to Worcester. Naturally, his convenience hadn’t been in my mind. But the advantages of an anonymous hotel in which one pair of dark-suited businessmen blended forgettably with the rest certainly had.

We recognized each other from the
Benefit of the Doubt
broadcast. Sarwate didn’t know, of course, how Seymour had stitched me up. Nor was he aware of the real reason for my double-checking Paul’s confession. As a result, a degree of bewilderment about my motives was at once detectable behind the Indian courtesy and professional reticence. I was a puzzle he could probably have done without. And a puzzle he was poorly placed to solve.

“Mr. Bryant told me he had unburdened himself to you before coming to me. He gave me no indication that you harboured any doubts about his confession, however. Am I to take it they have only recently developed?”

“I’m just trying to be healthily sceptical.”

“The police will be that, Mr. Timariot. Perhaps even
un
healthily sceptical. They need neither your assistance nor your encouragement.”

“So they said.”

“Then why not leave them to it?”

“Because I like to see and hear things for myself, I suppose. To be sure in my own mind.”

“And you are not?”

“Not completely. Not
absolutely
.”

“But Mr. Bryant has vindicated the misgivings you expressed in your television interview. He has revealed what you, I think, suspected all along. That my client is the victim of a miscarriage of justice.”

“Maybe.”

“How can you doubt it?”

“I’m not saying I do.”

“Dear me, this is most perplexing.” Sarwate sipped his tea and studied me over the rim of the cup, then said: “Shaun—Mr. Naylor—was disappointed to hear of your . . . equivocation. I had held out the hope to him that you would be prepared to expand on the testimony you gave at his trial. To revise your original statement in the light of your televised comments. Am I to understand—”

“I’ve told the police I don’t wish to alter my statement.”

“Oh dear.” He looked genuinely crestfallen. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Quite possibly. But—”

“Shaun
is
innocent, Mr. Timariot. I have known so from the beginning. He has consistently proclaimed his innocence, even when he might have made life easier for himself by admitting his guilt. He has spent more than three years in prison for a crime he did not commit. A category of crime, moreover, for which prisoners with wives and daughters of their own exact penalties undreamt of by the law. He has suffered much.”

“I’m sure he has.”

“But he has not deserved to. That is my point.”