Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

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.

“I was sitting outside in the sun. What was left of it. The place was pretty busy. Lady Paxton-I didn’t know her name then, of course-walked up and asked if she could share my table. I said yes and offered to buy her a drink. She didn’t go into the pub herself. And she’d left her car a little way down the lane, near the church. We talked. Like you do. It was obvious… Well, I got the pretty clear impression she was… interested. We had another drink. She got friendly. Started to flirt with me. Eyefuls of smile. Hand brushing my thigh. You know. I got the message. And I thought: why not? Beautiful woman. Lonely and a long way from home. Who wouldn’t? She didn’t say much about herself. Or ask me much about myself. We left about eight forty-five, I suppose. It was getting dark by then. She suggested we go back to a friend’s house nearby. Said the friend wouldn’t be there and… she could use it. She led the way in her car. I followed in mine. It wasn’t far. A cottage up a narrow lane near Kington. The friend was a painter. A woman, she said. She showed me her studio. I didn’t spend long looking around. We both knew what we were there for. It started in the studio. But there were too many things to bump into. So she took me upstairs to the bedroom. I didn’t rape her. I didn’t need to. She was… a willing partner. And she… well… liked it a bit rough. But that’s not rape. Not anything like. I didn’t stay long afterwards. She said her friend was due back around eleven and she wanted time to clear up. So, I made myself scarce. It can’t have been much later than half past ten when I left. She was still in bed then, alive and well. I stopped for a drink at a pub in Leominster just before closing time. The Black Horse. Then I went on and did the place near Bromyard. Big house at Berrow Green. I got a good haul there. Felt pretty pleased with myself. I got to Cardiff around dawn. Next day, I set off back to London. Reckoned I’d got enough to pay for the Florida trip. And it was about time I made it up with the wife.