Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

Sarah was right. They hadn’t uncovered any evidence to support their theory. It was a shallow invention designed to boost sales. But to the ill-informed it might sound plausible. A contract killing that claimed Louise Paxton as an extra victim because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Where did that leave Naylor? The authors didn’t know. But Maitland doubted he was the sort to be employed as a hit-man. So, in the end, their implication was clear. But unstated. That was the worst of it. They never came out and said what many readers would infer. That Naylor was innocent.

I felt so angry after finishing the book that I wrote to Henley Bantock care of his publisher, accusing him of a gratuitous attack on a fine woman’s memory. It was a stupid thing to do, since it merely elicited a sarcastic reply that deliberately missed the point I’d made. “ You were not above deceiving me about your connection with Lady Paxton ,” Bantock wrote, “ so your high moral tone is scarcely justified. Our conclusions about the Kington killings represent a reasonable extrapolation of the known facts. I am sorry if they offend you, but I wonder if that is not really because you resent us seeing matters in a clearer light than you .” I didn’t pursue the correspondence. Nor did I comply with his closing request. “ Please pass on my best wishes to your sister .”

According to Sarah, the only sensible course of action was to ignore the book. “Treat it with the contempt it deserves, Robin,” she said in a telephone conversation shortly after I’d finished it. “Chuck it on the fire if you like. I don’t want it back.”

I didn’t destroy it, of course. I slid it into a bookcase out of sight, spine turned to the wall, and did my best to forget all about it. Oscar Bantock’s career as a forger would no doubt run and run as a story in the art world. But I didn’t move in the art world. As for its supposed relevance to Naylor’s conviction as a rapist and double murderer, that was surely a kite that wouldn’t fly. With or without Fakes and Ale , Shaun Naylor was staying where he belonged: in prison. And the truth was staying where it belonged. The Kington killings weren’t going to come back to haunt us. Not so long after the event. Not in the face of so much certainty. They couldn’t. Could they?

I had lunch with Bella and Sir Keith over Easter. They took the same line as Sarah. Dignified silence was the only way to respond to Henley Bantock’s money-grubbing. “I’m glad Louise never knew old Oscar was into forgery,” said Sir Keith. “She thought he was a neglected genius-and an idealist to boot. The real irony is that this will actually increase the value of genuine Bantocks. Like the ones Louise bought for next to nothing. And Sophie Marsden. She should be pleased. But Henley’s the big winner, isn’t he? Royalties from his nasty little book. And God knows what per cent whacked onto his stockpile of Bantock originals. With all that to look forward to, you’d think he could have had the decency to leave the murders out of it. But people never are moderately greedy, are they? They always want more.”

I enquired tentatively about Rowena’s reaction to the book. But as far as Sir Keith knew, she was unaware of its existence. “Too busy trying to combine being a student and a housewife to comb through reviews. Paul hasn’t drawn it to her attention and, frankly, I think he’s wise not to. We don’t want any repetition of those problems she had before the trial, do we? In fact, I’d be grateful if you took care not to mention it next time you meet her. With any luck, it’ll pass her by completely. Leave her free to concentrate on making me a grandfather as soon as possible.”

I promised to say nothing, even though I wasn’t sure keeping Rowena in the dark was either feasible or sensible. Too many secrets were piling up for my liking. Presumably, Sir Keith still didn’t know about her suicide attempt. Now she wasn’t to know about Henley Bantock’s alternative explanation for her mother’s death. If and when she found out, the efforts to shield her from it might give the theory some of the credibility it didn’t deserve. “It’ll end in tears,” my mother would have said. And I’d have been bound to agree with her. Tears. Or something much worse.

Vindication of my scepticism came within a matter of weeks. It was heralded by a telephone call at work from a researcher for the television series Benefit of the Doubt . I’d heard of it, of course, and seen it a couple of times. Nick Seymour, the presenter, set about drawing public attention to a possible miscarriage of justice during a thirty-minute assessment of the evidence that had sent one or more people to prison. He’d helped bring about acquittal and release in several cases and become a minor celebrity in the process. Now he planned to devote a future edition to the Kington killings-and the conviction of Shaun Naylor. As a witness at Naylor’s trial, would I be prepared to record an interview for the programme? I said no. But Seymour wasn’t the man to leave it there. A couple of days later, he rang me personally at home.

“I’m trying to get as full and fair a picture as possible, Mr. Timariot. All I’d want you to do is repeat what you said in court. Set the scene for the viewer. Give your first-hand impression of Lady Paxton’s state of mind on the day of the murders.” His voice was rounded and reasonable. But there was an edge of impatience in it as well. He didn’t like being turned down.

“The problem is, Mr. Seymour, that I have to assume you’ll be trying to suggest Naylor’s innocent. And I simply don’t believe he is.”

“Have you read this new biography of Oscar Bantock?”

“ Fakes and Ale? Yes. And if Henley Bantock’s unsubstantiated theories are what-”

“They’re part of it, of course. But if you’re so sure they’re unsubstantiated, why not say so on TV? I’m offering you that chance.”

“But the programme will be geared to backing Henley’s interpretation, won’t it? Otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“True. But look at it this way. Naylor claims Lady Paxton picked him up that night. If you think he’s lying, why not tell it on air the way you saw it? After all, you’re the only other person who met her that day. Apart from her daughter. And I don’t really want to bother her. Unless I have to, of course. Unless you leave me no choice in the matter.” The pressure was subtle but definite. I wasn’t warming to Mr. Seymour. But I was beginning to think I’d better cooperate with him. If only for Rowena’s sake.

“How do I know you’d transmit what I said? I can tell you now none of it would help you paint Naylor in a sympathetic light.”

“Then I might not use it. But at least I couldn’t say you’d refused to talk to me, could I?”

“All right, Mr. Seymour. You can have your interview. For all the good it’ll do you.”

The interview was fixed for Thursday the twentieth of May. Seymour and a cameraman would come to Greenhayes at six o’clock that evening and be gone again within the hour. They’d be punctual and I’d be put to minimum inconvenience. So Seymour assured me, anyway. And I believed him. I also believed he wouldn’t want to linger after he’d heard what I had to say.

At the time I scribbled the appointment in my diary, Thursday the twentieth of May seemed just one handy blank in an otherwise busy week. But it didn’t turn out to be. Adrian was supposed to return to the office on Monday the seventeenth after a fortnight in Australia. The trip was a last ditch attempt to strike some kind of deal with Bushranger Sports. Adrian believed-unlike the rest of us-that he might still be able to sweet-talk Bushranger’s notoriously hard-nosed chairman, Harvey McGraw. And McGraw had agreed, apparently, to let him try. I arrived at Frenchman’s Road on the seventeenth expecting to hear Adrian’s account of his failure. Instead, his secretary announced his return had been delayed by forty-eight hours. Whether that was a good sign or not he’d declined to tell her. We’d just have to wait and see.