Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

It wasn’t just that the tidy self-contained life of a Eurocrat suddenly seemed like a haven from scandal and recrimination. It also seemed like a refuge from my own broken dreams. What some people might have found wholly incomprehensible about Paul’s behaviour in July 1990-his infatuation with Louise Paxton-was to me only too credible. A single encounter with her of a few minutes’ duration had left me with a trace of sympathy for Paul’s inability to defeat his obsession. And for the violence of his reaction when he glimpsed the true nature of the woman he’d idolized and idealized. There but for the grace of God-or the mercy of chance-went I.

It was easy to maintain my detached pose. Until the police investigation began-and for some time after that-only a handful of people would know what was happening. Bella urged me to be reticent: “Do please try to keep your mouth shut about this, Robin.” But she needn’t have bothered. I had no intention of telling anyone, least of all members of my own family, whom Bella imagined crowing at her discomfiture. Even if I’d wanted to confide in them, the acrimony that grew between us as the climactic board meeting approached would have ruled the idea out. Confidence had long since gone the same way as our profits.

I was still determined to resist the Bushranger bid, of course, futile as doing so was bound to be. But even futility can serve a purpose. My opposition to the future Adrian had mapped out for Timariot & Small gave me an honourable reason for refusing to participate in it. And for scuttling back to Brussels long before the Kington killings returned to the headlines. My fall-back position was ready. And there seemed no reason why my retreat to it shouldn’t have at least the appearance of an orderly withdrawal. Except that, not for the first time, I’d reckoned without Bella’s unpredictable ways.

A week had passed since my visit to The Hurdles. Sarah had gone back to Bristol, while Bella and Sir Keith had returned to Biarritz. So Bella had led me to assume anyway. Having given her proxy vote to Adrian, there was certainly no need for her to hang around for the board meeting. So I was surprised when she phoned me at home early on Wednesday the twenty-second, the day before the meeting. Eight o’clock was an hour I didn’t think she knew much about. And the clarity of the line made it seem as if she were in Hindhead rather than Biarritz. Which, as a matter of fact, she was.

“Can we meet for lunch, Robin?”

“Today?”

“Yes. My treat.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve got a lot-”

“It’s really important.”

“In what way?”

“In almost every way. I’ll explain over lunch.”

“Yes, but as I’ve just-”

“The Angel at Midhurst. Twelve thirty. Don’t be late.”

I drove across to Midhurst at noon through the sunshine and showers. The trees were turning, the first leaves of autumn beginning to fall. This time next year, I remember thinking, it’ll all be out in the open. Not over. Not even then. But no longer hidden. No longer my secret. Or anyone else’s. And I’ll be out of it. Out altogether.

The Angel was busy, but Bella had booked one of the more secluded tables. I was early and she, naturally, was late. Having pressed me to be punctual, that was only to be expected. But still, in my present mood, it grated. After twenty minutes of toying with a mineral water while eaves-dropping on nearby conversations about school fees and racing form, I was seriously considering walking out, when, as if timing her arrival by intuition, Bella strolled unhurriedly into view. She was wearing a startlingly well-cut red suit that drew admiring glances from men and women alike, though for very different reasons. I couldn’t help returning her smile as I rose to greet her.

“I expect you’re wondering why I’m still in the country,” she said after ordering a drink.

“I assumed you were going to tell me.”

“I am. But first I must apologize for the… atmosphere… last time we met. Partly my fault, I expect. Paul’s… news… was a terrible shock.”

“Yes. Of course. How’s Keith been since?”

“Better. He’s come to terms with it, I think.”

“And have you?”

“Not exactly.” But she didn’t light up when her drink arrived. That alone signalled some kind of adjustment. “Keith’s eager to go back to Biarritz. He thinks we can weather the storm better there.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Unfinished business.” Seeing me frown, she said: “Tell me why you oppose the Bushranger bid, Robin.”

“You’ve been thinking about that? At a time like-”

“Just tell me. There’s a good boy.”

The phrase reminded me, as perhaps it was meant to, of times past. Our secret times together of which we’d tacitly agreed never to speak. It had only ever been an affair of the flesh. With Bella, I suppose, nothing more was possible. Yet a little frail mental bond remained. She’d never tried to exploit it. She’d never needed to. Till now. I didn’t mind rehearsing my objections to surrendering a hundred and fifty-seven years of English tradition to the Ned Kelly of Australian bat making. I was actually pleased to be asked to. But I never for a single moment thought Bella was really interested in hearing them. Around the time her salmon in sorrel sauce arrived and my diatribe against smash-and-grab commercial raiding wound to a close, she began to reveal her true concerns.

“So you still intend to vote against the bid?”

“Certainly.”

“Along with Uncle Larry?”

“He won’t change his mind. Neither will I.”

“But you’ll lose.”

“It seems so.”

“Unless somebody else changes their mind.”

“True. But I’m not holding my breath.”

“Perhaps you should. You can have my vote if you want it.”

I stared at her in amazement, a fork-pronged potato stalled halfway to my mouth. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. I can go to Adrian this afternoon and withdraw my proxy. Uncle Larry and I hold twenty thousand shares each. That’s forty per cent of the total. With your twelve and half per cent stake…”

“It would be fifty-two and a half per cent. A slim but decisive majority. I can do the maths, Bella.” I put down my fork and sipped some wine. “But not the guesswork. Why would you vote with us?”

“Because the outcome doesn’t matter to me anything like as much as it matters to you. I can turn down Bushranger’s offer without a second thought. Whether Timariot & Small make a profit or a loss doesn’t make a lot of difference to me. I’d prefer a profit, of course. Who wouldn’t? I’d prefer twenty per cent of two and a half million pounds. Naturally. But I don’t need it. Not as much as I need something else.”

“And that is?”

“Your help.”

“With what?”

She leant across the table and lowered her voice. “Proving Paul Bryant didn’t murder Louise Paxton and Oscar Bantock.”

“What?” I found myself whispering as well.

“I want you to help me break his story. Find the flaw that’s got to be there. Prove he couldn’t have done it.”

“But he did do it. You know that as well as I do. Last week, you virtually said as much.”

“Last week was last week. As Keith pointed out, there are inaccuracies in his account. Suspicious ambiguities.”

“No there aren’t.”

“There are grounds for doubt,” she persisted. “Enough to warrant close scrutiny.”

“Well, they’ll get close scrutiny. From the police.”

“Naylor’s solicitor has only just submitted Paul’s affidavit to the Crown Prosecution Service. It could be weeks before the police investigation gets under way. And very messy when it does. In the meantime, there’s a chance to forestall it. To make it unnecessary. To spare ourselves a great deal of agony.”