Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

That day also saw the appearance of the first newspaper articles heralding Naylor’s release from prison. They struck a cautious note for the most part, referring to “indications that Shaun Naylor may be set free following an appeal hearing next Wednesday” and “speculation which a police spokesman failed to deny that an as yet unidentified person has confessed to the murders for which Naylor was sentenced to life imprisonment in May 1991.” But if the press were being uncharacteristically diffident, my brother Simon wasn’t, especially after several drinks at my leaving party. “What the bloody hell’s all this about, Rob? And don’t try to tell me you don’t know, because I’m bloody certain you do.” Playing a dead bat to Simon when he was cruising towards inebriation being out of the question, I tried bafflement instead, which worked a treat. “My lips are sealed, Sime. Ask Bella, though. She might be able to enlighten you.”

By the weekend, a little more had seeped into the public domain. West Mercia Police and the Crown Prosecution Service were still being tight-lipped, but Vijay Sarwate had given an interview and said as much as he evidently felt he could. “I can confirm we will be applying for leave to appeal against Mr. Naylor’s convictions at a hearing on the twenty-second of this month and that the basis for the application is a full and voluntary confession of guilt by the real murderer of Oscar Bantock and Lady Paxton. I understand the police have satisfied themselves as to the accuracy and veracity of this confession and the prosecution will therefore not only be raising no objection to the appeal going ahead but also offering no evidence when it does so. In those circumstances, I anticipate that an application for Mr. Naylor’s release on bail pending the appeal will be favourably received. You will appreciate I am anxious to do all I can to reunite Mr. Naylor with his wife and children so they can celebrate a family Christmas together for the first time in four years.”

Sarwate must have found it difficult to keep a straight face while painting this Cratchit-like portrait of the Naylors, but, as an embellishment of the case for bail, I suppose seasonal sentiment was too good to resist. The newspapers were evidently confused by the turn of events. It didn’t suit either lobby in the affair to have Naylor acquitted for reasons unconnected with the only coherent argument the media had ever advanced for his innocence. Yet since a contract killer hired by Oscar Bantock’s accomplices in the forgery game was hardly likely to want to clear his conscience at this late date, it must have been obvious to all concerned that they’d got it badly wrong. Their unanimous response to which was a retreat behind sub judice reticence. This definitely wasn’t the stuff of outraged leader columns.

Nor was it going to be the stuff of my future, however near or far I looked. I’d booked a Christmas Eve flight to Rio de Janeiro at the start of what I intended to be a slow and utterly relaxing meander through the Americas, finishing-according to my hazy estimate of a schedule-amidst the blazing foliage of a New England fall. I didn’t anticipate meeting anyone on the way who’d ever heard of Shaun Naylor. And I didn’t anticipate wanting to.

A week of solid packing still lay between me and the footloose life, however. I’d agreed to let Jennifer, Simon and Adrian put Greenhayes on the market in the New Year, so all my possessions had to go into store. There were actually precious few of them compared with what remained from my mother’s day. But the exercise still turned into an exhausting chore, as I’d known it would. Which wasn’t the only reason I’d left it as late as I could. I’d also dreaded the psychological effect of sifting through the detritus of mine and my parents’ lives. It drew my thoughts back to my childhood, when Hugh used to take me for hair-raising rides round the lanes on his motorbike and Jennifer’s boyfriends all dressed like Frank Zappa, when Simon’s laugh never needed to be rueful and Adrian was the master of nobody’s destiny, even his own. It lured me, as I’d feared it was bound to, into introspection and nostalgia. And it left me ill-prepared for the reminder that came my way on Monday of how much easier it is to get into something than it is to get out.

“Hello?”

“Is that Robin Timariot?” The voice on the other end of the telephone was guttural and unfamiliar.

“Speaking.”

“You on your own?”

“Who is this?”

“Vince Cassidy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know who I am. Sharon said you wanted to talk to me.”

“There must be some misunderstanding.”

“No there ain’t. The message was clear. You wanted to know who paid me to fit up Shaun Naylor.”

“That was two months ago, Mr. Cassidy. I’m no longer interested.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do. Besides, I’ve found out since why you did it.”

“The fuck you have.”

“Shaun told me about you and his wife, Mr. Cassidy. Is that why you’re phoning? In the hope of extracting some money from me with which to put yourself out of Shaun’s reach when he’s released? If so, I-”

“This ain’t nothing to do with Carol.”

“Then go to the police. They may be prepared to listen to you, but certainly not to pay you. For myself, I’m willing to do neither.”

“Hold on. You don’t-”

I put the phone down and switched on the answering machine to ensure I didn’t have to talk to him again. The newspaper articles had panicked him. That was as obvious as it was understandable. But it was far too late for him to tap me for help. A few minutes later, somebody rang, but failed to speak after the beep. Cassidy? It had to be. And even if he hadn’t left a message, he’d evidently got one. Because he didn’t ring again. Then or later.

Tuesday was the first bright day in what seemed like weeks, so I treated myself to a lengthy tramp round the hangers after lunch. It was something of a farewell tour of the countryside I’d grown up in, left, returned to and now was leaving again. I didn’t turn for home until it was nearly dark and, in the event, never made it to Greenhayes on foot. A car passed me in the lane beneath Shoulder of Mutton Hill, pulled up a short distance ahead, then reversed to meet me. And only when the driver wound down her window did I realize whose car it was.

“Sarah! What are you doing here?”

“Offering you a lift home,” she said with a smile. I climbed in and we set off. “Actually, I’ve just finished a two-day refresher course back at the College of Law in Guildford, so I thought I’d see how you were.”

“You’re lucky to have caught me. I leave for Brazil on Friday.”

“I wish I could do the same.” She sounded genuinely envious. “I really do.”

“Come with me,” I said frivolously.

“You don’t know how tempting the suggestion is.”

“Because of tomorrow’s appeal hearing, you mean?”

“Yes.” I watched her as she concentrated on a sharp bend. She was looking tired and careworn, sapped by her expert foreknowledge of the legal convolutions that lay ahead. “That and everything it entails.”

Over tea at Greenhayes amidst the book-stacks and packing-cases, Sarah described the nagging pressure of events, the pitiless predictability of all that had happened since Paul’s confession and all that was still bound to happen. Her father’s refusal to face the reality of the situation had led to his virtual estrangement from her as well as his actual estrangement from Bella. “I can’t talk to him, Robin. He won’t let me help him through this. And he’s not prepared to help me through it. So, we have to endure it as best we can in our separate ways. But it isn’t easy. And it’s only going to become more difficult.”