Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

“What has happened?”

She peered past me, as if fearing I mightn’t be alone, before answering. And when she did, it was no answer at all. “Can we go inside?”

I led the way indoors, busying myself with keys, light switches and heating controls while Bella went into the sitting-room. She’d already lit a cigarette by the time I joined her and was standing by the fireplace, flicking ash into the empty grate. I’d stripped the walls of pictures and plates and shrouded the furniture in dust-sheets in preparation for the redecoration Jennifer had insisted would be necessary to attract a buyer. What with that and the half dozen tea-chests standing ready in one corner, the room had already lost most of its homely atmosphere. Which only seemed to accentuate Bella’s uncharacteristic restlessness. She paced the stretch of carpet where the outline of the hearthrug was still visible, her raincoat collar turned up and her shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. As I entered the room and glanced across at her, I thought I saw a shiver run through her.

She was wearing no make-up beyond a smear of lipstick and looked pale and haggard as a result. Her eyes were red with fatigue, her hair in need of brushing and there was that faint tremor in her hands I’d noticed in Bordeaux. It was hard to imagine what could have had such an effect on her. I’d seen her ride out the loss of a husband and a stepdaughter without batting a tinted eyelid. But now-

“What’s wrong, Bella?”

“Keith’s dead,” she said abruptly.

“What?”

“My husband is dead.”

“But… how?”

“His body was found yesterday at the foot of some cliffs in southern Portugal. They seem to think it must have been there since the weekend.”

“Portugal? I don’t understand. What was-”

“They have no idea why he should have gone there.”

“But… was this… an accident?”

“That’s what the Portuguese police seem to think. His car was parked near the top of the cliff. It’s something of a tourist attraction apparently, not far from Cape Saint Vincent.”

“It couldn’t have been…”

“Suicide?” She stopped pacing up and down and looked straight at me. “Well, it could have been, of course. There’s no way to tell. Nobody’s going to believe Keith went there to admire the view, are they? So I suppose suicide is what most people will assume, whatever the official verdict.”

“Good God. Did you have any inkling he might do such a thing?”

“They’ve asked me to fly out to Portugal as soon as possible to identify the body and make the necessary arrangements,” she said, so matter-of-factly it seemed she simply hadn’t heard my question. “I leave first thing in the morning.”

“Can I help in any way?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been trying to contact Sarah all day without success. She’s not answering her phone at home and she’s not been at work today. Off sick with flu, apparently.”

“Really? She seemed all right last night.”

“Last night?”

“She called in. On her way back to Bristol from some course or other in Guildford.”

Bella shook her head in weary puzzlement. “I don’t know anything about that. The point is she has to be told. I’d ask that gormless boyfriend of hers, but I don’t have his number. I can’t even remember his surname, for God’s sake! Could you go up there tomorrow morning and break the news to her? At least I can rely on you to make a sensitive job of it. First her mother. Then her sister. Now her father. It’s going to hit her hard, isn’t it?”

The mounting tally of Sarah’s bereavements suddenly came home to me. They were all gone now but her. All that serene normality she’d described growing up in had been pared down by different kinds of self-destruction till only she remained. Explaining it to her would be bad enough. But to live with it, as she’d have to, on into middle age and beyond…

“You will go, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“It doesn’t interfere with your travel plans, does it?”

“No.” Sarah’s words of twenty-four hours before bubbled into my mind. “Promise me you’ll leave on Friday. Whatever happens.” It was almost as if she’d foreseen the catastrophe. As if she’d known what her father meant to do. “But my plans don’t matter anyway. Not now.”

“I’m only asking you to see Sarah, not to cancel your trip.”

“In the circumstances-”

“Catch your plane on Friday, Robin.” Bella had moved closer and lowered her voice. Her eyes seemed to urge me to accept her advice. “Get out while you can.”

“Get out of what?”

“All of this.”

There was something beyond her words and looks, some message she wanted to convey without declaring what it was. “Sarah’s bound to ask whether her father’s death was an accident or suicide. What do I tell her?”

“What I’ve told you. Nobody knows.”

“She may want to follow you to Portugal.”

“Try to discourage her. There’d be no point.”

“How can you be so sure?” Bella’s strength was failing. Her will to keep whatever it was to herself was ebbing. Even her self-reliance had its limits. And now we’d reached them. “What the hell is all this about, Bella?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do. It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then he must have killed himself?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You’re not suggesting he was murdered?” She didn’t reply, merely swallowed hard and took a drag on her cigarette. But her eyes remained fixed on me. And in them there was no longer much attempt at concealment. “Why would anybody kill Keith?”

“There’s a reason. A very good reason.”

“What is it?”

“It would explain why he went to Portugal. And why he never left.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“I can’t.”

“If you want me to go and see Sarah, you must.” It was a bluff. I think we both knew that. We were beyond such bargaining now. But still Bella hesitated, weighing some other issue in her mind. The need to guard her secret against the desire to share it.

“All right.” She moved back to the fireplace and tossed the remnant of her cigarette into the grate, then leant against the mantelpiece, slowly arched her neck as if it were aching and turned her head to look at me. “Keith knew Paul was lying, Robin. Paul couldn’t have murdered Louise or Oscar Bantock.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Keith knew Paul’s confession to be a pack of lies from start to finish.”

“You mean he hoped it was.”

“No. He knew . For a fact.”

“How could he?”

“By being responsible for the murders himself.” She studied the shocked expression on my face for a moment, then said: “Keith paid Shaun Naylor to kill Oscar Bantock. He commissioned the crime. And unintentionally brought about his wife’s murder as a result.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Yes it can. He told me so himself when he realized there was no other way to convince me Paul was lying.”

“But… why should Paul have lied?”

“That hardly matters now, does it? Don’t you see? Keith wasn’t prepared to let Louise’s murderer get away with it. He was going to intervene to prevent Naylor’s release. He was going to admit his part in the crime. That’s why he’s been killed. To stop him confessing.”

“I… I don’t understand. If Keith hired Naylor… who killed Keith?”

“There were intermediaries. Keith never met Naylor. The whole thing was arranged for him by somebody else. And I’m pretty sure it’s that somebody who murdered Keith-or had him murdered.”