by Unknown
Then my face was staring out of the screen at me, the sitting-room at Greenhayes visible in the background, including part of the very television set I was watching. And I was saying what Seymour wanted to hear. “Lady Paxton was friendly and approachable. She seemed to want to talk. Not just about the weather. About something else. But she was reluctant to talk at the same time. As if . . . Well, I’ve never really been able to describe her state of mind, even to myself. It was so difficult to assess. When she offered me a lift, I thought it was just a kindly gesture. Now I’m not so sure. I think she must have wanted me—wanted somebody—to stay with her.” Then we were back with Seymour on Hergest Ridge. Leaving me to shout at his video-recorded face: “Hold on. What about the rest? That’s not all I said, you devious bastard.” Just how devious he’d been sunk in only when I replayed the interview several times. Then, at last, I was able to recollect exactly what I’d gone on to say. “I think she must have wanted me—wanted somebody—to stay with her. To give her some disinterested advice about a problem she was trying to solve. To listen while she talked whatever it was out of her system.” What I’d recounted couldn’t possibly be regarded as a sexual proposition. But Seymour’s edited version of it could be. “I think she must have wanted me—wanted somebody—to stay with her.” The phrase echoed in my mind as Seymour quoted it to camera. “Failing to find that somebody in Mr. Timariot, did Lady Paxton strike luckier half an hour later at the Harp Inn? The evidence available to us suggests she may have done.”
The film cut to the frontage of Whistler’s Cot. Seymour strode into the picture. “The prosecution argued at the trial that Lady Paxton would hardly have risked using somebody else’s house for illicit sex. But her relationship with the owner was never explored. We know she was in effect his patron. He owed her a good deal. Might he have been willing to repay that debt by making his cottage available for her use? Or might she have known he wasn’t going to be there until later that night? With both of them now dead, we cannot hope to find out. But Lady Paxton’s friend, Mrs. Marsden, did say this.”
Sophie returned to the screen. “Louise and Oscar got on well together. There was a spark between them. An understanding. That’s why she appreciated his paintings better than most. You’d think they had nothing in common to look at them. In fact, there was an intuitive bond between them. Platonic, but genuine.”
Then we were back with Seymour. “If the jury had heard that, they might not have been so sure Shaun Naylor was lying about being brought here by Lady Paxton. But they’d still have come up against a substantial objection to his version of events. If he didn’t murder Oscar Bantock and Lady Paxton, who did? And why? Until three months ago, there seemed no other conceivable suspect or motive. Then this book”—he brandished a copy of Fakes and Ale—“was published. And suddenly the situation became rather more complicated.”
Henley Bantock I recognized at once. A caption identified his pudgy bow-tied companion as Barnaby Maitland. They seized the chance of a free peak-time advertisement for their book with ill-disguised glee. But they also set out their alternative explanation for the Kington killings with undeniable facility. “Fine art and the criminal underworld have many points of overlap,” expounded Maitland. “Forgery is perhaps the most remunerative—and hence the most dangerous.” “My uncle often told me he could humiliate the art establishment if he chose to,” contributed Henley. “Only when I found his journals did I realize it was true.” “It has to be said,” Maitland resumed, “that there were many reasons why poor old Oscar was worth more dead than alive in the summer of nineteen ninety.”
“Many reasons,” echoed Seymour. “None of which were considered at the trial. If they had been, would they have made any difference to the outcome? Shaun Naylor’s solicitor, Vijay Sarwate, thinks they might have done.”
We switched to the cramped and crowded interior of Sarwate’s office. He was a lean weary-sounding man who looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or bitter about the legal-aid lottery that had handed him such a case. But about one thing he was sure. “Evidence concerning Oscar Bantock’s activities as a forger would have been very valuable to my client. It would have supplied the missing link in his defence: a credible explanation for the events that took place that night after he left Whistler’s Cot. Circumstantial evidence is often the most difficult kind to refute because, at the back of the jury’s minds, the unspoken question is always there: If he did not do it, who did? That question went unanswered at the trial, to my client’s undoubted detriment. Obviously, in the light of these revelations, it would not go unanswered again. Indeed, I am already exploring with counsel the possibility of seeking leave to appeal against the convictions on precisely those grounds.”
“While his solicitor takes advice,” Seymour went on, “Shaun Naylor’s wife and children wait and wait for the husband and father the law decided should be kept away from them for at least twenty years. By then, Mrs. Naylor will be nearly fifty years old.”
The Naylor flat in Bermondsey. Garishly decorated and littered with discarded toys, but clean and homely in its way. Carol Naylor, a thin, haggard and obviously hard-pressed young woman, perched on the edge of a black leather-look sofa, drew nervously on a cigarette and glanced at a framed photograph of Shaun dandling their youngest on his knee four Christmases ago. “What makes you so certain of his innocence?” asked Seymour. “I’ve known him all my life,” she replied. “We grew up six doors apart. I’ve been married to him eight years. I know him better than he does himself. He can be short-tempered and arrogant. But he’s not a rapist. Not a cold-blooded murderer. It’s just not in his nature.” She fought back tears. “He didn’t do what they said he did. He couldn’t have done. I’ve known that from day one.”
“And from day one,” said Seymour, taking up the story outside a prison wall, “Shaun Naylor has consistently denied committing rape and double murder that night in July nineteen ninety. He’s been held here, at Albany Prison on the Isle of Wight, since his conviction. Home Office regulations prevent us visiting him, but we have exchanged letters with him. In his most recent communication, he says this.” Seymour held up the letter and read from it. “‘I’m hoping this forgery business will make the authorities reopen my case. It’s the first chink of light there’s been since I was sent down. In the end, they’ll realize I really am innocent. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I’ll go mad thinking about the injustice of what’s happened to me.’ ” Seymour paused for effect, then said: “Shaun Naylor still maintains he is the victim of a miscarriage of justice. Faced with what we now know and can legitimately conjecture about the events of July seventeenth, nineteen ninety, there may be many who agree with him and who feel he has been denied that most crucial component of justice: the benefit of the doubt.”
As the credits rolled, I switched the set off and stared blankly at my reflection in its screen. My few minutes of air-time solidified in my mind as a single hideous recollection, irredeemable and unalterable. In forty-eight hours, I’d be seen and heard in thousands of homes. Those of my colleagues and subordinates. Those of Naylor’s friends and relations. And those of Louise Paxton’s. To them I wouldn’t be fanning a flame of hope. I’d be betraying a fine woman’s memory. And my own solemn pledge. Sophie Marsden’s candour would probably do more damage than mine. But mine was the less forgivable. And complaints of selective editing would probably only make it worse.
I thought of phoning the television station and demanding to speak to Seymour. But I knew it would do no good. Even if I succeeded in contacting him, he’d only deny the charge. Editing of taped interviews was commonplace. Whether it amounted to deliberate distortion depended entirely on your point of view. Besides, I had no record of our conversation to set against his. I had no proof he’d set out to misrepresent what I’d said. Not a shred.
Which left me to consider the fall-out from my contribution to his rotten programme. One thing was certain. If I let Sarah or Rowena or Sir Keith simply come across
my interview without warning, they’d be justified in thinking the worst of me. I had to prepare them. I had to explain what I’d been duped into doing. And I had to explain it very quickly.
I phoned Sarah, reckoning she’d at least try to understand. But there was no answer. I left a message, emphasizing its urgency. Two anxious hours passed, during which I replayed the video several times. Then, just as I was about to call Sarah again, she rang back.
“I need to see you, Sarah. Tomorrow. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What?”
“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone. Can we meet?”
“Well . . . I suppose so. But tomorrow’s difficult.”
“It can’t be delayed. Honestly.”
“It may have to be. I’m tied up all—”
“Rowena’s involved,” I interrupted, calculating that her name would persuade Sarah where any amount of pleas in my own right might fail.
“What’s this about, Robin?”
“Meet me tomorrow, Sarah. Please.”
“It really is urgent?”
“Yes. I’ll come to Bristol. Wherever suits you.”
“All right. College Green, twelve thirty sharp. Wait on one of the benches there. I work nearby. But a long lunch is the last thing my schedule needs at the moment, so please don’t be late.”
“I won’t be, I promise.”
I drove up to Bristol early enough the following morning to be absolutely certain of being on time. It was a warm sunny day. When I arrived, the benches on College Green were already occupied by groups of idle youths and weary shoppers in search of a tan. A heat haze blurred the perspective of Park Street and the soaring elegance of the University Tower, while traffic roared by and exhaust fumes swirled in the motionless air. I stood in the centre of College Green’s triangle of grass, studying the ceaseless bustle of the world and reflecting how powerless I was to halt or alter its course in any way. What would be would always be.
She appeared promptly at half past twelve from the mouth of a narrow street between the cathedral and the Royal Hotel. A slight hurrying figure in a grey suit and white blouse. It struck me, watching her approach, that at twenty-five she’d begun to lose some of the youthful traits I’d noticed at our first meeting. Which wasn’t just a measure of her professional cares, but an indicator of how long I’d known her. Her mother had been dead nearly three years. Yet still, in so many ways, she lived.
“I don’t have long, Robin,” Sarah announced, greeting me with a fleeting kiss. “Shall we to go a pub? There’s a decent one just round the corner.” Then she noticed the plastic bag in my hand. “Been shopping?”
“Not exactly.” Her innocent question spared me the task of constructing a painful preamble. I launched straight in. “Did you know there’s to be a programme about your mother’s murder on television tomorrow night?”
“Benefit of the Doubt? Yes. Daddy’s solicitor got wind of it.”
“This is a recording.” I held up the bag. “It’s why I’m here.”
“What are you doing with a recording of a programme that’s not yet gone out?”
“It’s a complimentary copy. A gesture of thanks from the presenter. I’m in it, you see. In more ways than one.”
We sat in a cool and shadowy alcove of the Hatchet Inn, privacy guaranteed by the hubbub of fruit machines and bar-rail conversations. Sarah listened patiently to what I had to say, pressure of commitments forgotten now I’d drawn her out of her daily preoccupations to consider once more the doubts and difficulties her mother’s death had bequeathed to her—and which she must have heartily wished could be put behind her for good and all.
“I was a fool to agree to the interview. And a bigger fool to let him set me up the way he did. The Bushranger bid was what did it. But for all that spinning around in my head, I’d never have let my tongue run away with me. I was a bit drunk, a bit resentful, a bit . . . Well, there it is. It’s done. And it can’t be undone. Seymour’s edited the tape to make it sound as if I think your mother tried to pick me up. I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean that. But it’s how it comes out. I’m sorry. Sorry and ashamed. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. Or change it. I just wanted you to know . . . beforehand . . . that it wasn’t intentional. God knows what Sophie was thinking of, but I was . . . thinking of all the wrong things. Not concentrating. Not considering the consequences. Not . . . seeing clearly.”
“I don’t understand. No amount of editing could put words in your mouth.”
“It can seem to, believe me. Seymour twists what I say by leaving odd sentences out. It’s subtly done. You might not notice if you didn’t know it had happened.”
“And that’s why you wanted us to meet? So I would know?”
“Partly. But I’m also worried about Rowena.”
“You and me both. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’s been . . . a bit down lately. Fretting about her exams, Paul reckons. But they’re out of the way now and she hasn’t perked up. They say depression is a recurring illness and I think it may have recurred in her case. Not because of Mummy, though, or this bloody book. I’m not even sure she knows it’s been published.”
“Why, then?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Paul’s her confidant now, not me. Or he should be.”
“The marriage hasn’t run into trouble, has it?”
“No. At least . . . Well, lack of trouble may be the problem. Paul loves Rowena. That’s obvious whenever you see them together. But there’s such a thing as too much love, isn’t there? It can become stifling, even oppressive. Rowena’s only twenty-two. No age really. She grew up late. Maybe she’s only just started to grow up. Maybe she’s regretting settling her future so soon. It’s all mapped out for her now. Paul’s wife. The mother of Paul’s children. A fixture in Paul’s life. A part of Paul. Where’s Rowena?”
“If that’s the way she’s thinking . . .”
“A renewal of doubts about Mummy’s death isn’t going to help. Exactly. Fortunately, Rowena hardly watches television from one week’s end to the next. With any luck, she’ll know nothing about Benefit of the Doubt. I’m going out to dinner with her and Paul tomorrow night. Just to make sure.”
“Was that your idea?”
“Mine and Paul’s.”
“It could look like a conspiracy to Rowena. If she ever finds out. Not mentioning the book to her. Not telling her about the TV programme. You and her husband censoring what she can be allowed to know. It’s a dangerous—”
“You have a better idea, do you?” She was angry. It happened suddenly and only now, too late, did I realize why. I’d crossed the invisible boundary between legitimate concern and unwelcome interference. “What do you suggest? Dig up all those uncertainties again? Start her chasing after that crazy idea about Mummy foreseeing her death?”
“No. Of course not. But—”
“Or is this interview your way of taking the decision out of our hands?”
“You know it isn’t.”
“Do I?”
“Would I have warned you about it if it was?”
“Perhaps not. But . . .”
“Evasion and concealment breed problems, Sarah. Don’t you see that? Oh what a tangled web we weave, etcetera. If you’d been honest with Rowena about the possibility that your mother meant to leave your father, precognition might never have entered her head as an—”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” She stared at me, appalled. “That’s why you’ve done this. I knew I should never have told you about Mummy leaving Daddy. You resented me keeping it from you till after the trial, didn’t you?”
“Why should I have resented it?”
“Because what you said in court might have been different if you’d known about it then. And you think that’s why I held it back. What’s more, you’re right. I only told you when I did because I thought Rowena’s suicide attempt would have made you understand just how damaging complete honesty could be. But you didn’t unde
rstand. And you still don’t. As I expect this proves.” She pointed at the bag lying on the table between us. “So now you want to have it both ways. The truth—or your version of it—out in the open. And my generous pardon. Justified by some crap about selective editing.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Sarah. I’m simply trying to—”
“Force your opinion of us down our throats. Well, I’m not going to let you.” She rose abruptly, her chair scraping back across the floor, and grabbed the bag. “I’ll watch the tape, Robin. And I’ll be the judge of what I see. Thanks very much.” She turned on her heel and slipped through the crowd towards the door.
“Sarah, wait! I—” But she was gone. And pursuit now would only make matters worse. A blazing argument in the street to add to our misunderstandings. I sank back in my chair and contemplated the ruins of my strategy. There was a grain of truth in what she’d said. I wanted her approval, even her esteem. Perhaps, buried too deep for confession or recognition, I wanted some part of her that would remind me of her mother. But a greater desire always prevailed in the end. A desire to possess the secret Louise Paxton had taken to her grave. “Can we really change anything, do you think?” No. We couldn’t change a single thing. Unless we discovered it first. And then . . . Maybe. Just maybe.
I stayed longer in the pub than I should have, then wandered out, slightly drunk, into the hot afternoon. The visit to Bristol had been a mistake. I knew that only too well. Sarah couldn’t have thought worse of me if I’d kept clear and let her see the programme unprepared. I’d tried to forewarn her of Seymour’s duplicity. But I’d only succeeded in alerting her to mine.
