Robert Goddard — Borrowed Time

by Unknown

“There’s no need to apologize. If there’s anything—”

  “Sarah tells me it was you Paul first came to.”

  “Yes. It was.”

  “I saw him this morning. In Bristol.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “In a trance, if you really want to know. Like a man in a bloody trance.”

  I looked at Sarah in search of clarification. She shrugged and said: “He’s resigned from Metropolitan Mutual. As of last Friday. Now he’s just sitting in that little house at Bathurst Wharf waiting for them to come for him.”

  “But . . . you said it could be months before . . .”

  “It will be. But he doesn’t seem to care. It’s like he’s ceased functioning. For any purpose other than seeing his confession through to the end.”

  “If it goes that far,” put in Sir Keith.

  “Isn’t it bound to?” I said. “As soon as the police have verified his account—”

  “But will they verify it?” he snapped. “That’s the question.”

  “They won’t have any choice, surely?”

  “You’re assuming he’s telling the truth.”

  “Well, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.” He stopped and cast a strangely suspicious glance at Bella and Sarah. “Unlike everyone else, I’m keeping an open mind on the subject.”

  “Daddy thinks Paul may have made it all up,” said Sarah, her tone not quite concealing her exasperation. “As some sort of self-imposed punishment for failing to prevent Rowena’s suicide.”

  “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?” he responded, as much to me as to Sarah. “None of us knows what’s been going on in his head these past few months. He’s taken to going to church, you know.”

  “That settles it, then,” Bella remarked through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “He can’t be telling the truth.”

  Sir Keith rounded on her and opened his mouth to speak. I thought for a moment his patience with her had finally snapped. And I couldn’t help feeling pleased if it had. But he swallowed the rebuke before it was uttered, slumped back against the mantelpiece and frowned sulkily. “He isn’t telling the truth,” he growled. “Not about Louise, anyway. She was my wife, for God’s sake. I ought to know.”

  “Yes,” Bella’s fleeting glare announced. “You ought to. But it seems you don’t.” Sir Keith didn’t catch her look. He wasn’t meant to. Not yet.

  I felt sorry for him then, ground between the millstones of his first wife’s fickle memory and his second wife’s failing sympathy. Perhaps he felt he had no alternative but to go down fighting for his edited version of the past. Perhaps he’d rehearsed it so many times he really believed it. But if so, he was the only one who did. “Isn’t the truth really only a matter of our point of view?” I ventured. “I mean, what we believe is the truth. Until it’s shown not to be.”

  “Until it’s proved not to be, you mean,” muttered Sir Keith.

  “Well, yes. But the police will do their damnedest to disprove Paul’s story. If they fail, we have to accept it.”

  “If they fail,” he said stubbornly.

  “They won’t,” said Sarah from behind me. “You know they won’t, Daddy. It’s ridiculous to suppose he could have invented such a story. That weekend in Cambridge after the exhibition when he pestered me and Mummy. That day he came to Sapperton and took me out to lunch at the Daneway. I know he did those things because I witnessed them. I just didn’t see the pattern they were part of. When he visited Mummy in Holland Park. When he met her in Covent Garden. When he lay in wait for her at the Garden House Hotel. How could he make those events up? He couldn’t have been sure we wouldn’t be able to rule them out, could he? To say ‘No, actually, we know for a fact she was elsewhere the day you claim to have seen her in London.’ The chances of him getting away with such a deception would be astronomical.”

  “She’d have told me,” he insisted hoarsely. “That morning in Cambridge . . . She just went for a walk before breakfast, for God’s sake.”

  “But how could he have known she went for a walk unless he was there?”

  “I don’t know, God damn it. Luck. Guesswork. Something like that.”

  “He must have been phenomenally lucky,” Bella said slowly and coolly, “to guess that you had a . . . disagreement . . . with Louise the day before you left Biarritz.”

  “I didn’t. Not as such. Not a row on the scale he describes. He’s distorted everything. He says I called Bantock a—what was it?—a ‘bloody dauber.’ Well, I never used the phrase. Not then. Not later. I never said it.”

  Silence loomed between us. Bella drew on her cigarette. Sarah shrugged her shoulders. Sir Keith pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the side of his mouth. He must have known we wouldn’t believe him. There was something of the cornered fox in his crouched stance, something of the last resort in his pointless denial. He should have said there’d been no row at all, no walk-out, no discarded ring, no dismissive note. But he couldn’t. So he offered instead a futile quibble about a single phrase. And an imploring gaze in my direction.

  “Surely you share my misgivings to some extent, Robin?”

  “Not really. It seemed clear to me Paul was telling the truth. Whether his memory of every single detail is absolutely correct can’t alter that. Besides, as Sarah said, he simply couldn’t have made it all up.”

  “I see. So you’re not even willing to suspend judgement until the police complete their investigation?”

  “My judgement’s only an opinion. What good would it do for me to pretend I didn’t have one? The police aren’t going to be swayed by what I think anyway.”

  “No. Nor by what anybody else thinks either, I dare say.” He pulled himself upright and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well,” he said, “perhaps you’ll excuse me. I need a breath of air.” Then he made for the door, head bowed, without even so much as glancing at Bella.

  “Daddy!” Sarah called after him, filial pity flashing in her eyes. “Can’t we just—” But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. The door closed behind him with a click that was more eloquent than any slam would have been. Then we heard the front door open and close. And a few seconds later the sound of the Daimler starting and crunching away down the drive.

  “Don’t worry,” said Bella. “He’ll be back soon enough.” It was as if she was presenting a dispassionate assessment of human behaviour with no particular interest in its accuracy. I felt sure she was right. But I didn’t envy Sir Keith the welcome he’d get from his wife when he returned. She’d given him unstinting support in crises that were none of his making. But this crisis was different. And so was Bella’s response. I wish I’d had the courage to ask her there and then: “When are you going to ditch him, Bella? Before Paul’s trial? Or after?” But I’d already done enough looking forward to be heartily sick of the view. And, besides, Bella gave a kind of answer to my unspoken question in what she said next. “Tell me, Sarah. As a lawyer, how long do you reckon it will take for this business to be settled?”

  “Longer than any of us would like,” Sarah replied. “A police investigation. An appeal. A trial. It could take a year or more.”

  Bella’s eyes briefly closed, as if to ward off a spasm of pain. Then she said: “And for it to be forgotten?”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’ll ever be forgotten.” Sarah looked at both of us in turn before adding: “Do you?”

  C H A P T E R

  FIFTEEN

  The mind is master of its own defences. There’s always one more drawbridge to raise, one more portcullis to lower. There was nothing I could do to block or blunt the consequences of Paul Bryant’s confession. And so, without admitting what I was doing even to myself, I began to prepare my retreat from them. The Paxtons would have to face their future without me. I’d tried before to detach myself from them and failed. This time I had to make the break. I’d told Bella I meant to take the money and run. And now I had an even more compelling reason than when I’d said it to do p
recisely that.

  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.”

  “How do you know what Naylor’s solicitor’s been up to?”

  “I asked him, of course. He didn’t seem to mind telling me.
Well, why should he? He’s feeling very pleased with himself. For the moment.”

  I sat back in my chair and shook my head. “Bella, this is ridiculous. You know Paul’s telling the truth. How can you—”

  “I know no such thing. I’ve come round to Keith’s point of view. That it’s possible Paul’s loading all this guilt onto himself to compensate for the guilt he feels about Rowena. That he wants to be punished. And has made up this story to ensure he will be.”

  “You don’t believe that. You can’t.”

  “Maybe not. But I don’t disbelieve it either. I simply want to test the possibility.”

  “Before your husband—and you—get a lot of unwelcome publicity?”

  “Well? What if that is my motive? I’m sure I’ve never claimed to be a humble seeker after truth. If posing as one pleases you, be my guest.”

  “Bella, you advised me a couple of months ago to take the money and run. Now you’re proposing to turn your back on half a million pounds.”

  “Yes. But some things are more important than money. You want to save Timariot and Small from the barbarians. I want to save Keith from having his first wife portrayed as a nymphomaniac.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “By checking Paul’s story. If he’s lying, he can’t have been in Kington the day of the murders. Or Biarritz a few days beforehand. He must have been somewhere else. So, there’ll be an alibi, won’t there? An alibi he’s doing his best to conceal. Possibly more than one. Start with his family. They might know something. It can’t be anything obvious, or they’d have mentioned it. Paul has told them, by the way. Keith had a phone call from Mr. Bryant. The man was barely coherent, but he should have calmed down by now. He might be able to put you on the right track. Then there’s this friend Paul went round Europe with, Peter—”

  “You expect me to cross-question these people?”

  “Yes, Robin. I most certainly do. And anyone else who might lead us to the truth.”

  “In exchange for voting down the Bushranger bid?”