We talked about which office I’d have, which secretary, what kind of car the business might run to, how soon I could start. It was all briskly good-natured. I could see contentment spreading slowly across Uncle Larry’s face. And I could feel the beginnings of it in myself. This was the right thing to do. For them as well as me.
We broke up around noon with an agreement that I’d sit in on the next production meeting, on Thursday, and go over my duties with Adrian in more detail afterwards. I told them I’d be handing in my resignation from the Commission as soon as I got back to Brussels: I was hoping to negotiate an early release, but would be with them by November at the latest. Everything sounded perfectly straightforward. And for the first time since seeing Louise Paxton’s face in my mother’s newspaper, I forgot about Hergest Ridge and the killings at Whistler’s Cot altogether.
But I wasn’t to be allowed to do so for long. Simon caught up with me in the corridor and invited me to an early lunch, by which he meant a two-hour soak at his favourite watering-hole, the Old Drum, in Chapel Street. Ordinarily, I’d have excused myself, not sharing his liking for thick-headed afternoons or caring much for the diatribes against Joan he usually embarked on when he’d had a few. But we were both indulging the long-lost brothers routine and I had nothing to get back to Greenhayes for, so I let him lead the way.
Only to be hijacked, before I’d swallowed my first mouthful of Burton bitter, by his hoarse whisper: “Bit of a coinkidinky, you being in Kington when those murders were done.”
I tried to laugh it off. “Any chance of an alibi?”
“Seriously, did you see anything?”
This was awkward. If the police never followed up my message, I didn’t want to broadcast what I knew. But if they did contact me, Simon was going to remind me of any denial I uttered now. “What sort of thing did you have in mind?” I prevaricated.
“I don’t know. The local constabulary mob-handed. Flashing blue lights. That fluorescent red-and-white tape they rig up everywhere. Oh, and a helicopter. Didn’t I read something about a helicopter?”
“Wrong day, Sime. I was on my way south and none the wiser when all that happened.”
“You didn’t know about it?”
“Not until I got back to Greenhayes yesterday afternoon.”
He snorted in disappointment. “Bang goes my chance of some gory details, then.”
“You wouldn’t really want any, would you?”
“Maybe.”
“Sorry to let you down.”
“Oh, it’s no surprise. You’re the sort who’d have been on holiday in Texas in November sixty-three and left Dallas the day before Kennedy was shot.”
I shrugged. “None of us can foretell the future.”
“No, thank Christ. Otherwise, I’d have topped myself the day I first met Joan.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?”
I sat back and looked at him and decided, on an impulse, to test just how predictable he thought I was. “What would you say, Sime, if I told you I met the woman who was murdered—Lady Paxton—in Kington the day I was there—July seventeenth? What would you say if I told you she offered me a lift to the next village and I turned her down?”
“I’d say you were stark raving bonkers. According to the papers, she was driving a brand new Mercedes SL. Nobody would turn down a ride in that.”
“It was a nice car.”
He frowned. “You’re having me on.”
“No. It’s the truth. I recognized her photograph in the Sunday Telegraph.”
“Bloody hell.”
“What do you think I should do? Tell the police?”
His reply was instant and instinctive. “No, I bloody don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know what you’d be getting yourself into. Have you got an alibi?”
“I don’t need one. I’m not even a witness.”
“We all need alibis, old son. Every step of the way.” He leant across the table and lowered his voice. “You’ll admit I’ve never been one for handing out brotherly advice?”
“True.”
“Well, I’m going to start now. If you can avoid getting mixed up in something like this, avoid it. Like the plague. There’s no telling where it might end.”
“And if I can’t avoid it?”
“Then don’t say you weren’t warned.”
Simon’s concept of the responsible citizen had never coincided with mine. I didn’t take his warning seriously. Nevertheless, I’d already decided that, if there was no response to my message, I wouldn’t be sorry. I wasn’t bothered about alibis—or the lack of them. But I was beginning to suspect that what little I knew was best forgotten. I couldn’t properly have explained why, but something about my meeting with Louise Paxton had already become unreal, disturbingly elusive. I’d dreamt about her on several occasions without clearly being able to recollect what I was dreaming. And perhaps that was just as well. The dreams had begun before I knew of her death. But not before the fact of her death. My mind had begun looking for somebody who was no longer there to be found. And I wanted it to stop.
But I’d already given up the power to call a halt. When I reached Greenhayes that afternoon, my mother had a message for me.
“What’s this all about, Robin? I’ve had the police on the phone. A Detective Sergeant Joyce. From Worcester. He wants you to ring him. Urgently.”
C H A P T E R
THREE
Detective Sergeant David Joyce of West Mercia C.I.D. arrived at eleven o’clock the following morning. He was smartly dressed and well-spoken, with choirboy looks that made him seem even younger than he probably was. My mother took an instant and irritating shine to him, plying him with coffee and cake as if he were the new curate paying a courtesy call. Eventually, she left us to ourselves in the sitting-room.
I’d had the whole of a restless night to prepare what I was going to say. When it came to the point, however, I was tempted to be frank as well as factual. Why not tell him about Louise Paxton’s elliptical remarks, her enigmatic glances to the horizon, her implications by word and gesture that she was about to take some significant step in her life? Because I didn’t want to be responsible for throwing those particular pebbles into the pond, I suppose. Because I didn’t want to share what she’d made exclusive to me: insight without understanding.
Accordingly, I stuck to a plain and simple version of events. We’d met on Hergest Ridge. We’d exchanged a few comments about the weather and scenery. She’d offered me a lift to Gladestry which I’d declined. And then we’d parted. A brief and inconsequential encounter which I’d forgotten all about until I’d seen her photograph in the paper.
“And the time, sir? You said on the telephone you could be specific about the time.”
“Seven forty-five, when we parted.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“It couldn’t be later?”
“No. I looked at my watch as she walked away.”
It was a point he seemed anxious about, almost fretful, but he wouldn’t say whether it had any bearing on the evidence they’d amassed against Shaun Naylor, whose blanket-draped figure I’d seen bustled out of a Worcester court on the television news the previous night. Clearly, however, the time and circumstances of our parting interested Joyce more than a little.
“This lift, sir. Why do you think she offered you one?”
“The sun was setting. I was probably looking pretty weary. It had been a hot day . . .”
“A friendly gesture, then?”
“Yes.”
“But Gladestry was out of her way, wasn’t it, if she was going to Whistler’s Cot?”
“I didn’t know where she was going.”
“No, sir. Of course you didn’t. But tell me, why did you turn the lift down?”
“Because the point of walking a long distance footpath is to walk all of it, not all of it bar two miles.”
“With you there, sir. I did it myself, a few years ago. Offa’s Dyke, I mean. The whole way. Chepstow to Prestatyn.”
“Congratulations.”
“But you were only doing the southern half, weren’t you? So, completeness doesn’t really come into it, does it?”
I looked at him levelly. What was he driving at? “I’m hoping to do the northern half next year.”
“Oh, I see. Right. And you wouldn’t want to have to go back to Hergest Ridge.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“So, that was the only reason for refusing the lift?”
“What other reason could there be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You might have decided to play safe. If you thought she was offering something more than a lift, I mean. If you and her . . . misunderstood each other.”
I felt a surge of anger at what he was implying. But I was determined not to show it. “I at no point suspected—or had cause to suspect—that Lady Paxton was trying to pick me up.”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
“In the circumstances, the very idea seems positively offensive.”
“Oh, I agree, sir. But we have to consider offensive ideas in this sort of case. If only to anticipate what the defence may come up with. They can be very inventive, you know.”
“This man Naylor’s denying everything?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. But I really can’t discuss the matter. I’ve probably already taken up too much of your time. If I made the appropriate arrangements, could you call at the station in Petersfield, say this afternoon, and make out a formal statement of what you’ve told me?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Good. And the time, sir. Seven forty-five. You can swear to that?”
“I can. And will, if necessary.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
I walked into Petersfield to dictate and sign the statement that afternoon. My mother had even more questions to ask me than Sergeant Joyce and I was keen to grasp any opportunity of being alone. It wasn’t just that I was afraid of letting something slip. The fact was that my life in Brussels had become more and more solitary and this I’d grown rather to enjoy. Since a disastrous affair with an Italian stagiaire, I’d deliberately kept intimacy at bay. My bachelor flat in the rue Pascale had become a haven which I only now realized I was going to miss. Especially if my mother’s hopes of my living with her at Greenhayes were fulfilled. Which naturally I was determined they wouldn’t be.
I was at the police station nearly an hour. The statement I signed, when at last it had been typed, was as accurate yet uninformative as the account I’d given Joyce. It seemed at the time to answer all the different calls on my conscience, though none of them fully.
I can’t remember what I was planning to do when I left the station. Perhaps I still hadn’t decided by the time I reached the pavement. If not, my mind was soon made up for me. A car horn sounded and, looking round, I saw my sister-in-law Bella smiling at me from behind the wheel of her BMW convertible as it coasted to a halt beside me. “Hop in,” she said. And, obediently, I did.
By the time I’d fastened my seat-belt, we’d accelerated away down the street. Bella turned onto the main road and headed south out of the town. Middle age and bereavement hadn’t sapped her enthusiasm for speed and glamour; quite the reverse. But then I was confident nothing ever would. She’d always been larger than life. And not just metaphorically. Tall, red-haired and built like an Olympic skiing champion, she’d never been what you’d call beautiful. Her jaw and nose were too prominent, her shoulders too broad for that. What she had was a striking, almost intimidating, presence. The way she ate and drank, the way she walked and talked, were part of a physical message only slightly muted now the copper sheen came out of a bottle and the firm thighs courtesy of dedicated hours on an exercise bike. I knew why Hugh had fallen for her. I knew only too well. I understood exactly what drew men to her, formerly in droves, but lately still in appreciative numbers. She exuded sexual appeal like a musk, stronger than any perfume. Meeting her, it was always difficult not to imagine—or remember—the act she took such pleasure in. When would it fade? I sometimes wondered. This power she couldn’t help exerting. And the only answer I could give was: not yet.
“Were you going back to Brussels without seeing me, Robin? That wouldn’t have been very nice, would it?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you, Bella. But . . . pressure of time . . .”
“And pressure of police inquiries? Hilda’s told me all about it. That’s how I knew where you were.”
“This isn’t a chance meeting, then?”
“There’s no such thing, is there?”
I couldn’t help thinking of Hergest Ridge as I replied: “I’m not sure.”
“I was hoping you’d come out for a drink with me. It’s a lovely evening. The sunny garden of some country pub with an unattached lady for company. What more could you ask for?”
A decent sense of mourning, I was tempted to suggest. But what would have been the point? Bella had never made any secret of her indifference to Hugh. She’d never made a secret of very much at all, to tell the truth. Except what she really felt. About me. And the rest of my sex.
“Shocked not to find me in tears and widow’s weeds, Robin?”
“No. Not shocked.”
“But disappointed?”
“No. Not even that.”
“You’ll come, then?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Oh yes. We all have a choice. And from what I hear, you’ve been making some pretty odd ones lately.”
We stopped at the Red Lion in Chalton and sat with our drinks in the garden. The sun was still hot, unnaturally so, as it had been all week, the sky cloudless, the air dry. Behind us, a gentle breeze rolled in slow blue waves across a field of linseed. I sensed unreality at the edge of my sight, significance close by but out of reach. As if there were symbols in everything I saw and said, but I couldn’t find the key to read them by.
Bella closed her eyes and bent back her head, luxuriating in the heat. Her white shirt was knotted at the waist, exposing an inch or more of well-tanned midriff above her pale blue jeans. The bangles at her wrist glinted and rang as she lowered her arm to the table. Then I noticed: she too had abandoned her wedding ring. But the tan had hidden the mark. She must have cast it aside soon after the funeral. Or perhaps not so soon. It would only have taken a day or so in such burning sun to obliterate all trace. In which case—
“I’m no longer married,” she said suddenly. Her eyes were open and trained on mine. “Why wear the chain of office?”
“Out of respect, I suppose.”
“Ah, but I never was respectful. Was I?”
“Not very. But enough to keep on wearing it while Hugh was alive.”
“I don’t believe in throwing things in people’s faces. Nor do you, as I recall.” She slid the tip of a finger down the condensation on the outside of her glass. “Tell me about Lady Paxton.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Liar.”
I couldn’t help smiling as I sipped some beer. It was good to know something she didn’t when it had so often been the other way around. “You haven’t congratulated me on the directorship,” I said, changing the subject, as I thought, adroitly.
“Congratulations aren’t in order, Robin. You’re making a big mistake.”
“You think so?”
“A tiny old-fashioned company making cricket bats? It’s got no future, has it? In twenty years, all the kids will be playing baseball. And Timariot and Small will be history.”
“Maybe the European Community will be as well.”
“You know better than that.”
I shrugged. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, I’m throwing in my lot with history.”
“And coming home to Petersfield. I expected better of you, I really did. Hilda says you’ll be moving in with her at Greenhayes.”
“Wishf
ul thinking.”
“Where will you live, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s plenty of room at The Hurdles.” That I could easily believe. The Hurdles was the uxoriously over-sized house Hugh had built for Bella at Hindhead in his first flush of possessive ardour. “I feel quite lonely there these days. I miss Hugh, I suppose. The idea of him living there, I mean. The coming and going. I’ve even thought of taking a lodger. Just for the company. Perhaps . . .”
“I don’t think so, do you?”
“No.” She treated me to a glance of withering assessment. “Perhaps not.” She took out a cigarette and lit it, then offered me one. I shook my head. “My, we are becoming ascetic, aren’t we?”
“Just taking care of my health.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is that what Offa’s Dyke was all about?”
“Partly.”
“But you got more than you bargained for, didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
“Well, getting mixed up in these murders.”
“I’m not mixed up in them. I just . . . happened to meet one of the victims.”
“The last person to see her, according to Hilda. Other than the murderer.”
“Apparently.”
She stroked her neck reflectively. “Was it really rape, do you think? Or just some fun that got out of hand? Sex can, can’t it? Sometimes.”
“It was rape. The woman I met wouldn’t have . . .” I grimaced, aware of the expertise with which she’d drawn me out.
“There is something to tell, then?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“The place where it happened. Whistler’s . . . Whistler’s . . .” Her wrist made a few jangling circles in the air.
“Cot.” Another grimace.
“Did you see it while you were in Kington?”
“No, Bella. I did not.”
She nodded and took a thoughtful sip of her spritzer, then grinned mischievously. “Want to?”
“What do you mean?”
Borrowed Time Page 4
