Borrowed Time

CHAPTER SIX

The Timariot family celebrated Christmas 1990 much as we’d celebrated every Christmas since my parents’ move to Steep. A festive gathering at the home of Adrian and his wife, Wendy, had become customary, if not obligatory. They lived in a large detached house on Sussex Road, overlooking Heath Pond. Large it needed to be, since they shared it with four children-two sons and twin girls-plus an overweight labrador. The rest of us were expected to revel in the resulting chaos. My mother certainly appeared to. As did Uncle Larry. But Jennifer’s impersonation of a doting aunt was never convincing. And Simon, depressed at not spending the day with his daughter, tended to decline into drunken self-pity. Which left me to pretend I enjoyed listening to the wartime reminiscences of Wendy’s father, interrupted as they frequently were by his grandsons’ temper tantrums.

I’d always admired the way Hugh and Bella handled the ordeal. Hugh would inveigle Adrian into an intense shop-talking session, while Bella spent half her time in the garden, wrapped in a fur coat and puffing at a cigarette. Wendy had banned the practice indoors on account of the danger to the children from passive smoking. Which I thought mighty ironic, since I’d never known the horrors to do anything passive in their lives.

This year, of course, Hugh was missing. So was Bella, whose links with us continued to grow more tenuous by the day. Superficially at least, it didn’t seem to make much difference. Nor, I recalled, had my father’s absence the first Christmas after his death. A family is more resilient than any of its members. It persists, amoeba-like, in the face of loss and division. It is infinitely adaptable. And therefore prone to change. At its own pace, of course. Which is sometimes too gradual for those it most affects to notice.

A straw in the wind came that afternoon in the form of a conversation I overheard between Wendy and her mother. The Gulf War was imminent and flying was suddenly considered a dangerous way to travel because of the supposed threat of Iraqi terrorism. But Adrian, it appeared, was planning to visit Australia. And Mrs. Johnson was worried about her son-in-law’s safety. If she was worried, I was puzzled. Adrian had said nothing to me about such a trip. Nor would he now, when I tackled him. “Just an idea at the moment, Rob. Rather not elaborate till I’m clearer in my own mind. Sure you understand.” I didn’t, of course. Nor did he intend me to.

By the time the first board meeting of the New Year took place, however, clarity of mind had evidently descended. Adrian wanted to take a close look at Timariot & Small’s marketing arrangements in Australia. He reckoned there was scope for expansion. Maybe we needed to ginger up our agent there. Or find a new one. Either way, he and Simon ought to go out and see for themselves. Simon was all for it, naturally. And even if I suspected it was just an excuse for a holiday, I wasn’t about to object. It was agreed they’d be away for most of February.

In the event, they had to come home early, for the saddest and most unexpected of reasons. It was the coldest winter Petersfield had experienced for several years. But my mother made no concessions to the weather. She took Brillo for a walk every afternoon whatever the conditions. On 7 February it snowed heavily. And out she went, despite a touch of flu which I’d advised her to spend the day nursing by the fire. She took a fall in one of the holloways and limped back to Greenhayes wet and chilled to the marrow. By the following evening, I had to call the doctor out, who diagnosed pneumonia and sent her off to hospital. Some old bronchial trouble and a latent heart condition caught up with her over the next few days. On 12 February, after a gallant struggle, she died.

I could have predicted my reaction exactly. Guilt at all the unkind words I’d ever uttered. Shame at my neglect of her. And a consoling grain of relief that, as exits go, it was swift and merciful. “How she’d have wanted it to be,” as Uncle Larry said at the funeral. Which enabled Mother to infuriate me even from the grave. Charming as some people thought him, Brillo had never seemed worth sacrificing a life for to me. Had he tangled his lead in his mistress’s legs-as so often before-and tripped her up in the snow? Mother had denied this when I’d suggested it and, for her sake, I tried not to believe it. But I wasn’t sorry when Wendy volunteered to add him to her crowded household.

This left me alone at Greenhayes. It was now jointly owned by Jennifer, Simon, Adrian and me. But to sell straightaway, with the property market in such a parlous state, would have been perverse. From their point of view, I made an ideal tenant. Somebody they could rely on to keep the place looking presentable until the time came to cash in. The arrangement suited me too, so I went along with it, forgetting that it would work only so long as all our interests coincided.

I suppose the truth is that I chose to forget. My earlier dislike of the house had diminished as my enthusiasm for Edward Thomas’s poetry had grown. I’d come to relish its proximity to his favourite walks and to follow them myself. After the blandness of the Belgian countryside, I’d returned to the sights and scents of rural England like a reluctant teetotaller to strong drink. All in all, it suited me far better to stay at Greenhayes than I cared to admit.

On the Sunday after the funeral, I was surprised by a visit from Sarah. She’d heard about my mother’s death from Bella and wished to offer her condolences. There was no comparison between the circumstances of our bereavements, of course, but still they drew us briefly together. It was a cool dry cloudy day, with the snow long since washed away. We took a circular stroll up onto Wheatham Hill, passing one of Thomas’s former houses in Cockshott Lane and another in Ashford Chace on the way back. We talked about the poems I’d come to know nearly as well as her. We discussed the bewildering consequences of death-the clothes parcels for Oxfam, the redundant possessions, the remorseless memories. And then, inevitably, we spoke of Rowena and the coming trial.

“Informally, we’ve been told it’ll take place straight after Easter.”

“That’s only another six weeks or so.”

“I know. But it can’t come soon enough for me. Or Daddy. Once it’s over, maybe we’ll be able to start living again. I don’t mean I want to forget Mummy. Or what happened to her. But we’re all worn down by waiting. Especially Rowena.”

“How is she?”

“Better than when you met her. More controlled. More certain about what she has to do. I think she’s going to be all right. In court, I mean.”

“And after?”

“She’ll put it behind her. She has to. And she’s stronger than you might think. Really.”

“Do you want me to see her again-before the trial?”

“Better not, I reckon. She hasn’t said any of those… weird things about Mummy since…” She shook her head. “Well, for a long time.” How long? I wondered. Had Sarah just stopped short of suggesting I was the cause rather than the cure?

“I’m sorry,” I began, “if I mishandled things… when Rowena and I…”

“Forget it,” she said, significantly failing to contradict me. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t, anyway. Not once the trial’s out of the way.” Assuming, she didn’t add, that the trial went as smoothly as she hoped. And ended with the verdict she wanted to hear.

Sarah’s information proved to be accurate. The trial of Shaun Andrew Naylor for rape and double murder opened at Birmingham Crown Court on Monday the eighth of April 1991. I was notified that I’d be required as a witness, probably during the second week. Until then, I was left to follow events through newspaper and television reports like any other curious member of the public. I learned, just as they did, that Sir Keith Paxton was in court each day to hear the often harrowing medical evidence of how his wife had died. And I could only wonder, like them, how Naylor hoped to be acquitted when DNA analysis appeared to identify him as the rapist. Pleading not guilty was either a gesture of defiance on his part or there was something we were all missing.

I cut a pretty distracted figure at work during this period, my thoughts dwelling on events in Birmingham when I was supposed to be concentrating on matching cricket bat production to early season demand. As a result, I was a virtual spectator at the board meeting on 11 April, when Adrian unveiled his plans for penetration of the Australian market. An agency wasn’t enough, according to him. Corporate presence was necessary. And Viburna, an ailing Melbourne sportswear manufacturer, was the key. He proposed a takeover, which would give Timariot & Small direct access to Viburna’s customers, creating a perfect springboard for promoting combined cricket bat and accessories sales throughout the continent. Viburna could be ours for little more than a million. So, what were we waiting for? Nothing, apparently. Simon was keen. Jennifer said she’d look at the figures, but agreed we had to expand if we weren’t to contract. And I made the mistake of thinking we could consider it in more detail later. Adrian and Jennifer were to report back after a fact-finding visit to Melbourne in May. Until then, no decision was to be taken. But already the idea had acquired a crucial momentum. It was Adrian’s first big independent project as managing director. With the shares he’d inherited from Mother, he now held the largest single stake in the company. What he wanted, sooner or later, he would have. And so would the rest of us.

I travelled up to Birmingham the following Sunday and booked into the Midland Hotel. Sarah had told me she and her father would be staying there that night with Rowena, who was due to testify immediately before me on Monday morning. We’d agreed to dine together. It was the first time we’d all met since the lunch in Hindhead and I wasn’t sure what to expect. But Sir Keith soon put me at my ease. He looked tired but determined, shielding his daughters as best he could behind a show of imperturbability.

As for Rowena, she’d changed, as Sarah had said. The intensity was still there, but the threat of imminent disintegration had vanished. She was in command of herself, though how certainly I couldn’t tell. Her manner had become distant. I don’t mean she was hostile towards me, or even cool. But she’d retreated behind a mask. And though the performance she gave was convincing, it was also expressionless. As if she’d willed herself to forget whatever was inconvenient or ambiguous in her recollections of 17 July 1990. At the cost of the most appealing part of her personality. She was still fragile. But somehow no longer vulnerable.

“I can’t tell you,” said Sir Keith when the girls had gone off to bed, “what a help your sister-in-law’s been to us these past few months.”

“Bella?” I responded, unable to disguise my surprise.

“She’s a wonderful woman, as I’m sure you’d agree. She’s put Rowena back on her feet in a way I don’t think I’d have been able to.”

“Really?” This was news to me. And news I didn’t much care for.

“I’ve found her company a genuine tonic. We have bereavement in common, I suppose. Her husband. My wife. Only those who’ve suffered in the same way can really understand, you know.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” But I wasn’t at all sure it applied to Bella. She must have given Sir Keith a vastly different impression of her reaction to Hugh’s death from the one I’d received.

“I only wish she could have been in court last week. I’d have been glad of a friendly face. But the prosecuting counsel… Well, my solicitor actually… Some nonsense about how it would look if…” He puffed his cheeks irritably and sipped some brandy. “Still, when this ghastly business is all over…” Then he grinned. “Just wanted to put you in the picture, Robin. So it doesn’t come as a shock. Some people can be damned prudish about this sort of thing. But not you, I dare say.”

“No. Of course not.” I smiled cautiously, trying not to show my incredulity. And something worse than incredulity. Disgust? Disapproval? Not quite. What I really felt was a form of jealousy. How dare Bella try to replace Louise Paxton? How dare Sir Keith even think of allowing her to? He should have loved Louise too much for such a thing to be possible. He should have loved her as I would have done in his place. Instead of which-

“I’ve you to thank for meeting Bella, of course. If you hadn’t recommended Sarah to her as a lodger… Well, I’m grateful, believe me.”

Oh, I believed him. I’d be earning his gratitude twice over-though he wouldn’t realize it-by what I said in court about his no longer irreplaceable wife. That’s what made it so hard to bear. Sometimes, it’s better to be cursed than to be thanked. And sometimes it’s the same thing.

We went to the courts together next morning. They were housed in a modern city centre building externally similar to the offices of a prosperous insurance company. Inside, three galleried floors were crowded with lawyers, clients, policemen, journalists, witnesses and assorted hangers-on. Anxious consultations were under way in stairwells and corridors. And many of the faces were deadly serious. Some of its chain-smoking victims might think the law a joke. But none of them regarded it as a laughing matter.

Sir Keith and his daughters knew what to expect. They’d been there before. A few press cameras snapped as we entered, capturing Sir Keith impassive in three piece pin-stripe and old school tie, Sarah sombre and black-suited, Rowena pale but composed in a lilac dress. We climbed to the top floor and Sir Keith went into Court Twelve while Rowena and I waited outside with Sarah. Within ten minutes of the start, Rowena was called. I wished her luck, which she barely acknowledged. Then she was shown in by an usher and Sarah followed, leaving me to kick my heels as the morning slowly elapsed.

I’d anticipated a lonely vigil and had brought Adrian’s preliminary report on Viburna Sportswear to study while I waited. I couldn’t concentrate on it, of course, but it gave me something to look at instead of the other hang-dog occupants of the landing. Which explains why the first I knew of Bella’s arrival on the scene was when she sat down beside me.

“Hello, Robin,” she whispered. “What’s happening inside?”

“Bella! I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I. Until I decided I wanted to. I shan’t go in. Keith’s forbidden me to. But I thought at least I could have lunch with you all. Perhaps dinner afterwards.”

“I’m sure Keith will be delighted to see you.”

“But you’re not?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. And you don’t say half the things you mean. But I was married to your brother for nearly twenty years. I know the signs.”

“I’m sure you do. And I’m glad you haven’t forgotten Hugh altogether.”

“So hard.” She looked at me more in disappointment than anger. “The living are more important than the dead, Robin. Remember that.”

“I’ll try to.”

“I’ll put your tetchiness down to nerves. This waiting can’t be easy for you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Good. That’ll make your evidence all the more convincing.” She lit a cigarette and offered me one, knowing I’d given up years ago but enjoying the momentary hesitation before I refused. “But then,” she added, blowing out a lungful of smoke, “what can be more convincing than the truth?”

What I’d have said in reply I’ll never know, because at that moment the door leading from the court opened and Rowena came out to join us. She was blinking rapidly and fingering her hair, much but not all of her composure gone. In its place I’d have expected to see relief, some visible sign of the liberation she should have felt. But instead there was more anxiety than when she’d gone in. As if testifying had added to her problems, not resolved them. As if she hadn’t said-or been allowed to say-what she really wanted to. And there was a furtiveness as well. She looked as if she wanted to run away and hide. From all of us.

She saw Bella first and shaped an uncertain smile. Then Sarah appeared at her elbow and led her towards us. I tried to think of something both meaningless and comforting to say. But, before I could, the usher beckoned to me. My turn had come. And there was time to exchange no more than a glance with Rowena as I went in. But a glance was enough. The mask had fallen now. Beneath it, there was despair.

The court had none of the Dickensian appurtenances I’d somehow imagined. Glass-topped partitions, pale wood panelling and discreet grey carpeting drained away the archaism of gown and wig. It was a place where divorce settlements and tax evasion could be discussed in a seemly atmosphere. Rape and murder surely weren’t topics that belonged in its antiseptic environment. Yet there was the judge, gorgeously robed. There was the coat of arms above his head. There, beneath him, were the lawyers and clerks in their orderly chaos of books and papers. And there, in the large glazed dock at the rear of the room, flanked by two prison officers, was the accused: Shaun Andrew Naylor.

I’d not seen him before, of course. And I hardly had the chance to study him now. A lean sallow-faced man with thick black hair leaning forward in his chair, as if straining to catch every word that was said. He looked up as I stepped into the witness-box and caught my eye for less than a second. I had the fleeting impression of someone bent on memorizing my features in every detail. Then I put the thought aside and took the oath.

The prosecuting counsel gave me an easy ride, as he was bound to. He let me present my well-rehearsed portrait of the relaxed and attractive woman I’d spoken to, briefly and inconsequentially, on Hergest Ridge. He encouraged me to specify the time at which we’d parted and to say how I could be so sure. And wisely he left it there.

The defence counsel didn’t, of course. He wanted to know about the offer of a lift. Could it have been construed as the offer of something else? All this I parried easily enough, as he must have anticipated. But I couldn’t deny the fact that she’d offered me a lift. Nor the theoretical possibility that she had more than a car journey in mind. These were purely negative points, of course. But he must have hoped they’d stick in the jurors’ minds. I hoped he was wrong. Glancing across at them, I reckoned he probably was. They’d heard the evidence to date. They were already convinced-like the rest of us-that the defendant was guilty as charged. It was going to take more than logic-chopping to shift them.

As if to ensure this was so, the judge asked me to clarify my statement that there was nothing in Lady Paxton’s manner or in anything she’d said to me that implied an ulterior motive. I was happy to do so. And while I was about it, he glared at the defending counsel as if to suggest he didn’t like the line his cross-examination had taken. With that I was discharged. Sir Keith nodded appreciatively to me as I passed him on the way out. And I risked a single parting glance in Naylor’s direction. But he was stooping close to the gap between glass barrier and wooden partition for a whispered word with his solicitor. He wasn’t interested in me any more. My encounter with the man I believed to have raped and murdered Louise Paxton had been more fleeting than my encounter with Louise herself. I didn’t expect ever to see him again. I didn’t expect I’d ever need to.

Lunch was a rushed and frugal affair in the bar of the Grand Hotel, a short walk from the courts. Rowena said little. None of us, in fact, seemed to have much of an appetite and the satisfaction we expressed at the events of the morning had a faintly hollow ring. I hadn’t heard Rowena’s testimony, of course, and she hadn’t heard mine. But, according to Sir Keith, who’d heard both, they’d been equally effective. As far as he was concerned, a convincing and coherent account of his wife’s behaviour during the last day of her life had been placed on the record and was now unchallengeable. As to that, I assumed the defence counsel might still have something to say. But he couldn’t know just how indefinable the doubts were that afflicted those who’d met Louise Paxton on 17 July 1990. We didn’t put them into words, Rowena and I. But I was coming more and more to realize that we were both aware of them. And they were the same. The impression Louise had left on her daughter was the impression she’d left on me. She’d been changing before our eyes. Altering in mood and intention. Slipping out of sight and understanding. Retreating into camouflage we could never hope to penetrate. Or else discarding some long-worn disguise. Her past. Her life. Her death. Her future. They were all one now. But that day had seen them trembling on a razor’s edge. And we’d watched, unwittingly, as they’d fallen.

Perhaps I should have tried to express some of this to Rowena. Not for the purpose of striking up a sympathetic rapport. Just so she’d know she wasn’t alone. But my thoughts were too confused. And nobody would have wanted me to, anyway, except perhaps Rowena herself. Her father and sister desired nothing more than a clean and simple end to the trial. Naylor convicted and locked up. The key thrown away. And the wife and mother they’d lost preserved for ever in the amber of their idealized memories.

Who could begrudge them? Not me. Nor Rowena, as I could tell by her strained but determined expression. She meant to see this through for their sakes. Perhaps Bella had reminded her, as she’d reminded me, that the living matter more than the dead. So we like to believe, anyway. So Rowena and I certainly believed. Then.

I didn’t go back to court with them after lunch. I’d said my piece and suddenly wanted to be away, right away, from that room full of strangers where Louise Paxton’s death was being slowly anatomized and her life progressively forgotten. But fleeing the scene achieved nothing. I couldn’t escape the process. It stayed with me, keeping perfect pace, as the train sped south towards home. Naylor’s face, half recalled, half imagined, in the flickering reflections of the carriage window. His eyes, resting on me as they’d rested on Louise. His mouth, curving towards a smile. Only he knew for certain why the mirror had been smashed that day. Only he knew the whole truth. Which he might never tell.

But what would he say? What version of the truth would he offer when he came to testify? He certainly couldn’t avoid doing so. That became obvious as the prosecution case wound towards its close. DNA analysis suggested he’d had sex with Louise Paxton shortly before her death. There were sufficient signs of violence to suggest rape even if the circumstances hadn’t been as conclusive as they were. His fingerprints had been found in several places around the house, including the bedroom and the studio. So had fibres which had been shown to match samples taken from a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans belonging to him. The jeans were also stained with three different types of oil paint shown to match paint types found on palettes, canvases and worktops in Bantock’s studio. An unlicensed gun and a switch-blade knife had been discovered concealed beneath floor boards in Naylor’s flat. Naylor himself had initially denied ever being at Whistler’s Cot, only volunteering-or inventing-his story of being picked up by Lady Paxton when confronted with the forensic evidence against him. Finally, there were the witnesses who’d heard him boast of “screwing the bitch and wringing her neck for her trouble.” A barman at a pub he used in Bermondsey called Vincent Cassidy, who’d phoned the police because what Naylor had done was “out of order,” “too much for me to stomach,” “just not on.” And a prisoner he’d shared a cell with on remand called Jason Bledlow. “He was proud of it. He wanted me to know. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Said he hadn’t realized she was nobility, like. But he reckoned that made it better. I reported what he’d said straightaway because I was disgusted, really sickened, you know?” And it was impossible to believe the jury didn’t know. It was inconceivable he could say anything to dislodge his guilt from their minds. He was going down.

But not without a struggle. The trial will resume on Monday, reported Saturday’s newspaper, when the defence will present its case. But what case? I knew then I’d have to hear it myself, in his own words. Every lie. Every evasion. Every badly constructed piece of the fiction he’d be forced to present. I needed to be certain. I’d never met the witnesses. I’d never studied forensics. I had to look him in the face as he protested his innocence to be sure of his guilt. Because that’s what I needed to be. Sure. Beyond even unreasonable doubt.

Telling Adrian I needed to take a few days’ leave so soon after the day I’d already spent in Birmingham was the easy part. Explaining myself to the Paxtons was next to impossible. In the end, I didn’t even try, travelling up by an early train on Monday morning and squeezing into the court just before proceedings began. Sir Keith spotted me at once, of course, and was clearly puzzled. But he was on his own, which was a relief as well as a surprise.

There was time for us to have a quick word before the judge entered. To my astonishment, Sir Keith seemed to think I’d come for his benefit. “Sarah’s had to go back to college for the start of the summer term and Rowena’s staying with her in Hindhead. Bella can keep an eye on her there. Besides, I didn’t see why she should have to listen to Naylor’s lies. It’s bad enough any of us should have to. I don’t mind admitting I’m glad I shan’t be sitting through it alone, though. This is much appreciated, Robin, believe me.”

The court was fuller than it had been on the day I’d given evidence. There was a buzz of expectancy, an unspoken but unanimous understanding that we’d come to the crunch. Naylor was already in the dock, staring into space and chewing at his fingernails, right leg vibrating where it was angled under his chair. His nervousness was hardly surprising in view of the sledgehammer blows the prosecution had been able to deliver. He looked what we all thought he was: a hardened over-sexed young criminal with a streak of malicious violence he couldn’t control. But he was trapped now. And the only way out was to persuade the jury he’d been wrongly accused. Which he didn’t look capable of doing. Not remotely.

The jury filed in. Then the judge made his entrance. And Naylor’s barrister rose to address the court. His opening speech was short and to the point. “Mr. Naylor has nothing to hide, members of the jury,” he concluded. “Which is why I propose to call him to give evidence in his own defence.”

And so it began. Naylor was taken from the dock to the witness-box and sworn in. He spoke firmly and confidently, almost arrogantly. His answers were casually phrased but cleverly constructed. Too cleverly, I suppose. Some mumbling show of awe might have won him a few friends. Instead, he came across as somebody so contemptuous of the world that he couldn’t believe it had turned against him now. And he seemed positively proud to admit how he made a living.

“I’m a thief. That’s what I am. I clock targets while I’m doing the day job. Call back later to collect. Thieving’s what I do. But I don’t murder people. I might lay somebody out if they tried to stop me getting away, though I’ve never had to. But I wouldn’t kill them.” And rape? What about that? “I’m no rapist. I reckon they’re the lowest form of life there is. Them and child molesters. I’m a married man with children. But like my wife’ll tell you, I’m no saint. I’ve never been able to say no to women. They like me. I’ve never had to force them into it. I’ve never wanted to. I never would.”

That much seemed credible. He had the cocksure manner and smouldering looks some women find attractive. But he also had such confidence in his own irresistibility that it was easy to imagine him reacting violently to rejection. As for murder, well, he’d more or less said it himself. If Bantock had tried to stop him, worse still to apprehend him, he’d have done whatever was necessary to escape. Candour was his only hope. But candour revealed him as a man quite capable of committing the crimes he’d been charged with.

So, what was his version of events? It took him the rest of the day to spell it out. But what it amounted to was this. He’d gone to stay with a friend in Cardiff while the dust settled on a row with his wife. The usual cause-his chronic infidelity-had been aggravated by the latest piece of skirt being her sister. He reckoned a trip to Disney World for her and the kids might patch things up. So, he set about raising some cash to pay for the holiday by breaking into likely looking rural properties, all of them far enough from Cardiff to avoid embarrassing his friend. A house near Ross-on-Wye on the night of 14/15 July. Another near Malvern on 15/16 July. And a third near Bridgnorth on 16/17 July. He stayed in the area next day and looked around the Ludlow-Leominster-Bromyard triangle, spotting a couple of possibilities. Then he drove towards Kington and stopped at the Harp Inn, Old Radnor, to while away the evening before deciding which one to try. And that’s when his plans changed.

“I was sitting outside in the sun. What was left of it. The place was pretty busy. Lady Paxton-I didn’t know her name then, of course-walked up and asked if she could share my table. I said yes and offered to buy her a drink. She didn’t go into the pub herself. And she’d left her car a little way down the lane, near the church. We talked. Like you do. It was obvious… Well, I got the pretty clear impression she was… interested. We had another drink. She got friendly. Started to flirt with me. Eyefuls of smile. Hand brushing my thigh. You know. I got the message. And I thought: why not? Beautiful woman. Lonely and a long way from home. Who wouldn’t? She didn’t say much about herself. Or ask me much about myself. We left about eight forty-five, I suppose. It was getting dark by then. She suggested we go back to a friend’s house nearby. Said the friend wouldn’t be there and… she could use it. She led the way in her car. I followed in mine. It wasn’t far. A cottage up a narrow lane near Kington. The friend was a painter. A woman, she said. She showed me her studio. I didn’t spend long looking around. We both knew what we were there for. It started in the studio. But there were too many things to bump into. So she took me upstairs to the bedroom. I didn’t rape her. I didn’t need to. She was… a willing partner. And she… well… liked it a bit rough. But that’s not rape. Not anything like. I didn’t stay long afterwards. She said her friend was due back around eleven and she wanted time to clear up. So, I made myself scarce. It can’t have been much later than half past ten when I left. She was still in bed then, alive and well. I stopped for a drink at a pub in Leominster just before closing time. The Black Horse. Then I went on and did the place near Bromyard. Big house at Berrow Green. I got a good haul there. Felt pretty pleased with myself. I got to Cardiff around dawn. Next day, I set off back to London. Reckoned I’d got enough to pay for the Florida trip. And it was about time I made it up with the wife.

“I heard about the murders on the telly. At first, I couldn’t believe it was the same woman. But when I saw her picture in the papers… I knew. And I knew the best thing I could say was nothing. I mean, I had to be in the frame, didn’t I? They said she’d been raped. And I knew they could tie me to that. Probably to the cottage as well. So I laid low. Didn’t go down the Greyhound. Let alone say anything to Vince Cassidy. What he says I said… It isn’t true. Any of it. She was alive when I left the cottage. And the painter wasn’t there. I don’t know who murdered them. Or why. But it wasn’t me.”

“At times he was almost plausible,” said Sir Keith over a drink in the bar of the Midland Hotel at the end of the afternoon session. “I mean, if you didn’t know Louise, that is.”

“He didn’t seem plausible to me. A slick liar, yes. But nobody was taken in.”

“I hope you’re right. I don’t want Louise’s memory sullied by any of the things he said about her.”

“It won’t be. He can’t achieve anything this way-except a longer sentence.”

“I’d give him a short sentence if I could. The shortest one of all.”

“Yes,” I said, lowering my voice. “I rather think I would too.”

“The evil-minded bastard,” Sir Keith muttered, massaging his brow. “God, I’m glad the girls didn’t hear any of that.”

“They’ll read it though, won’t they?”

“Yes. They’re bound to. But at least they won’t have to watch his weaselly eyes while they’re about it. Or listen to his Jack-the-lad voice reeling off lies like grubby fivers from a wad in his back pocket. I expected to hate him, of course. To despise him. To want him dead. But I didn’t know he was going to make my flesh creep. Well, tomorrow he’ll be cross-examined. I hope the prosecuting counsel puts him through hell. Because that’s what he deserves.” He broke off and shook his head, bemused, it seemed, by the force of his response. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize. I agree with you. One hundred per cent.”

Sir Keith and I drank too much and stayed too long in the hotel bar that night. Sickened by the way Naylor had sought to portray his wife as some kind of ageing nymphomaniac, his anger gave way in the end to grief. I sat and listened to his increasingly tearful reminiscences of their life together. How they’d met when Louise had been working as a hospital receptionist during a university vacation. How he’d fought off the younger rivals for her affections. How they’d married despite her parents’ opposition.

“Both dead now, thank God. I wouldn’t have wanted them to go through this. Even though they never liked me. Well, I was fifteen years older than Louise, with a divorce behind me. I wasn’t what they had in mind for their daughter at all. She was an only child and naturally they wanted the best for her. And they thought she could do a great deal better than me. Maybe they were right. I didn’t have the knighthood then, of course. I didn’t have the lifestyle I have now. But that didn’t deter Louise. She was never a gold-digger. She accepted me for what I was. And for what I might become.”

In the event, Sir Keith had given his wife wealth and status as well as love. They’d been married for twenty-three years and he’d never once regretted it. A beautiful wife and two lovely daughters to adorn his middle age. He’d known he was lucky, blessed with more than his fair share of good fortune. But he’d never supposed there’d come such a savage reckoning. He’d never imagined he might have to pay so dearly for the joy and fulfilment Louise had brought into his life.

“And now it’s so empty, Robin. Like a husk. I’ve felt so old since Louise died. So tired. So decrepit. And I’m not very good at being alone. I suppose that’s why… well, why Bella… She’s been good for me. Good for all of us. She can never replace Louise. Nobody can. But… it helps… to have somebody… It helps her as well, I think. She loved Hugh very much, didn’t she?”

I probably said yes. I certainly didn’t disabuse him of the notion. What would have been the point? I felt sorry for him. I even felt I understood. That night, indeed, I began to imagine I understood more about Louise Paxton than Sir Keith ever had. The lonely childhood and the disapproving parents were two more pieces of the jigsaw. Somewhere still, out there, she was waiting to surprise me. I dreamt of her sitting beside me outside the Harp Inn, as Naylor had claimed she’d sat beside him. The setting sun was behind her. I couldn’t see her face clearly. Her hand brushed my knee. And she laughed. “Follow me,” she said. “You can’t imagine what I have in mind.”

The prosecuting counsel spared no effort in his cross-examination of Naylor. Yet for all his remorseless probing, Naylor’s story remained intact. He didn’t make the mistake of taking up counsel’s invitation to explain the improbabilities and inconsistencies in his account. Why should a respectable married woman like Lady Paxton seek sex with a man like him? He didn’t know. Why should she take him to the house of somebody she knew only slightly? Again, he didn’t know. Why should anybody but him want to murder her? Yet again, he didn’t know. Didn’t he have any remorse for inflicting such a distasteful lie on Lady Paxton’s family? No, because it wasn’t a lie. Why, then, had he initially denied all connection with the case? Because he’d panicked. Simple as that. It had been an act of stupidity, not guilt. Did he seriously expect anyone to accept that? Yes. Because it was the truth. “And truth’s stranger than fiction, don’t they say?” He was still confident, still giving as good as he got. “I’m putting my hand up to four burglaries. I’m admitting the kind of man I am. I’m not trying to pretend anything. I’m just saying this. I’ve never murdered anyone. I’ve never raped anyone. I’m not guilty.” Sometimes, just sometimes, you could think he believed it. But, glancing round the court, you could sense what he must have sensed as well. If he really did believe it, he was the only one.

I went back to Petersfield that night. Sir Keith, who meant to see the trial through to its end, saw me off at New Street station. “It’ll be over by early next week, I reckon,” he said as I leant out of the train window for a parting word. “And I want to be here to see how he takes the verdict-and the sentence. Will you be coming up again?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. Pressure of work, you know.”

“Of course, of course. I won’t forget the support you’ve given us, Robin. Helping Rowena. Sarah too. And listening to me ramble on last night. Other people’s lives. Other people’s problems. They can be hard to take, I know. And it’s not as if you even knew Louise, is it? Not really.”

“No. I never did.”

Not his Louise, anyway. Another one maybe. A version of her as far removed from the person he’d lived with for twenty-three years as Naylor’s version of events was from the truth as I thought I knew it. The light faded as the train rushed south towards London. And the darkness grew. Who could be sure, absolutely sure, of anything? Where she’d gone that night after leaving Hergest Ridge. What she’d done and why. What she would have done if I’d gone with her. And where we’d all be now if I had.

The defence called four more witnesses after Naylor himself. The friend he’d stayed with in Cardiff, Gary Newsom, who spoke up for him as a bit of a rogue but no murderer, who’d returned to Newsom’s home in Cardiff on 18 July 1990 “relaxed and a bit pleased with himself, but looking forward to going back to London.” A customer at the Harp Inn the night before who recognized Naylor as “a man I saw sitting outside with a good-looking woman; it was definitely him and the woman could have been Lady Paxton, but I can’t be certain.” A barmaid at the Black Horse, Leominster, who remembered serving Naylor just before closing time that night. “He bought me a drink and chatted me up a bit. He seemed nice enough. I quite took to him, as a matter of fact.” And lastly Naylor’s wife, Carol. “It’s true about the row. A real up-and-downer. And about the holiday. He was full of it when he came back. I knew how he’d got the cash. The stuff he stole was in his van. Like he says, thieving’s in his blood. Always has been. But murder ain’t. Nor’s rape. My Shaun would never go in for that sort of thing.”

It didn’t sound to me as if any of this amounted to very much. As the prosecuting counsel pointed out in his closing speech, Naylor might well have been at the Harp that evening. But the witness hadn’t been able to put a definite time on the sighting or identify Lady Paxton as Naylor’s companion. She could have been anyone, given Naylor’s roving eye. As for his late visit to the pub in Leominster, that could have been a futile attempt to set up an alibi. Futile because there was still plenty of time for him to have gone to Whistler’s Cot, murdered Bantock, raped and murdered Lady Paxton, then driven the fifteen miles to Leominster before eleven o’clock. By Naylor’s own admission, he’d had sexual intercourse with Lady Paxton. Did anybody seriously believe this was with Lady Paxton’s consent? If it was, why should she choose Whistler’s Cot as a venue? And why take Naylor into Bantock’s studio first? Because, of course, Naylor had to say she did so in order to account for the forensic evidence of his presence in the studio: the paint and the fibres. Whereas the real explanation was that he’d torn his clothing and stained his jeans during the fatal struggle with Oscar Bantock. When Lady Paxton had surprised him at the scene of the crime, he’d forced her to go upstairs and undress, probably threatening her with the knife or the gun. He’d raped her, as was shown by the amount of vaginal bruising, which he’d attempted, with breath-taking impudence, to attribute to masochistic tendencies on Lady Paxton’s part. Finally, he’d strangled her as he had Oscar Bantock, using a ligature of picture-hanging wire taken from the studio. Then he’d fled, the original purpose of his visit to the house forgotten. These were crimes of horrifying brutality, motivated by material and sexual greed and made possible by a complete indifference to the pain and suffering of others which Naylor had continued to exhibit in his outrageous mockery of a defence. Guilty verdicts on all three charges were the only appropriate way to respond.

Strong stuff. But Naylor’s barrister responded by pointing out that his client’s explanation of the events of 17 July 1990 was consistent with the evidence. He’d met Lady Paxton at the Harp, where they’d been seen together. They’d gone to Whistler’s Cot and had vigorous sexual intercourse, Lady Paxton having some good reason to believe the owner of the house wouldn’t return until later. Naylor had then left. Subsequently, a person or persons unknown had entered the house and murdered Lady Paxton and Bantock, who was either on the premises by then or arrived while the murderer was escaping. The estimated time of death, 9 to 10 p.m., was only that: an estimate. It certainly didn’t rule out such a sequence of events. As for the identity or motive of the murderer, who knew? The police had stopped looking once they’d found Naylor. He specifically denied making the confessions attributed to him by two witnesses, one of whom had a criminal record. Those witnesses were either mistaken or were lying for reasons of their own. Finally, it should be remembered that Naylor had been completely honest about his criminal lifestyle. He’d admitted four burglaries in the Kington area, all confirmed by the police. One of them had taken place only a few hours after he was supposed to have committed rape and double murder at Whistler’s Cot. Was this really what he’d have done after carrying out such horrendous acts? Surely not, his barrister urged the jury to agree. They should give his client the benefit of the doubt.

Yet very little doubt seemed to exist in the judge’s mind when he summed up. To accept Naylor’s version of events, he stressed, it was necessary to suppose that Lady Paxton had gone to Kington not simply to buy a painting but to satisfy a craving for casual sex with a stranger. If the jury found that improbable, they might well conclude that the defendant was guilty as charged. Naturally, they should give due weight to the possibility that he was telling the truth, but they should also remember that he had, by his own admission, lied in his initial statement to the police. The coincidence of an unknown murderer arriving at Whistler’s Cot shortly after his departure was, moreover, bound to strain credulity. The judge’s implication was clear.

And it wasn’t lost on the jury. Sent out rather later than Sir Keith had predicted, they returned within four hours and found Naylor guilty on all three counts. The judge condemned him for adding to the grief of the Paxton family with his mischievous and implausible defence and described him as a depraved and dangerous individual whom the public had every right to expect would be kept behind bars for a very long time. He sentenced Naylor to life imprisonment for each of the murders and ten years for the rape, all to run concurrently. As a final touch-much applauded by the press-he recommended a minimum term in custody of twenty years. Still protesting his innocence but no longer being listened to by anyone, Shaun Naylor was taken away to begin his sentence.