Borrowed Time

CHAPTER TEN

Sentimental appeals proved even less effective than recriminatory arguments. I tried both over the next couple of weeks without making the slightest impact on Adrian’s determination to push through acceptance of the Bushranger bid. From his point of view, it solved our problems at a stroke, never mind that the problems were of his creation and the solution an humiliating end to a proud piece of history. Simon and Jennifer went along with him, Simon because his share of the sale price would get Joan off his back and Jennifer because she could see no other way out of deficit. As for Bella, when I eventually succeeded in speaking to her, it became apparent that she regarded the dissolution of Timariot & Small as tantamount to a mercy killing. “Hugh should have negotiated something like this years ago. Then he might not have worked himself into an early grave.” My hope that Sir Keith might consider injecting capital into the company to make it independently viable was abandoned before I’d even expressed it.

That left Uncle Larry and me in a decisive minority. Adrian dismissed us as unrealistic romantics and I suppose he had a point. Uncle Larry’s reluctance to see the family firm taken over could be seen as no more than an old man’s refusal to live in the present. While the irony of my position was that I’d become more committed to Timariot & Small-past and future-than my brothers or sister, despite remaining aloof from it far longer than any of them. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps I understood what we’d lose by selling out just because I’d spent twelve years away from it. And perhaps they failed to because they hadn’t. Familiarity had bred contempt. Later, I knew, they’d regret it. But their regrets would be futile. We could only destroy what our forefathers had created once. It was an irreversible act. But it was an act they were clearly set on carrying out.

Busy chasing false hopes and faint chances of staving off the Bushranger takeover, I gave little thought to my Benefit of the Doubt interview besides savouring the prospect of any small embarrassment it might cause Bella. Seymour had told me the programme would go out sometime in mid-June and had promised to send me a video of it in case I didn’t catch the broadcast. I’d intended to check Radio Times to see when it was coming up, but somehow never got round to doing so. If I had done, I’d have known a week in advance that it was scheduled for transmission at eight thirty on Wednesday the sixteenth of June. In the event, my first inkling of that was when I returned home from work two nights before to find a parcel small enough to fit through the letter-box lying in wait for me on the doormat. It was the promised video. I played it straightaway. And long before the end I realized just how big a fool I’d been.

Seymour wasn’t just a handsome front man. He was clever as well. If I hadn’t known that before, I found it out now. The doubt he sowed in the viewer’s mind about Naylor’s guilt wasn’t based on clinching facts or convincing arguments. It relied instead on impressions and implications. The programme started out as a straight-forward summary of the case from the discovery of the murders to Naylor’s conviction. Then Seymour turned his attention to Naylor’s defence. “Let’s see if this stands up,” he coolly said. “Let’s suspend disbelief for the time it takes to subject Shaun Naylor’s version of events to some obvious tests. We’ll begin where he says it began, at the Harp Inn, Old Radnor.” The camera panned across the pub’s façade, then moved to the man who’d testified at the trial that he’d seen Naylor there with a good-looking woman on the evening of 17 July 1990. He seemed more confident now than before that it was Louise Paxton. “I reckon it was, yes. They were getting on well together. Laughing and joking.” If he was right, Seymour pointed out, they could only just have met. At the very least, this indicated a willingness for flirtation on Lady Paxton’s part. Was that credible? Did that fit her character?

Suddenly, Sophie Marsden was on screen, relaxing in the horse-brassed black-beamed interior of her Shropshire home. She looked as much at ease as Seymour had made me feel, perhaps more so. And she was talking freely about the friend she’d known. “Louise wasn’t really the saintly wife and mother she’d been portrayed as. She was a lot of fun. She lived life to the full. Sometimes she flirted with strangers. And sometimes it may have gone beyond flirting. I know of at least one occasion when it certainly did. She told me about it. She wasn’t boasting. It was… the kind of secret we shared.”

Before I could absorb the full ramifications of what Sophie had said, Seymour was in the picture, striding up the track from Kington to Hergest Ridge. “So, according to Lady Paxton’s best friend, Shaun Naylor’s account of how they met is feasible. What’s more, we know she met at least one other man that evening under similar circumstances. Up here, on Offa’s Dyke, where solitary male walkers are often to be found.”

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 understand. 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.

I made my way back to College Green and headed vaguely towards Queen Square, where I’d parked the car. But it was obvious some strong coffee would be needed before I drove anywhere. The warehouses running down the western side of a narrow reach of the harbour just below the Royal Hotel had been converted into a complex of shops, restaurants and art galleries. A couple of espressos in a café there cleared my head. I emerged ready to face the journey back to Petersfield.

Only to stop in my tracks when I glanced across the reach to see Rowena walking slowly along the other side. She was wearing a long loose flower-patterned dress. Her hair hung unbraided to her waist, a splash of palest gold in the sunlight, waving slightly with each step she took, as a field of wheat might when stirred by a breeze. She was heading south, bound presumably for home. I knew from Sarah that she and Paul lived in one of the smart dockside town houses that had sprung up in the area since its commercial decay. Convenient for Metropolitan Mutual and the university. But she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get back there. She was dragging her feet, fiddling with the strap of her shoulder-bag as she walked, alternately gazing up at the sky and staring down at the cobbles. She looked neither to right nor left, but, even if she’d glanced in my direction, she’d probably not have seen me in the shadows of the colonnade that ran the length of the warehouse block. The reach was narrow, of course. If I’d stepped forward and shouted to her, she would have heard. But something deterred me. Something in her bearing and my shame. Something that told me chance meetings were best avoided.

Nevertheless, I found myself walking in the same direction as her. And at the same pace. Keeping track for as long as our routes ran parallel. Hers down past the Unicorn Hotel to the Arnolfini building at the corner of the quay. Mine to where the colonnade ended and a permanently moored ship got up as a floating pub blocked my view of her. Hurriedly, I went aboard, ordered a drink I didn’t want and took it to the starboard window. But Rowena had stopped at the quayside opposite me, almost as if she’d known I’d need a few moments to catch up. She couldn’t see me, I was certain. Not with the sun in her eyes as it was. She seemed to be looking for something, squinting out across the water. She took a step closer to the edge and for a second I was alarmed. But there was no need. She tossed her head, setting her hair bouncing across her back, then turned and walked away towards the swing-bridge across the harbour.

She’d soon be out of sight. Distance would claim her as one of its own. I watched her cross the bridge, then turn to the left, heading further away from me than ever along the wharves on the far side of the harbour. A pale speck amidst the visual chaos of masts and rooftops, speeding cars and sprawling crowds, glaring sky and sparkling water. A few seconds, as my eyes strained to follow her. A farewell flash of sunlight on her hair. Then she was gone. I waited to be certain. But there was no longer any trace of her. Not so much as a blur.

I left my drink and walked off the ship. There, opposite me, on the quay, she’d stood only a few minutes before. I could have hailed her. I could have urged her to wait while I hurried round to join her. And if she’d still been standing there, I believe I would have done. But belief can so often be self-deception. I’d had the chance. And I’d turned it down. Now there was nothing to do but to walk away.

I heard nothing from Sarah between my return to Petersfield and the Benefit of the Doubt broadcast. She’d had ample time by then to play and replay the video until every word of mine Seymour had used was imprinted on her memory. But her only response was silence. Perhaps, I thought, that was to be my punishment. My exclusion, so far as she could engineer it, from Rowena’s life as well as hers. My forfeit of the confidence they’d once invested in me.

I recorded the transmission myself, but I didn’t watch it. I’d seen it too many times already. The awareness that I couldn’t force Seymour to admit he’d deliberately distorted what I’d said any more than I could force Sarah to acknowledge he’d done so dragged my exasperation down into exhaustion. Until a show of indifference was the only riposte I felt capable of.

Adrian had got hold of a couple of tickets for the opening day of the Lord’s Test and had offered them to Simon and me, claiming he was too busy to go himself. Simon and I both realized it was more in the nature of a bribe, with the company’s response to Bushranger’s bid still formally unsettled. But that didn’t stop us accepting. In my case, it was just what I needed: a day’s refuge from any possibility of an irate call from Bella or Paul or Sir Keith about my interview on Benefit of the Doubt the night before. Simon gave me his opinion of it, of course. “I said you should never have got mixed up with that in the first place, Rob. You should have listened to your big brother.” All of which was thoroughly predictable. As well as being uncomfortably close to the truth. But as soon as the champagne started to flow, he gave up lecturing me and a moratorium on the subject of Bushranger meant we had an enjoyably light-hearted day. Even if Australia’s dominance of England did seem to point a dismal moral for Timariot & Small.

I got back to Greenhayes late that night, overslept and reached the office nearer ten o’clock than nine the following morning, my hangover made no more bearable by the knowledge that Simon’s was probably worse. A pile of messages had accumulated in my absence and I was sifting aimlessly through them with one hand while trying to prise a Disprin out of its foil wrapper with the other when my secretary put her head round the door to announce she had Nick Seymour on the telephone.

“That’s the Nick Seymour,” she said, apparently impressed.

“What does he want?” I barked ill-temperedly.

“He wouldn’t say. It couldn’t be anything to do with what’s in the paper, could it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen a paper.”

“Oh. You don’t know, then.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Sorry,” she said, bridling. “It’s just-”

“Put the Nick Seymour through, Liz. Without wasting any more time, eh?” I waved to her dismissively and she took the hint. A few seconds later, the telephone rang.

“Mr. Timariot?” It was Seymour all right, a grain of apprehensiveness scarcely denting his self-assurance.

“Rung to apologize, have you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well.”

“Listen, I haven’t got time to play games. I’m simply trying to make sure we take a consistent line on this. In both our interests.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. The Paxton girl. Or Bryant. Whatever the right name is. The tabloids are trying to blame me for what’s happened.”

“What has happened?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I did, would I?”

“I thought you must do.”

“Just tell me.”

The tone of my voice silenced him for a moment. Then he said: “Lady Paxton’s younger daughter committed suicide yesterday afternoon.”

“What?”

“Threw herself off Clifton Suspension Bridge, apparently.”

“Rowena’s dead?”

“Yes. And the newspapers are trying to say she only did it because she’d seen my programme on Wednesday.”

“Oh my God.”

“So you see it’s vital we stick together. The papers may not contact you. But, if they do, you’d be well advised to-”

I cut him off before he could say any more and slowly replaced the handset. Beneath me, amidst the confetti of Liz’s neatly typed messages from the day before, was one that was shorter than most. Mrs. Bryant rang on a matter of urgency. She will call back. And there, in my mind’s eye, was the sunlight flashing on her hair as she turned from the quayside.

I jumped from my chair and ran into the outer office, clutching the scrap of paper in my hand. Liz looked up in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“This message.” I slapped it down in front of her. “When did you take it?”

“Mrs. Bryant,” she mused. “Oh, I remember. Said she was in a call-box. Sounded anxious.”

“When?”

“Er… during the lunch hour. Yes. Just before two. Or just after.”

“Let me see your paper.” Her Daily Mail was poking out of the desk drawer beside her.

“You don’t mean… Rowena was the Mrs. Bryant who phoned you yesterday?” Horror began to dawn on her. “I never-”

“Give me the paper!” She handed it over and there was the headline, staring at me from the front page. DAUGHTER TAKES LIFE THREE YEARS AFTER MOTHER’S MURDER. The daughter of one of the victims of a double murder three years ago yesterday took her own life in a fatal dive from Clifton Suspension Bridge, the notorious Bristol suicide spot. My eyes scanned the paragraphs in search of the information I both wanted and dreaded. Rowena Bryant, a twenty-two-year-old married student at Bristol University, is said to have become depressed over recent weeks. It is thought her suicide was prompted by seeing a video recording of Wednesday night’s Benefit of the Doubt programme, in which controversial presenter Nick Seymour aired doubts about the guilt of the man convicted of the rape and murder of her mother, Lady Paxton, in July 1990. Shaun Naylor, 31, is serving a- But where was the time-the precise time? When did it happen? Onlookers were amazed to see Mrs. Bryant walk calmly to the middle of the bridge shortly after two o’clock yesterday afternoon, climb onto the railings and- Shortly after two o’clock. So it was even worse than I’d feared.

“Are you OK, Robin?” asked Liz.

She got no answer. I closed the newspaper, dropped it onto her desk and picked up the message she’d taken just before two o’clock the previous afternoon. Or maybe just after. Mrs. Bryant rang on a matter of urgency. She will call back. “Is this really all she said?” I demanded.

“Yes. She was only on for a minute or two. Said it was urgent and personal. When I explained you were out, she sounded disappointed. I suggested she call back. She said she would. Then…”

“Then what?”

“She rang off.”

She rang off. And walked the short distance from the call-box to the bridge. She must have used the kiosk on the Clifton side. I could remember passing it with her that day in November 1991 when I’d gone up to Bristol at Sarah’s urging to help Rowena forget the mystery of their mother’s death. We’d talked of her suicide attempt a few days before; of how good it was to be alive; and of the strange appeal death could still seem to hold. For a moment, for an hour at most, she’d said, death had seemed more attractive than life. And now it had again. But an overdose was neither certain nor instant. Whereas a leap from the bridge-

“It doesn’t make any sense,” murmured Liz. “She said she’d call back. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to know.”

She looked up at me gratefully. “I don’t suppose anybody was, were they?”

I wanted to agree, to affirm wholeheartedly that this was a bolt from the blue nobody could have predicted or prevented. But something stopped me. Rowena’s own words-her irrational sense of guilt for the fate that had overtaken her mother-stood between me and the denial of responsibility I’d otherwise have been glad to utter. “It would be possible to rerun the events of the seventeenth of July a hundred times and produce a hundred different results. A lot of times-maybe a majority of times-Mummy wouldn’t die. Wouldn’t even be in danger. Just because of some tiny scarcely noticeable variation. Like what she said to me. Or to you. And what we said in reply.” I’d persuaded her then to agree that, even if this was so, nobody could foresee or be blamed for the fatal variation. But perhaps I hadn’t really believed that any more than her. Perhaps we’d both known better, but hadn’t dared to say so. For fear of what it meant.

“Can we really change anything, do you think?” Yes, Louise. I could have saved you. And I could have saved your daughter. If I’d refused Seymour his interview. If I’d been more careful about what I said. If I’d given him no scope to finesse the result. If I’d gone to Rowena straightaway. If I’d called to her across the harbour. If I’d been in the office to take her call. If I’d told her the truth all along. If I’d simply trusted her as she wanted me to. If I’d only made one right choice instead of a dozen wrong ones. Then-and only then-it might have been so very different. But it wasn’t going to be. Any more than Rowena was going to call back. Not now. Not ever.