by Unknown
“I came across something this morning that might interest you,” Sarah said suddenly, reaching into her handbag and taking out a pocket diary, which she laid on the table in front of me. The red leather cover had the year embossed on it in gold. 1990. “It’s Mummy’s. Returned by the police at some stage, I suppose. Daddy must have hung on to it, then forgotten he had it.”
I reached out and picked the diary up, turning it over in my hand. I wanted to open it at once, to rifle its secrets. But I needed Sarah’s permission to camouflage my desire. “May I?” I said.
“Of course. There’s not much. Mummy was no diarist. Just the usual. Hair appointments. Telephone numbers. Flight times. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Dinner dates. Deadlines. What you’d expect. The normal everyday fixtures of life.”
Already I was flicking through the pages, seeing her handwriting for the first time, sensing her fingers close to mine as she penned the entries. Sarah was right. There was nothing unusual. But even mundanity can be portentous. Wednesday March 7: Oscar’s Private View. Allinson Gallery, Cambridge, 6.30. I turned on. Friday March 16: Collect pictures from Allinson p.m. My gaze flicked to the next day. Saturday March 17: Take pictures to Kington. There it was, then. Confirmation of Sophie’s claim. According to her, that was the day Louise had met her “perfect stranger” on Hergest Ridge. “The weather was unusually warm for March. She wanted a breath of fresh air. You were there for the same reason, I suppose.” But it wasn’t me. It never had been.
“Look at the entry for April the fifth, though,” said Sarah. “That’s not quite so normal.”
Thursday April 5: Atascadero, 3.30. I frowned. “What does it mean?”
“It was just a hunch, but when I checked with directory enquiries and phoned the place, it turned out to be right. Atascadero is a café in Covent Garden. The one where Mummy met Paul to give him his marching orders.”
“So this corroborates his confession.”
“Yes. I suppose I shall have to bring it to the attention of the police. But there’s something else. Something much more significant to my mind, though I doubt they’ll agree.”
“What?”
“Turn to the week of her death.”
I leafed through to the week containing 17 July. There was only one entry. An Air France flight number and departure time for the morning of Monday 16 July. Nothing else. But why should there be? By 18 July, she was dead. “What of it?” I said.
“Turn on.”
I did so. But there were only blank weeks, their days and dates printed on empty uncreased pages. No trips. No appointments. No aides-mémoires. Nothing.
“Don’t you see? There should be something. I don’t know. A dental check-up. A hotel booking. Some trivial commitment. But there isn’t a single one. It’s as if—”
“She knew she was going to die.”
“I remember Rowena saying that. I remember telling her not to be so absurd. And now there it is, in Mummy’s handwriting. A full stop. An end. A void.”
“That she chose to step into.”
“But she can’t have done, can she? I mean, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“It could simply have been a precaution,” I suggested. “She might have refrained from putting her plans for the rest of the summer down on paper in case your father got hold of the diary and deduced from the entries that she was planning to leave him.”
“Wouldn’t a total blank look even more suspicious?”
“I suppose it might, but . . . what other explanation can there be?” I gazed across at Sarah and saw my own incomprehension reflected in her face. There was never going to be an answer. There never could be. Rowena had known as much without the need of a diary to prove it. Her mother’s life had reached a turning point. And become her death.
C H A P T E R
TWENTY
As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to analyse my own behaviour as well as other people’s. I’ve come to understand that just as every mood is temporary, so is every triumph and every disappointment. It isn’t much of a consolation, but it’s an effective antidote to despair. One day, I suppose, it’ll make even death seem an acceptable trade-off with reality.
Meanwhile, as November advanced, there were surrenders to be negotiated and escape routes plotted. On the third, I drove up to Worcester and made my promised statement to Inspector Joyce, admitting Louise Paxton could well have been actively seeking male company when I met her during the evening of 17 July 1990. On the fourth, I attended the last board meeting of Timariot & Small as an independent company, made an impassioned speech urging Simon and Jennifer to change their minds, then lost the vote by a slim—but for Adrian expensive—margin. Uncle Larry entered a plea for family unity; Adrian tried and failed to be more gracious in victory than he’d been in defeat; Simon burbled contentedly; and Jennifer twittered about completion dates. None of which prevented me minuting a formal protest at what they’d done and resigning with immediate effect.
My strategy was clear in my mind. And though I gave my fellow directors no hint of it, the future I’d mapped out for myself was in many ways preferable to leading a long struggle for commercial survival at Timariot & Small. More or less by default, I’d been granted another twelve-month extension to my congé de convenance personelle. So, until November 1994 at the earliest, I was a free and unfettered man. I was also about to become a moderately wealthy one, thanks to Bushranger Sports. And since it was wealth I’d tried hard to resist acquiring, I’d decided I might as well enjoy disposing of it.
For a variety of reasons, I didn’t walk out there and then, despite implying I meant to. It took several weeks for the sale to be finalized and I eventually agreed to stay on until a Bushranger apparatchik could be flown in from Sydney to take over my duties. I tried to reassure the staff about the new régime, but felt rather like Kerensky explaining how wonderful life was going to be under Lenin. Nobody believed me, any more than I believed myself. And they all knew I had something they didn’t. A way out.
It wasn’t just a way out of the barbarization of Timariot & Small, though. What sweetened the pill for me was knowing I could be beachcombing on some South Sea island by the time the news broke of Shaun Naylor’s innocence and Paul Bryant’s guilt. The press hadn’t got wind of the story yet and until they did an eerie calm seemed likely to prevail. Files and reports shuttled back and forth between the police and the Crown Prosecution Service, between Sarwate and the Criminal Appeal Office, between the servants of the law and its dispensers. Shaun Naylor counted the days in his cell at Albany Prison. Paul Bryant read the Bible in his house beside the water. And we all waited.
But some weren’t prepared to wait. It was the last Saturday in November when Jennifer telephoned me in considerable excitement to report an encounter with Bella during a Christmas shopping trip to Farnham. “She’s left her husband, Robin. Told me so quite bluntly over a cup of coffee. Back here for good and contemplating divorce. I didn’t know what to say. I mean, they’ve only been married a couple of years. But she doesn’t seem to have any compunction about it at all. As for sympathy, forget it. She doesn’t need any. Do you know what she said when I asked, as tactfully as I could, why it had come to this? ‘You wouldn’t understand, my dear.’ How patronizing can you get?”
I thought I understood perfectly well, of course. As I made clear when I called at The Hurdles the following morning, to find Bella reluctantly reacquainting herself with the dullness of an English Sunday. “I didn’t think you’d move as quickly as this, Bella. Aren’t you in danger of jumping the gun?”
“Not at all. Keith’s solicitor has been monitoring developments on our behalf and reckons Naylor will be released on bail before Christmas. The police have caved in, apparently, and the prosecution won’t be offering any evidence when the case comes to appeal. So, I’ve been left with no choice in the matter.”
“You could have chosen to stand by your husband.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew how he’s been behaving
lately.”
“I imagine he’s been under a lot of strain.”
“I’ve been under a lot, as well.”
“Of course. But—”
“You wait and see, Robin,” she said with sudden intensity, stabbing out her cigarette in an ashtray littered with the broken-backed corpses of several others. “When all this comes out, you won’t think so badly of me.” But that I found hard to believe.
As family ruptures go, ours was a pretty cordial affair. There didn’t seem much point bearing grudges now everything was settled. And the wanderlust that grew in me as the final break approached drained the event, if not the experience, of much of its bitterness. Merv Gibson, my successor, turned out to be a milder and more sensitive soul than any I’d thought could thrive in Harvey McGraw’s empire. It was almost possible to persuade myself nothing much was going to change at Frenchman’s Road under the Bushranger umbrella. Almost, but not quite. The fact was that however dexterously appearances were managed, an era had ended.
At least I didn’t have to stay and watch the start of a new one, though. Timariot & Small and I came to the parting of the ways on Friday the seventeenth of December. The staff gave me a more rousing send-off than a mere three years as works director really justified. I think they were saying goodbye to their past along with mine, as their farewell gift to me—a watercolour of Broadhalfpenny Down commissioned from a competent local artist—tended to confirm.
That day also saw the appearance of the first newspaper articles heralding Naylor’s release from prison. They struck a cautious note for the most part, referring to “indications that Shaun Naylor may be set free following an appeal hearing next Wednesday” and “speculation which a police spokesman failed to deny that an as yet unidentified person has confessed to the murders for which Naylor was sentenced to life imprisonment in May 1991.” But if the press were being uncharacteristically diffident, my brother Simon wasn’t, especially after several drinks at my leaving party. “What the bloody hell’s all this about, Rob? And don’t try to tell me you don’t know, because I’m bloody certain you do.” Playing a dead bat to Simon when he was cruising towards inebriation being out of the question, I tried bafflement instead, which worked a treat. “My lips are sealed, Sime. Ask Bella, though. She might be able to enlighten you.”
By the weekend, a little more had seeped into the public domain. West Mercia Police and the Crown Prosecution Service were still being tight-lipped, but Vijay Sarwate had given an interview and said as much as he evidently felt he could. “I can confirm we will be applying for leave to appeal against Mr. Naylor’s convictions at a hearing on the twenty-second of this month and that the basis for the application is a full and voluntary confession of guilt by the real murderer of Oscar Bantock and Lady Paxton. I understand the police have satisfied themselves as to the accuracy and veracity of this confession and the prosecution will therefore not only be raising no objection to the appeal going ahead but also offering no evidence when it does so. In those circumstances, I anticipate that an application for Mr. Naylor’s release on bail pending the appeal will be favourably received. You will appreciate I am anxious to do all I can to reunite Mr. Naylor with his wife and children so they can celebrate a family Christmas together for the first time in four years.”
Sarwate must have found it difficult to keep a straight face while painting this Cratchit-like portrait of the Naylors, but, as an embellishment of the case for bail, I suppose seasonal sentiment was too good to resist. The newspapers were evidently confused by the turn of events. It didn’t suit either lobby in the affair to have Naylor acquitted for reasons unconnected with the only coherent argument the media had ever advanced for his innocence. Yet since a contract killer hired by Oscar Bantock’s accomplices in the forgery game was hardly likely to want to clear his conscience at this late date, it must have been obvious to all concerned that they’d got it badly wrong. Their unanimous response to which was a retreat behind sub judice reticence. This definitely wasn’t the stuff of outraged leader columns.
Nor was it going to be the stuff of my future, however near or far I looked. I’d booked a Christmas Eve flight to Rio de Janeiro at the start of what I intended to be a slow and utterly relaxing meander through the Americas, finishing—according to my hazy estimate of a schedule—amidst the blazing foliage of a New England fall. I didn’t anticipate meeting anyone on the way who’d ever heard of Shaun Naylor. And I didn’t anticipate wanting to.
A week of solid packing still lay between me and the footloose life, however. I’d agreed to let Jennifer, Simon and Adrian put Greenhayes on the market in the New Year, so all my possessions had to go into store. There were actually precious few of them compared with what remained from my mother’s day. But the exercise still turned into an exhausting chore, as I’d known it would. Which wasn’t the only reason I’d left it as late as I could. I’d also dreaded the psychological effect of sifting through the detritus of mine and my parents’ lives. It drew my thoughts back to my childhood, when Hugh used to take me for hair-raising rides round the lanes on his motorbike and Jennifer’s boyfriends all dressed like Frank Zappa, when Simon’s laugh never needed to be rueful and Adrian was the master of nobody’s destiny, even his own. It lured me, as I’d feared it was bound to, into introspection and nostalgia. And it left me ill-prepared for the reminder that came my way on Monday of how much easier it is to get into something than it is to get out.
“Hello?”
“Is that Robin Timariot?” The voice on the other end of the telephone was guttural and unfamiliar.
“Speaking.”
“You on your own?”
“Who is this?”
“Vince Cassidy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know who I am. Sharon said you wanted to talk to me.”
“There must be some misunderstanding.”
“No there ain’t. The message was clear. You wanted to know who paid me to fit up Shaun Naylor.”
“That was two months ago, Mr. Cassidy. I’m no longer interested.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I’m afraid I do. Besides, I’ve found out since why you did it.”
“The fuck you have.”
“Shaun told me about you and his wife, Mr. Cassidy. Is that why you’re phoning? In the hope of extracting some money from me with which to put yourself out of Shaun’s reach when he’s released? If so, I—”
“This ain’t nothing to do with Carol.”
“Then go to the police. They may be prepared to listen to you, but certainly not to pay you. For myself, I’m willing to do neither.”
“Hold on. You don’t—”
I put the phone down and switched on the answering machine to ensure I didn’t have to talk to him again. The newspaper articles had panicked him. That was as obvious as it was understandable. But it was far too late for him to tap me for help. A few minutes later, somebody rang, but failed to speak after the beep. Cassidy? It had to be. And even if he hadn’t left a message, he’d evidently got one. Because he didn’t ring again. Then or later.
Tuesday was the first bright day in what seemed like weeks, so I treated myself to a lengthy tramp round the hangers after lunch. It was something of a farewell tour of the countryside I’d grown up in, left, returned to and now was leaving again. I didn’t turn for home until it was nearly dark and, in the event, never made it to Greenhayes on foot. A car passed me in the lane beneath Shoulder of Mutton Hill, pulled up a short distance ahead, then reversed to meet me. And only when the driver wound down her window did I realize whose car it was.
“Sarah! What are you doing here?”
“Offering you a lift home,” she said with a smile. I climbed in and we set off. “Actually, I’ve just finished a two-day refresher course back at the College of Law in Guildford, so I thought I’d see how you were.”
“You’re lucky to have caught me. I leave for Brazil on Friday.”
“I wish I could do the same.” She sou
nded genuinely envious. “I really do.”
“Come with me,” I said frivolously.
“You don’t know how tempting the suggestion is.”
“Because of tomorrow’s appeal hearing, you mean?”
“Yes.” I watched her as she concentrated on a sharp bend. She was looking tired and careworn, sapped by her expert foreknowledge of the legal convolutions that lay ahead. “That and everything it entails.”
Over tea at Greenhayes amidst the book-stacks and packing-cases, Sarah described the nagging pressure of events, the pitiless predictability of all that had happened since Paul’s confession and all that was still bound to happen. Her father’s refusal to face the reality of the situation had led to his virtual estrangement from her as well as his actual estrangement from Bella. “I can’t talk to him, Robin. He won’t let me help him through this. And he’s not prepared to help me through it. So, we have to endure it as best we can in our separate ways. But it isn’t easy. And it’s only going to become more difficult.”
“If there’s anything I can—”
“No, no. You’re right to get out of it. Go and enjoy yourself. And don’t worry about me while you’re at it.” She grinned gamely, as reluctant, it seemed to me, to admit her need of comfort as she was to acknowledge her own unspoken wish: that Paul should have let the truth die with Rowena. It was different now from when she’d come to me in Brussels. We were both older and wiser and sadder. Yet it was also the same. We represented to each other a link with Louise as she’d been that last day of her life. We embodied the failing hope that something could be salvaged from the wreckage of facts to ennoble her death. But in our sombre faces and subdued words we detected the same creeping awareness that nothing ever would be. “When did you say you’re leaving?”