But something else didn’t. What burglar turned so easily to rape and murder? Why not just leg it across the fields when he heard Bantock’s car? And had he actually stolen anything? The police seemed coy on the point, suggesting that, since Bantock lived alone and in some disorder, it was hard to tell. They admitted, however, that Lady Paxton’s credit cards and cheque book had been found in her handbag, along with more than a hundred pounds in cash. It seemed a strange oversight for a burglar.
Then there was the question of how he’d arrived and left. On foot, presumably, since nobody had heard a car leaving at the appropriate time. The police reckoned a car in such a narrow lane would have been too risky anyway. What they didn’t rule out was that he’d driven up to spy out the land earlier in the day; perhaps spotted Whistler’s Cot as a soft touch then. Several residents of Butterbur Lane mentioned strange cars coming and going, but they were different colours and makes at different times. Besides, dog-walkers and the like heading for the common always did come and go. Such sightings meant nothing.
And nothing was what the police seemed to have to go on. Until the bald announcement of an arrest in London. Till then, they’d been saying the culprit was probably local. Well, perhaps he’d fled to London after the event. Perhaps his flight was what aroused suspicion. There was no way for me to know.
But, arrest or no arrest, I couldn’t ignore their appeals for information. They’d been trying to trace the last movements of the deceased with remarkably little success. Somebody thought they’d seen Bantock in Ludlow, twenty miles north-east of Kington, at about four o’clock on the afternoon of July 17. Somebody else thought he’d staged a reckless piece of overtaking on the Hereford to Abergavenny road, twenty miles south of Kington, around the same time. They might both be wrong, but they couldn’t both be right. As for Lady Paxton, she’d had lunch with her daughter Rowena at their Cotswold home and set off for Kington at about three o’clock that afternoon. She’d declared her intention of taking Black Widow, if she bought it, to show off to an old schoolfriend in Shropshire who shared her taste. In that event, she wasn’t to be expected back until sometime the next day. The daughter had assumed that’s exactly what she’d done.
So, from at least mid-afternoon onwards, both the deceased had vanished from sight. At least as far as the police were concerned. But I knew better. I knew precisely where one of them had been within two hours of their estimated time of death. As that fact emerged more and more clearly, so what I knew became not just important but disturbing. At first, I felt excited, intoxicated by the uniqueness of the information I possessed. Then it began to worry me. Would I be believed? Would I, perish the thought, be suspected? Somewhere, at the back of my mind, dwelt an old adage that the last person known to have seen a murder victim alive is the first person the police suspect of being the murderer. Then I dismissed the idea as paranoid nonsense. They already had their murderer. And I had an alibi. The landlord of the Royal Oak, Gladestry, wouldn’t have forgotten me. Would he? Well, he might be vague enough about my time of arrival to be inconclusive, it was true. And for all I knew the man they’d arrested in London might by now have been eliminated from their inquiries. But, then again, there’d be fingerprints, wouldn’t there? More than fingerprints if rape was involved. DNA analysis of sperm and blood meant they couldn’t really get the wrong man these days. Could they?
I walked out into the garden and gazed up at the thickly wooded hills above Greenhayes, sun and shadow revealing the switchback succession of crest and combe beneath the trees, the bone of white chalk beneath the flesh of green leaves. I remembered Hergest Ridge and the world spread out in golden promise at our feet. Two strangers. One fleeting moment. It didn’t mean anything. They had their man. Why confuse the issue? Why involve myself? Because there was nobody else, of course. Nobody else who knew where she’d been and what she’d said that evening.
Ah yes. What she’d said. Was I really going to reveal that? Every word? Every hint of a double meaning? Was I going to break her confidence? She’d trusted me as a stranger. Perhaps that’s what I ought to remain. No, no. That was special pleading. That was the false logic part of me wanted to cling to. The other part dwelt on the horror of her death. Stripped. Raped. Strangled. What, as a matter of simple fact, could actually be worse? I shook my head, sickened by my inability-my unwillingness-to imagine. And sickened also by a memory. A single recollected pang of lust. Mine. With her as its object. It wasn’t to be compared with what he had done to her. Of course it wasn’t. But it was how it began. For him as well as me. A long way, a world, apart. Yes. But linked, like two distant dots on a graph. Connected, however faintly, by some tiny strand of sympathy.
I walked slowly back into the house and looked down at the pile of newspapers spread out on the kitchen table. The television was on in the sitting-room, the signature tune of an Australian soap fading vapidly away. My mother would be wondering what I was up to. And her curiosity, once aroused, was indefatigable. Only a vigorous display of normality was likely to hold it at bay. So, summoning a grin, I went in to join her.
“Where have you been, Robin?” she asked, glaring round at Brillo’s warning yelp.
“Sorry. I was…” A phrase came unbidden to my mind. “Lost in thought.”
“Didn’t you do all the thinking you needed to on your walk? I was hoping you’d have made up your mind by now.”
“Don’t worry. I have.”
“So you will be joining the company?”
“The company?” My frown must have puzzled her. For the moment, Timariot & Small, with or without me, seemed too trivial a subject to discuss. “Well…” I hesitated, struggling to remember just what I had decided. “Yes.”
“Oh, how wonderful.” She jumped up and kissed me. “Your father would have been so pleased.”
“Would he?”
“I must phone Larry. He’ll be delighted.” She bustled out into the hall, leaving me staring vacantly into space. By rights, I should be the one using the telephone. But to call the police, not Uncle Larry. I smiled ruefully. It would be quicker to drive to the police station in Petersfield than wait for my mother to come off the line. Still, at least she’d given me-
The newsreader’s voice cut across my thoughts. “West Mercia police have now charged the man they’ve been holding since yesterday with the murders of Louise Paxton and Oscar Bantock at Kington in Herefordshire last week. Shaun Andrew Naylor, a twenty-eight-year-old electrician from Bermondsey, south London, has also been charged with the rape of Lady Paxton. He will appear before Worcester magistrates tomorrow morning. Here’s our Midlands crime correspondent, David Murray.”
And there was David Murray, a sloppily dressed figure in front of Worcester police station, mouthing the customary platitudes at the fag end of what looked to have been a bad day. I hardly heard what he said. A name, an age, an occupation and an approximate address. That was all we were getting. And all we would get, until the trial. Unless we were looking for an excuse, of course. Like I was. They’d charged him. With rape as well as murder. They must have all the evidence they wanted. They didn’t need my obscure little piece of the jigsaw. I’d just be wasting their time by telling them. Wouldn’t I?