“She’d have told me,” he insisted hoarsely. “That morning in Cambridge… She just went for a walk before breakfast, for God’s sake.”
“But how could he have known she went for a walk unless he was there?”
“I don’t know, God damn it. Luck. Guesswork. Something like that.”
“He must have been phenomenally lucky,” Bella said slowly and coolly, “to guess that you had a… disagreement… with Louise the day before you left Biarritz.”
“I didn’t. Not as such. Not a row on the scale he describes. He’s distorted everything. He says I called Bantock a-what was it?-a ‘bloody dauber.’ Well, I never used the phrase. Not then. Not later. I never said it.”
Silence loomed between us. Bella drew on her cigarette. Sarah shrugged her shoulders. Sir Keith pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the side of his mouth. He must have known we wouldn’t believe him. There was something of the cornered fox in his crouched stance, something of the last resort in his pointless denial. He should have said there’d been no row at all, no walk-out, no discarded ring, no dismissive note. But he couldn’t. So he offered instead a futile quibble about a single phrase. And an imploring gaze in my direction.
“Surely you share my misgivings to some extent, Robin?”
“Not really. It seemed clear to me Paul was telling the truth. Whether his memory of every single detail is absolutely correct can’t alter that. Besides, as Sarah said, he simply couldn’t have made it all up.”
“I see. So you’re not even willing to suspend judgement until the police complete their investigation?”
“My judgement’s only an opinion. What good would it do for me to pretend I didn’t have one? The police aren’t going to be swayed by what I think anyway.”
“No. Nor by what anybody else thinks either, I dare say.” He pulled himself upright and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well,” he said, “perhaps you’ll excuse me. I need a breath of air.” Then he made for the door, head bowed, without even so much as glancing at Bella.
“Daddy!” Sarah called after him, filial pity flashing in her eyes. “Can’t we just-” But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. The door closed behind him with a click that was more eloquent than any slam would have been. Then we heard the front door open and close. And a few seconds later the sound of the Daimler starting and crunching away down the drive.
“Don’t worry,” said Bella. “He’ll be back soon enough.” It was as if she was presenting a dispassionate assessment of human behaviour with no particular interest in its accuracy. I felt sure she was right. But I didn’t envy Sir Keith the welcome he’d get from his wife when he returned. She’d given him unstinting support in crises that were none of his making. But this crisis was different. And so was Bella’s response. I wish I’d had the courage to ask her there and then: “When are you going to ditch him, Bella? Before Paul’s trial? Or after?” But I’d already done enough looking forward to be heartily sick of the view. And, besides, Bella gave a kind of answer to my unspoken question in what she said next. “Tell me, Sarah. As a lawyer, how long do you reckon it will take for this business to be settled?”
“Longer than any of us would like,” Sarah replied. “A police investigation. An appeal. A trial. It could take a year or more.”
Bella’s eyes briefly closed, as if to ward off a spasm of pain. Then she said: “And for it to be forgotten?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’ll ever be forgotten.” Sarah looked at both of us in turn before adding: “Do you?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The mind is master of its own defences. There’s always one more drawbridge to raise, one more portcullis to lower. There was nothing I could do to block or blunt the consequences of Paul Bryant’s confession. And so, without admitting what I was doing even to myself, I began to prepare my retreat from them. The Paxtons would have to face their future without me. I’d tried before to detach myself from them and failed. This time I had to make the break. I’d told Bella I meant to take the money and run. And now I had an even more compelling reason than when I’d said it to do precisely that.
It wasn’t just that the tidy self-contained life of a Eurocrat suddenly seemed like a haven from scandal and recrimination. It also seemed like a refuge from my own broken dreams. What some people might have found wholly incomprehensible about Paul’s behaviour in July 1990-his infatuation with Louise Paxton-was to me only too credible. A single encounter with her of a few minutes’ duration had left me with a trace of sympathy for Paul’s inability to defeat his obsession. And for the violence of his reaction when he glimpsed the true nature of the woman he’d idolized and idealized. There but for the grace of God-or the mercy of chance-went I.
It was easy to maintain my detached pose. Until the police investigation began-and for some time after that-only a handful of people would know what was happening. Bella urged me to be reticent: “Do please try to keep your mouth shut about this, Robin.” But she needn’t have bothered. I had no intention of telling anyone, least of all members of my own family, whom Bella imagined crowing at her discomfiture. Even if I’d wanted to confide in them, the acrimony that grew between us as the climactic board meeting approached would have ruled the idea out. Confidence had long since gone the same way as our profits.
I was still determined to resist the Bushranger bid, of course, futile as doing so was bound to be. But even futility can serve a purpose. My opposition to the future Adrian had mapped out for Timariot & Small gave me an honourable reason for refusing to participate in it. And for scuttling back to Brussels long before the Kington killings returned to the headlines. My fall-back position was ready. And there seemed no reason why my retreat to it shouldn’t have at least the appearance of an orderly withdrawal. Except that, not for the first time, I’d reckoned without Bella’s unpredictable ways.
A week had passed since my visit to The Hurdles. Sarah had gone back to Bristol, while Bella and Sir Keith had returned to Biarritz. So Bella had led me to assume anyway. Having given her proxy vote to Adrian, there was certainly no need for her to hang around for the board meeting. So I was surprised when she phoned me at home early on Wednesday the twenty-second, the day before the meeting. Eight o’clock was an hour I didn’t think she knew much about. And the clarity of the line made it seem as if she were in Hindhead rather than Biarritz. Which, as a matter of fact, she was.
“Can we meet for lunch, Robin?”
“Today?”
“Yes. My treat.”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got a lot-”
“It’s really important.”
“In what way?”
“In almost every way. I’ll explain over lunch.”
“Yes, but as I’ve just-”
“The Angel at Midhurst. Twelve thirty. Don’t be late.”
I drove across to Midhurst at noon through the sunshine and showers. The trees were turning, the first leaves of autumn beginning to fall. This time next year, I remember thinking, it’ll all be out in the open. Not over. Not even then. But no longer hidden. No longer my secret. Or anyone else’s. And I’ll be out of it. Out altogether.
The Angel was busy, but Bella had booked one of the more secluded tables. I was early and she, naturally, was late. Having pressed me to be punctual, that was only to be expected. But still, in my present mood, it grated. After twenty minutes of toying with a mineral water while eaves-dropping on nearby conversations about school fees and racing form, I was seriously considering walking out, when, as if timing her arrival by intuition, Bella strolled unhurriedly into view. She was wearing a startlingly well-cut red suit that drew admiring glances from men and women alike, though for very different reasons. I couldn’t help returning her smile as I rose to greet her.