In the event, I might have been better employed on just such an errand. Several days of trekking round the hotels, restaurants, cafés and boarding-houses of an out-of-season Alpine skiing resort from which the vast shadow of the Mont Blanc massif seemed never to lift proved as futile as I’d anticipated-and even more frustrating. Nobody remembered the name Paul Bryant. Nobody recognized the bridegroom’s face in the photograph I’d brought with me of his and Rowena’s wedding. And nobody thought it remotely likely that anybody else would. “Un étudiant, monsieur? Il y a plus de trois ans? Vous plaisantez, non?”
I wasn’t joking, of course. But I might as well have been. I’d had enough by the end of the first day, but felt obliged to plug on. Come the third day, however, I called a halt at lunchtime and rode the cable-car-as Paul had told his mother he’d done-up the mountainside to the Aiguille du Midi. I stared out from the observation platform at the dazzling snowfields that stretched as far as Italy, breathed the clear cold air and reflected on the pointlessness of my journey. Paul had never been there. His footprints were nowhere to be found. But somehow I didn’t think that conclusion was going to satisfy Bella.
Answering to Bella, however, wasn’t the first problem to confront me when I flew home on Tuesday. Liz had left a recorded message saying that Detective Inspector David Joyce of West Mercia C.I.D. would be coming down to see me the following afternoon. And she’d added a disturbing rider. “I tried to tell him I couldn’t confirm the appointment until I’d spoken to you, but he told me he wasn’t asking for an appointment; he was making one.”
He looked as irksomely youthful as he had three years before. I congratulated him on his promotion, which his desultory thanks implied was old news. He enquired after my mother and seemed genuinely sorry to hear of her death. And then, when Liz had delivered the tea and gone again, he weighed in.
“As you may know, sir, we’ve been asked to investigate Paul Bryant’s confession to the murders of Louise Paxton and Oscar Bantock.”
“I knew it was likely to come to that, Inspector, of course. But I didn’t know your investigation was actually under way.”
“Well under way. And already we’ve learnt from Mr. Bryant’s family and from a Mr. Peter Rossington that somebody else seems to be engaged on what you might call a parallel inquiry.”
“Ah. I see.”
“But I don’t, sir. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”
“The same as you, I imagine. I simply wanted to check Paul’s story before it became public. To spare the family any unnecessary-”
“The Paxton family, you mean?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Of which you’re not a member.”
“Not directly, no. More a friend. Although my sister-in-law-”
“Ah yes, the present Lady Paxton. With you. More complicated than the Borgias, isn’t it?” His smile would have been no more than irritating had I thought sarcasm his sole object. But I detected an implication that my connection with Sir Keith’s second wife had aroused his suspicion. Which I doubted could be dispelled by a simple explanation of how such a state of affairs had come about. “Do I take it you’re unconvinced of Mr. Bryant’s guilt?”
“No. But there must be a remote possibility he’s lying.”
“Why would he be lying?”
“I don’t know. But his wife killed herself only four months ago. A thing like that could… well… lead to irrational behaviour.”
“We’ve had a psychiatrist give him the once over. He’s pronounced Mr. Bryant as sane as you or me.”
“Really?”
Joyce’s smile took on a weary edge. “The point is, Mr. Timariot, we’re paid and equipped to enquire into all these matters. And we’re doing so. Thoroughly and expeditiously. Interference from amateurs, however well-meaning, is only likely to obstruct our efforts.” So we’d arrived where I’d assumed we would from the start. The warning off.
“I didn’t realize asking a few questions constituted interference.”
“Well, it does. Raking over the ashes of a dead case is disagreeable enough at the best of times.”
“Especially when you may have to admit you got the wrong man.”
It was a dig I’d been unable to resist. But the flush of anger in Joyce’s face and the steely hint of a threat in his voice made me regret it at once. “Exactly, sir. It could prove very embarrassing. For us-and the witnesses at Naylor’s trial who helped send him down.” He cleared his throat. “I have with me a copy of a statement you signed on the twenty-fifth of July, nineteen ninety.” He pulled the document out of his pocket and held it out. “Do you want to refresh your memory of what you said?”
“I can remember perfectly well, thank you.”
“And is there anything you want to add to it?”
“No.”
“Despite what you said on TV earlier this year?”
“I was the victim of selective editing.”
He treated me to a long sceptical frown, then took another piece of paper from his pocket and read my own recorded words back at me. “‘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.’ ” He looked up at me. “Not quite the same as your statement, is it?”
“What I said to Seymour was an impression, nothing more. But I certainly mentioned the offer of a lift in my statement. And in court.”
“Indeed you did, sir. I remember it well. I also remember your answer when I asked why you hadn’t accepted the lift. You said it was because you were planning to walk the whole of Offa’s Dyke eventually and didn’t want a gap left in the southern half of the route.”
I smiled. “You have a good memory, Inspector.”
“Finish it the following year, did you? Dabble your toes in the sea at Prestatyn, like me?”
“No. I didn’t. And I haven’t.”
“I see. So you might just as well have taken the ride.”
“Yes. And then everything might have turned out differently. You think I haven’t thought of that?”
“Difficult not to, I imagine.”
“Very. Just as it’s difficult not to wonder about other things.”
“Such as?”
He’d had his fun at my expense. It seemed only fair to respond in kind. “A solicitor I know tells me you keep back a certain amount of information in cases like this as a sort of litmus test for compulsive confessors.”
“What if we do?”
“Well, I assume Paul Bryant’s already passed the test. Otherwise you wouldn’t be going on with your inquiries, would you?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t comment on that.”
“Which means you must already realize Shaun Naylor’s innocent.”
“Is that what you think, sir?”
“What I think is that, if he is, those two witnesses who testified they’d heard him admit to the murders have a great deal of explaining to do. Unless, of course, you already know what their explanation’s going to be.”
He looked at me levelly. “You have one in mind, sir?”
“No. But it’s an anomaly, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps you think we put them up to it. Is that what you’re getting at?” His gaze was direct and challenging. He knew as well as I did it was what people would say. And already he felt compelled to present his rebuttal. “They both came forward of their own volition. Their statements were completely unsolicited.”
“And completely false.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Have you spoken to them yet?”
A recital of the “no comment” formula seemed to be on the edge of his lips. Then he evidently thought better of it. “Jason Bledlow, the witness who said Naylor confessed to him while they were sharing a cell on remand, is out of our reach, Mr. Timariot. He was shot dead while taking part in an armed raid on a bullion warehouse in September of last year.”