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.