“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.”

“Good God.”

“And Vincent Cassidy, the barman at Naylor’s local pub who said Naylor had boasted to him about committing the murders, has disappeared. Vanished without trace. Very recently, at that. As if he knew we’d be wanting to talk to him.”

“But he can’t have done.”

“No. Unless somebody forewarned him. Inadvertently, I mean. By asking him the sort of questions we want to ask him.” His stare grew cold and contemptuous. “I’m thinking of some well-meaning but interfering amateur. Know one, do you?”

“I haven’t spoken to Cassidy.”

“I really do hope that’s true, sir. For your sake.”

“Inspector, I can assure you-”

“Don’t say anything you might come to regret.” He smiled knowingly at me, softening and relaxing as he did so, a pose I somehow found more disturbing than open hostility. “We’ll find Cassidy sooner or later. He hasn’t the wit to stay hidden for long. When we do, we’ll also find out who tipped him off. Intentionally or unintentionally.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“In that case, you’ve nothing to worry about.” He finished his tea and craned towards me across my desk. “Either way, Mr. Timariot, please stay out of this from now on. It’s much the wisest thing for you to do.”

Joyce’s attempt to intimidate me would probably have been successful but for a single wholly understandable flaw in his logic. I knew what he couldn’t know: I wasn’t Cassidy’s informant. So the question I was left asking myself was unlikely even to have occurred to Joyce. If I hadn’t tipped Cassidy off, who had?

There seemed only one credible answer. And only one way to confirm it. I telephoned Cordwainer, Murray & Co. in Worcester straightaway and demanded to speak to Shaun Naylor’s solicitor. I was angry at the injustice of Joyce’s accusation and impatient to pin the blame where I thought it belonged: on Vijay Sarwate.

But Sarwate proved to be both quick-witted and emollient. “Your reaction is quite understandable, Mr. Timariot. Let me assure you, however, that I have had no contact, direct or indirect, with Vincent Cassidy. I entirely accept you did not alert him to the police inquiry but I must point out I did not do so either.”

“Who did, then?”

“I cannot say. But look here, would it not be helpful for us to meet in order to discuss this unfortunate misunderstanding? There are, as a matter of fact, several related issues I would value exploring with you.”

“I really don’t-”

“As it happens, I am travelling down to the Isle of Wight tomorrow to visit my client. It would be a simple matter to call on you afterwards. Would four o’clock suit you?”

It wasn’t just my inability to justify a refusal that made me agree to meet Sarwate. I also saw it as a sop to Bella; a demonstration that I was leaving no stone unturned on her behalf. In view of the blank I’d drawn in Chamonix, I reckoned it would be as well to have something else to report when she called. As it turned out, though, she hadn’t been in touch by the time I drove down to the Southampton Hilton for our appointment.

The venue was my suggestion, for which Sarwate had been effusively grateful, since it spared him a diversion from his route back to Worcester. Naturally, his convenience hadn’t been in my mind. But the advantages of an anonymous hotel in which one pair of dark-suited businessmen blended forgettably with the rest certainly had.

We recognized each other from the Benefit of the Doubt broadcast. Sarwate didn’t know, of course, how Seymour had stitched me up. Nor was he aware of the real reason for my double-checking Paul’s confession. As a result, a degree of bewilderment about my motives was at once detectable behind the Indian courtesy and professional reticence. I was a puzzle he could probably have done without. And a puzzle he was poorly placed to solve.

“Mr. Bryant told me he had unburdened himself to you before coming to me. He gave me no indication that you harboured any doubts about his confession, however. Am I to take it they have only recently developed?”

“I’m just trying to be healthily sceptical.”

“The police will be that, Mr. Timariot. Perhaps even unhealthily sceptical. They need neither your assistance nor your encouragement.”

“So they said.”

“Then why not leave them to it?”

“Because I like to see and hear things for myself, I suppose. To be sure in my own mind.”

“And you are not?”

“Not completely. Not absolutely.”

“But Mr. Bryant has vindicated the misgivings you expressed in your television interview. He has revealed what you, I think, suspected all along. That my client is the victim of a miscarriage of justice.”

“Maybe.”

“How can you doubt it?”