“I’m not saying I do.”

“Dear me, this is most perplexing.” Sarwate sipped his tea and studied me over the rim of the cup, then said: “Shaun-Mr. Naylor-was disappointed to hear of your… equivocation. I had held out the hope to him that you would be prepared to expand on the testimony you gave at his trial. To revise your original statement in the light of your televised comments. Am I to understand-”

“I’ve told the police I don’t wish to alter my statement.”

“Oh dear.” He looked genuinely crestfallen. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Quite possibly. But-”

“Shaun is innocent, Mr. Timariot. I have known so from the beginning. He has consistently proclaimed his innocence, even when he might have made life easier for himself by admitting his guilt. He has spent more than three years in prison for a crime he did not commit. A category of crime, moreover, for which prisoners with wives and daughters of their own exact penalties undreamt of by the law. He has suffered much.”

“I’m sure he has.”

“But he has not deserved to. That is my point.”

“A point you haven’t yet proved, Mr. Sarwate.”

“If you could only meet him, I believe you would agree with me.”

“Perhaps. But since I can’t-”

“But you can. I could arrange a visit very easily.”

Sarwate’s smile gave me the queasy feeling I’d walked into a trap. From which the only way out was backwards. “I’ve nothing to say to your client.”

“But he may have something to say to you.” Sarwate’s eyes twinkled. “Are you not seeking to identify Vincent Cassidy’s informant?”

“You know I am,” I said, crushing all curiosity out of my voice.

“I raised the question with Shaun. It seems he is able to take an educated guess.”

“He named the person?”

“He named the person he thinks it almost certainly must have been.”

“Then who was it?”

“Ask him yourself, Mr. Timariot.” Sarwate beamed at me with the proud delight of a conjurer who’s just pulled off a particularly demanding sleight of hand. “When you visit him.”

Bella phoned that night, while I was still smarting at the thought of how adroitly Sarwate had outwitted me. A face-to-face encounter with Shaun Naylor was the last thing I needed. But it was something I’d evidently have to endure if I wanted to get Joyce off my back. Which only made Bella’s sneering displeasure at my lack of success in Chamonix the more unbearable.

“I might as well have gone tiger-hunting in Africa, Bella. Paul’s never been to Chamonix.”

“You didn’t look hard enough, Robin. That’s the truth.”

“No. The truth is you’ve sent me on one wild goose chase after another. With the same result every time. Surbiton or Chamonix, it makes no bloody difference.”

“Don’t take that tone with me.”

“I’ll take any tone I like. Thanks to you, I’ve got to visit Shaun Naylor in prison. You remember him, I assume?”

“What are you talking about?”

With irritable brevity, I explained why I was soon likely to find myself queueing up with the wives and girlfriends outside Albany Prison. I hadn’t expected any sympathy, of course. It was more likely Bella would welcome the opportunity this gave us to quiz the man she still preferred to believe had murdered Louise Paxton. Strangely however, that wasn’t her reaction.

“There’s nothing to be gained by seeing Naylor,” she said, much of the sharpness gone from her voice, along with all the pleasure she’d derived from my discomfiture. “Call the visit off.”

“Why?” I was suspicious now, my mind casting back to our lunch in Midhurst and the niggling dissatisfaction I’d felt since then about her motives.

“Because it’s a waste of time and effort. Concentrate on Paul.”

“I have done. To no effect.”

“He must have had friends at Cambridge besides Peter Rossington. We need to-”

“I need to convince the police I’m not obstructing their inquiries. And Naylor may be able to help me do so.”

“That’s your problem, not mine. I don’t care who tipped off Cassidy. I only care about-”

“Why don’t you want to know?” I wasn’t ready to let her off the hook yet. There was something almost desperate about her eagerness to ignore Cassidy. “In fact, why aren’t you encouraging me to go looking for him in case he was telling the truth about Naylor’s confession? With Bledlow dead, he’s the only one who can-”

“Forget Cassidy!”

“Why?”

“Because he’s irrelevant.”

“All right, all right.” It wasn’t all right, of course. My contrary nature was urging me to do what Bella had forbidden me to do precisely for that reason. But I knew it would be as pointless to confront her with my suspicions as it would be disastrous to inform her of my intentions. She was always at her least dangerous when she believed she was getting her own way. So I decided to say what she wanted to hear-while meaning none of it. “Let’s cross Cassidy off the list. And Naylor too. Let’s go back to Paul. What exactly would you like me to try next?”

Bella’s tactics sounded like barrel-scraping to me. I was to contact the best man at Paul and Rowena’s wedding-Martin Hill, a colleague of Paul’s from Metropolitan Mutual-and see what he knew. I was to question Sarah-without telling her why-about Paul’s friendships at Cambridge. Then I was to go to Cambridge and speak to his old tutor, along with any students who might remember him. I assured Bella I’d make a start that weekend.

Which I duly did, travelling up to Bristol on Saturday for lunch with Martin Hill and tea with Sarah. Hill was an amiable and talkative fellow, but he could only tell me what he’d already told the police. He’d shared an office with Paul, but no secrets. The invitation to act as his best man had come as a surprise. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t think he had any real friends he could ask. I was a last resort.” This picture of a friendless and withdrawn individual tallied with Cheryl Bryant’s account of her brother’s childhood. And so did Sarah’s description of his years at Cambridge. “You know what Paul’s like, Robin. Easy to get on with. Hard to fathom. He was no different at Cambridge. I suppose that’s why he and I drifted apart. Nobody ever got close to Paul… except Rowena. I can tell you who his tutor was. She was mine as well. Doctor Olive Meyer. See her by all means. I’ll even phone her and arrange an appointment if you like. But I don’t think you’ll get anything out of her. Not what Bella’s hoping for, anyway. I’m afraid she has you looking for something that simply doesn’t exist.”

Sarah was right, of course. With the board meeting less than three weeks away, it was a fact Bella and I would soon have to face. But there was still time to jump through a few more hoops in the hope of persuading her to honour our bargain. And there was definitely time to start down the one path she’d tried to stop me following, working on the basis that what she didn’t know couldn’t harm her-even if what I might find out could.

On Sunday morning, I drove up to London. It was a pluperfect autumn day, the sky a flawless blue, the fallen leaves gleaming in golden patches along the pavements and across the parks. But the beauties of nature couldn’t do much for Jamaica Road, Bermondsey. Or for the vomit-stained frontage of the Greyhound Inn, most of whose customers looked as if they’d have difficulty remembering how much they’d drunk the previous night, let alone when Vincent Cassidy last pulled a pint for them.

Not so the stern tattooed landlord, however. His memories of Cassidy were clear. But he had no intention of sharing them with me. “Vince Cassidy hasn’t worked here in over a year. But I make a point of respecting the privacy of my employees-past and present.”

“He has nothing to fear from me.”