Sarwate must have found it difficult to keep a straight face while painting this Cratchit-like portrait of the Naylors, but, as an embellishment of the case for bail, I suppose seasonal sentiment was too good to resist. The newspapers were evidently confused by the turn of events. It didn’t suit either lobby in the affair to have Naylor acquitted for reasons unconnected with the only coherent argument the media had ever advanced for his innocence. Yet since a contract killer hired by Oscar Bantock’s accomplices in the forgery game was hardly likely to want to clear his conscience at this late date, it must have been obvious to all concerned that they’d got it badly wrong. Their unanimous response to which was a retreat behind sub judice reticence. This definitely wasn’t the stuff of outraged leader columns.

Nor was it going to be the stuff of my future, however near or far I looked. I’d booked a Christmas Eve flight to Rio de Janeiro at the start of what I intended to be a slow and utterly relaxing meander through the Americas, finishing-according to my hazy estimate of a schedule-amidst the blazing foliage of a New England fall. I didn’t anticipate meeting anyone on the way who’d ever heard of Shaun Naylor. And I didn’t anticipate wanting to.

A week of solid packing still lay between me and the footloose life, however. I’d agreed to let Jennifer, Simon and Adrian put Greenhayes on the market in the New Year, so all my possessions had to go into store. There were actually precious few of them compared with what remained from my mother’s day. But the exercise still turned into an exhausting chore, as I’d known it would. Which wasn’t the only reason I’d left it as late as I could. I’d also dreaded the psychological effect of sifting through the detritus of mine and my parents’ lives. It drew my thoughts back to my childhood, when Hugh used to take me for hair-raising rides round the lanes on his motorbike and Jennifer’s boyfriends all dressed like Frank Zappa, when Simon’s laugh never needed to be rueful and Adrian was the master of nobody’s destiny, even his own. It lured me, as I’d feared it was bound to, into introspection and nostalgia. And it left me ill-prepared for the reminder that came my way on Monday of how much easier it is to get into something than it is to get out.

“Hello?”

“Is that Robin Timariot?” The voice on the other end of the telephone was guttural and unfamiliar.

“Speaking.”

“You on your own?”

“Who is this?”

“Vince Cassidy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know who I am. Sharon said you wanted to talk to me.”

“There must be some misunderstanding.”

“No there ain’t. The message was clear. You wanted to know who paid me to fit up Shaun Naylor.”

“That was two months ago, Mr. Cassidy. I’m no longer interested.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do. Besides, I’ve found out since why you did it.”

“The fuck you have.”

“Shaun told me about you and his wife, Mr. Cassidy. Is that why you’re phoning? In the hope of extracting some money from me with which to put yourself out of Shaun’s reach when he’s released? If so, I-”

“This ain’t nothing to do with Carol.”

“Then go to the police. They may be prepared to listen to you, but certainly not to pay you. For myself, I’m willing to do neither.”

“Hold on. You don’t-”

I put the phone down and switched on the answering machine to ensure I didn’t have to talk to him again. The newspaper articles had panicked him. That was as obvious as it was understandable. But it was far too late for him to tap me for help. A few minutes later, somebody rang, but failed to speak after the beep. Cassidy? It had to be. And even if he hadn’t left a message, he’d evidently got one. Because he didn’t ring again. Then or later.

Tuesday was the first bright day in what seemed like weeks, so I treated myself to a lengthy tramp round the hangers after lunch. It was something of a farewell tour of the countryside I’d grown up in, left, returned to and now was leaving again. I didn’t turn for home until it was nearly dark and, in the event, never made it to Greenhayes on foot. A car passed me in the lane beneath Shoulder of Mutton Hill, pulled up a short distance ahead, then reversed to meet me. And only when the driver wound down her window did I realize whose car it was.

“Sarah! What are you doing here?”

“Offering you a lift home,” she said with a smile. I climbed in and we set off. “Actually, I’ve just finished a two-day refresher course back at the College of Law in Guildford, so I thought I’d see how you were.”

“You’re lucky to have caught me. I leave for Brazil on Friday.”

“I wish I could do the same.” She sounded genuinely envious. “I really do.”

“Come with me,” I said frivolously.

“You don’t know how tempting the suggestion is.”

“Because of tomorrow’s appeal hearing, you mean?”

“Yes.” I watched her as she concentrated on a sharp bend. She was looking tired and careworn, sapped by her expert foreknowledge of the legal convolutions that lay ahead. “That and everything it entails.”

Over tea at Greenhayes amidst the book-stacks and packing-cases, Sarah described the nagging pressure of events, the pitiless predictability of all that had happened since Paul’s confession and all that was still bound to happen. Her father’s refusal to face the reality of the situation had led to his virtual estrangement from her as well as his actual estrangement from Bella. “I can’t talk to him, Robin. He won’t let me help him through this. And he’s not prepared to help me through it. So, we have to endure it as best we can in our separate ways. But it isn’t easy. And it’s only going to become more difficult.”

“If there’s anything I can-”

“No, no. You’re right to get out of it. Go and enjoy yourself. And don’t worry about me while you’re at it.” She grinned gamely, as reluctant, it seemed to me, to admit her need of comfort as she was to acknowledge her own unspoken wish: that Paul should have let the truth die with Rowena. It was different now from when she’d come to me in Brussels. We were both older and wiser and sadder. Yet it was also the same. We represented to each other a link with Louise as she’d been that last day of her life. We embodied the failing hope that something could be salvaged from the wreckage of facts to ennoble her death. But in our sombre faces and subdued words we detected the same creeping awareness that nothing ever would be. “When did you say you’re leaving?”

“Friday.”

“Friday,” she repeated musingly, gazing past me to the dusk-shuttered window. “A lot will have happened by then.”

“You mean the hearing?”

She didn’t answer. And the distant look in her eyes deterred me from pressing her to. Besides, there seemed no need. What else could she mean?

We went down to the Cricketers for a drink as soon as it opened. Sarah’s periodic distraction became as pronounced as her occasional outbursts of gaiety. She talked about Rowena and her mother with rambling fondness, recalling childhood scenes and adolescent incidents. They’d been an ordinary affectionate family then, untouched by tragedy, unmarked by notoriety. “I didn’t see it coming, Robin. I never had a clue. I never felt the future coiling its tentacles around us. I just thought we’d go on in the same serenely happy way.” How I wished then I could have seized the chance Louise had given me of making sure they would. Even though I hadn’t known that’s what it was.

At half past seven, she said she ought to start back for Bristol. When I assured her she was welcome to stay at Greenhayes, her refusal took a long time to come. But I suppose we both knew she had to refuse. This was an end, not a beginning. This was a stepping apart, a turning away. Only the last lingering looks back remained.