Fiona however telephoned while he was on his way, and I answered the call because Dee-Dee had already gone home, feeling unwell.
‘John!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where’s Tremayne?’
‘On his way down to you.’
‘Oh. Good. I can’t tell you how awful this is. Doone thinks... he says...’
‘He’s been here,’ I said. ‘He told us.’
‘He’s like a bulldog.’ Her voice shook with distress. ‘Harry’s strong, but this... this
‘He’s desperately afraid you’ll doubt him,’ I said.
‘What?’ She sounded overthrown. ‘I don’t, for a minute.’
‘Then tell him.’
‘Yes, I will.’ She paused briefly. ‘Who did it, John?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’ll see. You’ll see what we’re too close to see. Tremayne says you understand things without being told, more than most people do. Harry says it comes of all those qualities his Aunt Erica wouldn’t allow you, insight through imagination and all that.’
They’d been discussing me; odd feeling.
I said, ‘You might not want to know.’
‘Oh.’ It was a cry of admission, of revelation. ‘John... save us all.’
She put the phone down without waiting for a response to her extraordinary plea, and I wondered seriously what they expected of me, what they saw me to be: the stranger in their midst who would solve all problems as in old-fashioned Westerns, or an eminently ordinary middling writer who was there by accident and would listen to everyone but in the end be ineffectual. Given a choice, I would without question have opted for the latter.
By Tuesday the press had been drenched with leaks from all quarters. Trial by public opinion was in full swing, the libel laws studiously skirted by a profligate scattering of the word ‘alleged’ but the underlying meaning plain: Harry Goodhaven had allegedly bedded a stable girl, got her pregnant, and throttled her to save his marriage to a ‘wealthy heiress’, without whose money he would be penniless.
Wednesday’s papers, from Harry’s point of view, were even worse, akin to the public pillory.
He phoned me soon after lunch.
‘Did you see the bloody tabloids?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘If I come and pick you up, will you just come out driving with me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Fine. Ten minutes.’
Without many twinges of conscience I laid aside my notes on Tremayne’s mid-career. With two weeks already gone of my four-week allocation, I was feeling fairly well prepared to get going on the page, but as usual any good reason for postponing it was welcome.
Harry came in his BMW, twin of Fiona’s, and I climbed in beside him, seeing more new lines of strain in his face and also rigidity in his neck muscles and fingers. His fair hair looked almost grey, the blue eyes altogether without humour, the social patina wearing thin.
‘John, good of you,’ he said. ‘Life’s bloody.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ I tried a shot at comfort, ‘Doone knows there’s something wrong with his case, otherwise he would have arrested you already.’ I settled into the seat beside him, fastening the belt.
He glanced my way as he put the car into gear and started forward. ‘Do you think so? He keeps coming back. He’s on our doorstep every day. Every day, a new pin-prick, a new awkward bloody circumstance. He’s building a cage round me, bar by bar.’
‘He’s trying to break your nerve,’ I said, guessing. ‘Once he’d arrested and charged you, the papers would have to leave you alone. He’s letting them have a field day, waiting for someone to remember something and waiting for you to crack and incriminate yourself. I shouldn’t think he’s tried to stop any of the leaks since the press found out where the girl was lying and he had to make an official statement. Maybe he’s even organised a leak or two himself; I wouldn’t put it past him.’
Harry turned the nose of the car towards Reading to travel by the hilly route that would take us through the Quillersedge Estate. I wondered why he’d gone that way but I didn’t directly ask him.
‘Yesterday,’ he said bitterly, ‘Doone asked me what Angela Brickell had been wearing. It’s been in all the papers. He asked me if she’d undressed willingly. I could have strangled him... Oh God, what am I saying?’
‘Shall I drive?’ I asked.
‘What? Oh yes, we nearly hit that post... I didn’t see it. No, I’m all right. Really I am. Fiona says not to let him rattle me, she’s being splendid, absolutely marvellous, but he
‘That’s the answer.’
‘He doesn’t believe me.’
‘He isn’t sure,’ I said. ‘Something’s bothering him.’
‘I wish it would bother him into an early grave.’
‘His successor might be worse. Might prefer a conviction to the truth. Doone does at least seek the truth.’
‘You can’t mean you like him!’ The idea was an enormity.
‘Be grateful to him. Be glad you’re still free.’ I paused. ‘Why are we going this way?’
The question surprised him. ‘To get to where we’re going, of course.’
‘So we’re not just out for a drive?’
‘Well, no.’
