The court was fuller than it had been on the day I’d given evidence. There was a buzz of expectancy, an unspoken but unanimous understanding that we’d come to the crunch. Naylor was already in the dock, staring into space and chewing at his fingernails, right leg vibrating where it was angled under his chair. His nervousness was hardly surprising in view of the sledgehammer blows the prosecution had been able to deliver. He looked what we all thought he was: a hardened over-sexed young criminal with a streak of malicious violence he couldn’t control. But he was trapped now. And the only way out was to persuade the jury he’d been wrongly accused. Which he didn’t look capable of doing. Not remotely.

The jury filed in. Then the judge made his entrance. And Naylor’s barrister rose to address the court. His opening speech was short and to the point. “Mr. Naylor has nothing to hide, members of the jury,” he concluded. “Which is why I propose to call him to give evidence in his own defence.”

And so it began. Naylor was taken from the dock to the witness-box and sworn in. He spoke firmly and confidently, almost arrogantly. His answers were casually phrased but cleverly constructed. Too cleverly, I suppose. Some mumbling show of awe might have won him a few friends. Instead, he came across as somebody so contemptuous of the world that he couldn’t believe it had turned against him now. And he seemed positively proud to admit how he made a living.

“I’m a thief. That’s what I am. I clock targets while I’m doing the day job. Call back later to collect. Thieving’s what I do. But I don’t murder people. I might lay somebody out if they tried to stop me getting away, though I’ve never had to. But I wouldn’t kill them.” And rape? What about that? “I’m no rapist. I reckon they’re the lowest form of life there is. Them and child molesters. I’m a married man with children. But like my wife’ll tell you, I’m no saint. I’ve never been able to say no to women. They like me. I’ve never had to force them into it. I’ve never wanted to. I never would.”

That much seemed credible. He had the cocksure manner and smouldering looks some women find attractive. But he also had such confidence in his own irresistibility that it was easy to imagine him reacting violently to rejection. As for murder, well, he’d more or less said it himself. If Bantock had tried to stop him, worse still to apprehend him, he’d have done whatever was necessary to escape. Candour was his only hope. But candour revealed him as a man quite capable of committing the crimes he’d been charged with.

So, what was his version of events? It took him the rest of the day to spell it out. But what it amounted to was this. He’d gone to stay with a friend in Cardiff while the dust settled on a row with his wife. The usual cause-his chronic infidelity-had been aggravated by the latest piece of skirt being her sister. He reckoned a trip to Disney World for her and the kids might patch things up. So, he set about raising some cash to pay for the holiday by breaking into likely looking rural properties, all of them far enough from Cardiff to avoid embarrassing his friend. A house near Ross-on-Wye on the night of 14/15 July. Another near Malvern on 15/16 July. And a third near Bridgnorth on 16/17 July. He stayed in the area next day and looked around the Ludlow-Leominster-Bromyard triangle, spotting a couple of possibilities. Then he drove towards Kington and stopped at the Harp Inn, Old Radnor, to while away the evening before deciding which one to try. And that’s when his plans changed.

“I was sitting outside in the sun. What was left of it. The place was pretty busy. Lady Paxton-I didn’t know her name then, of course-walked up and asked if she could share my table. I said yes and offered to buy her a drink. She didn’t go into the pub herself. And she’d left her car a little way down the lane, near the church. We talked. Like you do. It was obvious… Well, I got the pretty clear impression she was… interested. We had another drink. She got friendly. Started to flirt with me. Eyefuls of smile. Hand brushing my thigh. You know. I got the message. And I thought: why not? Beautiful woman. Lonely and a long way from home. Who wouldn’t? She didn’t say much about herself. Or ask me much about myself. We left about eight forty-five, I suppose. It was getting dark by then. She suggested we go back to a friend’s house nearby. Said the friend wouldn’t be there and… she could use it. She led the way in her car. I followed in mine. It wasn’t far. A cottage up a narrow lane near Kington. The friend was a painter. A woman, she said. She showed me her studio. I didn’t spend long looking around. We both knew what we were there for. It started in the studio. But there were too many things to bump into. So she took me upstairs to the bedroom. I didn’t rape her. I didn’t need to. She was… a willing partner. And she… well… liked it a bit rough. But that’s not rape. Not anything like. I didn’t stay long afterwards. She said her friend was due back around eleven and she wanted time to clear up. So, I made myself scarce. It can’t have been much later than half past ten when I left. She was still in bed then, alive and well. I stopped for a drink at a pub in Leominster just before closing time. The Black Horse. Then I went on and did the place near Bromyard. Big house at Berrow Green. I got a good haul there. Felt pretty pleased with myself. I got to Cardiff around dawn. Next day, I set off back to London. Reckoned I’d got enough to pay for the Florida trip. And it was about time I made it up with the wife.

“I heard about the murders on the telly. At first, I couldn’t believe it was the same woman. But when I saw her picture in the papers… I knew. And I knew the best thing I could say was nothing. I mean, I had to be in the frame, didn’t I? They said she’d been raped. And I knew they could tie me to that. Probably to the cottage as well. So I laid low. Didn’t go down the Greyhound. Let alone say anything to Vince Cassidy. What he says I said… It isn’t true. Any of it. She was alive when I left the cottage. And the painter wasn’t there. I don’t know who murdered them. Or why. But it wasn’t me.”

“At times he was almost plausible,” said Sir Keith over a drink in the bar of the Midland Hotel at the end of the afternoon session. “I mean, if you didn’t know Louise, that is.”

“He didn’t seem plausible to me. A slick liar, yes. But nobody was taken in.”

“I hope you’re right. I don’t want Louise’s memory sullied by any of the things he said about her.”

“It won’t be. He can’t achieve anything this way-except a longer sentence.”

“I’d give him a short sentence if I could. The shortest one of all.”

“Yes,” I said, lowering my voice. “I rather think I would too.”

“The evil-minded bastard,” Sir Keith muttered, massaging his brow. “God, I’m glad the girls didn’t hear any of that.”

“They’ll read it though, won’t they?”

“Yes. They’re bound to. But at least they won’t have to watch his weaselly eyes while they’re about it. Or listen to his Jack-the-lad voice reeling off lies like grubby fivers from a wad in his back pocket. I expected to hate him, of course. To despise him. To want him dead. But I didn’t know he was going to make my flesh creep. Well, tomorrow he’ll be cross-examined. I hope the prosecuting counsel puts him through hell. Because that’s what he deserves.” He broke off and shook his head, bemused, it seemed, by the force of his response. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize. I agree with you. One hundred per cent.”

Sir Keith and I drank too much and stayed too long in the hotel bar that night. Sickened by the way Naylor had sought to portray his wife as some kind of ageing nymphomaniac, his anger gave way in the end to grief. I sat and listened to his increasingly tearful reminiscences of their life together. How they’d met when Louise had been working as a hospital receptionist during a university vacation. How he’d fought off the younger rivals for her affections. How they’d married despite her parents’ opposition.