Disordered Minds

by Minette Walters

  He put his hand out instinctively to stop her closing the door. "This is crazy. Tell him I'm your brother."

  But she was too fast for him. "He won't believe me," she whispered as the latch locked against him.

  "I hate meeting women like that," said George of Miss Brett as she unlocked her car door.

  "Really?" said Jonathan in surprise. "I thought she was incredible. Brain like a laser ... memory like a computer. If I'm like that when I'm in my eighties I won't have any complaints."

  "Exactly," said George, slinging her case onto the backseat. "Life is so bloody unfair."

  He waited while she reached in to release the lock on the passenger side then stooped to face her across the seat. "Loads of people beat cancer, George. There's no reason why you shouldn't make eighty if you do what your doctors tell you. You mustn't get hung up on genetic history-it's the curse of modern living. Just because your mother died of it doesn't mean you're going to."

  She settled herself on the seat. "That's not why I don't like meeting women like Miss Brett. She's a wonder, Jonathan. She should have had babies. Imagine what they would have been like-intelligent, healthy, wise. It makes my heart bleed, it really does. What's wrong with men that they can't recognize a peach when it's under their nose?"

  He wondered if she was she talking about herself. "Genes aren't everything. Nurture's just as important. Miss Brett's role in life has been to mold other people's children, and that's a far harder prospect than thirty seconds' drunken copulation that produces a random selection of dodgy chromosomes. In any case," he finished with a grin as he attached his seat belt, "how do you know she hasn't had a child?"

  "If she did, she wouldn't have been allowed to keep it ... or talk about it. They'd never have put an unmarried mother in charge of a secondary school in the sixties." She fed her key into the ignition and locked her own belt. "It's a crazy world that helps the least able in society to go on reproducing but discourages intelligent career women."

  It was a surprisingly illiberal view for a woman who portrayed herself as the opposite. "It's better than it was," he murmured. "At least women aren't stigmatized for having children out of wedlock these days."

  "Maybe not," she said roundly, "but you're certainly penalized for it financially. You try holding down a full-time job and paying for forty-plus hours of childcare on what remains of a single salary after taxes have been deducted. That's the disincentive. It's a ridiculous waste of good genetic material. If I were in government, I'd make it a requirement of law that every workplace had a creche."

  "Too expensive and impossible to manage," said Jonathan. "Imagine the cost to a small company if only one female employee had a baby at any given time."

  "Then they form a cooperative creche with other businesses in the area," said George, starting the engine. "What's the alternative? I read a report recently that said over thirty percent of professional women are choosing to remain childless. That's a disaster. What happens if the rate reaches sixty percent? What happens if we end up with a society produced entirely by underachievers?"

  "That's a very bleak view."

  "I wish it were," she answered, pulling away from the curb and performing a three-point turn.

  "It's just as hard for men," said Jonathan.

  "Except your clocks take longer to run down," George said with a smile, "and you can father a baby a week if you find enough accommodating women."

  "It's not that easy," he said morosely.

  She glanced at him as she drew to a halt at the junction with the main road. "Then start making compromises," she said bluntly. "You're an attractive and talented man, Jonathan, and you should be a father."

  He gave a low chuckle. "Thank you, George. Sadly, the more usual response to my clumsy efforts is: 'I wouldn't have a baby with you if you were the last man on earth.' "

  "Then do something about it."

  "Like what?"

  "Make compromises," she repeated, waiting for a car to pass.

  "Did you?"

  "No. There was always something better round the corner ... and by the time I realized what a flawed philosophy that was, I'd become redundant." She flashed him a bright smile to quell any attempt at sympathy. "Don't make the same mistake, Jon. There's nothing worse than living with regrets."

  In an uncharacteristic gesture, Jonathan put his hand on hers and gave it a quick squeeze. "If it's any consolation," he said, "you're just as redundant if you do pass on your genes. Once a child is born-and barring the few years of nurturing that allows him to achieve independence-there's nothing you can add to him that isn't already there. It may be good, it may be bad, but by the third generation your genes will have become so diluted that your great-grandchild will carry only a tiny percentage of you. People's value is in their achievements, George, not in their ever diminishing gene pool."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say achievements were empty when there was no one to share them with, but instead she gave a relaxed laugh. "Then let's find somewhere to eat while we work out who really killed Grace," she said, pulling left onto Bridport Road. "That would be one hell of an achievement."

  She drove to the Smugglers Inn at Osmington Mill, to the east of Dorchester, which had been built in the thirteenth century, beside a stream, in a cleft between two swooping downlands that rose to meet the spectacular Jurassic cliffs of the Dorset coast. The car park overlooked the sea-a turbulent gray that April lunchtime, whipped by an easterly wind-with the thatched inn accessible via a steep ramp and a flight of steps. "My treat," said George firmly, leading the way. "I had a paycheck this morning so I'm feeling flush."

  Jonathan made a halfhearted protest. "Why don't we go Dutch?"

  "Because you're broke and I'm old enough to be your mother," said George, pushing open the door. "Also I'm starving, and I refuse to feel embarrassed about eating three courses while you pick away at some miserable little starter because it's all you can afford. Reason enough?"

  He followed her inside. "I suppose Andrew's been dishing the dirt on me again?"

  "It depends how you define dirt. Most of what he said was highly laudatory." She turned to look at him. "What do you think?"

  "That you're feeling sorry for me."

  "Thepub, Jonathan. What do you think of the pub?"

  "It'll do," he said, taking in the impressive oak beams that crisscrossed the low ceiling, the open fireplaces with glowing embers and blackboards advertising local lobster and a healthy wine list. "At least it's an improvement on the Crown and Feathers."

  "You're very difficult to please," she said with a sigh. "Anything's better than the Crown and Feathers. I hoped you'd appreciate some atmosphere."

  He laughed and steered her toward the bar. "I was teasing, George. If you want to pass yourself off as my mother, you'll have to learn to take it."

  This sharing of a meal was so different from the first that Jonathan wondered whether George's remark about a bad beginning making a bad ending was true. If so, he blamed Roy Trent for it. However ill Jonathan had been feeling that day, it was the other man's use of "black" and "wog" that had really raised his hackles. "Tell me something," he invited when a natural lull came in the conversation. "Did you phone Roy to tell him you were going to be late for the lunch in February?"

  George paused with her fork, laden with steak-and-kidney pudding, halfway to her mouth. "Of course I did. I said I'd be lucky to be there before twelve-forty-five and asked him to take you up to the room. Why do you ask?"

  "Just interested in why he was so aggressive. He left me standing at the bar for a good ten minutes before he put in an appearance, then the first thing he did was call me a wog, but he must have had some suspicion of who I was. The only other people there were a middle-aged couple and Jim Longhurst, so it's not as though there were droves of potential Jonathan Hugheses to choose from."

  George looked appalled. "Did he really call you a wog?"

  Jonathan nodded. "Wog ... black ... darkie-the only thing he didn't call me wa
s a nigger."

  George's face went through several gargoyle gyrations. "Good lord! That's outrageous! No wonder you were so cross."

  Jonathan grinned as he cut into his fillet of salmon. "I think he was trying to get rid of me before you arrived."

  "He'd have succeeded, too, if my neighbor hadn't come home when he did. I'd reckoned another half hour on the charger before there was enough juice in the battery to give me a spark, then Barry turned up with jump leads and had me ticking over in a couple of minutes." Her forehead creased in a frown. "I phoned just after midday, and Roy said you were already there."

  "Then he was watching me through a spyhole," said Jonathan bluntly, "because he didn't emerge till twelve-fifteen. I thought at the time it was a damn strange way to run a pub."

  "He has a CCTV camera above the till and a couple of monitors in the kitchen." She chewed a piece of steak. "I'm completely shocked. He told me the only racist remark he made was that he was expecting a white man and you took off like a rocket. Do you still think he isn't involved?"

  Jonathan shook his head. "I'd probably agree a ninety percent certainty that he was one of Cill's rapists, but I can't see the connection with Grace unless the police missed a hell of a lot of evidence. Even if Colley Hurst was the murderer and bath taker, there was nothing to indicate the other two boys were there." He shrugged. "I suppose Colley might have told them about it afterward, but it doesn't explain why Roy would want to protect him now."

  "Perhaps we should ask him," said George lightly.

  "He'd laugh."

  "Not if we concentrate on Cill's rape," she said. "We know he was taken in for questioning about it and we know the names of his friends. It'll be interesting to see his reaction." Impatiently, she pushed her plate aside and propped her elbows on the table. "He's so smug, Jonathan. At least let's put him on the back foot."

  The idea was tempting. "What good will it do if we can't link him to Grace?"

  "It'll scare the bejabbers out of him," she said, "particularly if we ask him who Priscilla Fletcher is and why she would want to steal your wallet. As far as he's aware, his ex-wife is completely unknown to us. In any case, I can't believe he called you a wog-it's so rude."

  The closer they came to Bournemouth the more Jonathan regretted agreeing to accompany her. Sticks and stones might break his bones but rudeness had never killed him. In one form or another, he'd lived with it all his life. It had turned him into a deeply repressed individual, but it was the sticks and stones that frightened him.

  "You're such a coward, Jon ... it's embarrassing. When are you going to stand up for yourself?"

  "I'm not sure I can do this," he said suddenly.

  George, who had been prattling through his increasingly long silences, was unsurprised. A couple of glasses of wine had released his inhibitions long enough for him to accept the challenge, but the Dutch courage hadn't lasted the fifty-minute drive. "He'll avoid any difficult confrontations for as long as he can," Andrew had warned her. "His expertise, as he'll tell you again and again, is researching documents. He'll want the longest paper trail you've ever seen before he'll tackle Roy Trent. It's a defense mechanism."

  "Against what?"

  "Being in a situation he can't control ... being found wanting ... being afraid. I had the devil's own job persuading him down to Bournemouth to talk to you."

  "Why?"

  Andrew shrugged. "He didn't know who you were, or what to expect. He's a fish out of water with strangers."

  "Is it shyness?"

  "Not entirely. He was badly bullied at school and it's left him paranoid about everything-rejection, in particular."

  "Like Howard."

  Andrew nodded. "Except Jon's scars don't show, and I think that makes it harder for him. He doesn't have an obvious excuse to feel like an outsider-except his color-which is why he portrays himself as a victim of racism. It's easier than admitting that what he's really afraid of is derision."

  George made no response to Jonathan's remark until she was able to pull off the main road and draw up behind a parked car in the first side street she could find. "What don't you think you can do?" she asked, killing the engine.

  "Talk to Roy," he said, rubbing his face furiously with his hands.

  "Why not?"

  "We don't have enough information. What are we going to say to him?"

  She watched him for a moment, not doubting that he was in a genuine funk. "I'm planning to describe Cill Trevelyan's gang rape as told to me by William Burton," she said unemotionally, "then make it clear that I believe Roy was involved along with his friends, Colley Hurst and Micky Hopkinson."

  "He won't like it."

  "Should I give a damn?" asked George with an amused laugh.

  "He'll deny it. You don't have any proof."

  "I'm not planning to arrest him, Jonathan, just let him know what I know and see where it takes us."

  He lowered his fists to his lap and banged them against each other. "I can't see the point of putting him on his guard before we need to. Supposing he gets angry?"

  "You should be more worried about me getting angry," she said mildly. "I hate rape with a passion, Jonathan, particularly gang rape of a child. If Cill had been my daughter-if I'd been Jean Trevelyan-I'd have camped on Roy's doorstep thirty-three years ago till he confessed, then I'd have ripped his head off. He should count himself lucky I wasn't."

  Jonathan stared at her in wide-eyed desperation. "I really can't do it."

  She put a hand on his arm. "What are you afraid of? That he'll hit me? I quite hope he does, as a matter of fact-I'll have him charged with assault-but he won't do it for that reason."

  Jonathan shook his head. "You can't be sure."

  "No," George agreed, "but I'm damned if I'll let that stop me. In any case, I have a pepper spray in my bag. It's highly illegal-I bought it in America-but I'd rather be in prison for zapping a mugger than dead because he had a knife." She paused to let him take the information in. "I'm not easily intimidated, Jonathan. I may not be the fittest thing on two legs but my dad taught me to stand up for myself, and it was a good lesson. I'll tackle Roy alone, if necessary, but it won't help you if I do."

  He raised a mirthless smile. "It'll do me more good than having my jaw broken."

  "Has that happened before?"

  "Once."

  "By bullies?"

  "A bully," he said flatly.

  "Did you report him?"

  "No. I pretended I'd fallen off my bike."

  "Why?"

  "Because he said he'd break it again if I didn't." His smile became twisted. "I didn't have a father like yours, George. The last thing you did with mine was stand up for yourself ... unless you wanted more of the same, of course."

  There was no point telling him it was a variation on a theme repeated in every case study of physical abuse George had ever read. For Jonathan, and every abused child, their individual story was unique. A low-income family, struggling to survive. Secrecy, coupled with threats of retaliation if the abuse was exposed. A child who hid in the school lavatories because he was too frightened to go home. An angry father whose violent tendencies were aggravated by alcohol. A despised mother who allowed her son to be beaten in preference to herself. A dysfunctional parental relationship made worse by an elderly grandfather whose demands for attention increased the stress within the family. A skinny, fast-growing adolescent with ill-fitting clothes who was targeted by bullies because he wore his timidity too openly. A reinvention of history because lies were less painful than the truth. Repressed emotions, limited social skills, inability to commit to relationships, fear of criticism, fear of failure...

  "Andrew told me you had a steady girlfriend until Christmas," George said. "What happened to her?"

  "You're such a coward, Jon ... it's embarrassing."

  This was not a story Jonathan wanted to narrate, and he wouldn't have done so if George hadn't retreated into a deadening silence which became more insistent the longer it went on. He und
erstood that hers was a far more determined character than his, and he began to wonder if she and Andrew had cooked up this plot to persuade him to talk about Emma.

  "Were you lying about wanting this meeting with Roy?" he asked angrily, as if George were party to his thought processes.

  And perhaps she was, because she addressed his unspoken question. "Is it really so hard to tell me about her?"

  "There's nothing to tell," he said harshly. "It didn't work out so we split up. It happens every day."

  Again the silence drifted, nagging at Jonathan's nerves like a toothache. An interminable number of cars drove past while George sat calmly on, more prepared than he to wait it out. He wanted to despise her for her inquisitiveness, but he couldn't. An inquisitive woman would have pestered for an answer. He wanted to feel angry at her attempts to manipulate him, but he couldn't, for when he finally told the story it was because he wanted to.

  *15*

  DINGLES DEPARTMENT STORE, BOURNEMOUTH

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 4:30 P.M.

  Billy Burton took another look at his watch, then dropped his cigarette butt to the pavement and crushed it underfoot. He'd arrived early and had been standing close to the store entrance for forty-five minutes and, though crowds of shoppers had passed, Louise had not been among them. He was disappointed but not surprised. She'd failed to make several such rendezvous before the family lost touch with her, and the circumstances had been tediously similar.

  At first, spurred on by his father, Billy had tracked her down each time she moved-always when her useless husband was given another stretch in prison-made an appointment to meet, only to hang around on a street corner waiting for her to show. In the end he became impatient, and he told his father to let her stew for a while. She'll call you when she's ready, he'd said confidently. But he was wrong. All contact with her had been lost, and they'd been out of touch for more than two decades.

  There were no recriminations. Indeed, sometimes he thought they were secretly relieved to be shot of her. His father said he'd always expected it, his mother said Billy had tried his best, and, like a cracked record-never mind a whole river had passed under Lou's bridge-the parents returned to blaming Cill Trevelyan. Louise had never been the same since the "little tart" had run away. If they'd understood how much influence the beastly girl had wielded over their own naive Lou, they'd have strangled the friendship at birth.