Disordered Minds

by Minette Walters

  "He had an alibi," said Jonathan. "He was at work all night."

  Roy half turned. "There was only his wife's word he didn't do it before he left. The cops didn't believe Mrs. Trevelyan anymore than anyone else did. She was protecting her husband."

  Jonathan watched George scribble notes across a page. "Why would she want to?" he asked.

  "Because she was just as guilty. She should have taken better care of the girl."

  "In what way?"

  "Kept her out of harm's way. That's what mothers are for."

  It was a remark that begged a number of questions, thought Jonathan, recalling his own situation. How far was any mother responsible for her child's victimization-unless she was the abuser? What if she were being abused herself? Where did responsibility to others end and the drive for self-preservation take over? What was anyone's duty in life when terror was an all-consuming emotion? How far was Roy projecting his mother's neglect of him onto Mrs. Trevelyan? How far was he simply trying to divert attention from his own involvement?

  "What harm are you talking about?" Jonathan asked bluntly. "The rape?"

  "The beltings her father used to give her ... that'll be how he killed her."

  "Was it Cill who told you about them?"

  Roy flicked him a withering glance. "Couldn't have been, could it, as I never met her. It was in the newpapers, mate. It was given to me secondhand, like everything else, till a halfway decent screw decided I needed an education."

  George intervened. "If David Trevelyan killed her, then when and how did he get rid of the body?" she asked matter-of-factly. "According to Miss Brett, he reported her missing as soon as he reached home on the Saturday morning, which means he had to kill her and bury her between the time she was sent home on the Friday afternoon and before he started his night shift. That's a tall order. The body would have to be deep enough-and far enough away from his house-to prevent it ever being found ... or, if it was, to make it feasible that she'd been killed by an abductor." Neither man said anything.

  "The only Trevelyan who had all night was Jean," George went on slowly, "and a woman would have to be Myra Hindley to dispose of her daughter and appear normal afterward."

  "It happens," said Roy.

  "Except the psychology's wrong," George protested. "I should have thought this through before. Look-" she tapped her pencil on the newspaper clippings-"first Mrs. Trevelyan told the police that there were difficulties at home and that her husband had had a row with Cill, then she gave an interview to the press about her regret and anguish that they'd both been so strict with her." She turned a perplexed face to Jonathan. "But she'd have said the opposite if she knew the child was dead. She'd have stressed what good relationship she and her husband had had with their daughter."

  "Perhaps she was being clever."

  "The kid was always in trouble with her dad, and everyone knew it," said Roy. "If her mum had pretended different, there'd've been even more eyebrows raised."

  "A person would have to be psychopathic to work that out after a night's digging and no sleep," said George sarcastically. "Not to mention cleaning the house of every shred of evidence that a murder had been committed."

  "All I know is what people said at the time," Roy countered stubbornly. "He killed the kid and she was protecting him. It forced them out in the end."

  *18*

  9 GALWAY ROAD, BOSCOMBE, BOURNEMOUTH

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 8:00 P.M.

  Robert Burton picked up the receiver after a single ring and Billy pictured him in the cramped hallway of his bungalow, standing, waiting for the call to come, then pouncing on the telephone before it disturbed his wife. Billy had always had an easy, if distant, relationship with his father, but suspicion corroded trust and he didn't bother with pleasantries. "I want to talk to Mum," he said.

  "She's not here."

  "You said she'd be back by seven."

  "She's on one of her parish visits. It's obviously taking longer than she expected." There was a ten-second hiatus as his hand muffled the receiver, but not before Billy had heard his mother's voice in the background. "Sorry, son, the cat was after the wire. Why don't I ask Mum to call you when she comes in?"

  "No thanks," Billy responded curtly. "I'd rather you put her on now. I know she's there. I heard her."

  "She doesn't want to talk to you."

  "Then tell her I'll drive down tomorrow."

  Another brief pause. "Why aren't you at work?" his father asked. "You know what I think about these twenty-four-hour strikes. You're letting the country down, expecting the army to cover for you while they're trying to fight a war in Iraq. It's unpatriotic, son."

  Billy stared irritably at the wall. It was the sort of diversionary tactic his father always used. "Give it a rest, Dad, I'm not in the mood. I'm between shifts ... back on days from Friday. Now, put Mum on, please. I really do need to talk to her."

  I'll try, but I don't think she'll come."

  The receiver was placed beside the telephone and Billy heard his father walk into the sitting room. He couldn't make out what was being said because his parents spoke in whispers, but his mother's lighter tread returned. "Hello, dear," she said in her usual inexpressive tone. "Dad says you've found Louise again. How is she?"

  "Hasn't Dad told you? I sent him an email."

  "He said she was back to her old tricks." His mother sighed with what sounded like a genuine regret. "There's nothing to be done about it, Billy. I pray every day that she'll be given back to us but Jesus can only work miracles with people who have faith."

  Billy wasn't interested in metaphysical solutions. "There's a woman asking questions about Grace Jefferies's murder," he said baldly. "According to her, Howard Stamp didn't do it, and I remember you lying to the police about knowing Mrs. Jefferies. You said you didn't know where she lived and had never talked to her ... but you did and you had. So why did you lie, Mum?"

  He expected her to deny it, or say she didn't remember, but she surprised him with honesty. "Because I was worried for the family," she said. "We were already connected with one scandal and I didn't want us dragged into another. You were so young you've forgotten how awful it was-everyone was terrified-we thought it was going to happen again until Howard Stamp was arrested."

  Billy refused to be diverted from the lie. "You were worried even before the police came to the house," he said. "I was watching you. Your hands were shaking."

  Eileen hesitated, as if debating the merits of truth. "I thought it was to do with Cill," she said after a moment. *I was afraid they'd found her body and the whole thing was going to become even more of a nightmare." She made a small noise that sounded like a laugh. "It was such a relief when they said Mrs. Jefferies was dead. I thought, oh, thank goodness, no one can say we had anything to do with that. It was a small lie, Billy, and I wasn't the only one," she went on. "No one admitted to knowing her. It was bad enough what happened, without being singled out for questioning. We all just wanted it to go away, and it did, of course, as soon as the wretched grandson confessed."

  Billy stared at the wall again. "Why would you think Cill's body was in Mullin Street?"

  More hesitation. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just meant I was afraid they'd found her body ... not where it might be, just that it was somewhere. I'd been thinking about nothing else for days ... when were they going to find the poor child's body? And with all those policemen around..." She petered into silence.

  Billy wanted to believe her. Even at ten years old, it had been his first thought-that the police had come to Mullin Street because of Cill Trevelyan. "Cill and Lou used to go into Mrs. Jefferies's house to watch her telly. I know you knew that because I heard Mrs. Jefferies tell you."

  Eileen didn't answer.

  "Did you never think Cill might have gone there when she ran away? You should have told the police, Mum. So should Lou."

  A tiny edge of malice entered his mother's voice. "And what do you think the Trevelyans' reaction would have
been if I'd suggested Cill was involved in a murder? Jean was already screaming at me like a fishwife every time she saw me." She took a breath. "It's all very well criticizing, Billy, but I had two seconds to make up my mind and I'm still sure I did the right thing."

  Perplexed, Billy rubbed his head. "I'm not saying she had anything to with the murder," he protested, "I'm just saying she might have gone there when she ran away."

  "Well, if she did, it was nothing to do with us."

  "Except everyone was trying to find her. Why didn't you or Lou say something when Lou was questioned about the rape?"

  There was a catch in his mother's voice. "She wasn't asked, neither was I ... and I don't understand why you're being so beastly to me-"

  The receiver was taken by his father. "You're upsetting your mother, son. What's the point you're trying to make? Because if you're suggesting she had something to do with that bloody woman's death, you'll have me to deal with. Understood?"

  Billy thought of his mother's long, red hair, which he used to fumble into loose plaits whenever she let him. It had been an intimacy they shared until she dyed it a deep auburn when they moved. After that he was never allowed so close again, and the intimacy was reserved for Louise, who, at the same time, became a brown-haired urchin called Daisy. Until now he'd forgotten how jealous he'd been. "Did she have anything to do with it, Dad?" he asked harshly. "Councillor Gardener said it was someone with ginger hair killed Mrs. Jefferies ... and Ma sure as hell had ginger hair before you made us cut and run from Mullin Street. So did Louise. You called them 'the terrible twins.' Remember?"

  The line went dead immediately.

  THE CROWN AND FEATHERS, HIGHDOWN, BOURNEMOUTH

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 8:15 P.M.

  George was intensely skeptical. "That would mean three people were all suspected of murder in the same place, at the same time-" she ticked them off on her fingers-"Howard Stamp, David Trevelyan and Jean Trevelyan-and with two different victims. Don't you think that's a trifle unlikely, Roy? It's not as though murder's a common crime in this country. Manslaugher, maybe, but not murder. There wouldn't have been more than three to four hundred during 1970, and to have two of them happen a couple of streets apart and within days of each other is a statistical improbability."

  "Unless they were connected," said Jonathan.

  "We don't even know if Cill's dead," George pointed out, leveling the tip of her pencil at the photograph of Priscilla Fletcher. "That might be her."

  Jonathan watched Roy's gaze stray toward the picture. "Is it, Mr. Trent?"

  "No."

  "Do you mind telling us who she is?"

  The other man shrugged. He was growing more relaxed as each minute passed, and Jonathan wondered why. Because they'd strayed from Howard Stamp? "She was calling herself Priscilla Curtis when I wed her."

  "Then how can you be so certain she wasn't Cill Trevelyan? She looks just like her." He watched for a reaction, but Roy's expression remained deadpan. "You can't have it both ways, Mr. Trent," he went on. "If you never met Cill, then you have no way of knowing if she was the woman you married."

  Roy stared at George's busily writing hand. "You're on the wrong track, mate," he said, allowing irritation into his voice. "I don't deny I was caught up in a bad crowd when I was a lad, but I wasn't involved in murder and I don't know what happened to Cill Trevelyan-" he jabbed a finger at the tabletop to reinforce his next sentence-"and neither does my ex. Now you can take my word for that or you can go to the cops and run this crap past them, because I've had enough. I may not have told George precisely how I knew Howard-I wasn't proud of teasing the poor little bugger-but everything else I've said is true." He stood up and moved toward the door in clear dismissal. "Take it or leave it, because this conversation ends now."

  Jonathan exchanged a glance with George. "Then you won't object if we ask Priscilla to corroborate this," she said to Roy.

  He eyed her with some amusement. "Go ahead, but you'll have to find her first." He nodded at the monitor. "I watched her sneak out about ten minutes ago."

  George frowned at the screen. "Why does that please you?" she asked. "I'd be mad as a hatter if the only person who could prove I was telling the truth left me in the lurch."

  "She'll back me up when you find her."

  "Depending on how well you prime her," said George sarcastically. She shook her head. "You haven't done much of a job so far, Roy. She seems to drop you in it more often than she helps you out. I presume it wasn't your idea to steal Jonathan's wallet ... you didn't need to, you'd already seen him off. So why did she do it?"

  "You're plucking at straws," he said dismissively. "There was no crime committed. Your friend got everything back intact."

  George made an abrupt decision. "I think we'll go with your second option and take what we've got to Sergeant Lovatt," she said, gathering her bits and pieces together and cramming them into her case. "Neither Jon nor I believe that Cill Trevelyan's disappearance and Grace Jefferies's murder weren't connected, and if the sergeant suspects that Priscilla's Cill, then he'll certainly want to talk to her ... and to you."

  Roy opened the kitchen door and stood back. "Feel free," he told her, "but you'll be making idiots of yourselves. You've got nothing at all if Priscilla can prove she wasn't Cill-which she can-and the cops won't resurrect Howard just so you can make money out of a book. They had him bang to rights at the time, and everyone knows it-" his lip curled-"except you two."

  Jonathan took the case and gestured to George to precede him. "I'm sure they said the same about James Watson and Francis Crick," he murmured, "and look how right they proved to be. The discovery of the double helix was a conceptual step, but Watson and Crick were the only two who believed it at the beginning."

  The other man's jaw jutted aggressively. "You should learn to speak English, mate. I don't know what you're talking about."

  Jonathan halted in front of him. "Of course you don't, but that's not my problem-mate-it's yours. You're an ignorant sociopath."

  Roy made a grab at his arm but Jonathan was ready for it. He wrapped his fist around Roy's in a surprisingly gentle gesture and pushed it away. "I'm talking about the three-dimensional structure of the DNA molecule, Mr. Trent. If the police haven't destroyed all the evidence from Grace's murder, then it may be Watson and Crick's discovery that sends you to prison."

  George tut-tutted severely as she wedged herself behind the steering wheel. "You're lucky he didn't hit you."

  Jonathan grinned. "He was afraid you were going to scratch his eyes out."

  She smiled automatically, but her mood had turned to despondency. "So what do we do now? He's right about the police, you know. It wouldn't be fair to waste Fred Lovatt's time with this. We haven't anything concrete-it's all just speculation. We don't even know who Priscilla Fletcher is, let alone if she was in Highdown in 1970. She might have grown up in Sydney for all we know."

  "She speaks with a Dorset accent."

  "That's not proof of anything."

  Jonathan was on top of the world, buoyed up by adrenaline, so her sudden depression took him by surprise. "What's up?"

  "We're no further forward than we were an hour ago."

  "Did you expect to be?"

  "Yes," she said wearily, leaning her elbows on the wheel, perversely worn out by the excitement. "What was the point of doing it otherwise?"

  To triumph over a phobia, thought Jonathan, wondering if that was his single, most powerful reason for doing anything. He felt better than he had for months and he couldn't understand why George was being so negative.

  "I can't see how we move on," she continued. "I suppose we can corner Priscilla Fletcher but even if she agrees to speak to us, it won't get us anywhere. All she has to do is tell us her name was Mary Smith and we won't be able to prove any different. We haven't the authority to insist on a birth certificate."

  "What about her husband? He must know as much of her history as Roy does."

  George gave an impatient
sigh. "And how do we approach him? If we go knocking on the door, it'll certainly be Priscilla who answers, and she'll slam it in our faces. I don't know anything about him, except that he's some sort of bookie, and even that's a bit doubtful." She nodded toward the .pub door. "My source was Tracey and she had it secondhand off Jim Longhurst. I don't even know the man's Christian name."

  "Well, we can't do anything tonight," said Jonathan firmly, consulting his watch, "so let's just sleep on it. I need to be at the station by nine, otherwise I won't be home till after one-thirty. If you can drop me at Branksome, I'll take a taxi into town."

  George wouldn't hear of it. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, starting the engine and pulling away from the kerb. "'Andrew would be furious if you spent borrowed money on a cab. I'm sure he meant you to buy food with it."

  "Probably."

  "Then buy a sandwich on the train and start taking care of yourself."

  He wasn't listening. "What about William Burton?" he suggested. "I'd say he's worth another shot, particularly if we can persuade him to come to the police station with us and name the boys who raped Cill. Lovatt can hardly ignore that, not if we show him your two photos. He's bound to interview Priscilla Fletcher in those circumstances ... Roy, too, if he's one of the three that Burton accuses."

  George cheered up immediately. "Do you think he'll do it?"

  "I don't know," said Jonathan, "but it has got to be worth a try." His mind worked through the possibilities. "We also need to find the Trevelyans. If they didn't have anything to do with Cill's disappearance, then they'll be ahead of us in the queue, piling on the pressure. I need to listen to the tape because I'm guessing Roy told us a lot more than you think he did-it's just a question of isolating what's important."

  "Did you get it all?"

  "I hope so." He took a recorder from his pocket and pressed "rewind," letting it run for five seconds before touching "play." Roy's jeering tones broke into the silence inside the car. "...You'll be making idiots of yourselves. You've got nothing at all if Priscilla can prove she wasn't Cill..." Jonadian cut the voice short. "That's the first thing that needs sleeping on," he murmured.