*5*

The Gevrey-Chambertin made George's face even redder, a fact remarked on by Roy when he reappeared with their lunch. "You want to watch it," he warned her. "You'll be done for drink-driving if you're not careful."

He was solicitous of her in a ham-fisted way, and Jonathan wondered about the exact nature of their relationship. She certainly took Trent's comments in better spirit than he would have done, but then friendship for him meant mutual respect. Anything less wasn't friendship. "You'll die a lonely old man," Andrew had warned once. "Loyalty is worth more than respect."

"Same difference."

"Hardly. Your sycophantic friends wouldn't dream of pointing out your flaws."

"What makes you think they're sycophants?"

"Because you choose them carefully. You need to be admired, Jon. It's a gaping flaw in your character."

"So what does that make you?"

"A loyal friend from Oxford days�your only friend from Oxford. You should think about that. It may be my easygoing personality, though I suspect it has more to do with the fact that I'm eight inches shorter than you, took over the family business and cheated on my wife."

"Meaning what?"

"That you can look down on me, literally and figuratively, so I've never threatened your self-esteem. My business success, such as it is, is transparently inherited, and my failed marriage means I'm no better at keeping women than you are. It's an interesting paradox in your character. You demand respect for yourself, but you can't give it. The minute you decide you're being eclipsed, you move on. I assume it's fear of perceived failure and not jealousy of another's good fortune that makes you do it, but it's a damned odd way to conduct your life."

Jonathan watched George use a letter to fan her face and tamped down a sudden rush of contempt. He looked away to hide it, questioning quite seriously whether there was something wrong with him. He felt divorced from the room, from the people in it, even from himself�this level of detachment wasn't a normal symptom of jet lag. He wondered if the wine was to blame. Strange tremors, like electric shocks, shot up his arm every time he lifted the glass to his lips, although only he seemed aware of them. "You can't go on like this ... you should see a, doctor..."

The room was too warm. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip. "I gather you knew Howard Stamp," he said to Roy as the man laid the table.

"Depends what you mean by 'know,' mate. He used to pop into my dad's shop once in a while to pick up stuff for his gran but, as he never said much, we weren't exactly close."

"Where was the shop?"

"You'll have passed it on your way here. It's the newsagent in Highdown Road."

Jonathan remembered. "Was he older than you? He'd be in his midfifties if he was still alive."

"Yup," Roy agreed unhelpfully, retrieving salt and pepper pots from a cupboard. "You wouldn't have thought it at the time, though. He managed to grow a bit of a mustache and a scrappy little beard, but he never looked his age. He was a right little wimp ... even his voice failed to develop. My dad called him 'sparrow chest' and told him to get a Bullworker ... but he never did." He paused, dunking back. "He should've done. He'd have had more confidence with a muscle or two."

"You called him 'poor old Howard' earlier. I assumed you had some sympathy for him."

"In retrospect I do�he was bullied rotten�but at the time..." He broke off with a shake of his head. "A bloke couldn't afford to feel sympathy then. The kids today think tihey invented street cred but it's been around for decades. Only a loser would have admitted friendship with Howard."

"Classic torture tactics," murmured Jonathan mildly. "The Scylla of isolation and the Charybdis of fear."

Roy paused in what he was doing. "Scylla"�Cill?�at least, had struck a chord. "If you spoke English," he said carefully, "I'd know what you were talking about."

"Scylla and Charybdis were six-headed monsters who inhabited rocks in the Mediterranean," said George. "Ulysses had to steer his ship between them without being snared by either in Homer's Odyssey."

Roy relaxed noticeably. "I expect you're right," he drawled, "but it still isn't English."

"Howard was between a rock and a hard place," Jonathan explained, "bullied because he was friendless, and friendless because he was bullied. He had nowhere to go except inside himself. The outward sign of his distress was cutting his arms."

Roy shrugged. "Not my fault, mate. You can't hold the rest of us responsible because Howard didn't have the bottle to stand up for himself. We all got teased, but most of us learned to deal with it." He removed the casserole dish from a hotplate on the sideboard and placed it on a mat in the middle of the table. "Good eating," he said, before vanishing again.

"Was he one of the bullies?" Jonathan asked, clenching his fist involuntarily on the arm of his chair.

George noticed it and heard the edge to his voice. "Probably," she answered honestly, "but then all the children were. I don't think it would be right to single Roy out as an aggressor. He was five or six years younger than Howard, so he wasn't at school with him, and the school bullies were the worst." She heaved her bottom out of the chair and moved to the table. "Perhaps scapegoat was the wrong description. Whipping boy might have been better. The first had the sins of the Jews laid on his back before he was chased into the wilderness, the second was flogged for the failings of others. In either case, the guilty escaped punishment. It's a very twisted concept."

"But an old one." Jonathan pulled out the other chair. "Jesus died on the cross to take the sins of the world on himself. Or have I got that wrong?"

She smiled slightly. "You know you haven't," she said, unfolding her napkin, "but there's a difference between the son of God absolving the world and some poor goat being expected to do it." She took his plate and spooned lamb hotpot onto it. "Here's another animal sacrifice," she joked, handing it to him. "Help yourself to vegetables. As far as I know, they've never had to atone for anyone's sins. Or am I wrong, Dr. Hughes?"

There was more of the same during the meal. Serious remarks interspersed with teasing darts. She seemed intent on proving her general knowledge to him, and he let her do most of the talking while he struggled to eat the lamb hotpot. His appetite, as usual, was negligible and after five minutes he pushed his half-finished plate away and lit a cigarette without asking permission in case she refused. He wanted to remove his jacket, but he was worried she'd notice his fraying shirt cuffs.

Every so often he tried to break her garrulous flow. His questions were factual. Was Howard's primary school still in existence? Would they have records? Which secondary school did he attend? Was that still in existence? Would they have records? She answered readily enough, only to go off on a tangent immediately, and his frustration grew. He wanted to remind her that this was a fact-sharing meeting, instigated at her invitation, but he didn't know how to do it because he wasn't used to voluble middle-aged women who pulled faces and giggled under the influence of drink.

After half an hour she pushed her plate aside and propped her chubby elbows on the table. "Do you mind if I asked some questions now?"

"What about?"

"You." She shook her head as his expression closed immediately. "Not personal questions, Dr. Hughes, questions about why you became interested in Howard's case. For example, how did you come across it and where did you research it? Downing and Kiszko's cases were fairly well known even before their convictions were quashed, but interest in Howard died with him. He's not mentioned in books or on the Internet and, as I said in my first letter, the story was dead long before I moved to Mullin Street. So what brought you to him?"

"A book," said Jonathan with unnecessary emphasis, "although, admittedly, it's only available in academic libraries�Clinical Studies by Dr. Andrew Lawson. It was published in 1975 and has been out of print for years. It's a collection of psychiatric assessments, one of which was Stamp's. I quote it in Disordered Minds ... the attribution is in a footnote." He smiled the mechanical smile again. "I always assume readers share my interest in bibliographic references, but obviously I'm wrong."

George's cheeks turned a brighter crimson. "I hadn't realized that's what sparked your interest. May I ask why it did?"

He shrugged. "I thought I made it clear in what I wrote. There were parallels between Stamp's case and the other cases I detailed. It seemed obvious to me that, had he lived, his conviction would have been quashed."

She nodded. "Most of your information comes from newspaper coverage. Is that the only research you did?"

He saw a criticism immediately. "It's a common enough resource tool, Miss Gardener ... but, no, I also had some correspondence with Adam Fanshaw, who in turn put me in touch with Stamp's solicitor. They're both retired now, but they were able to fill in some of the gaps, particularly about Grace's history. The solicitor sent me a copy of a letter that was quoted at the trial, but it contained some rather more interesting information that I referred to in my book. I also consulted a psychological profiler."

She toyed with the edge of her plate. "Do you ever consider the advantages your dark skin gives you?" she asked abruptly.

He frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Most decent people would hate to be thought of as racist. Surely that works in your favor some of the time?"

It was another tangent, but he didn't understand where it was leading. "I don't follow."

She held his gaze for a moment. "Presumably most educated whites, meeting you for the first time, make a point of expressing interest in what you say ... even if it bores them. Isn't that an advantage of being dark-skinned? They wouldn't show the same courtesy to an overweight, middle-aged white woman." She smiled slightly. "But then being fat is a lifestyle choice�and being colored isn't."

"I wouldn't know, Miss Gardener. You're the first person who's accused me of being boring. I don't see how it relates to Howard."

"I was wondering how far he contributed to his own bullying," she mused. "How far does anyone contribute to their own bullying?"

"They don't. Howard became a target because of his harelip. He couldn't help it, anymore than blacks and Asians can help having dark skin. Bullying's a form of terror�and terrorists always choose the easiest targets."

She reverted to the subject of research. "Were documents your only tool? Did you never think of coming down to Bournemouth to find people who knew Howard?"

It was another criticism. "Not until today, no. But neither did I go to Rochdale to research the Kiszko case, nor Bakewell to research the Downing case."

"Didn't you think it was important?"

"My expertise lies in examining and analyzing available records, not in hammering on doors looking for long-lost witnesses. The Stamp case was one chapter in a long book that took over a year to write. I felt there was enough documentary evidence to posit the possibility of a mistrial, and you clearly agreed, otherwise you wouldn't have written to me. The idea now is to take the case further."

"I'm not trying to offend you," she said. "I'm just interested in how an academic approaches a subject like this. I'd love to have gone to an established university myself, but it wasn't easy for a postman's daughter at the tail end of the sixties."

Oh, please! Did she think it was any easier for a half-breed from a sink estate to win a place at Oxford at the tail end of the eighties? "It's precisely because I thought it was important to find people who knew Howard that I included a contact address in the book," he said patiently. "It's also why I'm here today�" he took out another cigarette�"although I don't seem to be making much progress."

"Only because you think your agenda's more important than mine."

He flicked his lighter to the tip. "What makes you say that?"

"Body language."

"For Christ's sake, stop being so bloody stuffy. You look as if someone's rammed a. broomstick up your backside."

He forced a smile to his face. "Do you mind if I take off my jacket?"

She noticed he was sweating. "Be my guest." She watched him stand up and meticulously empty his pockets before carefully draping the fine wool over the back of the chair. He tucked his wallet, passport and a couple of pens into his briefcase, then unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and folded them back. It was an interesting routine, she thought�very Pavlovian. "The reason I'm asking these questions," she went on as he took his seat at the table again, "is because, unlike you, I have done the legwork ... on and off since I first heard Howard's story." She took a folder from the carrier bag she'd brought with her. "These are my notes."

The file was a good two inches thick. "May I see them?"

"Not yet," she said with surprising firmness. "First I'd like you to tell me what you plan to do with them."

"Assuming they add to the knowledge I already have�and with your permission of course�I'll include them in a new book."

"About what? Howard ... or the iniquities of the judicial system?"

"Both, but Howard principally."

"May I ask why?"

Jonathan saw no reason not to be honest. "My agent's impressed by the number of letters I've received�not all of them sympathetic�but there does seem to be considerable interest in Howard."

"And your agent thinks the book will sell?"

He nodded.

"That's good." She propped her chin in her hands. "Now let me tell you why I'm interested in the case. As I said in my first letter, my introduction to it was through one of my neighbors who knew Grace by sight. They had a nodding acquaintance, but they weren't friends and they didn't socialize. Whenever my neighbor talked about the murder she always concentrated on the horror of it and the impact it had on the street. She said it was months before she dared go out and years before she opened her door without worrying about being murdered ... in other words, long after Howard was convicted." She fell into a brief silence while she marshaled her thoughts.

"I asked her if she believed they'd caught the right man," she went on after a moment, "and she said no. Others were persuaded by his confession and the evidence, but she wasn't." She placed a hand on the folder. "She was one of the witnesses who came forward to say she'd seen Howard on the day of the murder, but she wasn't called at trial. At the time she was relieved, because she'd never been in court before and she'd found the police questioning intimidating. Afterward she questioned why her evidence had been excluded. She even wrote to her MP about it, although she never received an answer." She pulled a face. "It's not atypical, but considering what she had to say it should have been taken up." She fell silent again.

"What was it?"

"That she'd seen Howard's arrival and not his departure. She was cleaning her sitting-room window when she watched him let himself into his grandmother's house with his key. She had the radio on and she was listening to the lunchtime news on the Home Service. The presenter signed off just after Howard closed the door." George smiled impatiently at his lack of understanding. "In 1970 Radio 4 was called the Home Service, and the lunchtime news finished at two o'clock. It was followed by The Archers, and my father tuned in every day." She rapped her knuckles on the edge of the table. "There really is no way that Howard could have done everything he was accused of in half an hour."

Jonathan felt a stirring of excitement. "Did this woman make a statement?"

"Yes. I used my contacts on the police committee to try to get hold of the original, but we didn't have any success. If the file's still in existence, no one knows where it is�the best guess is that it was destroyed after Howard died. However, I do have a copy that my neighbor dictated to me from memory in 1997. It won't be exactly the same, of course, but she signed it and we had it officially notarized." She heaved a sigh. "Poor woman. She died shortly afterward, riddled with guilt that she hadn't made more of an effort to keep him out of prison."

He dropped ash onto his plate. "Why didn't she?"

"Because she was a humble little person who had absolute faith in the police. Before the trial she assumed her evidence wasn't important enough to call her as a witness; afterward she started to worry about it. She said she spoke to the local bobby, and he told her it was done and dusted. She made an attempt to contact Wynne, but Wynne had already been rehoused because of the furor ... then Howard hanged himself."

"And she gave up?"

"Yes."

"When did she write to the MP?"

"Three days before Howard died. She assumed that's why she never had a reply. Then I came along and stirred her up again." She paused. "I still don't know if it was the right thing to do. She'd managed to persuade herself he wouldn't have confessed if he hadn't done it, and her conscience would have been easier if she could have gone on believing that."

"You can't blame yourself."

She gave a small laugh. "You'd be surprised what I can blame myself for, Dr. Hughes. At the moment I'm beating myself up because the car wouldn't start. They say a good beginning makes a good ending, so the reverse must be equally true ... start badly and it goes downhill from then on."

Jonathan ignored the comment. From his perspective, things had improved considerably since she'd started taking the meeting seriously, and he wondered how long she intended to make excuses. It was a peculiarly English characteristic to keep worrying at the vomit. He took a notepad and pen from his briefcase. "What was your neighbor's name?"

Her blue eyes searched his black ones for a moment before, with obvious regret, she screwed her face into pained apology. "Oh dear, this is where we hit the buffers at the bottom of the slope. I'm afraid I'm not going to tell you, Dr. Hughes, nor will I allow you to read my notes. I've made free with one piece of information that points to Howard's innocence because I'm embarrassed to have brought you all the way down here only to send you away empty-handed. However, if you want to write this book, then you'll have to put in the hours yourself�as I have done."

He stared at her with contempt, saying nothing, and she wiggled her shoulders uncomfortably. "I'm sure you'll believe it's a racist thing, but it isn't. I've spent fifteen years researching Howard's case, the last ten trying to bring it to public attention. I was so optimistic when I heard your interview on Radio 4 and read your book, but now..." She broke off with a shake of her head.

He gave a cynical laugh. "But now that you know Disordered Minds has raised the interest to a commercial level," he finished for her, "you'll try to write the book yourself. Have you ever written anything before, Miss Gardener? It's not easy, you know."

She tucked the folder back into its carrier bag and stood up, reaching for her coat. "You misunderstood me. The reason I won't share my information with you, Dr. Hughes, is because I don't like you." She shrugged. "You exploit your color to intimidate people, and in my book that's a form of abuse. You might not have treated me like dirt if I'd been better dressed or hadn't arrived late, but I doubt it. As my father was fond of saying, what can you expect from a pig but a grunt?"
 

*6*

There was no sign of George when Jonathan followed her downstairs five minutes later, but her Mini was still parked where she'd left it in the yard, with a wire trailing from a battery charger under the hood to a plug inside the kitchen. The sleet had turned to rain and he stood irresolutely by the back door, wondering what to do. Leave? Seek her out to apologize? If so, what for? He didn't understand the accusation of abuse at all. He'd taken Roy's slights, even accepted his apology with the best grace he could muster. What more could he have done? He certainly hadn't inflicted his color on George over lunch.

Nevertheless, he'd clearly said something to make her angry, although he had no idea what it was. It certainly wasn't his reference to her writing the book, because she'd made up her mind by then. Nor had he challenged any of her theories�which was the reason his colleagues usually took umbrage. Perhaps she'd been offended that the flaring pain in his gut had prevented him eating Trent's lard-filled hotpot? His natural inclination was to pin her down and argue the logic of her position. If she wanted publicity for Howard, then whether she liked Jonathan or not was immaterial as long as he was able to generate it. But hers had been an emotional response and he didn't think she'd appreciate a lesson in logic.

The sound of rising voices came from the kitchen. "...sake, woman. Keep the volume down," said Roy firmly. "You'll have Jim quoting you all over the shop if you're not careful."

"What does it matter if he does?"

"You'll be done for slander."

"I couldn't give a damn. He's not even very bright, Roy, just a miserable little hick who's taught himself to speak properly. I don't believe a word he says. I'll eat my bloody hat if he ever went to Oxford�a polytechnic more like. God knows how he got a doctorate."

"Jesus! Will you calm down, girl!"

"Why should I? He never once asked if I had any qualifications, just wrote me off as a postman's daughter. You should have seen his reaction when I told him what Dad did, he couldn't put enough distance between us."

"What makes you think he's a hick? He sounds like a right ponce to me."

"Only because you've never lived in London. You can take the man out of the city, Roy, but you can never take the city out of the man. I should know, I was born and brought up in the blasted place. His accent's all over the shop. He's a fake, a bloody little con man who'd rather exploit other people than do the work himself. He's not interested in justice, he just wants to make money. I'm so angry, Roy."

"Disappointed, more like." There was the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. "Buck up, girl. There'll be others. Like you say, it took fifty years before Derek Bentley got his pardon."

"But I haven't got fifty years, Roy."

"Then you'll have to prove the doctors wrong, darlin'. Stay put. I'll get rid of him, then I'll take a look at your battery. It's had over an hour so it ought to be charged."

There was a click as a door swung open, and Jonathan turned toward it, his face unusually apprehensive. The pain in his abdomen was like an acid burn eating through his stomach wall, and he wished to God he'd brought some indigestion tablets with him. He swallowed bile, blaming the hotpot for his problems, and Roy grinned, seeing only discomfort at George's trashing of his character.

"You're all right, mate," he said, closing the kitchen door behind him. "I'm not going to bite you. It's pissing with rain, so I came to find out if you want a taxi to the station. If I ring now, it'll take ten minutes or thereabouts. You can wait in the bar or hop back upstairs." His grin broadened. "You're safe as long as I keep George in the kitchen."

Jonathan made a feeble attempt to regain the moral high ground. "I don't know what I did to upset her."

"Then you'll have something to puzzle over on the train ride home. So ... shall I call a taxi or would you rather walk?"

"Why did she write to me if she wasn't willing to pool information?"

"Because she's been trying for years to get someone interested. She was pleased as punch when she heard you on the radio. Thought you were the guy to get things moving."

"I am."

"George doesn't think so. As far as she's concerned, you're just after the credit. Howard can go hang himself�excuse the pun�if you can make money out of it. That's not George's way. Never has been."

"I'm happy to acknowledge her input. I'll pay her a percentage of the royalties if her information leads to something."

Roy shook his head. "You really don't get it, do you? She spent half an hour apologizing for my big mouth, then she realized you're more of a bigot than I am. For the record, she has two Open University degrees�one in psychology and one in criminology�also an external Ph.D. from Sussex in behavioral science." The amusement returned to his voice. "You shouldn't make assumptions, mate. George is far too modest to call herself a doctor�unlike you�but she's just as entitled. The difference is, she earned her qualifications the hard way: in the evenings while she held down a full-time job. You got yours the easy way�free�paid for by the likes of George. That's where being the token black pays dividends."

"You're wrong," said Jonathan flatly.

"Not according to George. You shouldn't look down your nose at people, mate, not if you want their cooperation. She's a good old girl, she'll bust a gut for anyone, but she doesn't like bullies, she doesn't like people who take advantage and she doesn't like snobs." He pointed a thumb at the floor. "And you're all three. Now ... do you wanna taxi or do you wanna walk?"
 

It was the accusation of bullying that gave Jonathan most pause for thought as he retraced his steps along Highdown Road. Anger had always simmered behind his insecurity, erupting sometimes in uncontrollable tantrums against his mother and his demented grandfather, but he had never thought of himself as a bully. That was a title he reserved for his father, whose frustration could explode into violence with terrifying speed. There had been no joy in Clarence Hughes's life, merely a daily grind of menial toil for the local council that had stultified his intellect and driven him to rage against the only people who were safe�his family.

From early childhood Jonathan had understood what fueled his father's resentment even though he hated him for it. Clarence had wanted to amount to something in life, but immigration to Britain�far from offering him the opportunity to shine�had been a soul-destroying move. He wasn't a stupid man, but his heavily accented English, and his lack of recognized qualifications, had closed the door to jobs that would have given him status. Instead, he labored at menial tasks and hid his contempt for the people he worked with. The victims of so much repressed emotion were his family, in particular his only child, on whom all hopes of a better future were placed.

Such weighty expectations had taught Jonathan to compartmentalize his life early, hiding his secrets as fearfully as a thief. To his mother, he was a popular boy whose late returns from school were due to visits to friends. To his father, he was an intelligent, hard-working student who stayed on after hours to work in the school library. To his teachers, he was the son of an Indian lawyer and Ugandan doctor who'd been expelled by Idi Amin in the 1970s and had their wealth confiscated. To his bullies, he was invisible.

The truth�that he'd hidden in the school lavatories because he was too frightened to walk home, and had invented a background for his parents because he was ashamed of them�became obscured even in his own mind. It was easier to embroider fantasies of popularity and forced exile than to question his own timidity and his yearning to be respected. He'd even grown comfortable in the role of victim, gaining strength from it by logging each new slight on his tally stick of revenge.

At what point he decided to convert fantasy to fact, he didn't know. When he gained the place at Oxford? When he started aping the long vowels and clear diction of the upper middle class? When he realized that an appearance of wealth was almost as valuable as wealth itself? Or that the myth of good breeding was easily established by the simple expedient of cutting his family out of his life? Perhaps there was no defining moment, perhaps his descent into pathological deceit had been so gradual that no lie had ever seemed shocking enough to call a halt.

"Why do you push people away? Are you afraid, they're going to see your flaws? What's the big deal, anyway? No one's , perfect..."

He read the new placard outside the newsagent as he passed: "U.S. accused of bully-boy diplomacy." The pedant in him questioned the juxtaposition of "bully-boy" and "diplomacy." The two were irreconcilable ... or should be. The one suggested brute ignorance, the other deft intelligence, though in a phoney war the rattling saber was a powerful propaganda tool for friend and foe alike.

Jonathan couldn't count the number of times his father had wept for the man he had become, but it hadn't changed his behavior. Fear of his heavy hand�a more potent weapon than the hand itself�had been the dominant discipline in both his marriage and his only child's upbringing. The injustice had been Jonathan's demented grandfather's regularly mistaking his growing grandson for his hated son-in-law. With a courage he'd never possessed, even in his prime, the old man had belabored the adolescent for the sins of the father while his mother held her finger to her lips and begged him with her eyes to let her Abba vent his spleen. "It's good medicine," she would say. "Now he'll sleep."

As he trudged on, contempt for his mother wound like a snake about Jonathan's heart. She was an ill-educated peasant who had fawned over her idiot father and paid lip service to her responsibilities to her son. What can I do? I'm just a woman. Clarence won't allow it ... Clarence will lose his temper ... Clarence has problems ... Clarence will hit me ... Clarence ... Clarence ... Clarence...

"Women make you so angry, Jon ... one day you'll cross the line and you won't know you've done it until it's too late..."

Trains came and went at Branksome Station, but Jonathan felt too ill to take any notice. He stood under cover, leaning against a wall, loose-limbed and swaying slightly, clutching his briefcase to his midriff and staring into the middle distance. As they left, several passengers reported an Arab-looking man, sweating profusely and behaving strangely. The acting station master assessed him carefully through a window and wondered what to do. He couldn't imagine that a suicide bomber would choose Branksome Station as a target, but he reminded himself that Palestinian bombers blew themselves up on buses; trains were just a different mode of transport. He was about to call the transport police when another passenger, a woman, approached the man and shook him by the hand.

"Are you all right?" the dark-haired woman asked Jonathan kindly as she reached for his right hand and clasped it warmly. She wore an expensive overcoat with the collar turned up and a cashmere scarf looped around her neck, obscuring the lower part of her face. "You look as if you're about to fall over. Do you want some help?"

He glanced at her briefly, then reverted to staring across the track. Nausea threatened every time he moved his eyes. He'd persuaded himself it was weeks of sleepless nights followed by jet lag. It would pass, he'd been telling himself for nearly an hour. Everything passed eventually. But the gnawing pain in his stomach said it was something worse.

The woman moved in front of him. "You need to talk to me," she encouraged him. "There are two policemen watching you." She was pretty in a manufactured way�most of it was paint�but she looked genuinely concerned. Jonathan, who had seen die way everyone else had been giving him a wide berth, wondered why she was bothering with him.

Policemen...? He wedged his back more firmly against the wall. "I'm all right," he managed.

She laughed and touched a gloved hand to his arm as if she were greeting an old friend. "You need to smile and play up a bit," she said. "They're very suspicious of you." She tilted her head toward the platform entrance. "They're behind the wall over there and they're afraid there's a bomb in your briefcase."

A bomb...? The absurdity of the concept struck Jonathan forcibly even as he felt something give way inside his head�the first of the retaining walls that held his emotions in check. There was nothing in his briefcase except his wallet, letters about Howard Stamp, his ticket to the Royal Opera House and his passport. If a single lie unraveled... "Why would they think that?"

"You're black," she said bluntly, "you're sweating like a pig and you look shit-scared. It doesn't take much these days to get the cops excited."

Another wall collapsed. Why did everyone keep calling him black? Why did everyone keep likening him to a pig? Hysteria rocketed round his gut, searching for an exit, before converting into painful tears behind his eyes. He was scared and sweating because he didn't know what was happening to him. He tried to bolster the myth of jet lag. No one this tired could take the funeral of a murdered boy, anti-Arab bigotry, hostile immigration officers, tanks, soldiers, critical spinsters, dirty landlords ... war ... without suffering an emotional backlash. But he knew it wasn't true. The truth was that his fabricated personality was disintegrating in front of a total stranger because someone at last was showing him a little kindness.

The woman moved closer and he caught a waft of her scent. "I guess you've had too much to drink, but if you don't want the cops poking their noses in, then talk to me, pretend we know each other ... even better, give me your briefcase." She held out a hand. "That's what's got them twitched. They'll go away if you let me open it."

He handed it to her, suddenly dizzy. "I'm not drunk."

"You're giving a damn good impression." She rested the case on her knee and flicked the latches, pulling the leather flap open so any watcher could see. Her scurrying fingers rummaged through the letters before she took them all out and handed them to him. "Look at me," she told him. "Make out we've met on purpose. Select something and give it to me."

He steeled himself to look down, quelling the sickness that rose in his throat. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter. Just give me a piece of paper. Good." She took the page and scanned it. "Talk to me. Say rhubarb if you want, but at least give the impression that we're having a conversation."

How did she know the police thought he had a bomb in his briefcase? "Rhubarb?"

"Again."

"Rhubarb ... rhubarb ... rhubarb."

She pointed to something in the letter and nicked him a smile. "Now laugh. People who laugh don't blow up trains."

"I don't want to blow up a train. I'm a British academic. My passport's in the case. All I have to do is show it to them."

"They'll still question you. Everyone's been reporting a mad-looking Arab on the platform. I slipped round the back; otherwise they wouldn't have let me through."

"Why aren't you afraid?"

"I know who you are. I saw you at the Crown and Feathers."

Jonathan groped through his memory. There had been a couple in the bar, he recalled, but he didn't think the woman had been this one. "I don't remember you."

She stuffed the letters into the briefcase and tucked it under one arm. "It's a big place," she said cryptically, glancing toward the platform entrance. "You're all right now, I think. They seem to have gone. Come on, there's a seat down here." She put her other hand under his elbow and urged him along the platform. "You'll feel better if you sit down. You're so wet already, a little more water on your bum won't matter." She lowered him to the metal bench and sat beside him. "Did Roy say something to upset you? He can be a right jerk at times."

Jonathan leaned back to stare at the sky and felt the nausea begin to subside. The rain had eased off and a weak sun had broken through the clouds although it was still very cold. Her scent, an attractive one, filled his nostrils, and, for the first time in months, he found the closeness of a woman comforting. He couldn't account for it, nor did he bother to try, he was just grateful for the human contact. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"Not really. I know his ex-wife, so I get to hear about his faults. He's famous for opening mouth before engaging brain. Did he say something insulting?"

"That's where being tke token black pays dividends..." Was the truth ever an insult? Perversely, Jonathan found himself defending the man. "If he did, it probably wasn't intentional."

"I wouldn't bet on it," she said with an easy laugh. "He may not be the brightest thing on two legs but he knows how to get under people's skin. You don't want to dwell on it. It gives him a buzz if he thinks one of his jibes has hit the spot."

Despite her expensive clothes, he didn't think she'd been born to wealth. Her voice had a rough Dorset burr, much like Roy Trent's. "Does he do it to you?"

"He does it to everyone. That's why he has so few customers."

It was a different explanation from George's, but it appealed to Jonathan rather more. "Do you know Councillor Gardener?"

"Roy's girlfriend? Only by sight." She turned to look at him. "Don't tell me she upset you? She got religion after the cancer�wants the world to accept Jesus and all that cr�" She broke off. "I'm being a bitch. Forget I said that. She's very well-meaning ... crusades for the poor. I can't believe she'd say anything unkind."

Fleetingly, Jonathan wondered why she was so intent on blaming someone else for his problems. "It's just exhaustion," he said. "I flew in from the States last night and didn't sleep. I'd have done better to stay at home."

"Was the trip worth the effort?"

"To the States?"

"No ... today's ... down here."

He shook his head.

"Will you come back?"

He glanced at her. The question wasn't overly intrusive, but somewhere in the recesses of his mind her persistence struck a suspicious chord. "Did Roy send you after me?"

"Hardly," she said with a small laugh. "He'll have forgotten all about you by now." She nestled her chin into her scarf. "To be honest, I was surprised to find you here. You left the pub a long time before I did. So ... are you feeling better?"

"I am, yes." He was surprised. The nausea had gone, and even the tremors in his arms had ceased. "You've been very kind."

"I'm in a charitable mood." She looked along the track. "Your train's coming. I'll see you onto it, then all you have to do is make the connection at Bournemouth Central. Can you manage that?"

He pushed himself to the edge of the seat. "What about you?"

"I'm going the other way," she said, standing up and offering him his briefcase as the train drew in. She'd re-locked it at some point, and he took it gratefully.

"Then why are you on this platform?"

"I could see you were in trouble."

He shook his head. "I don't even know who you are."

"A good Samaritan," was all she said, as she opened a carriage door and urged him inside.

His last view of her was muffled in her scarf with a gloved hand raised in farewell but, as he waved back, it occurred to him that he wouldn't recognize her again. All he had seen was a pair of painted eyes beneath a dark fringe. It wasn't important until he opened his briefcase at Bournemouth Central and discovered that she'd stolen everything that mattered to him. She'd taken his wallet, his train ticket, his opera ticket, and worst of all she'd left him with nothing to prove who he was. His passport was gone.

After that he lost it. He ran about the station, barging into people and shouting at them. Some thought he was a pathetic lunatic. Some thought he was dangerous. When two transport policemen tackled him to the ground, he called them fascist scum and struck at them with the briefcase until one of them wrenched it from his grasp and kneed him in the gut.
 

*7*

CENTRAL POLICE STATION, BOURNEMOUTH
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2003, 8:30 P.M.

Andrew Spicer was not amused to be summoned from his office in London at five o'clock that evening to drive to Bournemouth to vouch for his friend. The most basic checks on Jonathan's identity had revealed that a man with his name had had his passport queried the night before when he flew in from America, and police, unimpressed by his behavior after he was arrested for running amok at Bournemouth's main station, insisted on proof of who he was before they would consider releasing him. It was the opinion of the doctor summoned to test Jonathan Hughes for drugs and excessive alcohol�both of which proved negative�that further tests were required. The man was clearly ill. Jonathan was advised of his right to go to hospital, but as he retreated into silence, refusing both medical assistance and a solicitor, there was little to be done except approach Andrew Spicer, literary agent, whose name and address were on several letters in Jonathan's briefcase. An attempt was made to contact Councillor George Gardener, whose correspondence suggested a lunch appointment at the Crown and Feathers, but every call was intercepted by an answerphone. There was a similarly negative response from the pub itself, which wasn't due to open again until five-thirty.

How seriously ill was he? At death's door? Mental, rather than physical, said the doctor, so hardly an emergency. Once Andrew was persuaded to drive from London, the police lost interest. They had other fish to fry, and a safely contained, tearful Arab posed less of a threat than impatient drivers on freezing roads.

When Andrew finally arrived at eight-thirty, tired and hungry after sitting in gridlock on the M3, he was shown Jonathan through a two-way mirror. "Do you know this man?" he was asked by a uniformed sergeant who introduced himself as Fred Lovatt.

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"Jonathan Hughes."

"What's your relationship with him?"

"I'm his literary agent."

"How long have you known him?"

Andrew unbuttoned his jacket and pointed to a chair. "Am I allowed to sit down? I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm dead on my feet." He slumped onto it when the sergeant nodded. "What's he done?"

"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Spicer."

"Twelve years ... thirteen years. We were at Oxford together, but I didn't get to know him well until he brought his first manuscript to me in 'ninety-two. We've been friends ever since."

"What's his profession?"

"Academic. He's a lecturer and research fellow in European anthropology at London University. Rather a good one, as a matter of fact ... and much appreciated by his students because he takes the trouble to make the subject interesting."

The sergeant pulled out another chair. "Is there a reason why he wouldn't tell us that? Why would he have a problem if his university was approached for verification?"

Andrew studied his friend's face through the window. "What are you charging him with?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"Then why are you holding him?"

"Because he's committed an offense and he's refusing to answer questions on it. He won't be released until we're satisfied it's safe to do so."

"What offense?"

Sergeant Lovatt consulted a piece of paper. "Running amok at Bournemouth Central. He collided with passengers and screamed about being�" he arched an eyebrow�"assuming this is right ... fall staff? Possibly full staff? He's refusing to explain what it means. Do you have any ideas, sir?"

Andrew frowned. "It's a Verdi opera. It's on at Covent Garden tonight. Falstaff ... Sir John Falstaff. He's a comic character from Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor, also Henry IV Parts 1 and 2 and Henry V. He's a big fat man with large appetites."

The sergeant looked doubtfully toward Jonathan, whose shirt was hanging off his thin shoulders. "Why .would Mr. Hughes claim to be this man?"

"He wouldn't have said being Falstaff, but he might have said going. He's opera-mad. He told me he had a ticket for it ... that's why he flew home last night. Otherwise he'd have canceled today's appointment and waited for a cheaper flight."

Lovatt read the paper again. "According to the witnesses, he said, 'I am Falstaff.' One of them claims he also said, 'The devil's a woman.' Is he married? Does he have problems at home?"

Andrew shook his head. "He had a steady girlfriend for a while, but they split up after Christmas. I don't think it affected him much; he never gave the impression it was serious."

"Is he a Muslim?"

"No." The fat little man smiled slightly. "Nor is that question sequential on 'the devil's a woman,' Sergeant. As far as I'm aware, it is not Islamic doctrine that Satan wears a dress. They believe the opposite: it's the devil in men�the trouser snake�that's the problem. That's why their women cover themselves."

The sergeant was unmoved. "Does this Falstaff character have problems with women?"

Andrew looked interested suddenly. "He certainly does in the opera. Verdi took the story from Shakespeare's Merry Wives, where Falstaff is portrayed as a figure of fun. He loses all his money and comes up with a plan to improve his finances by seducing the rich wives of Windsor. When the women find out about it, they devise humiliating punishments for him."

"What kind of punishments?"

"Slapstick stuff. I haven't seen it for a while but, as far as I recall, they dump him in a river, then make him parade around in fancy dress. It's the trouser-snake theme. The women lead him on by pretending to like him�get him excited, in other words�then slap him down when he thinks he's about to score. It's a tale of male mockery by feisty ladies. The lesson is that women are intellectually and ethically superior to men."

The sergeant gave a grunt of disapproval, as if the lesson didn't appeal to him. "Pretty topical then. That's all anything's about these days."

Andrew didn't disagree. "It always has been. It's the battle of the sexes ... men are from Mars and women from Venus. Human nature never changes. We can analyze our DNA, email each other across the world, transplant hearts ... but the fundamentals remain the same. Men hunt, and women control the family. Simple as that. Shakespeare's perceptions are as true now as they were when he recorded them four hundred years ago. He was a behavioral scientist before behavioral science was invented�" he ticked the air�"a genius of a psychologist, with a very real understanding of the dynamics of relationships�particularly male-female relationships."

"Mm."

"Sorry," said Andrew. "I'm a fan ... tend to get carried away."

"I've only ever seen Hamlet. Someone told me the whole play could be reduced down to the speech about suicide. 'To be or not to be.' Is that right?"

"He's certainly a man who explores his own tormented identity. In that respect, it's a precursor of modern theater."

Sergeant Lovatt studied Jonathan through the window. "Does Mr. Hughes have a tormented identity?"

Andrew followed his gaze. "Don't we all?"

"Some more than others, I suspect," the other said blandly. "Has he ever displayed any mental problems that you're aware of?"

Too many to count, Andrew thought. Envy ... resentment ... insecurity ... self-loathing ... just like his agent and every other poor sod on the planet who didn't measure up to expectation. "No," he said. "What makes you ask?"

"Your friend resisted arrest and refuses to explain himself. We're interested why."

"Presumably because he doesn't believe he's done anything wrong. He writes books about the pitfalls of social stereotyping and the failings of the criminal justice system when it treats the stereotype and ignores the individual. I imagine he's working on the principle that if you haven't charged him, then he shouldn't have been arrested in the first place."

The sergeant shook his head. "There was nothing wrong with the arrest, sir. Mr. Hughes was detained under stop-and-search powers after going berserk in a public place. When he was taken into custody, he tried to hit an officer with his briefcase."

"Did he make contact?"

"Barely. If he wasn't such a big girl's blouse, he'd be facing a charge of assault, and that's a serious offense." A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. "He's not much of a fighter, your friend. The transport policeman who detained him said it was like wrestling with a stick insect."

"What about the people he bumped into?"

"They were willing to let it go."

"So what's left, other than refusing to answer questions? I thought that was a right, not a crime."

"Unless you make a habit of it. He flew in from America last night and was detained for an hour for the same reason."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" said Andrew impatiently. "It happens every time. If it's not his views on bin Laden, it's which bloody cricket team he supports. I'm never asked questions like that, and if I were I'd say Osama was a splendid fellow just to see what reaction I got." He leaned forward. "If no one else wants to pursue it, you've no reason to hold him."

"We still want an explanation, Mr. Spicer. Heathrow's on heightened alert because of terrorist threats, and the same applies in the major conurbations. Unusual behavior is taken seriously."

"More so when the suspect looks like an Arab, I suppose."

The man didn't say anything.

"If you have his passport, then you know he's British. It used to mean something."

"He isn't carrying anything that can identify him, sir. That's why we asked you to drive down here."

Andrew looked surprised. "He must have his passport. He's irrational about the damn thing ... so terrified of losing it he pats his breastpocket all the time."

The sergeant shook his head. "No passport."

"What about his wallet?"

"No wallet. No money. No credit cards. No train ticket. Certainly no opera ticket to Verdi's Falstaff. He's a bit of a mystery, your friend. All he has in his briefcase are a pay-as-you-go mobile telephone�with a rundown battery�and some letters addressed to him care of Spicer & Hardy�" he eyed Andrew thoughtfully�"which makes his refusal to cooperate rather surprising. You'd think he'd be falling over himself to prove who he is."

"Or explains it," Andrew countered. "When was the last time you had your identity questioned twice in twenty-four hours? You haven't questioned mine. How come I'm squeaky clean without a passport, but Jonathan isn't? Is he right? Are you a nonperson if you're paperless and dark-skinned in this country?"

"You came voluntarily, sir, and Mr. Hughes did not. He was detained legitimately and asked to account for himself. When he refused, he was arrested and brought here. Had he been willing to answer a few straightforward questions, he would have been released as soon as we had confirmation that his answers were true."

"What sort of questions?"

"Address, job, next-of-kin details, what took him to America. Nothing out of the ordinary ... and nothing we wouldn't ask a white man in the same circumstances."

"I've told you his job, so to be strictly accurate it's Dr. Hughes, not Mr. Hughes. He lives in a flat in West Kensington�off the top of my head it's 2b Columbia Street or Road�and his next of kin are his parents, though he hasn't seen them for years. They divorced shortly before he went up to Oxford, and I believe his mother repatriated. He doesn't know�or care�what happened to his father. As for the trip to America, he was attending the funeral of one of his students who was killed in a racist attack on the streets of New York." He glanced at the window again. "Jon's the one who pulled strings to win him an educational scholarship, so I shouldn't think he's feeling too happy that the lad was murdered."

"How does he afford it on an academic's salary?"

"What?"

"Trips to America, Paul Smith suits, Versace shirts, tickets to the opera, Armani glasses. What kind of books does he write? Bestsellers?"

Andrew hesitated before he answered. "Not exactly. He's a single man with no dependents."

"It's an expensive lifestyle, Mr. Spicer. Does he own his flat?"

"I've no idea."

"Does he have any other income that you know of?"

"No." He studied the sergeant's deadpan face for sev-ejal moments. "What are you suggesting?"

"These are uncertain times, Mr. Spicer."

Andrew laughed. "If you're thinking he's some sort of terrorist, you're way off beam. He hates violence."

The sergeant allowed himself a small smile. "Does he live alone, sir?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Rent and mortgages in Kensington don't come cheap, Mr. Spicer."

This was a policeman with a great capacity for taking in knowledge, Andrew thought, as he watched Jonathan take off his designer specs and polish them on the end of his tie, revealing how red his eyes were. In repose and under the bright lights, his face looked gaunt, while his shoulders had the skinny rigidity of a clothes hanger. Andrew's feelings for Jon had always been ambivalent. Their friendship was based on mutual liking and a shared interest in literature and good wine; however, Andrew despised Jonathan's adopted accent, he despised the snobbery, and, very particularly, he despised the lies. Until today he had never had reason to believe they were anything but a cloak for insecurity, but now he wondered. It was certainly true that the cloak had become increasingly transparent in the last few months.

He turned back to the policeman. "That suit's come out so often you could check your face in the elbows, and the specs are purely for show. I'm not his bank manager so I don't know how he conducts his finances, but it wouldn't surprise me if he's up to his eyes in debt. Money talks loudly, and to someone like Jon a place in Kensington and tickets to the opera are probably worth the interest on a loan."

"Meaning what?"

"Some people need to promote a false image of themselves. You can flaunt a trip to Verdi's Falstaff, but you can't flaunt an empty fridge." He saw the skepticism in the other man's eyes, although whether it was for Jonathan's stupidity in wasting money on the opera or disbelief of Andrew's analysis, it was impossible to say. "I know very little about how terrorists work, but I assume the first rule is, don't draw attention to yourself. Is running amok normal behavior?"

The sergeant shrugged. "We had a doctor check him for drugs and alcohol. His view is that Mr. Hughes is close to a breakdown. I'm no expert in terrorists either, Mr. Spicer, but I imagine it wreaks havoc with the mind ... particularly if your own death is part of the process."

Andrew couldn't disagree with that. "It's more likely his house of cards is collapsing. Maybe the split with his girlfriend caused it ... maybe he was more serious about her than I thought." He paused, recalling a remark Jon had made in the wake of Emma's departure. "I couldn't love her the way she wanted..." "He's not an easy man to read. Most of what he thinks and feels stays locked inside his head."

"Go on."

"I'm guessing it started at Oxford. I didn't know him so well then, he moved in a smarter circle than I did. It's a precious place ... or can be," he corrected himself. "The mythology of dreaming spires and gilded youth. To a cynic like me, it's pretentious nonsense�even corrupting�but to someone who comes from the wrong side of the tracks, if s seductive."

"He doesn't sound like someone from the wrong side of the tracks."

"That's part of the fiction. He bought into the idea that image was everything�if you can pass yourself off as one of the elite, then you're made. The problem is, you have to support the lifestyle�and if you can't afford it, you lose your friends." Andrew shrugged. "I think he's afraid he's about to be exposed as a fraud. Which probably answers your question about why he didn't ask one of his colleagues at the university to vouch for him."

The sergeant looked thoughtful. "It's an offense to misrepresent yourself in a job application."

Andrew shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with his qualifications," he said with a wry smile. "It's his breeding he's worried about. The man's an anthropologist. It won't be easy admitting he's the unlikely product of a Jamaican road sweeper and a Hong Kong maid when he's made a habit of passing himself off as a dark-skinned Caucasian."
 

Andrew, given half an hour to persuade his friend to answer questions, eschewed sympathy in favor of brutal honesty. He listed the options. Assuming Jonathan had nothing criminal to hide, he had a choice of explaining himself and hitching a ride home with Andrew that evening, or keeping up the silence and spending a night in the cells while police made inquiries of his friends and colleagues in London. If he chose the latter, his detention would become public knowledge and he would have to make his own way home if and when he was released. As the police had found no credit cards, cash or return ticket in his pockets or in his briefcase, that could prove difficult.

If Jonathan could not afford his own lawyer, there was a duty paralegal kicking her heels in the waiting room. However, unless he wanted to prolong his agony by explaining his actions to a stranger�bearing in mind the potential charges were minimal�he'd be mad to waste time on a bored young woman who hadn't taken her exams yet. The police doctor who'd tested his urine had hinted at depression, and if Jon persisted in silence there was a strong possibility his next stop would be the psychi-atric department at the local hospital. The knock-on effects of this, when an explanation for his absence reached the university, would be rather more serious than a quiet consultation with a GP in London.

Finally, his agent, who knew more about his author than his author realized, had already blown the gaffe on Jonathan's financial situation, self-esteem problems and inability to sustain relationships ... so it was pointless continuing to save face.

"You could lend me some money to get home," Jonathan muttered, staring at the floor.

"I could, but I'm not going to. What happened to yours?"

"It was stolen."

"Why didn't you tell the police?" "Because they're fascists, and they only arrested me because I'm black." There was some truth in that, thought Andrew, but now wasn't the time to say it. "Grow up, Jon!" he said curtly. "Football hooligans are regularly arrested for running amok, and ninety-nine point nine percent of them are white. Your color didn't come into it. In any case, you are where you are. You can either keep licking your wounds, or you can show .some sense. Rightly or wrongly, you're banged up in a provincial nick with question marks over your behavior. God knows what's been going on, but you can either tell me about it... or you can tell the sergeant. Either way, you need to tell someone."

Jonathan dropped his head into his hands but didn't answer.

"What happened with Councillor Gardener? How did that go?"

"She called me a pig."

"She? I thought it was a man."

"Short, fat and bossy. A bit like you, except she's a hideously ugly middle-aged spinster who spends most of her time making faces."

Andrew lined up a chair beside him and sat down. "Why did she call you a pig?"

Jonathan ground his knuckles into his eyes. "She didn't like me. Accused me of bullying her and said, 'What you can expect from a pig but a grunt?' "

"What did you do?"

"I left."

"I meant, how did you bully her?"

"I didn't ask her what her flaming qualifications were."

It wasn't much of an explanation but Andrew made a reasonable guess at what had happened. "By which I presume you patronized her ... and she didn't like it."

Jonathan gave an indifferent shrug which Andrew took for assent.

"Who stole your wallet?"

More knuckle-grinding. "I think it was the woman at the station, but it could have been any of them."

"What woman?"

"The one who helped me."

"What was her name?"

"I don't know, she wouldn't tell me."

"Was this before or after you ran amok?"

"Before."

"Why did you need help?"

"The police thought I had a bomb in my briefcase so she opened it to prove I was harmless." Jonathan gave a stifled laugh. "She said she was being charitable ... and I believed her. That's how stupid I was. Since when did a woman do anything for free?"

Wondering if that was an oblique reference to Emma, Andrew filed the statement away. The minutes were ticking away and he couldn't afford to be sidetracked. "The sergeant didn't mention a bomb. He said you bumped into other passengers and shouted about being Falstaff."

"It was a different station. They were watching me from the entrance because I was sweating."

"Which station?"

"Branksome."

"It's been freezing all day. Why were you sweating?"

"I felt ill. You can't be ill in this country if you're black. It frightens the natives."

"Don't talk crap, Jon! We have our ups and downs but, by and large, we're pretty peaceful."

"Then why are we going to war?"

Andrew turned to look at him. "Is that what this is about? Were you given a hard time in the States?"

His friend gave a hollow laugh. "It's an Arab thing. We're all potential terrorists."

Andrew shook his head. "Except you're not an Arab. You're half Jamaican, half Chinese and by some freak of genetics you ended up looking like a Bedouin."

Jonathan's jaw set in a hard line. "How do you know what my parentage is?"

"You got rat-arsed the week after Emma left. I couldn't follow most of it but I had the Caribbean-Asian conflict rammed down my throat." A confused loathing of his parents mixed with racist hatred of anyone of Afro-Caribbean or Chinese descent because of the vicious gangs who had terrorized him as a child.

"Why haven't you mentioned it before? Why let me go on pretending?"

"It wasn't my business. If you want to be an Arab or an Iranian, then so be it. I don't see it matters very much unless it causes problems for you. Does it?"

Nationality's a choice, not a birthright... "No."

"Then why are you here? Why were you feeling ill at the station?"

"It was jet lag. I just needed a bit of time, so I leaned against a wall."

"How long for?"

"I can't remember."

"Then this woman appeared and went through your briefcase?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you think that was a bit peculiar?"

Jonathan glanced at him, showing eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. "I do now," he muttered. "At the time I believed her. I even thanked her for her kindness. You can't get much stupider than that ... allowing a woman to make a fool of you, then thanking her for doing it."

It explained the Falstaff reference, Andrew thought. "Oh, come on, pal, you were conned. It sounds like a professional scam ... look for people in trouble, then rip them off while you're pretending to help them. You should have told the police. She's probably well known to them."

Jonathan didn't say anything.

"All right, I'll tell them. What did she look like? What sort of age?"

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea."

He went back to staring at the floor. "I felt sick every time I moved my eyes, so I never really looked at her."

Andrew shook his head. The whole story was becoming more and more bizarre, and he found himself sympathizing with the sergeant's view that Jon was suffering mental problems. "This isn't a figment of your imagination, is it?" he asked bluntly. "Does this woman actually exist?"

"Why would I invent her?"

"Because you're up shit creek without a paddle, mate. You've lost your passport, your money and your return ticket. You've alienated the only useful contact for a book on Howard Stamp and had yourself arrested for behaving like a maniac. What the hell's been going on?" No answer. Andrew stood up. "This is crazy. I'll ask them to phone George Gardener. At least she can tell us what happened at the pub."

"She said she knew Roy Trent and saw me at the Crown and Feathers."

"George Gardener?"

"The woman. She had a dark fringe and spoke with a Dorset accent."

"Who's Roy Trent?"

"The landlord." There was a long pause. "He's the bully, Andrew. He pretends to be helping her, but he does it in a cruel way. He called me a wog and a darkie and said I only got the place at Oxford because I was the token black."

"Ri-i-ight." Andrew watched him for a moment before turning the door handle. "When did you last have a decent night's sleep, Jon?"

His friend gave another muted laugh. "I think too much," he answered cryptically.
 

*8*

The sergeant agreed to telephone the Crown and Feathers but, rather than throwing any light on Jonathan's story, Roy Trent said the pub had been virtually empty at lunchtime and he didn't remember a dark-haired woman. He knew a number of brunettes and auburns but, without a name, he couldn't be anymore helpful. In any case, he'd found Jonathan's wallet and passport on the floor of the upstairs room when he'd come to clean it. He'd assumed Jonathan would phone as soon as he realized they were missing but, as he hadn't, he was planning to ask George Gardener to return them because she knew his address. "What's with the dark-haired woman?" he finished curiously.

"A female of that description gave Dr. Hughes assistance at Branksome Station. She claimed to know you."

"So?"

"Dr. Hughes says she went through his briefcase."

"And he thought she'd stolen his wallet?"

"Yes."

"How come it's taken you so long to call? It's hours since he left."

"He didn't tell us anything was missing until a few minutes ago, sir."

Roy gave a surprised laugh. "He's got real problems, that fellow. Why didn't he phone? The first place you'd check is where you took your jacket off. I'd've put his mind at rest quick as winking."

The sergeant caught Andrew's eye and looked away. "What sort of problems?"

"The whole-world's-out-to-get-me sort. He's just the type to jump to the conclusion his stuff's been stolen instead of thinking it might have been his fault. Mind, he'd've found out he'd dropped it a damn sight sooner if he'd let me call a taxi. But he wouldn't have one. Insisted on walking, even though it was bucketing down. Why did he need assistance?"

"We're not sure. Was he drunk when he left your pub?"

"Couldn't have been, not on what he had here ... couple of glasses of wine, maximum. He might have been drinking before he arrived, of course, but he didn't look like it. He was sweating when he left, but that was because he'd blotted his copybook with George and she was rabbiting on at full blast about what a jerk he was. He couldn't get out fast enough, which probably explains why he didn't check his pockets properly."

"Do you have George Gardener's number?"

"Sure. She's on nights this week so you'll have to call her at work. Hang on, I'll find it for you." He came back with a nursing-home number a few seconds later. "It's the Birches," he said when the sergeant asked which one it was.

"The Birches," repeated the sergeant, writing the number on his notepad. "Is that the big place on Hathaway Avenue?"

"Yup."

"How easy will it be to get hold of Ms. Gardener?"

"Not difficult. She carries a pager."

"Right. Thank you, Mr. Trent."

"Hang on! What about this bloody wallet and passport? Does Hughes want to pick them up or should I post them?"

"I'll send a car."

A wary note crept into Roy's voice. "This isn't some sort of insurance scam, is it? There's not much in the wallet, you know ... just a couple of twenties and some tickets. I assumed, as he didn't come back for it, he keeps his credit cards somewhere else. I'll be bloody angry if he tries to accuse me of stealing from him."

"He's not accusing anyone of anything at the moment, sir."

"Then what's the story? It all seems mighty peculiar to me."

You and me both, thought the sergeant, as he avoided the question by thanking the landlord again and cutting the line. He tapped his pen on his desk for a moment, then asked Andrew to find out from Jonathan what was in the wallet. "It's important, Mr. Spicer. If you think you're being lied to, please tell me."

While Andrew was out of the room, he consulted with the Transport Police, then checked for any call outs of the regular force to Branksome Station that afternoon. Both came up negative. There was no response at Branksome, which had closed for the night, but an operative at Bournemouth Central said the only information logged on the line about an Arab acting suspiciously was the "running amok" episode for which Jonathan had been arrested.

Andrew listened to the tail end of the conversation when he returned. "Do you think he imagined this woman?"

The sergeant shrugged. "Not necessarily, but he may have embroidered the encounter when he found his wallet was missing. He seems to like painting himself as a victim of injustice."

"Is that what the landlord said?"

The other man ignored the question. "I'm not unsympathetic, Mr. Spicer. It can't be easy for any dark-skinned person with all the anti-Muslim feeling that's in the world at the moment. What does he say was in the wallet?"

"Nothing worth stealing ... except to him: a return ticket which he needed to get back in time for the opera, the Falstaff seat and forty-odd quid. He wasn't asked to show his ticket at Branksome, which is why he didn't discover it was missing till he reached Bournemouth Central. He says he should have just got on the train and blagged his way back to London, but he was too tired to think of it."

"What about credit cards?"

Andrew shrugged. "He wouldn't say where they were, but he's not claiming they were in the wallet."

George Gardener was as surprised as Roy to be answering police questions about Dr. Hughes six hours after she thought she'd seen the back of him. She knew nothing about the missing wallet and passport, but she'd left the pub shortly after Jonathan. Like Roy, she had no recollection of a dark-haired woman. "There was hardly anyone there," she told the sergeant. "I only remember seeing Jim Longhurst. I suppose people may have come in while Dr. Hughes and I were upstairs, but he left by the back door, and that's not visible from the bar."

"Mr. Trent said you had a row with Dr. Hughes. May I ask what it was about?"

"We didn't row," she said. "Roy's probably talking about me voicing my opinions in the kitchen. I believe Dr. Hughes heard me, which is why he refused to wait for a taxi."

"Did he come by taxi?"

She hesitated. "I don't know ... no, I don't think so. His raincoat was very wet when he got into my car, too wet for the few minutes before I caught up with him."

"Was this before or after you voiced your opinions?"

"Before. I was late for our meeting and there was a misunderstanding between him and Roy. I went after him in my car."

"What sort of misunderstanding?"

She sighed. "Roy made a remark that Dr. Hughes interpreted as racist. We were both expecting a white man�it's not a foreign name, you see, which is how the misunderstanding occurred." She paused. "Has he lodged a complaint against Roy?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then what's this about?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out, Ms. Gardener. It would help if you gave me a summary�brief, if possible�of this meeting. What was the reason for it? What happened to make you voice opinions about Dr. Hughes?"

"Oh dear! It all seems very petty now."

"Please."

Sergeant Lovatt was expecting a rambling account but, in the event, it was surprisingly concise. George explained their common interest in Howard Stamp and referred to the differences between herself and Jonathan as a "personality clash." Their dislike had been mutual, and she'd recognized very early that she'd be walking on eggshells if she tried to work with him. Their attitudes to life were diametrically opposed�possibly because she was a generation older and Dr. Hughes aspired to more sophisticated standards than she cared about or was capable of achieving�so she had found it impossible to take the meeting further.

"I'm sorry if he's offended," she finished, "but I did explain that it wasn't a racist issue. Sometimes chemistry works and sometimes it doesn't. Sadly, in this case it didn't ... and I wasn't prepared to hand my notes to someone whose motives I distrusted."

"Mm."

"Does that help, Sergeant?"

Not really... "Did he say he was feeling ill while he was with you, Ms. Gardener?"

"No."

"Did he look ill?"

Another hesitation. "If you'll forgive what appears to be another racist remark ... his skin was too dark to tell. I know when white people are ill�even strangers�but I'm not well enough acquainted with black faces to recognize symptoms. He mopped his brow fairly regularly and didn't eat much�but there was a fire in the room and I assumed he didn't like Roy's food." Her concern sounded in her voice. "Now I feel awful. Is he ill? Is that why you've called?"

"He appears to have left his wallet and passport at the Crown and Feathers, Ms. Gardener. It upset him. Without a return ticket, he had no means of getting back to London in time for the opera."

"I see," she said, although the lack of conviction in her voice suggested the opposite. "Why didn't he phone Roy?"

The sergeant stared across his desk at Andrew. "Perhaps he was embarrassed. There seem to have been some very unfortunate remarks made at this meeting. Thank you for your help."

He replaced the receiver. "I need verifiable contact details before he leaves, Mr. Spicer. However, I see no reason to detain him any longer tonight. I believe your assessment of your friend is right�that he has money difficulties and that the loss of his wallet pushed him off balance. It can be retrieved from the Crown and Feathers where he left it. I'll give you directions there, although I suggest you leave Dr. Hughes in the car and collect it from Mr. Trent yourself. If your friend gets himself into anymore trouble tonight, he will not go back to London. Understood?"

Andrew nodded. "Is this the end of it?"

Lovatt's expression was unreadable. "I've no idea, Mr. Spicer. I shall submit a report but I can't say whether any further action will be taken." He stood up. "If your reading of your friend is accurate, then you should encourage him to seek professional help. I repeat, unusual behavior is taken seriously these days ... whatever the reasons for it."
 

Andrew checked his watch as he shut the passenger door on Jonathan. It was after ten o'clock and he was desperately hungry. He toyed with the idea of finding something to eat before driving to Highdown, but he didn't think he could do it and reach the Crown and Feathers before closing time. It made him irritable, and he slammed his own door with unnecessary force as he climbed in behind the wheel.

"I'm sorry," said Jonathan quietly. "I'd have chucked those letters in a bin if I'd known they were going to call you."

Andrew fired the engine and reversed out of the police car park. "Not your fault," he said with commendable control. "Better someone who knows you than someone who doesn't."

Jonathan clamped his hands between his knees. "Better no one at all. I should have taken the first train."

Andrew never held grudges. "You were a breakdown waiting to happen, pal. All you'd have done is postpone it." In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection he punched Jonathan lightly on the shoulder. "Be grateful it didn't happen at the opera. You'd have gone to pieces watching poor old Falstaff being pilloried�and that would have been horribly public."

"You can't get more public than Bournemouth Central."

"Certainly not if you're Jamaican. The brothers don't seem to have found Dorset yet."

Jonathan turned away to stare out of the window. "You're black, Jon, and it's tearing you apart. However much you don't want to admit it, you have to address it at some point."