Disordered Minds

*9*

Andrew folded himself into the car and leaned across Jonathan to retrieve his mobile from the dashboard pocket. He punched in the numbers for directory inquiries. "Yes, please, Bournemouth. The Birches, Hathaway Avenue ... it's a nursing home." The sergeant wasn't the only one with a retentive memory, he thought, as he clicked onto the nursing home number. "Yes, hello, I'm sorry to bother you at such a late hour but I was wondering if I could have a quick word with George Gardener ... no, it's not personal ... it's a follow-up on the call she had earlier from Sergeant Lovatt." He absorbed the irritation from the other end. "I do apologize. You have my guarantee I'll only keep her for a minute or two. Yes, I'll wait ... thank you."

He plugged the mobile into the car microphone, then took out Jonathan's wallet and handed it to him. "Trent's a bastard," he said cheerfully, "and I think I've just seen your dark-haired thief."

Jonathan looked at him in surprise. "You don't know what she looks like."

"No," Andrew agreed, "but she had a dark fringe and Trent didn't want me anywhere near her. He frogmarched me away."

A breathy voice came through the car speakers. "Hello. This is George Gardener."

"Andrew Spicer, Ms. Gardener. Jonathan's agent. You contacted him through my office, if you remember."

"They said it was the sergeant again."

"It's the same matter. I was with Sergeant Lovatt when you spoke to him earlier. I wonder if you'd be kind enough to confirm one small detail for me. Jon tells me you watched him take off his jacket and put his wallet and passport in his briefcase. Is that right?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "He was very meticulous about it."

"Did he take it out again at any point?"

"No ... well, not when I was in the room with him at least. He may have done so after I left." There was a beat of silence. "I don't understand what's going on. Why all these questions? What's happened to Dr. Hughes?"

Andrew stared through the windshield. What the hell...? There'd almost certainly be a piece about it in the local newspaper tomorrow. "He became distressed after his wallet was stolen," he said curtly, "and, unfortunately-the way things are at the moment-a dark-skinned Arab who shows visible agitation is viewed as a threat. He's been under arrest for six hours and was only released after I drove down from London to vouch for him."

She sounded baffled. "I thought Roy found the wallet at the pub."

"Let's just say it was in his possession, Ms. Gardener. I picked it up from there ten minutes ago. Whether Dr. Hughes dropped it is another matter altogether."

"I still don't understand."

"No," agreed Andrew, "neither do we, so I suggest you ask Mr. Trent for an explanation. It's not as though the wallet was even worth stealing."

"Was anything missing?"

"No."

"Is Dr. Hughes saying Roy stole it?"

"No," said Andrew again. "He believes it was a dark-haired woman on Branksome Station who helped him when he wasn't feeling well."

She took time to assimilate this information. "Well, I'm sorry he was ill, but I still don't understand what it has to do with Roy."

"The woman claimed to be a friend of Mr. Trent's ... and she clearly must be, Ms. Gardener, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to return the wallet to me."

"She said she was a friend of his ex-wife's," corrected Jonathan in an undertone.

"Did you hear that, Ms. Gardener?"

"Was that Dr. Hughes speaking?"

"Yes."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. I can't help feeling partly to blame. None of this would have happened if I hadn't been late."

Jonathan shook his head but didn't say anything.

"He said the woman claimed to be a friend of Mr. Trent's ex-wife," Andrew prompted her. "She has a dark fringe and speaks with a Dorset accent. Does that ring any bells?"

"I'm afraid not. I've never met his wife, and certainly none of her friends. Perhaps she was lying?"

"Then how did Mr. Trent get the wallet back?"

Another silence while she considered the conundrum. "Perhaps Dr. Hughes is mistaken," she said unhappily. "Perhaps he took it out again after I left. We were both rather rattled." She waited for Andrew to respond, and when he didn't: "It all seems very strange," she finished lamely.

"I agree. If Mr. Trent provides you with an explanation, I'll be interested to hear it."

She didn't answer immediately. "If nothing's missing, he'll say it's a storm in a teacup."

"Of course he will," Andrew acknowledged. "He's obviously more used to lying than telling the truth."

She tut-tutted indignantly. "That's a terrible accusation to make against a man you don't know."

"Surely not," said Andrew ironically. "As the saying goes: what can you expect from a pig but a grunt?"

Cill lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into Roy's face. He'd backed her into a corner of the kitchen and his thrashing finger had been lambasting her for what seemed like hours. It reminded her of their tempestuous marriage before she left him for Nick. "Give it a rest," she said sulkily. "There's no harm done. I got the sodding thing back to you quick enough, didn't I? How was I to know he'd go running to the cops instead of making a phone call?"

"He's a wog, you stupid bitch. They always go to the police. Why the fuck did you do it?"

"Because it seemed like a good idea at the time." She whooshed out another cloud of smoke to force him into retreat. "I wanted his address, and the letters only had his agent's address."

"Why?"

"In case you've been lying to me."

His eyes narrowed. "About what?"

"How much you've told the fat spinster. You're too damn friendly with her. I thought maybe she's been pricking your conscience. Nick thinks you've gone soft, Roy-there was a time when the only thing a bleeding heart liberal was worth was a damn good kicking."

He gave a snort of angry laughter. "Nick thinks!" He turned to the CCTV monitor. "You're married to a gorilla, Cill. All he thinks about is sex and food. You made a bad bargain there, darlin'."

She ignored him. "All right, I think you've gone soft. What difference does it make? Nick always agrees with me if I give him what he wants."

"Jesus, you're so thick! What were you planning to do if you did get his address? Kill him? Thanks to me, he was away and done with. George didn't want anything more to do with him." He jabbed the finger in her face again. "He's a faggot-no fucking guts; I knew the minute I clapped eyes on him he'd be a pushover. I riled him, so he riled George ... happens every time. Then you have to stick your nose in and land me with his sodding agent."

She smacked his finger away. "What's he going to do?" she demanded crossly. "The wogs got his wallet back intact. If you stick to your story, there won't be a problem."

"I know blokes like Spicer. Once they get the bit between their teeth, they never stop. He knows damn well Hughes didn't drop his wallet here."

"He's a midget," she said dismissively. "Since when were you frightened of midgets?"

"Since I was taught some sense. It's a pity you never learned any, darlin'. Small guys use their brains ... big guys like your brain-dead husband put all their energy into getting atop the nearest available tart."

"What's he gonna do?" she repeated sulkily.

"Talk to George," Roy said grimly. "I'll put money on it."

"So?"

"She'll be at me with the questions again." He brought his fist up and rested it under her chin. "If you'd let it alone, Cill, she'd've gone on with her research and got precisely nowhere because I was the only source she had." He moved his knuckles up her soft skin, caressing it gently, before pressing them against her cheekbone. "Now she'll come looking for you, and if you drop me in it one more time-" he spread his lips in an evil smile-"I'll use this in such a way that even the gorilla you married won't recognize you."

Cill ignored him again. Roy's threats were never more than bluster. "Nick's getting worse, you know. He's been dropping things, but he won't go near the doctors. I think the paralysis is spreading."

Roy lowered his fist and turned away. "Well, you won't be shedding any tears over it. He's worth more to you dead than alive."

"Maybe I have feelings for him."

"Don't talk crap," said Roy dismissively. "The only feelings you have are for his money. You're getting quite a taste for the high life one way and another."

"Someone had to look after him."

He gave an angry laugh. "You're so full of it, darlin'. You thought you'd get a pussycat ... instead you get a drooling lunatic whose anger control mechanism's shot to pieces."

Her pale eyes glittered malevolently. "He adores me," she said, "always has. I make him feel better about himself."

"Only because he doesn't know who you are."

It was true, but she was damned if she'd admit it. Half of Nick's brain had been scrambled seven years ago in London when two Metropolitan coppers ran him head first into a lamppost before taking their boots to him. They claimed they mistook him for a drug baron who was known to carry a gun. The fact that a gun was never found, the only drugs he had on him were class-C tranquilizers and he was held in a cell for three hours before he was given medical attention meant compensation of two hundred thousand for brain damage, wrongful arrest and imprisonment. It had taken his solicitors five years to win it through the courts, but Cill had thought dumping Roy to play Florence Nightingale to a cripple was a gamble worth taking.

"You won't be shedding tears neither, darlin'," she said, running a soft hand up between Roy's shoulder blades. "I always said I'd share it, and I will." She dug her fingernails into the nape of his neck. "In any case, it was you told me to do it."

He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. "I'll swing for you one of these days, Cill."

She touched her lips to his cheek. "Don't be silly, darlin'. I'm the only girl you've ever loved."

It wasn't until Andrew turned onto the A31 and put his foot down that Jonathan roused himself to speak. "Thanks."

"Pleasure. We'll stop at the first service station and get something to eat. There's one on the M27."

"I'm OK. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not. I'm worrying about myself. I haven't eaten since breakfast." He glanced at Jonathan's tired face. "You'll be eating, too, pal, whether you like it or not. You can't go on starving yourself ... not if you want to remain sane."

"I'm not starving myself."

"Then why are your clothes hanging off you?" He flicked the indicator and pulled out into the fast lane of the dual carriageway. "You can stay with me tonight, then tomorrow I'm taking you to my doctor."

"I can't. I have a tutorial at eleven."

"I'll phone your department and say you won't be in till Monday."

"I really-"

"Cut the crap," Andrew said sharply. "I've hauled my arse halfway across the country to bail you out. The least you can do is humor me. If nothing else, the doc will give you some knockout pills to help you sleep."

Jonathan hunched his shoulders. "They don't work. I've tried ... nothing works when your brain won't switch off."

"Is it Emma?"

His friend gave a mirthless laugh. "No."

"Then what's the problem?"

It was a moment before Jonathan answered. "The usual," he said with sudden resignation, as if recognizing that Andrew needed something for his trouble. "Rueing the day I was born into this bloody awful country ... wishing I was white and rich. It's an apartheid thing. Either you belong or you don't."

He spoke with such bitterness that Andrew didn't doubt he believed what he was saying. Perhaps it was true. "Who said you don't belong?"

Another humorless laugh. "You mean apart from immigration officials, policemen, Dorset landlords and anyone else who fancies a swipe?"

"Apart from them," Andrew agreed calmly.

"Everyone's prejudiced-it's been worse since the attack on the Trade Center."

"That was eighteen months ago, and you've only been twitched since Emma left."

Anger sparked briefly in Jonathan's eyes. "Drop it, OK. If it makes you feel comfortable, then go ahead, blame my problems on a failed relationship-it's how you excuse yours."

"I don't recall ever discussing my problems with you, Jon. We usually pore over yours for hours on end."

"Yes, well, stop blaming Emma. The truth is what happened today. Strangers don't see me, they see someone who isn't a member of their cozy club. You try dealing with that day after day and then tell me you sleep soundly at night."

"We're all in the same boat. When strangers look at me, they see a bald short-arse with zero status. It's just as painful ... particularly when women do it. I watch their eyes skate over my head while they look around for a big, handsome fellow with a full head of hair-" he gave an amused chuckle-"and I wouldn't mind if I didn't have a preference for tall women. That's life. You have to recognize it's going to happen and be willing to make a few compromises."

"Like what?"

"Don't wear your heart on your sleeve. People react badly if you show you care. They either take advantage or leg it as fast as they can." He slowed as they approached a roundabout. "Calling the police fascists wasn't the best idea you've ever had."

Jonathan stared grimly through the windshield. "Do you know how many times I've been stopped and searched in the last six months? Four, including last night. How many times has it happened to you?"

"In the last six months? Not at all. In my life? Once, when a fight broke out as I left a pub."

"Point made then. As a kid, I was stopped every other week."

"Only because you were expecting to be. If you flag a prophecy, it'll fulfill itself immediately. I'm not saying it's fair, but suspicion breeds suspicion."

"And which came first?" Jonathan growled. "Police suspicion of me or mine of them? Try applying your simplistic rules to that little conundrum. I was hoping for some sympathy, not another damn lecture on the dangers of alienation. I'd tolerate it if I thought you'd ever experienced it, but you haven't. A broken marriage hardly counts, not when your wife still invites you to dinner and your girls stay weekends."

"You'll be telling me next how lucky I am," said Andrew mildly. "All the joys of family life without the irritation of living with any of them. Despite their age, the parents are fit and independent-courtesy of a share in a thriving little agency-the wife and kids are safely parked with a man who appreciates them-courtesy of a generous divorce settlement-and I can dedicate myself to what I really enjoy doing: working to support them all."

"Considering the divorce was your fault, you're damn lucky Jenny didn't break off all contact."

"Mm ... except she was having an affair too. It's easier to maintain relationships when both parties feel guilty."

Jonathan looked at him. This was something he hadn't known. "I thought it was only you."

"I know you did."

"You should have told me."

"Why?"

"I always thought what an idiot you were to chuck Jenny over for a woman who only lasted a few months. I can't even remember her name now. Claire? Carol?"

"Claire," said Andrew, "a blonde, blue-eyed bombshell, just like Jenny. They say men are always attracted to the same type of woman, but it doesn't seem to work the other way. Greg-Jenny's lover-is ten feet tall and looks like Brad Pitt. I can see exactly why she was attracted to him. The girls, too. They adore him as much as she does."

Something in his tone caused Jonathan to frown. "If Jenny was equally to blame, how come she did so well out of the divorce?"

Andrew glanced at him. "I made it easy for her."

"Then you're a fool. She got the house, the bloke and the kids-" he made a dismissive gesture-"and you got a miserable two-up, two-down in Peckham. What kind of trade was that, for Christ's sake? No wonder Claire buggered off."

Andrew gave a small laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment. Obviously, I mistook my profession."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm a better actor than Greg."

There was a short silence.

"I don't understand."

"Claire never existed. The only blonde, blue-eyed bombshells I've ever had relationships with are Jenny and the girls. You don't have a monopoly on pride, Jon. What did you expect me to do? Get down on my knees and beg? I was happy as a sandboy-beautiful wife, beautiful children, house, secure job, good social life-then, wham, the wife hits me between the eyes with the muscled actor from next door who's been shafting her for months. The irony was, I really liked him ... still do, as a matter of fact."

"You're mad," said Jonathan in disbelief. "Why would you lie about a thing like that? It's cost you a fortune in guilt money."

"It depends what you value. As long as the business isn't threatened, I'd rather be thought of as a bit of a dog than an embarrassing burden on my wife's conscience. Do you think Jenny would be on the phone all the time, or Greg would invite me to dinner, if they thought I was a sad, lonely git who still hankered after his ex-wife? Would the girls be happy to stay overnight if I'd slagged off their mother for two-timing me?" He spoke matter-of-factly without any attempt at sympathy. "More importantly, the parents see their grandchildren whenever they want. They castigate me regularly for causing the breakup but go on treating Jenny as their daughter-in-law. All in all, I'd say it was cheap at the price."

Jonathan's incredulity deepened. What did a man have to gain by turning himself into a whipping boy for an errant wife and critical parents? "They were flogged for the failings of others ... it's a very twisted, concept..." "Why let Jenny off scot-free? She bad-mouthed you enough at the time. I remember her telling me what a shit you were."

"I hope you agreed with her. I was never too sure she totally believed in Claire."

"I did as a matter of fact. I said you'd married too young, and the marriage was bound to fail." He thought back. "She wasn't very happy about it."

"Her pride was dented. She thought she was the only woman in my life."

"What about your pride?"

"Shot to pieces till I invented Claire. She was a great restorative."

"I'd have wanted revenge."

Andrew shrugged. "I couldn't see the point of going to war over something I couldn't control. You can't force people to love you ... you can't force them to be loyal. All you can do is keep affection alive and hope for the best."

He was living in cloud cuckoo land, thought Jonathan. "Are you expecting Jenny to come back?"

"No."

"Then I don't get it. What's the quid pro quo for acting honorably if no one knows you're doing it?"

"I don't have to walk around with a neon sign on my forehead, saying 'loser.' "

Jonathan felt the familiar anger knot inside his jaw. "Meaning that I do, I suppose?"

" 'Fraid so. You're a sitting duck for the Roy Trents of this world."

COUNCILLOR G. GARDENER

25 Mullin Street, Highdown, Bournemouth, Dorset BH15 6VX

Andrew Spicer

Spicer & Hardy Authors' Agents

25 Blundell Street

London W4 9TP

April 2, 2003

Dear Mr. Spicer:

I hesitate to write to Dr. Hughes as he may not wish to correspond with me, but I would be grateful if you could pass on my apologies to him and my best wishes for his recovery. I have had a long conversation with Sergeant Lovatt and, though he refused to go into details, he did say that Dr. Hughes had been unwell.

The circumstances of our meeting were unfortunate, and I take much of the blame. I have some experience of illness, and I should have realized that Dr. Hughes's reticence was physiologically based. He was clearly exhausted, but I made no allowances for poor health, jet lag or even the severity of the weather that day. My only excuse is blind dedication to exculpating Howard Stamp, and a long history of disappointment in the attempts I've made to do so. I am now so programmed for failure that I see it before I need to.

Re: our short phone call on the evening of February 13: Roy Trent stands by his story that Dr. Hughes left his wallet at the pub. However, after Sergeant Lovatt gave me the details of Dr. Hughes's arrest, I made inquiries at Branksome Station. The clerk in the ticket office remembers Dr. Hughes well because some passengers expressed concern about his behavior. The gist of the clerk's story is as follows:

He thought Dr. Hughes was drunk as he was swaying and trying to focus on the other platform to keep his balance. His face was wet-the clerk thought it was rain until he realized Dr. Hughes was sweating-and he was clutching his briefcase to his chest. Several trains went through but he didn't take them. At least two people thought he was a suicide bomber trying to pluck up the courage to go through with it. The clerk was worried enough to consider phoning the police. However, a woman approached Dr. Hughes for what appeared to be a prearranged meeting. They smiled and talked and Dr. Hughes gave her his briefcase from which she removed some papers. The clerk remembered seeing the woman earlier in the ticket hall, and assumed Dr. Hughes had misunderstood where the meeting was to take place. He admitted he wouldn't have been worried if Dr. Hughes hadn't been an Arab-he would have dismissed him as a drunk. He was relieved when the woman helped him onto a train and took the problem out of his hands. She had dark hair and held a scarf to her mouth, but he couldn't remember anything else about her except that she left in a black BMW that had been parked for forty-five minutes in the "drop-off only" zone.

Because this seemed to validate Dr. Hughes's version of events, I made some discreet inquiries about Roy Trent's ex-wife. Her name is Priscilla Fletcher, formerly known as Cill Trent. I was unable to discover her maiden name, but she has been described to me as midforties, medium height, slim, dark hair cut in a straight fringe, light-colored eyes (possibly blue) and attractive. Her current husband, Nicholas Fletcher, is in "business"-there's some mystery over exactly what he does-and they live in Sandbanks, an expensive part of Poole. She had a child by Roy-a son, now in his thirties (!)-but none by Fletcher. Because of the son, she and Roy remain on good terms. While there is no evidence that this is the woman who approached Dr. Hughes, the description seems to fit.

Nevertheless, I remained puzzled as to why Priscilla Fletcher, an apparently wealthy woman (or indeed one of her friends) would have taken the wallet. For this reason I related the clerk's story to Roy Trent, embroidering the description of the woman to more closely resemble Priscilla Fletcher, and asked him what he made of it in view of Dr. Hughes's certainty that she was the thief. Roy's reaction was interesting. He treated it as a joke and said if Dr. Hughes was right, the woman must have returned to the pub after it closed for the afternoon in order to leave the wallet on the floor of the room where Dr. Hughes and I had lunch. And that hadn't happened. I agreed the story was absurd, pointing out that she must also have known where the lunch took place, which would suggest someone very familiar with the running of the pub. Therefore, unless Roy recognized the woman's description, Dr. Hughes must be mistaken. Roy agreed that he did not recognize the woman's description.

I should say at this point that I've never had reason to disbelieve anything Roy has told me in the past. Our relationship is an informal one, based on two years of friendship after he gave me permission to use his pub as a "surgery." I don't claim to know him well-he is not a forthcoming man-but I've always found him pleasant and supportive, particularly with the help he's given me in unearthing information about Howard Stamp. Of course I was intrigued by the lie, particularly as I could see no reason for it. He might easily have said, "I know several women who match that description, my ex-wife being one, but none of them came to the pub that day." I was, after all, agreeing with him that Dr. Hughes was mistaken.

I was interested enough to do some further research and began by making a number of assumptions, any one of which might have been false, but which seemed worth testing. These are the assumptions I made:

1. Roy's ex-wife stole the wallet.

2. She did so because she: (a) is an opportunist thief; or (b) was told to; or (c) was interested in Dr. Hughes; or (d) a combination of the three.

3. If it was an opportunistic theft, how did she know: (a) to return the wallet to Roy; (b) that he would protect her?

4. Because she returned it, she must have known: (a) that Dr. Hughes had been at the pub earlier; (b) what he looked like.

5. She knew these facts because: (a) she had been at the pub herself; or (b) they had been given to her by someone else.

6. Apart from myself, Roy Trent is the only other person who knew when, where and why I was meeting with Dr. Hughes.

7. The only way Priscilla Fletcher could have known these details is if Roy told her.

8. If theft of money wasn't her motivation, then she wanted to know more about Dr. Hughes.

9. She did not ask Roy for details because: (a) she didn't think he would tell her; or (b) he didn't know the answers; or (c) it was he who told her to commit the theft.

10. If (b) or (c), Roy did not want to display undue interest in Dr. Hughes by quizzing me about him.

11. Dr. Hughes's only reason for coming to Bournemouth was his interest in Howard Stamp.

I already knew that Roy Trent was acquainted with Howard Stamp, if only "by sight" (Roy's words), but it seemed reasonable to infer that Priscilla Fletcher was also connected with him in some way. Out of curiosity, I went back to the newspaper coverage at the time of Grace Jefferies' murder to see if there was anything I'd overlooked. I came across an unrelated story about a thirteen-year-old called Priscilla "Cill" Trevelyan who went missing from her home in Highdown a week before Grace's body was found. As yet, I have been unable to establish whether Cill Trevelyan and Priscilla Fletcher are one and the same. However, there are similarities between the photograph of the missing girl and the one I've managed to track down of Priscilla Fletcher/Trent, taken five years ago at a Crown and Feathers barbecue, courtesy of Jim Longhurst. I hope Dr. Hughes will appreciate the irony! (Copies enclosed.)

While I am reluctant to jump to conclusions at this stage, it seems that Cill was subjected to a gang rape before she ran away and this would accord with Priscilla Fletcher (midforties) having a son in his thirties. I attach photocopies of the newspaper clippings which might be of interest to Dr. Hughes when he's well enough to read them. He will, of course, note immediately that Cill Trevelyan had shoulder-length dark hair. He will also note the descriptions of her assailants-none of whom was named and none of whom was charged through lack of evidence. Interestingly, the story of this missing thirteen-year-old never made it into the national press, presumably because she was posted immediately as a "runaway."

There is nothing to link Cill's story with Howard's except the coincidences of time and place and some thought-provoking descriptions. However, the synchronicity of events, coupled with the unnecessary theft of a wallet thirty years later, does raise questions. At the moment I have no idea what the linkage might be, but I am left with the suspicion that Priscilla Fletcher feels she has something to lose if Howard's case is resurrected. I am willing to forward further information that comes my way, if you think Dr. Hughes would be interested. I will, of course, understand if he prefers to wash his hands of it.

In conclusion, Roy Trent is not party to this information and, for the foreseeable future, I intend to remain on good terms with him. I would be grateful if you and Dr. Hughes would avoid doing anything to prejudice that position. Thanking you in advance,

Yours sincerely

George Gardener

Encs

Bournemouth Evening News-Saturday, May 30, 1970

CONCERN FOR MISSING GIRL

Bournemouth Police today asked for help in the search for Priscilla Trevelyan, 13, who went missing from her home in Highdown during the early hours of this morning. She is 5' 5" tall, weighing approximately 8 stone, with shoulder-length dark hair, possibly dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Known as Cill, the youngster is believed to have run away after an argument with her father. Mrs. Jean Trevelyan, 35, blamed her daughter's school. "Her father was upset because she was given a week's suspension for fighting. But it takes two to make a fight and the other girl wasn't punished at all. Cill's bright and she knew that wasn't fair." She broke down as she made a plea for her daughter to come home. "We love her and we want her back. No one's going to be angry."

Police are following various lines of inquiry. "She's mature for her age," said a spokesman, "and she was in the company of some older boys three weeks ago. There's a possibility she may be with one of them now. Two were described as dark-haired and of medium build, the third as tall and thin with ginger hair. We are asking these boys to come forward. They have nothing to fear if they know where Cill is. The imperative is her safe return."

Police have not ruled out abduction. "Runaways of this age are vulnerable. They may accept offers of help from people who seek only to exploit them." The Metropolitan Police has been alerted. "London is a magnet for unhappy children," said the spokesman.

Bournemouth Evening News-Monday, June 1, 1970

HUNT FOR 13-YEAR-OLD CONTINUES

Three teenage boys were released without charge today after being questioned by police over the disappearance of Priscilla Trevelyan. They matched descriptions given by one of her school friends, but all three denied knowing Priscilla or having any knowledge of her disappearance. A police spokesman says there is no evidence to link them with the missing girl.

Priscilla's father, David Trevelyan, 37 was also questioned after neighbors mentioned constant rows between the two. "They didn't get on," said one. "He was worried about her truanting." Police denied that Trevelyan was a suspect. "Parents are always questioned in these circumstances," said a spokesman, "but we are satisfied Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan know nothing of their daughter's disappearance."

He admitted that the authorities are baffled. "Several sightings of a girl matching Cill's description have come to nothing, and we are no further forward. After leaving her house she appears to have vanished." They have made a fresh appeal to the public by issuing a series of photographs of the girl in the hope of jogging memories.

Bournemouth Evening News-Saturday, July 25, 1970

MOTHER'S ANGUISH OVER MISSING TEEN

It's just two months since 13-year-old Priscilla Trevelyan left home after an argument with her father, yet her file has been shelved and the team looking into her disappearance disbanded. In simple terms, a runaway does not command the same level of police attention as a child who's been abducted, and Priscilla has joined the frightening statistic of 75,000 children under 16 who run away from homes or institutions in this country every year.

While most of these children return after one night away, some 1,000 will still be missing months later. They are in danger of physical and sexual assault, and many of them resort to crime and prostitution to stay alive. "Cases like these are always difficult," said PC Gary Prentice, who holds a watching brief over Priscilla's file. "If a runaway doesn't want to be found, there's little the police can do. We've circulated her photograph to other forces and we hope someone will recognize her. Many children return home at Christmas when memories of family are strong. I hope this happens in Cill's case."

Priscilla's mother, Jean Trevelyan, is heartbroken. She acknowledges that trouble at home was a contributory factor but she insists it's out of character for her daughter not to have telephoned. "The police say there's no evidence of abduction, but little girls don't vanish into thin air. I wish I'd never mentioned the row with her father. He was trying to support the school's punishment, but it gave the police an excuse to stop looking for her."

PC Prentice denies this. "We pursued every lead we were given. Sadly, Cill was a disturbed adolescent with complications at home and at school. She'd been truanting for some time before she decided to ran away. There's always concern when a 13-year-old goes missing, but we're optimistic that Cill is bright enough to survive. Her friends described her as 'street-smart,' which is an American expression she taught them after reading it in a magazine. She used it to describe herself."

Jean Trevelyan remembers it differently. "Cill was always in trouble. People expected her to behave responsibly because she was well-developed for her age, but at heart she was like any other 13-year-old. One of her friends told the police she was gang raped before she ran away, but they were less interested in that than they were in the argument she had with her father."

PC Prentice admits the rape allegation but says there was no evidence to support it. "If it happened, then it's tragic that Cill was too ashamed to tell anyone about it." He agreed that the stigma of rape is a disincentive to reporting it. "Police forces are working on ways to encourage women and girls to come forward," he said, "but there's still a long way to go."

This is no consolation for Jean Trevelyan who sits by her window, praying for Priscilla to come home. "We've lost more than our daughter," she weeps, "we've lost our good name. People say we were unkind, but she was our only child and we wanted the best for her. The police claim to be sympathetic, but they've never once portrayed us as loving parents."

The photographs of Priscilla that line the room endorse Jean's love for her daughter, but she admits they've only been on display since Priscilla vanished. Like so many mothers, she found the balance between disciplining an errant adolescent and continuing to show love a difficult one. "We were strict because we worried about her, but we didn't know what worry was until she left. David is devastated by it all. It's a terrible way to learn that the time to show your child affection is when you're most angry. We disciplined her because we loved her, yet she must have believed it was done out of hate or she wouldn't have run away."

Her greatest anguish is that Priscilla felt unable to tell anyone she'd been raped. "Her friend said she thought people would say it was her fault because she was wearing a miniskirt, but we live in a terrible society if a 13-year-old thinks she'll be blamed for what happens to her. The police have cast doubt on the rape, but I know it happened because Cill threw her skirt away. She saved up for it and it was her favorite. She wouldn't have done that if she had nothing to feel ashamed about."

One is left with a sense of enormous tragedy. A grieving mother, indefinitely confined to her house for fear her daughter comes back to find no one at home. A father crippled by guilt because he upheld a school punishment. A house empty of laughter. A child missing because there was no one she could ask for help. -Bronwen Sherrard

SPICER & HARDY

AUTHOR'S AGENTS 25 BLUINDELL STREET LONDON W4 9TP

Cllr. George Gardener

25 Mullin Street

Highdown

Bournemouth

DORSET BH15 6VX

Monday, April 7, 2003

Dear George Gardener,

Thank you for your letter of April 2, and your kind wishes for Jonathan's recovery. Prior to your meeting he had been suffering for some time from severe stomach cramps and nausea which he foolishly put down to stress and overwork when the problem was a bleeding ulcer. His trip to the U.S. only exacerbated the problem and he developed complications on the day he visited you. Fortunately, it was caught in time and he's now well on the road to recovery. No thanks to him! I am telling you this because he won't tell you himself as he feels there are no excuses for his behavior. My own view, as I understand from Sergeant Lovatt that you are not well yourself, is that it was a clash of illnesses and is best forgotten. May I return the compliment you paid Jon, and send you my good wishes for your speedy recovery.

I enclose a letter from Jonathan re: Priscilla Fletcher/Cill Trevelyan. However, I wish to stress: (a) his willingness to be involved in your project; and (b) the expertise he can bring to it. Jon has many strong points but self-promotion isn't one of them. When he tries, he sounds patronizing. When he doesn't, he looks smug. Both traits are deeply infuriating, but they're easier to ignore if you view them as a disability.

Yours sincerely,

Andrew Spicer

Andrew Spicer

Enc.

DR. JONATHAN HUGHES

Flat 2b Columbia Road

West Kensington

London Wl4 2DD

Email: jon.hughes@Iondon.ac.uk

Saturday, April 5

Dear George,

I'm embarrassed to think how badly I behaved the day we met, so please don't feel you have anything to apologize for. My trip to Bournemouth was a salutory lesson in my own stupidity. They say every cloud has a silver lining, and mine certainly has. I won't bore you with the Damascene conversion-you probably hate the cliche as much as I do-suffice it to say that I have taken Andrew's advice to live at peace with myself.

I was fascinated by your letter and the enclosures. You may by now have validated or refuted your assumptions. However, I draw your attention to the following:

· Having studied the photograph of Priscilla Fletcher, I believe she may have been the woman who approached me on Branksome Station.

· While there is a similarity between the photographs of Priscilla Fletcher and Cill Trevelyan, it appears superficial. It may be a result of the child having lost baby fat, or the fact that her picture is in black and white, but to my eyes the bone structure of the faces is very different. Cill has a heavier jaw and more pronounced cheekbone than Priscilla's rather delicate equivalents. Cill's eyes look darker, although this may be due to the monochrome.

· Priscilla is extremely fair-skinned, giving her a "Snow White" look-dark hair, pale face. While it's a common enough combination, fair skin is more usually associated with red or blonde hair, except in the Irish and Welsh(!!). Interestingly, my impression of the woman at Branksome Station was that her look was a manufactured one. The photograph gives the same impression. (Painted eyes, reshaped eyebrows, dyed [?] hair.)

· If these are the same person, then there are some interesting discrepancies.

· If they are two different people, then the similarity is striking, particularly as they are both called Priscilla, and Cill Trevelyan would now be in her midforties.

I imagine you have already scoured the newspaper archives for any information on Cill Trevelyan's return. You may even have located her parents, assuming they remained in the Bournemouth area. But if, as I suspect, you've found no evidence that she ever came back- (I'm guessing you did this research before you wrote to Andrew)-then the obvious question is: if Priscilla is not Cill, then why would she want to adopt the name and looks of a girl who vanished thirty-plus years ago?

Here are some other details that struck me as I read the newspaper clippings:

· Compare: "Three teenage boys ... matched descriptions given by one of her [Cill's] school friends..." with Jean Trevelyan's claim: "One of her friends told the police she was gang raped..." There are various inferences to be drawn from these two statements: the friend either witnessed the incident or was told about it afterward; the friend only revealed what had happened after Cill went missing.

· Compare: "the youngster is believed to have run away after an argument with her father..."; "neighbors mentioned constant rows between the two..."; "[her father] was worried about her truanting..."; "Cill was always in trouble..."; "[Jean Trevelyan's] greatest anguish is that Priscilla felt unable to tell anyone she'd been raped ... [Cill] thought people would say it was her fault..." The strong presumption in all these statements is that David Trevelyan would not have been sympathetic if Cill had admitted to being raped.

· "It takes two to make a fight and the other girl wasn't punished at all." Again, there are various inferences to be drawn from this. The most common reason for children to fall out is when one says, "I'll tell on you." If "the friend" was also "the other girl," then the rape was the secret they shared and a threat to reveal it may have been the cause of the fight. If it was a different girl, then either Cill lost her temper over anything and everything or the secret was out. The fact that Cill was punished and the other girl wasn't suggests Cill started it and/or was the more violent and/or refused to give a reason.

· From all of the above references, it is reasonable to accept PC Prentice's analysis: "Cill was a disturbed adolescent with complications at home and at school." (There was an unusual amount of aggression in her life-hitting out at school suggests she was no stranger to being hit at home.) While a child like that may well abscond-research suggests that most runaways have suffered physical or sexual abuse-she was unlikely to keep her name. Indeed, if she hadn't been found in two months, and was still alive, she must have been calling herself something else. I believe that's the name she would continue to go by-even if she returned, home-because it would have been a demonstration to her father that the rules had changed and a new "she" was setting the agenda.

I don't pretend to know any better than you which assumptions are correct. However, I do believe it might be worth trying to put a name to Cill Trevelyan's school friend. Presumably she was the same age as Cill, and a 13-year-old would have been deeply traumatized by the rape (more so if she witnessed it and did nothing to help), closely followed by the guilt of not speaking out, a spiteful threat to "tell" and Cill's disappearance.

I am no psychologist so I'll rely on your expertise to throw the idea out if it's too far-fetched. The schoolfriend seems a more likely contender for Priscilla Fletcher than Cill Trevelyan. (Transference reaction? Mitigation of guilt by "resurrecting" the wronged person? Envy/hero worship-Cill got away and she didn't?) Are any of these credible? Can trauma in childhood define behavior through to middle age?

I have failed dismally to make a connection between Cill's story and Howard's, although I have noted the skinny, ginger-haired "rapist." (Also the medium-build dark-haired duo, one of whom may have been Roy? Is that your thinking?) All I can say re: the boys is that it would require considerable chutzpah to leave a police station following questioning about a rape, only to break in on a vulnerable woman a few hours later and torture her to death. Again, I rely on you for an analysis of juvenile behavior.

Finally-unless you come back with evidence that Cill resurfaced-my strongest suspicion from reading the newspaper reports is that she never ran away at all, but was killed by her father. According to one of the articles, David Trevelyan was exonerated after being questioned by police, but I would need some very strong evidence to believe that. Statistics don't lie. Children who vanish into "thin air" are usually dead, and children who "vanish" are usually victims of their parents. David Trevelyan was a violent man, and I fear Cill may have made the mistake of trying to excuse "the fight" by telling him about her rape.

I look forward to hearing from you again.

Yours sincerely

Jonathan Hughes

From: George Gardener [geo.gar@mullinst.co.uk]

Sent: Tues. 4/8/03 19:20

To: jon.hughes@london.ac.uk

Subject: Cill Trevelyan

Dear Jonathan, You are absolutely right. I can find no record that Cill Trevelyan ever resurfaced. David & Jean Trevelyan left Highdown in the 80s but I have no forwarding address as yet. My new friend (!) Sergeant Lovatt is looking into it for me. He is also trying to locate the file on Howard. Apparently records from all the divisions were collected together in a central archive 20+ years ago. However, as redundant files are usually destroyed, he isn't holding out much hope. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Re: the schoolfriend and transference. Transference is commonly an emotional response-often experienced during therapy-where people transfer personality characteristics of parents/partners/friends to someone else. It's an immature reaction, where neurotic patterns of behavior, often formed in childhood, color subsequent relationships-e.g. in very simple terms, a child who grows up afraid of a stern father will fear all men in authority. Clearly, it's more complicated than that but, generally, transference relates to an imbalance, or perceived imbalance, of power within a relationship, which is taken forward to other relationships and will certainly persist into middle age. [NB: It's not necessarily a negative response. If a child grows up admiring his father, he will look up to men in authority.]

If you're right that Priscilla Fletcher is the school friend, then it's highly likely that trauma at 13 has lingered into adult life. However, the most obvious contender for that is Cill herself as she's the one who experienced the abusive relationships! In some ways, I'd say idolatry or hero worship is closer to what you're looking for.

Interestingly, Howard was a case study in hero worship. You made the point yourself when you said he aped his hero, Ginger Baker. He wanted to look like Baker, wanted to have the courage to rebel in the same way, wanted to be admired in the way Baker was. It was a displacement of his unloved self to a more acceptable substitute. I shall have to do more research, but it's not inconceivable that Cill became a "totem" to a traumatized child, particularly if her disappearance meant the loss of a best friend. I question how long those feelings would have lasted, however.

I shall certainly follow your advice to track down the friend. If nothing else, she will be able to tell us something about Highdown in 1970. Fred Lovatt suggested that one of the reasons Cill's disappearance dropped out of the headlines so quickly was because attention shifted within days to Grace's murder and Howard's arrest. The coincidences of time and place continue to fascinate me, however. It seems so unlikely that two unrelated events should happen within such a short period in the same area, although I take your point about the boys and chutzpah. It's not unknown, of course. Jack the Ripper killed two women within half an hour of each other, even though he'd been disturbed performing the first murder and the hue and cry was up. Adrenaline does strange things to the mind as well as the body.

Best wishes, George