Disordered Minds

*11*

WEST LONDON

SUNDAY, APRIL 13, 2003, MIDDAY

The Spicer & Hardy offices were on the third floor of a converted townhouse in a smart Victorian terrace in west London. Courtesy of Andrew's ex-wife, who made a living as an interior designer, it had been revamped six years previously to reflect a more modern taste than Mr. Spicer and Mr. Hardy's (deceased without issue) penchant for a donnish library look of dark walls, heavy leather furniture and mahogany bookcases. Andrew, who had loved the old style and still recalled the happiness of childhood days curled in an armchair in his father's office reading whatever was available, had never come to terms with the acres of space that Jenny had created using glass, color and artificial lighting. However, no one shared his feelings. To everybody else, the frequently photographed decor was a triumph.

George Gardener was no exception. "Goodness!" she said admiringly as Andrew escorted her up a flight of unremarkable stairs into the reception area, where a trompe 1'oeil reflection converted a quadrant of glass and chrome into a sweeping semicircular desk. "It's huge."

"Smoke and mirrors," said Andrew, opening another door. "Be careful you don't walk into a pane of glass by mistake."

She caught a glimpse of her reflection and hastily buttoned her jacket. "You must have a very confident receptionist. I'm not sure I'd want to be looking at myself all day long."

Andrew chuckled. "We're not big enough to afford one, so the phones are all inside. It was my wife's least good idea. She was either planning for a future that was never going to happen, or she got it into her head that agents' offices are like doctors' waiting rooms, and people drop in off the street clutching manuscripts to their chests." He invited her to go in front of him. "It makes a good quiet room for reading or one-on-one meetings, so it isn't entirely wasted."

The next room was open plan with three desks, isolated from each other by glass screens, foliage plants and pools of artificial light. There were no drawers below the L-shaped ebony tabletops, and only computers and telephones stood on them. "Goodness!" said George again, astonished by so much neatness. "Isn't this room used either?"

"It certainly is. This is the hub of the whole operation. All the paperwork's done in here ... correspondence, contracts, payments, manuscript returns." He nodded to the first desk. "That's where my rights manager sits. She works on a stack of files every day."

"Where are they?"

He stooped to release a catch under the table top, and a mirrored panel swung back to reveal shelves of papers. "The doors are set at a slight angle to reflect the carpet but the illusion vanishes the minute you open them. Personally I think it's awful, but then I'm boring and old-fashioned. The staff love it. It's about creating space, even imaginary space. I'm told it's good for stress levels."

"It makes sense," said George, thinking of the tiresome clutter in her Mini, "but it wouldn't do to put me in here. I'm far too untidy. I'd never be bothered to clear away at the end of the day and that would spoil the impression for everyone else."

"Me neither," said Andrew, leading her down a short corridor to a room at the end, "so you'll feel at home in here. This is where I drew the line."

The room wasn't exactly as his father had left it, but it was close enough for comfort. The leather armchair, double-sided partners' desk and mahogany bookcases remained, but it was lighter and cleaner than when Mr. Spicer Sr. had dropped cigarette ash on the floor, coated the books and ceiling with nicotine and allowed a single walkway through the piles of manuscripts that littered the floor. Secretly, Andrew still hankered after the old man's eccentricity, but Jenny had convinced him that image was everything. Visitors viewed a man's surroundings as a reflection of his professionalism.

He hadn't seen the truth of that until she left him for the actor. There was a tragic irony that he'd allowed her virtually free rein with his business premises while failing to appreciate that "image is everything" was a coded message for him. Occasionally he indulged in depressive navel-gazing, when he wondered whether she'd have stuck by him if he'd lost weight, worn lifts in his shoes and bought a toupee. There was no argument that the business had perked up since the refurbishments, which was a good indication that superficiality worked.

As if to prove the point, George gazed about the room with approval. "If you drew the line, does that mean your wife didn't have a say in what was done?"

"No, but we agreed I could keep the antiques and make it a mirror-free zone." He gestured for her to sit down and placed himself in his ergonomic swivel seat. "To be strictly accurate, she's my ex-wife, but don't let it worry you. We parted on amicable terms." He watched her settle herself in the worn armchair and wondered why she and Jon had come to blows. She was smartly dressed in a navy blue suit, makeup had toned down the ruddiness of her cheeks and soft gray hair lay in fluffy curls on her forehead. She reminded Andrew of one of his aunts-a favorite of his-and he was predisposed to like her. "I'd have invited you to my house, but it's in south London and difficult to find, so I thought this would be easier for both of you."

"Is Jonathan coming?"

Andrew nodded. "I told him twelve-thirty so that you and I could have a quick chat before he arrived." He put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. "He's placed himself under a self-denying ordinance, George-keeps telling me this is your story, not his. He's happy to assist, but he wants you to write it and take the credit." He lifted an eyebrow. "How do you feel about that? If you have a facility with words you can make some money as well as highlighting the injustice against Howard. Jon's keen for me to act for you, and I'm willing to do so if you want to give it a shot."

She watched him closely. "Shouldn't you argue against that if you're his agent?"

"Not if he instructs me otherwise. In any case, he's not an easy man to argue with."

"It sounds as if there's a 'but' coming."

Andrew smiled. "The book will be much easier to sell if Jon's the author. He's the one who put Howard on the map, and his publisher will be interested in a follow-up if there's good evidence that Howard was innocent."

George shrugged. "I didn't expect anything else. I only know how to write dissertations." She flipped open the small case that she'd brought with her and removed a pile of notes. "I'm quite happy for Jonathan to take what he can from these ... although I'm starting to question how valuable they are. I have a feeling I've been steered away from anything important, which is why I asked for this meeting. I hoped if we put our heads together we might come up with some fruitful leads."

"Mm." Andrew folded his hands under his chin. "The trouble is, Jon wants to play the martyr at the moment. It's a very tedious side to his character. He beats himself up every time he falls short of whatever unachievable standard he's set himself. If he wasn't an atheist I'd sign him into a monastery and give myself a break." He watched her face screw into a sympathetic twist. "What I'd like to suggest is a joint enterprise, with Jon's name at the top because he'll be writing the book and your name underneath because you'll be providing the bulk of the research. You can negotiate percentages between yourselves, or I can give you the name of an arbiter. Either way, you should end up with a fair return for your work. Does that appeal to you?"

"Not at all," she protested. "I wasn't expecting to be paid when I first approached Jonathan, and I certainly wouldn't have proposed a second meeting if I thought it was going to be a discussion about property rights and money. I was hoping to do what we should have done the first time-pool information and see where it takes us."

"Gre-eat!" said Andrew with mild irony. "Now I have two martyrs on my hands. We have the potential for a book that can exonerate a man's name ... and no one to write it. What do you suggest I do? Postpone this meeting until I can find a ghostwriter to sit in on it and take notes? Offer the idea to another agent?"

George was a sensible woman whose only affectations were comical expressions and an inclination to giggle. "I misunderstood," she said. "Do I gather the joint enterprise was less a suggestion than an order? Am I to insist on my name on the cover in order to make your friend feel comfortable?"

Andrew tipped a finger at her. "The more insistent you are the better, as far as I'm concerned. Self-denying ordinances don't suit him. He's easier to live with when he's battling for his rights, a pain in the neck when he turns himself into a doormat."

She looked amused. "How's his blood pressure? Perhaps being a doormat is better for his health."

"No chance. Sitting around twiddling his thumbs is sending it way up."

"I'm no actress," George warned. "If you're expecting me to be angry, I won't be able to do it. I'm a negotiator, not a table-thumper."

"Is that a yes?"

She shrugged. "I suppose so ... as long as you ask him in front of me if he's still refusing to run with the project himself. I'd like to hear him say no for myself."

"Agreed. If he does, are you willing for me to act as agent in the joint enterprise?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Most certainly. I'm sure any agent would be willing to represent you-I can even recommend the better ones. The difficulty will be if Jon prefers to stay with me."

"Then it'll have to be you."

"Excellent!" He stood up and reached across the desk to shake her warmly by the hand. "I'll have a contract drawn up tomorrow, but in the meantime you've given me authority to fight for your best interests ... which means I'd rather you said nothing until I ask for your agreement on a deal. Can you do that?"

"As long as you don't misrepresent anything I've said."

"Other than emphasizing your insistence on a joint enterprise, there's nothing to misrepresent," said Andrew. "As part of the Spicer & Hardy stable, you're as valuable to me now as Jon is."

When she looked back on it, George could only admire Andrew's skillful manipulation of his friend. As predicted, Jonathan arrived in metaphorical (and literal) sackcloth and ashes, having taken the trouble to dress down for the meeting while George had put on her glad rags, but he wasn't so crass as to draw attention to either. He merely complimented George on the work she'd done on the Cill Trevelyan story, then refused outright to take on the project when Andrew asked the question. His arguments were persuasive.

He had come across Howard by accident after reading Clinical Studies and most of his theories about the case were guesswork. To prepare a compelling rebuttal would require more definitive research, including interviews and legwork, and he couldn't commit the necessary time or energy. Andrew had worked with first-time authors before and was perfectly capable of editing an amateur up to publishable standard, or paying a mentor to help George achieve it herself. While Jonathan had a known interest in miscarriages of justice, his real commitment was to the mistakes made in the areas of asylum-seeking and economic migration. By contrast, George's known commitment was to Howard Stamp, and Howard's interests were best served by someone who had absolute faith in his innocence-which Jonathan didn't have.

Andrew showed his impatience. "I explained all this to George before you arrived," he said, "and it doesn't pass the so-what test, pal. I'm starting to question whether this book's worth anyone's time ... mine included." He leveled an accusing finger at Jonathan. "You are having second thoughts about Howard's innocence and George-" he swiveled the finger toward her-"supects her research is compromised. I'm willing to act for either of you if you offer me somediing solid, but I'm not interested in half measures. Any editor worth his salt will throw it straight back at me if the case for miscarriage isn't proven."

Jonathan turned a surprised face toward George. "How is your research compromised?"

She looked at Andrew.

"If you're not interested in the project then it's none of your business," Andrew answered for her. "George was hoping to negotiate a fifty-fifty split, but as you're not keen I suggested we approach Jeremy Crossley."

Jonathan's eyes narrowed immediately. "Why him?"

"He's an historian, and it's the sort of project he enjoys." He raised a calming hand. "I know, I know ... he slated Disordered Minds, but that should work in George's favor, especially when I tell him you've changed your mind about Howard's innocence." He grinned. "He'll bust a gut to prove you wrong."

"You're doing this on purpose," said Jonathan curtly.

"What?"

"Riling me. You know bloody well what I think of Jeremy Crossley. I wouldn't wish him on my worst enemy, let alone someone like George. He'll take every piece of research she can give him, then cut her out of the equation. That's how he works."

"Don't be an idiot," said Andrew dismissively. "I'm acting for George, so no one will have access to her information until we've agreed a contract. She won't get a fifty-fifty split with Crossley, of course, but she'll get something, as long as her research has demonstrable value." He tapped the desk with the tip of his forefinger. "But that's the issue, I'm afraid. The message I'm getting from both of you is that there are major flaws in your analyses ... so the scheme looks dead in the water before we even start."

"I see you've learned Crossley's review by heart," said Jonathan sarcastically.

"I can't even remember it," said Andrew indifferently.

"Like hell you can't. Every other sentence referred to 'flawed analysis' of data. It was a hatchet job by a second-rate academic who thinks he can write." He turned abruptly to George. "Don't let Andrew railroad you into this. It's a bad idea. Write it yourself ... you're perfectly capable."

"You know that's not true," said Andrew firmly. He nodded to a pile of manuscripts beside his desk. "That's my slush pile," he told George. "If there's one halfway reasonable script in there, I'll be surprised. Writing's a craft-no one can expect to master it the first time they put pen to paper-and Jon knows that as well as I do."

"There are other authors," said Jonathan. "It doesn't have to be Crossley."

"Agreed. What about that fellow you work with ... published by Hodder? Henry Carr. He might be interested. I was talking to his editor the other day and she said he's green with envy ... wants to find any idea that will outclass Disordered Minds."

Jonathan bared his teeth. "Even you wouldn't stoop that low."

"You'd better believe it," Andrew warned. "I'm after the best deal for George, and Evans will agree to a sixty-forty split if it means he can get one over on you."

"You're being ridiculous. There are plenty of good young authors on your list who'd jump at this chance. Why aren't you offering it to one of them?"

"Because the advance will be higher with an established name, and that's to George's advantage, particularly if she can earn the money before a word's been written."

Jonathan considered for a moment, then shifted his attention back to George. "Are you sure this is the route you want to go, because I'd be happy to advise you if you think you can do it yourself."

She opened her mouth to say something.

"Jon's not the best person to do that," Andrew warned her. "You want someone who believes in Howard's innocence.

"Stop putting words in my mouth," said Jonathan irritably. "The expression I used was 'absolute faith.' It's important to keep an open mind when looking at issues like this. You can't ignore contrary evidence just because it doesn't suit your theory. You have to examine it even more rigorously."

"Which is the opposite of what you said earlier. Now you're advocating healthy skepticism in George's coauthor. I wish you'd make up your mind." He looked at his watch. "To be honest, I can't see the point of this ... we're just going round in circles. If you're not interested, then you might as well leave so that George can convince me she's got something worth selling. It's a waste of time arguing over coauthors if there isn't enough proof even to get them excited."

"Is there a link with the Cill Trevelyan story?" Jonathan asked.

George spoke before Andrew could. "I'm not sure," she said. 'That's why I wanted to talk to you. You were right about the school friend-her name was Louise Burton. I've managed to locate her brother and he-"

Andrew broke in. "You're doing this against my advice, George. Jon should only be party to this information if you've agreed a contract with him."

She gave a guilty sigh. "I'm sorry, but it's obvious he doesn't want one ... and we are going round in circles. I told you half an hour ago that I'd like to work with Dr. Hughes, but he's not obliged to return the favor if he doesn't want to. I'm no writer-" she smiled apologetically at Jonathan-"and I'm not much of an academic either ... so I quite understand your reluctance. The trouble is, if what William Burton told me is true, then Roy Trent was one of Cill's rapists. I rather hoped..." She petered into an unhappy silence.

Jonathan hunched his shoulders. "I'll go with fifty-fifty."

Clever girl, thought Andrew, staring at his hands.

"I know it's tempting to see linkage in synchronicity," said Jonathan, "but it's very dangerous. Coincidences happen. It's why PACE and CPIA were introduced, and why DNA has become the major plank in police investigations. Everyone's looking to eliminate malign chance."

"But if Howard was innocent then malign chance is precisely what convicted him," George protested. "It was the hair in the bath that persuaded the jury, but the prosecution proved it could only have come from the murderer. Yet Howard wasn't the murderer."

"All the more reason not to fixate on another ginger-haired suspect. A goodly percentage of the population carries the gene." He smiled to take the sting from the words. "Which isn't to say we'll ignore your rapist-he certainly fits the profile-just be wary. The real pity is that the only name William Burton remembers is Roy ... it was a popular name in the fifties and sixties so there were probably quite a few of them."

"Not that popular," said George. "Surely it's Roy Trent?"

"Roy Rogers ... Roy Orbison ... Roy of the Rovers ... Roy Castle..."

"At least one of those was a comic-book character," said Andrew.

"So? Bill Clinton and David Beckham named their children after places. All I'm saying is we can't assume Roy Trent from Roy."

"It's a reasonable guess, though," said Andrew. "The man's an ape."

"That doesn't make him a rapist. Or let me put it another way-which of you is willing to go in and suggest it to him with no evidence to back it up ... and what do you think his answer is going to be?" He glanced from one to the other. "Right! We need to find Louise or, even better, the Burton parents. They might be able to give us a surname."

"Assuming they'll talk to us," said George doubtfully. "I got the impression from William that they're extremely reluctant to be involved."

Jonathan nicked to the end of the transcript. "Did you tape these conversations or make notes?"

"I made notes in the car after the first one and used shorthand for the telephone call. I typed them up immediately afterward so I'm confident they're accurate."

He read the description of William Burton that she'd added at the end. "Forties, six foot approx, well-built, tattoos on his arms, thinning sandy hair, gray eyes, pleasant smiling face, fireman. Married with twin daughters." "You liked him," he said more in statement than question.

"Yes. He was very upfront and friendly at the beginning. We talked about his daughters who were arguing inside the house, and he was very amusing. He only tightened up when I mentioned his sister. He kept saying he hadn't heard from her for years, but I didn't entirely believe him."

"You say here that he 'looked troubled' after you asked him if Louise had had a baby when she was fourteen," remarked Andrew, tapping a page of the transcript copy that she'd given him. "He answered: 'Not that I'm aware of.' You've put 'evasive' with a question mark. Is that how it struck you at the time?"

George nodded. "He went on to say he was a lot younger than she was and wouldn't have understood what was going on-it's a couple of lines down. I thought that was a very strange response ... as if something had happened and he didn't want to lie about it. I've also put a question mark beside the 'a lot younger.' Louise would be forty-five or forty-six now, and William looked a good forty plus."

Jonathan drew her attention to some notes that came after William Burton's description. "(1) He wouldn't have phoned if he'd recognized Priscilla Fletcher as Louise. [Double bluff?] (2) Did he recognize her as Cill Trevelyan? (3) Why does he feel so 'connected' suddenly? [Because of Cill's photo? Because of his daughters? Because Priscilla F. is Cill and he knows it?]"

"What's the significance of his daughters?" he asked.

"It's at the beginning of the telephone transcript. He said his wife had asked him how he'd have felt if one of them had gone missing at thirteen. Also, he was very struck by how young Cill looked. He remembers her as quite adult and was shocked to see she still had her baby fat." She paused. "It's as if he saw her as a person for the first time ... and I'm wondering if that was because he recognized her in Priscilla Fletcher."

"I should think it's more likely your first statement was correct. Thirty years after the event, he saw Cill for what she really was-a vulnerable child-and it shocked him."

"He said his parents blamed her for everything that went wrong. They called her 'that bloody girl' and made out she was a tart."

"What sort of things?"

She shrugged. "The rape ... Louise becoming agoraphobic ... the police questioning. Those are the ones he mentioned, but he said it went on for months."

"The agoraphobia?"

"Presumably."

"Interesting," Jonathan said slowly. "What was she frightened of? The boys? Being raped herself?"

"He didn't say. There was a passing reference to her parents moving her to a different school so she wouldn't be reminded of Cill's disappearance, but that's all."

Andrew clicked his fingers suddenly. "Go back to the first paragraph where George has given a synopsis of the conversation about the girls," he told Jonathan. "Second line: 'Mr. Burton joked about his daughters' fiery hair and fiery tempers ... said he'd pay to be rid of them.' "

"And?"

"Red hair runs in families, but I'm damn sure the gene has to be on both sides to produce fiery red."

Jonathan ran a thoughtful finger down his jawline. "Go on."

"You're hooked on the ginger-haired rapist, but what color hair did Louise have?"

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

Sent: Thurs. 4/17/03 15:07

To: jon.hughes@london.ac.uk

Cc: Andrew Spicer

Subject: Louise Burton

Dear Jonathan and Andrew,

The Bristol agency was very unhelpful, refusing to share any details of their investigation or divulge the Trevelyans' address. They cited issues of confidentiality, but they refused to phone the Trevelyans for permission. I'm afraid they thought I was a journalist. In the circumstances I decided against making them a free gift of Priscilla Fletcher, and re: Louise they simply referred me back to William Burton.

Our friend Fred Lovatt has had no success with the archives, nor has he found any colleagues who were involved in Howard's case or Cill's disappearance. PC Prentice, who was mentioned in the newspaper clippings, retired in 1982 and is believed to have died of a stroke some time in the 1990s.

As I am reluctant to "scare" William Burton away, I have decided to approach this from a different angle. The school the girls attended prior to Cill's disappearance was almost certainly Highdown Secondary Modern, situated in Wellingborough Road. It was reinvented during the 1970s as Highdown Community School and subsequently moved to new, larger premises in Glazeborough Road (coincidentally utilizing the site of the demolished Brackham & Wright factory where Wynne Stamp worked!) They only keep records of past staff and pupils who sign up for the OH (Old Highdowners) Register. However, I have the name and address of the headmistress who was in charge from 1968 to 73. It is: Miss Hilda Brett, 12 Hardy Mansions, Poundbury, Dorchester, Dorset.

I have made some inquiries and I understand that Hardy Mansions is sheltered accommodation for "active" elderly-i.e., people who still have their marbles. This is very good news as Miss Brett must be the one who suspended Cill and should remember both girls. I am willing to talk to her on my own, though I would prefer Jonathan to come with me, not only because his status of research fellow and author will lend the questions academic authority-and may persuade her to be more forthcoming-but also because I am unsure how to structure the interview.

Do we say we're looking for Cill Trevelyan? For Louise? Do we mention Howard? None of them ... just say we're researching Highdown of 1970 and were given her name by her old school? Help, please!

Best, George

PS. If Jonathan can come I shall need some dates when he's free. On balance, I think we should just turn up, rather than attempt to book a meeting with her, as if she says "no" we will lose this opportunity.