Disordered Minds

*12*

DORCHESTER, DORSET

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, MORNING

This time Jonathan had opted for smartness, and he was relieved to see George had done the same when she met him at Dorchester South Station. "What happened to the mobile filing cabinet?" he asked as he climbed into the car. "I hope you didn't move it on my account."

"I had a spring-cleaning," she told him, starting the engine. "Everything's in its proper place at home." She flashed him a smile. "I decided Andrew's ex-wife is right: 'Fine feathers make fine birds.' "

Jonathan grinned. "Except Andrew doesn't agree. He prefers, 'Don't judge a book by its cover.' "

"Me, too," she said cheerfully, pulling away from the curb, "but we're in a minority, so I'm going for the two-second sound bite-smart car ... smart home ... smart clothes ... smart mind."

Jonathan laughed. "How long will it last?"

"It depends how determined I am." She turned right onto Weymouth Avenue before filtering left to head toward the western outskirts of Dorchester. She drove hunched over her steering wheel as if she couldn't see where she was going, and Jonathan closed his eyes to avoid flinching at every near miss.

"To do what?"

"Strike the right impression from the off. I realize I've only myself to blame that I'm never taken seriously."

Jonathan had known it was a conversation that would come eventually. Unresolved issues never vanished of their own accord. "If it's any consolation," he said lamely, "I said far worse things to Sergeant Lovatt. According to Andrew I called him a fascist ... although I honestly don't remember it."

"Oh, for goodness sake! I'm not doing this for you."

"Who then?"

"Roy. He's been running rings around me because he thinks I'm a woolly headed spinster." There was a hiatus while she maneuvered between oncoming traffic and parked cars on her left. "I've tucked a map of Poundbury behind your sunblind," she told him, negotiating a five-way junction. "We're looking for Bridport Road and then Western Crescent. I'm fairly sure of the way but it's two years since I was here and, what with all the new building, the layout of the roads has probably changed."

He pulled out the map and spread it on his knee. "What sort of rings?"

She sighed and took her eyes off the road to look at him. "I didn't bring enough rigor to the information he's been giving me. Instead, I've wasted two years talking to people who were even more ignorant than I was about Howard."

"Names supplied by Roy?"

"Mm. Mrs. So-and-so who worked at Brackham & Wright in the 1960s and might have known what happened to Wynne. Mr. So-and-so who used to buy newspapers from Roy's dad and might have known Grace. Ms. So-and-so who was at St. David's Primary around the time Howard was there. I must have spoken to about twenty people who had vague connections with the story ... but none of them actually knew anything."

Jonathan pressed his feet into the floor as they drew up six inches behind a juggernaut. "Irritating!"

"I'd call it devious," George said, mounting the pavement to bypass the lorry and pull left onto Bridport Road as Jonathan stared stoically ahead. She nodded toward a cream-colored building ahead of them with a Germanic red-tiled spire. "That's where Poundbury begins. Have you visited it before? Do you know what it is?"

"No."

"Then you're in for a treat. It's Prince Charles's whack at modern architects and developers who build cheap estates full of identical redbrick boxes and expect people to be grateful. I mean, who wants to live in something boring?"

Roy Trent was promptly forgotten in her enthusiasm for the Prince of Wales's vision of how to build a new community. She insisted on making a detour into phase one of Poundbury which was less than ten years old but which, through its architecture and design-irregular roads, variety of building styles, use of local materials and housing arranged in mews, lanes, squares and courtyards-suggested history and permanence.

Jonathan was more impressed than he thought he'd be, although he doubted a similar estate would work in London. "It would be difficult to translate to a city," he said as she pulled out onto the main road again.

"I don't see why," said George. "The principle of local tradition and local materials would work just as well in Harlesden as they do in Dorset. It's the uniformity of cheap brick and reinforced concrete that people hate. A house should be an expression of its owner's individuality, not a clone of the one next door."

"What about Victorian terraces?" he murmured ironically. "They were built to off-the-shelf blueprints and you can't get more uniform than that. In a hundred years people may be as fond of redbrick boxes as we are of the nineteenth-century equivalent."

George chuckled. "Assuming the boxes are still standing in a hundred years. Victorian terraces were built to last ... these days everything's obsolete within a year." She slowed to read a street sign. "Poundbury Close," she announced.

Jonathan traced the map with his finger. "Which makes Western Crescent the second on the right," he told her, "over there." She flicked her indicator and pulled into the center of the road. "Tell me about Roy's deviousness," he invited.

"What's to tell?" she said dispassionately. "He's been sending me on wild goose chases because he doesn't want me finding out he was involved."

"You can't be sure of that," Jonathan warned. "He may be quite innocent but keeps his ear to the ground because he knows it's important to you. The fact that he's never come up with anything valuable might be evidence that he's as ignorant as you and I."

George gave a derisive snort. "You don't believe that anymore than I do. He's been playing me for a patsy. He wasn't remotely friendly until I mentioned an interest in Howard Stamp, then he became my newest pal. I should have smelled a rat then." She was driving slowly up the road looking for house names. She came to a halt beside a large building built in Purbeck stone. "Here we are ... Hardy Mansions."

They were both surprised by the ease with which they gained entry to the old woman. They expected to pass their request through a warden, but it took just the press of a buzzer with "Hilda Brett" beside it, and George's mention of Highdown Secondary Modern into the intercom, for the door to swing open and a barked instruction to come to Flat 12. "She's far too trusting," said George disapprovingly as they followed arrows marked 5-12 down a corridor. "We could be anyone."

"Perhaps she likes living dangerously," said Jonathan.

"I'm surprised it's allowed."

"Then she's rebelling against living in a prison," he murmured.

George pulled a face. "It's supposed to be the exact opposite-liberation from care and worry."

"Mm, but are undesirables being kept out or the inhabitants kept in? You can pay too high a price for freedom from care-fear of crime is more isolating than crime itself."

George's protest against this slur on sheltered accommodation remained unsaid, because the door to Number 12 opened and a gaunt woman gestured them inside. ''Hello, hello!" she said happily. "Come on in." She leaned on a walking stick and drew back to let them pass. "Into the sitting room on your right ... my chair's the upright one with the cushions." She closed the door and followed, examining her visitors brightly as she lowered herself into her seat. "Sit down ... sit down. Make yourselves comfortable."

Jonathan folded his tall frame onto the sofa while George chose an armchair. "This is very good of you, Miss Brett," she said. "We were given your address by the school, but as they didn't have your phone number we decided to take a chance on finding you at home."

The woman was frail and looked well into her eighties, but her faded eyes were full of intelligence. "You'll have to help me," she said. "I'm afraid I don't recognize you at all. Obviously this young man was well after my time, but when were you there, my dear?"

George screwed her face into immediate apology. "Oh, goodness, I didn't mean to suggest we were ever pupils of yours." She watched disappointment cloud the old woman's expression. "May we introduce ourselves? My name's Georgina Gardener and I'm a councillor for Highdown ward where your school still is, and this is Dr. Jonathan Hughes-" she gestured toward the -sofa- "who's an author and research fellow in European Anthropology at London University."

Jonathan stood up and bent to shake her hand. "This is a great privilege, Miss Brett. I've long wanted to meet a headteacher who had responsibility for steering a school into the comprehensive era. It must have been a difficult and stressful time ... but exciting too, perhaps?"

She frowned slightly, as if doubting this was the purpose of their visit. "All of those," she agreed, "but, of course, there was a strong crusading zeal at the time which carried us through. My staff and I had seen too many children relegated to what was effectively a second-class education because of their failure at the eleven-plus examination."

"With little or no chance of going to university," said Jonathan, sitting down again.

"Certainly. The direct route to higher education was through the grammar schools and private schools, which made it so pernicious that a child's future was decided at eleven." She paused, glancing doubtfully from one to the other. "Is this really what you came to talk to me about? I can't believe the opinions of a doddery headmistress-long past her sell-by date-add anything useful to the current debate on education."

George looked guilty. "Well..."

"In a way it is," said Jonathan, hunching forward to address her more directly. "We're doing a case study of troubled children in the decades after the Second World War. There are two from Highdown that interest us. Howard Stamp, who was convicted of murdering his grandmother, and Priscilla Trevelyan, who disappeared in 1970. Howard was certainly before your time, but I believe Priscilla was one of your pupils?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow which she answered with a nod. "Would you be willing to tell us what you remember of her?"

She sighed wearily as her disappointments were compounded. "If you're detectives, then you're wasting your time. As I told your predecessors, I have no idea what happened to the poor child."

Jonathan took a card and security pass from his inside pocket and passed them to her. "That's my photograph, name and title ... and at the bottom of the card is my departmental telephone number. I am more than happy for you to call and verify that I am who and what I say I am. Councillor Gardener can be similarly verified through her office or by telephoning one of her colleagues at the Birches Nursing Home in Highwood."

George promptly took one of her own cards from her case and offered it across. "We aren't detectives," she assured the woman, "although I had the same response from Louise Burton's brother. I understand the Trevelyans have been trying to find their daughter for years."

Miss Brett barely glanced at the cards before shifting herself forward, preparatory to standing up. "I'm sorry but I can't help you. It was a devastating event ... if I'd known anything useful I would have told the police."

It was a clear dismissal but Jonathan ignored it. "Georgina and I are approaching this from a very different angle," he told her. "We're more interested in why Priscilla became a statistic rather than where she is now. If her parents are to be believed from the press coverage, most of her problems stemmed from the fact that she was brighter than her peers ... and that's not an unreasonable assumption. The links between truancy and delinquent behavior are well documented, and boredom is a trigger for both. Do you agree-indeed did you agree at the time-with Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan's assessment of their daughter? Would Priscilla have been a less disturbed juvenile if she'd won a place at grammar school?"

It was a question that was pitched at the educationalist in her, and it worked. She remained sitting. "Truancy is commonly a symptom of underachievement, Dr.-" she consulted Jonathan's card again-"Hughes, while disruptive behavior in class can be a symptom of an above-average IQ that is not being thoroughly tested. Priscilla certainly fell into the latter category ... so in that respect I did agree with Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan. But although her brightness made her a difficult and unruly child, I don't believe it was the cause of her truancy ... or, more importantly, her disappearance."

"What was?"

Miss Brett tapped her forefingers together. "You must put that question to her father."

Jonathan glanced at George, who stepped seamlessly into the conversation. "William Burton told me she was knowledgeable about sex," she said matter-of-factly. "I know it was less understood in those days but-looking back-do you think she was sexually abused?"

"Yes."

"By her father?"

"Yes."

George reached for a notepad and pen. "Is that something you told the police?"

There was a short silence. "No," said the old woman, then, "it's a conclusion I've come to in the last ten years. For a long time I blamed myself-it's a devastating event in a teacher's career to feel responsible for a child's disappearance. I liked to think I was approachable-I should have been approachable..." She broke off abruptly.

George's inclination was to stretch out a sympathetic hand, but Jonathan spoke before she could do it. "A student of mine was murdered in New York recently after I sponsored him to a scholarship out there," he said evenly, "and I'm left with 'if onlys': if only he hadn't been black ... if only America and the U.K. hadn't whipped up hysteria against world terrorism ... if only the man in the street could recognize that Muslim and terrorist are not synonymous." He smiled. "I'm guessing your 'if only' was to do with the rape? If only Priscilla had told you about it, you wouldn't have punished her for fighting with Louise, her father wouldn't have had an excuse to hit her ... or worse ... and she wouldn't have run away."

Miss Brett nodded. "That and more. She had a precocious, sexual vocabulary and didn't think twice about using it, particularly around the male teachers, but it never occurred to any of us that that might be a symptom of abuse." She gave another sigh. "I'm afraid it just made her unpopular in the staff room and her punishments were always more severe because of it. I regret that deeply. One wonders where the poor child found kindness if she wasn't getting it at home."

"There was so much ignorance then," said George. "It seems incredible now, but it wasn't until the Maria Colwell inquiry in '74 that the issue of child abuse really surfaced." She caught Jonathan's eye. "It wasn't until poor little Maria was dumped at hospital by her stepfather that the authorities recognized they should have protected her. He was her murderer, for goodness sake ... he'd beaten a starving seven-year-old to death and he didn't think anyone would object."

"Things haven't improved much," said Jonathan, thinking of his own upbringing. "The trouble is, there's a thin dividing line between child protection and eugenic experimentation. We object to children being forcibly removed from inadequate parents, but complain when the same children die of neglect and brutality. It's a catch-22 for the authorities."

Miss Brett looked interested. "First define inadequacy," she said dryly. "There were many other parents I came into contact with who would have fitted the description better than the Trevelyans. Who's to say which father is harming his child?"

"Or how?" said George thoughtfully. "There's evidence that David Trevelyan hit Priscilla-even the mother seemed to admit it by talking about his strictness-but I'm less sure about the sexual abuse. William Burton's account of the rape suggests Cill was still a virgin. He said there was so much blood on her legs that Louise had to go home to find a pair of trousers to hide it. It may have been a period, of course, but I'm more inclined to think her hymen was broken ... and that would make the rape the first time she was penetrated."

"It doesn't mean she hadn't been introduced to sexual activity," said Jonathan.

"I agree. And if her father was responsible it would explain why she didn't want him to know about the assault. He'd certainly believe she provoked it. It's how molesters and rapists excuse their behavior-it's not their fault, it's the fault of the victim for arousing them." She tapped her pen on her notepad. "The same arguments would apply to her mother. I came across a case study that showed that as many as twenty-five percent of sex-abuse offenses are committed by women. Any number of dynamics might have been operating within the family."

"Or outside it," said Jonathan. "A neighbor or relative might have been grooming her-perhaps her father was as troubled by her sexual precocity as her teachers, and didn't know how to deal with it. He may have been guilty only of heavy-handed discipline." He looked inquiringly at the headmistress. "What sort of man was he? Did you know him well?"

"Not really. I spoke to him once about Priscilla's truanting and once after she disappeared. On both occasions he was very angry. There was no meeting of minds. On the first occasion he told me it was the school's responsibility to ensure his daughter's attendance, and on the second he took me to task for suspending Priscilla and not Louise. He said that had he realized that Louise Burton was the other girl in the fight, he wouldn't have upheld my punishment."

"Why would he say that?"

She considered for a moment. "Each set of parents thought the other child was to blame for the truanting, but I believed then-and still believe-that Mr. Trevelyan was trying to shift the blame onto me. If he could place on record that all he'd done was reinforce a school punishment, then he could excuse whatever it was that caused Priscilla to run away."

"You didn't like him?" said George.

"Indeed I did not," said the old woman firmly. "He was an overweight bully who shook his fist under my nose and expected me to agree with him. I made it clear both times that I had no responsibility for Priscilla when she was off the premises-other than to report the fact to her parents and the relevant authorities-so he promptly blamed the school for her difficulties." She shook her head. "We'd held her back ... she was bored ... we weren't challenging her enough ... she was too bright to be at Highdown. It was very depressing."

"And all reported in the press?"

"Indeed." Another sigh. "And there was nothing we could say in rebuttal. It would have been shabby to contradict their assessment of Priscilla, shabbier still to suggest the Trevelyans were-" she canted her head toward Jonathan-"inadequate. It was very much a case of: de mortuis nil nisi bonum."

Jonathan eyed her curiously. "Is that a figure of speech or did you believe she was dead?"

"Both. A missing child inspires intense emotion ... we all grieved for her. Everyone expected a shallow grave to be found somewhere, and when it wasn't..." She broke off with an unhappy shrug. "Her parents continued to hope, but no one else believed she could survive on her own."

He nodded. "So why did the police abandon the investigation?"

"I don't think they did. They kept the case open for years, but they were really just waiting for a skeleton to turn up. As one of the inspectors said, she vanished into thin air after she left her parents' house, almost certainly abducted by one of these monsters who prey on children. She could be buried anywhere:"

"Her father was questioned and ruled out," said George. "Do you know why? He seems the most obvious suspect."

"He was working a night shift that week and her mother said Priscilla was still at home after he left for work. He reported her missing when he came home at six o'clock in the morning and found her bed hadn't been slept in, but his work colleagues said he hadn't left the factory all night."

"What was his job?" asked Jonathan.

"He was a foreman at Brackham & Wright's tool factory. It closed a few years later and they used the site for the new comprehensive school."

There was a long and thoughtful silence.

"What was that you said about linkage and synchronicity?" asked George, leveling her pen at Jonathan. "'Don't be tempted by it ... coincidences happen.' Well, I am tempted." She switched her attention back to Miss Brett. "Do you remember Grace Jefferies's murder? Her body was discovered a week after Priscilla went missing."

The old woman nodded. "It was very shocking. You mentioned her killer earlier."

"Howard Stamp," said George. "His mother, Wynne-Grace's daughter-also worked at Brackham & Wright. It stretches the imagination to think a single workforce should be hit by an abduction and a murder within seven days of each other. Surely the two events must have been connected in some way? Did the police ever suggest that to you?"

"Not to me, although I do remember being surprised during the trial to learn that Mrs. Stamp worked there ... but that was a year after Priscilla vanished, of course." Miss Brett fell into a brief reverie, staring toward her window as she sifted through memories. "It seems an obvious connection to make with hindsight," she said, "but it wasn't obvious at the time. Brackham & Wright was a major employer in Highdown in the 1960s-at a rough estimate there were two thousand on the payroll-and a large number of my parents worked there. I believe Louise Burton's father was also a foreman, and many of our pupils went into their training schemes."

"What sort of people were the Burtons?" Jonathan asked before George could speak.

"I don't believe I ever met the husband-there wasn't a great deal of contact with parents in those days-but I spoke to Mrs. Burton about Louise's truanting. She was rather more amenable than Mr. Trevelyan, accepting some responsibility for her daughter's behavior, but she blamed Priscilla for it. She wanted me to separate the girls but, as I pointed out, it would achieve nothing while they continued living so close to each other."

"How close were they? We know the Burtons lived in Mullin Street but we haven't been able to find an address for the Trevelyans."

"If memory serves me right, they were in Lacey Street."

"Two on," said George, making a note. "Do you know which number in Lacey Street?" she asked Miss Brett.

She shook her head regretfully. "It was a long time ago."

"Was Mrs. Burton right?" Jonathan prompted. "Was Priscilla the leader in the friendship?"

"Oh, yes. She was by far the stronger character. Also, it was she who started the truanting-afternoons at first, then whole days."

"Every day? How long did it go on?"

Miss Brett considered for a moment. "I can't be precise ... perhaps once or twice a week during the spring term. Both sets of parents were given warnings when we broke up for Easter, but I do remember the girls were absent for much of the first two weeks of the summer term. It ceased abruptly after the rape, although we only learned afterward that that was the cause. I'm afraid I assumed the sudden improvement was because of a letter I wrote to their fathers, threatening immediate expulsion if the behavior persisted."

"When were the letters sent?"

"As far as I could judge from what the police told me, it was the same day as the rape. They failed to register again that morning, which is why I decided to take action."

"And Louise just went along for the ride? She wasn't an instigator?"

Another pause for reflection. "She was a strange child ... rather deceitful. I felt she maligned Priscilla to the police. It was a damning picture she painted. A violent, promiscuous, out-of-control teen who hated her parents, truanted to have sex with boys and used threats to make other children do what she wanted. There may have been elements of truth in it-Priscilla was big for her age and she could retaliate strongly when she was teased-but she wasn't a bully, not by my understanding of the word, anyway. She was a magnet to smaller, shyer children, but I don't recall her being unkind to them ... rather the reverse, in fact; she tended to protect them."

"William Burton said the police questioning frightened Louise. Perhaps she was trying to win sympathy?"

"Indeed," said Miss Brett with an ascerbic edge to her voice. "It was certainly her character. She was prone to tears and fainting and wouldn't look you in the eye when she spoke to you-quite the opposite of Priscilla, who squared up and tried to battle her way out of it. It didn't mean Louise had no hand in the mischief, merely that her friend took the punishment for both of them."

"As in the rape?"

"I would think so."

"And the fight that caused Priscilla's suspension?"

"Yes. That was very typical of Louise. I was told by their teacher that she'd been whispering in Priscilla's ear all morning, but Louise insisted it was the other way round-that Priscilla had been trying to persuade her to truant again and attacked her when she refused."

"What did Priscilla say?"

"Nothing," said the woman regretfully. "I warned her she'd be suspended if she didn't give me an explanation, I even suggested it was Louise who'd provoked her-" she sighed again-"but she wasn't prepared to lie."

"Unlike Louise."

"Mm."

"Do you think with hindsight she was teasing Priscilla about the rape?" George put in.

"Oh, yes."

"It would suggest a cruel streak, if she were ... either that or a complete lack of imagination."

Miss Brett thought for a moment. "As to being cruel ... well, possibly. She was certainly very pleased about Priscilla's suspension. But I've never met a deceitful child who lacked imagination," she finished with a small smile. "Telling stories against one's peers rather demands it, don't you think?"