Disordered Minds

*13*

SANDBANKS PENINSULA, BOURNEMOUTH

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, MORNING

Billy Burton had been sitting in his elderly Renault station wagon for over an hour watching the Fletchers' house for signs of life. It was getting on for two weeks since he'd passed the Bristol detective agency's address to Georgina Gardener, and he'd given up hope that she'd done anything about it. He wore a baseball cap over his thinning hair and a pair of cheap, black-rimmed reading glasses from Boots to break up his face. On the steering wheel in front of him was an open file of documents which he was pretending to study, but as time went by he became increasingly nervous that someone would mistake him for a thief and call the police.

The house was in a side street behind Panorama Road, where property prices were exorbitant because of the uninterrupted views of Poole Harbor and Brownsea Island but, even without a view, Billy would have been surprised if the Spanish-style, balconied villa he was watching was worth less than a million pounds. He'd read somewhere that the Sandbanks Peninsula commanded the fourth highest price per square foot of land in the world, with only Tokyo, Hong Kong and London's Belgravia coming in more expensive. But why this should be so was a complete mystery to him. Given the choice, he'd prefer a property on Malibu Beach in California, where the weather was temperate all the year round.

He hunkered down in his seat as a car cruised past, his heart beating fiercely. This was crazy. Celebrities bought weekend retreats here-half the houses were empty for months on end. He'd probably been under surveillance from a CCTV camera. Who the hell was this Fletcher guy and how could he afford to live cheek by jowl with pop stars and footballers? It didn't make sense. Every inquiry Billy had made had come up blank. "Never heard of him..." "Sorry..." "If he's on Sandbanks, he's out of my league, mate..." "What does he do?"

Billy had been tempted to visit the Crown and Feathers and put some questions to Roy Trent, but had thought better of it. There were a number of adages governing ill-conceived action against animals like Trent, but "beware of stirring up a hornets' nest" seemed appropriate. Trent had been a forgotten secret in Billy's brain for over thirty years and he cursed Georgina Gardener for resurrecting him.

Now he was trying to function on two hours' sleep in twenty-four, and driving his daughters mad by monitoring their every movement. He'd relived every minute of Cill's rape, but from the perspective of a grown man, not that of a naive, tipsy ten-year-old who hadn't a clue what was going on. He even knew what he was suffering from-post-traumatic stress disorder-because he'd been a firefighter long enough to recognize the symptoms. It was a disease of the job-the lingering trauma of dealing with car deaths and burn victims was devastating-although he could not account for the thirty-year delay in the onset-nor the intensity-of his guilt.

Why now? He'd dealt with detectives looking for Cill without blinking an eyelid, but a dumpy little stranger turns up, shows him a photograph and he promptly goes to pieces. The woman had told him too much, that was the trouble. "It's more likely she was teasing Cill about the rape ... It takes a lot of imagination to understand how devastating gang rape can be to the victim ... the poor child was probably scrubbing herself raw every day in order to wash off their filth..."

Thirty years on, he could work out what the blood on Cill's legs had signified, and it made him sick even to think about it. In the way of dreams, it was his twins who wandered in and out of his nightmares, hymenal blood pouring down their thighs and baby fat swelling their tiny breasts. Had Louise understood? She must have. He recalled her smirk when she came back with some trousers and dropped them on the ground. "Blokes can tell," she'd said. "You'll never get married now." And he remembered Cill's tearful answer: "At least I'm not a coward."

He'd never spoken to Cill again. The friendship with Louise had ceased abruptly and Cill was gone within a month. There had been some weeks of unease until the family moved to Boscombe, and then the child had been excised from their minds. Billy had never asked his sister why she hadn't told the police he was a witness to the rape. At ten years old, he'd thought she was trying to keep him out of trouble and loved her for it. In his forties, he wasn't so sure.

"Grace's murderer had ginger hair..."

He remembered the day the police came to Mullin Street. He'd thought it was to do with Cill, until a uniformed officer rang their bell and said Mrs. Jefferies was dead. His mother had been watching anxiously from behind a curtain as teams of coppers worked their way from house to house, then she'd ordered Billy upstairs to Louise's bedroom before she opened the door. Billy remembered her hands were shaking, and he remembered wondering why she was scared.

He'd stood just inside his sister's bedroom, listening to the conversation downstairs, while Louise's eyes grew huge in her white face. His mother's voice had been higher than usual as she said she'd never spoken to Mrs. Jefferies and didn't know which house she lived in. The policeman pointed it out to her-Number 11-and asked her if she'd seen anyone enter or leave during the week. No, said his mother, but then she hadn't been out much. She'd been looking after her daughter, who was Cill Trevelyan's best friend. The man was sympathetic. He had daughters of his own.

They'd never been troubled again. Howard Stamp was arrested and charged within two days of Grace's body being found, and the "Mullin Street murder" was as little visited in the Burton household as Cill's disappearance. "Don't upset your sister," had been the watchword for months. Billy's knowledge of both events had been gleaned from friends whose parents were willing to share information with their children. The accepted story on Cill was that she ran away to London. The accepted story on Grace was that Howard went berserk after she ticked him off for slacking.

It was a conclusion that had puzzled Billy when he was ten, because Howard hadn't seemed capable of hacking anyone to pieces. He was even afraid of Billy and Louise, sliding into shadow whenever he saw them because Louise giggled every time he passed and called him a spastic. She even tried to trip him up once and Billy remembered how frightened he looked. On one occasion, Mrs. Jefferies came to their house and asked their mother to put a stop to it. She was a plump, gray-haired woman who wrung her hands nervously and had difficulty getting her words out. Billy remembered her saying please, all the time, as if she were the one at fault.

Their mother hadn't been particularly angry with them-"Everyone knows there's something wrong with that boy"-but she had warned them to leave Howard alone. "According to his grandmother he's suicidal, and I don't want anyone saying you two were to blame when he does something silly." Afterward, Billy assumed the "something silly" was murder and that his mother had lied to the police about talking to Mrs. Jefferies because she didn't want the family involved again. Their father was already furious that Louise had been questioned about Cill's disappearance. He kept talking about a terrible atmosphere at work where rumors were rife that if his daughter knew about Cill's rape, so must her parents.

It was a bewildering few months until they moved. Louise's fainting fits meant she stayed at home, while Billy was expected to go to school. He was suspicious and jealous of his mother's relationship with his sister and fearful of his morose father, who bit his head off every time he asked what was wrong. The Trevelyans featured strongly in his parents' invective. When it wasn't that "little tart Cill" who'd ruined Louise's life, it was "that bastard David" who was forcing his father out of Brackham & Wright. Grace Jefferies was never mentioned at all, except in passing. "The whole damn street wants to move since that bloody woman's murder..."

When they transferred to Boscombe life settled down again. Their father took a new job, Louise changed her name to Daisy and wore her hair differently and Billy found new friends. Only their mother seemed to carry the baggage of Highdown with her, spying from behind the curtains every time the bell rang. Once in a while Billy thought he recognized a face in a crowd, but after a couple of years even that ceased to trouble him. In the great scheme of things, the events of three short weeks in the life of a ten-year-old-events he hadn't understood and couldn't control-became irrelevant. It wasn't his fault that Cill had disappeared or that Mrs. Jefferies had been murdered.

"If they'd had DNA testing in 1970, Mr. Burton, Howard wouldn't even have been charged, let alone sent for Trial. It was someone else who killed Grace..."

"...someone with ginger hair..."

George retrieved the photographs of Priscilla Fletcher and Cill Trevelyan from her case and handed Priscilla Fletcher's to Miss Brett. "Could this be Cill Trevelyan? Do you remember her well enough to say?"

The old woman studied the picture for a long time before shaking her head. She admitted to a vague sense of recognition, but it was over thirty years since she'd last seen the child and all she remembered was long brown hair and an overgrown body. George offered her the duplicate of Cill's photograph from the newspaper clipping and Miss Brett's response was the same as William Burton's. "Oh dear, dear, dear! I'd forgotten how young she was. What a terrible tragedy."

"Do you think they're the same person?"

She compared the pictures. "I really couldn't say. Some of my ex-pupils have barely changed at all in adulthood, others are unrecognizable. There are strong similarities, of course..." She broke off with another shake of her head.

"We did wonder if it was Louise Burton," said George.

The woman gave a surprised laugh. "Goodness me, no. Louise was a ferrety little thing with a pinched face and sharp nose. It was why she latched on to Priscilla's coattails-I think she hoped some of the other child's appeal would wash off." She stared at Cill's smiling face. "It was rather pathetic, to be honest. She went through a phase of trying to ape Priscilla's looks and mannerisms and merely succeeded in turning herself into a mimic. It was an unbalanced friendship, of course. There was a lot of jealousy on Louise's side."

"What color hair did she have?" asked Jonathan mildly.

"She was a carrottop," said Miss Brett, returning to the photograph of Priscilla Fletcher. "This certainly isn't her."

A black BMW slowed as it came up behind Billy's Renault and he had a glimpse of a dark-haired woman in his rearview mirror before the car turned left into the driveway in front of the Fletchers' house. He dropped the spectacles into his lap and lifted a pair of mini-binoculars to his eyes, using his hand to shield them.

He watched the car door open and the woman climb out. She was slim and smartly dressed in navy blue trousers and a pink polo-neck cashmere jumper with dark hair brushing her shoulders. He couldn't see her face because she had her back to him and, when she let herself into her house, he thought he'd put himself through the ringer for nothing. But she, reappeared almost immediately, looking directly at him as she went to the rear of the car and released her boot. It was a trip she repeated several times in order to carry her shopping bags inside and, even if Billy hadn't recognized her the first time, he couldn't have failed to identify the way she walked. Quick, small steps that spoke of an impatient nature.

"The Burtons moved after Priscilla disappeared so that Louise could go to a different school," George said. "Do you know what became of her after that?"

"No. She went to Highdown's equivalent in Boscombe, but where she went from there..." Miss Brett shook her head. "I did follow up with her new headmaster but I'm afraid he wasn't very flattering. I believe "unteachable' was the expression he used. Her parents changed her name and encouraged her to put the past behind her, but the headmaster said it was a mistake."

"Why?"

"Oh, I imagine because it sent the wrong message. Changing one's name is such an easy way to wriggle out of one's difficulties, don't you think?" She was looking at Jonathan as she spoke, as if she suspected him of doing the same thing, and he felt his face heat up.

"What name did she take?" he asked.

"I believe it was Daisy."

"Did she keep her surname?"

Miss Brett nodded. "It was common enough not to worry about." She paused. "To be honest, I thought the Burtons overreacted. It's true Louise was picked on when she returned to school the following week, but it would have passed. The other girls thought she was responsible for Priscilla being punished-and indirectly for the child running away-so she had a difficult two days. I urged her mother to take a tougher line, but I'm afraid she wasn't up to it. In the end it seemed sensible to compromise on a move."

"You don't think it was Louise who was overreacting?"

"Without question," said the old woman dryly, "but, as I wasn't privy to what had gone on between the two girls, it was difficult to know how genuine she was being. I understood from her mother that her greatest fear was bumping into the Trevelyans, so clearly guilt played a part." She gave a regretful shrug. "It was desperately sad. None of us was immune. We all felt responsible."

There was a wistful note in her voice as if her own guilt still lingered and George wondered if that was one of the reasons why she needed to paint David Trevelyan as an abuser. "I'm sure you're right about it being trouble at home that caused Cill to leave," she said gently. "It's impossible to read her story without seeing her as a victim. Do you know if she had ever run away before? It tends to be a pattern of behavior that's repeated until the child decides to leave for good."

Miss Brett eyed her for a moment before leaning back to stare thoughtfully toward the window again. "Do you know I've never considered that? How very interesting. I always put her absences down to truanting." She fell silent for a moment or two. "I think it's unlikely. On the one occasion when she was absent for three days in a row, Louise was also absent, and neither set of parents reported their daughters missing, which suggests they were going home at night."

"Did the mothers work?" asked George. "Perhaps the girls stayed in all day."

"Oh, no, that wouldn't have been tolerated by either woman. I believe Mrs. Burton had an office-cleaning job, but she was home at lunchtime. Mr. Trevelyan worked nights, of course, so he'd have been sleeping during the day." Miss Brett's mouth thinned with irritation. "We had several persistent truants, particularly among the boys. It was an impossible problem, made worse when the leaving age was raised to sixteen. Short of tying them to their desks, there was little we could do if their parents wouldn't cooperate."

"And ninety-nine percent of teachers would rather turn a blind eye and be shot of the disruptive element, anyway," said Jonathan lightly. "The job's hard enough without having to cope with an illiterate Neanderthal dragging his knuckles along the ground."

The old woman gave a grunt of amusement. "Are you referring to the students or their parents, Dr. Hughes? The more disruptive the child, the more ignorant and ill-disciplined the parents, I usually found. So many of the underachievers were lost causes before they ever reached Highdown. All one could ever do was pass the buck to the police and juvenile detention."

"Was Roy Trent one of those lost causes?"

She studied him for a moment, a small frown creasing her forehead. "I remember the name but I don't know why."

"Dark-haired, medium height ... his father ran a newsagent in Highdown Road. We believe Louise may have described him as one of Priscilla's rapists."

Her eyes widened as memory surged back. "Good heavens, you are well informed. Roy Trent, Micky Hopkinson and Colley Hurst." She watched George make a note. "In fact, Louise was insistent she didn't know who they were and could only give a vague description. It was the police who settled on those three because of their past history. They denied it, of course."

"Were they on the school roll?"

"Not at that time. They had a history of expulsion and transfer to different schools but I don't know where they were registered in 1970 ... if at all, frankly. I believe social services tried various supervision orders but it was an intractable problem. They should have been sent to approved schools to break the links with home-but there were too few specialist units left after the Government cut the funding." She fell silent while she marshaled her thoughts. "I don't remember Micky's or Colley's circumstances, but Roy's father remarried and wouldn't have anything to do with him. It was a cruel way to treat a child ... did the poor boy no good at all."

"We've been told that one of them had ginger hair," said George.

"Colley Hurst," she agreed.

"Where did he live?"

Miss Brett closed her eyes briefly as if looking back down a passage of time. "I believe all three boys were in Colliton Way. It was a dumping ground for difficult families. Most of our underachievers came from there."

George glanced at Jonathan. "I hope that rings some bells."

He gave a doubtful shake of his head. "Should it?"

"It's in your book," she said mischievously, "and it's another example of synchronicity. Wynne and Howard lived at 48 Colliton Way."

Miss Brett was as intrigued by the coincidences as George was. "One wonders why the police settled so quickly on Howard Stamp," she said. "As I remember it, he was taken in for questioning almost immediately."

"Several witnesses saw him running from Grace's house," said George. "He was a regular visitor, so everyone knew who he was, and when he confessed the police didn't need to look for anyone else."

"But you don't accept the confession?"

"No. Dr. Hughes and I believe it was coerced and that the story he gave in his defense fits the facts rather better. Do you remember it?"

"Only that he said his grandmother was already dead when he found her."

George took a copy of Disordered Minds from her case. "This is Dr. Hughes's book, which includes Howard's case in Chapter Twelve. You might like to read it. It's a very well-argued rebuttal of the prosecution evidence." She handed it across. "He questions the pathologist's timing of the murder, the psychological profile of the murderer or murderers and whether that profile fitted Howard, as well as the forensic hair evidence which, along with the confession, persuaded the jury of Howard's guilt."

"May I keep it?"

"Please. You have our cards and phone numbers. We'd be interested in any ideas you might have."

Miss Brett reached for some spectacles. "I remember Howard was a redhead," she said, examining the cover, "and if hair evidence was involved, that presumably explains your interest in Louise and Colley Hurst? You think one of them was the murderer?"

"It's a possibility. Colley fits the psychological profile, and Louise was living in the same road as Grace."

"Mm." She lowered the book to her lap and folded her hands over it.

"You're not even tempted by the idea?" asked Jonathan with a smile.

The old woman studied him over the rims of her tortoiseshell half-moons. "I won't know until I've read it," she said, "but I fear you're clutching at straws ... certainly where Louise is concerned. She would never have done something like that on her own-she was far too frightened-and if she had any knowledge of it she'd have spilled the beans immediately; that was her nature. She was a tale-teller."

"Perhaps she wasn't asked?"

Miss Brett shook her head. "She'd have found a way. Her favorite trick was to do what she did with Priscilla: needle away at whoever had annoyed her until they lost their temper, then plead innocence. I assume the aim was to get her own back on Priscilla for publicly breaking their friendship ... but I never doubted that she was genuinely shocked by the poor child's disappearance." She shrugged. "You need to understand Louise's personality. She was a beastly little girl whose sole aim in life was to be the center of attention-and telling tales on others was the only way she knew how."

Priscilla Fletcher gave a frightened start as she slammed her boot and turned round to find a tall, well-built man in a baseball cap behind her. "My God!" she snapped angrily. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Billy removed the cap and smoothed his balding scalp. "Hello, sis," he said. "I was about to ask you the same thing."