Disordered Minds

*15*

DINGLES DEPARTMENT STORE, BOURNEMOUTH

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 4:30 P.M.

Billy Burton took another look at his watch, then dropped his cigarette butt to the pavement and crushed it underfoot. He'd arrived early and had been standing close to the store entrance for forty-five minutes and, though crowds of shoppers had passed, Louise had not been among them. He was disappointed but not surprised. She'd failed to make several such rendezvous before the family lost touch with her, and the circumstances had been tediously similar.

At first, spurred on by his father, Billy had tracked her down each time she moved-always when her useless husband was given another stretch in prison-made an appointment to meet, only to hang around on a street corner waiting for her to show. In the end he became impatient, and he told his father to let her stew for a while. She'll call you when she's ready, he'd said confidently. But he was wrong. All contact with her had been lost, and they'd been out of touch for more than two decades.

There were no recriminations. Indeed, sometimes he thought they were secretly relieved to be shot of her. His father said he'd always expected it, his mother said Billy had tried his best, and, like a cracked record-never mind a whole river had passed under Lou's bridge-the parents returned to blaming Cill Trevelyan. Louise had never been the same since the "little tart" had run away. If they'd understood how much influence the beastly girl had wielded over their own naive Lou, they'd have strangled the friendship at birth.

Nevertheless, Billy had always felt guilty. Once in a while-usually under pressure from his wife-he would ask himself why his parents had never gone knocking on doors themselves in search of their errant daughter, but it wasn't an excuse that sat easily with him. Louise's prostitution and heroin addiction had been so inexplicable that on the rare occasions when she paid a visit home the Burtons' initial pleasure at seeing her had invariably degenerated into a blazing row, leaving Billy-no less puzzled by his sister's rapid descent from wife to hooker-as the only conduit of communication. The one thing he'd never told his folks was that among her various aliases was the name Cill.

Their mother was convinced she'd died in Australia, either from drugs or AIDS, and there was endless speculation about children. Had she had any? Where were they? Who was looking after them? Councillor Gardener believed she'd had a baby by Roy Trent in her teens, and, while Billy knew that to be untrue, he was less sure about a marriage. Her name changes had been as hard to keep track of as her changes of address.

He took another look at his watch, toying with the idea of driving back to Sandbanks. Lou hadn't denied it when he suggested she was still on the game, but her remark about having her face smashed in again implied it was Fletcher who'd given her the black eye. God knows she'd had plenty in her time, from either her husband or customers, but what kind of pimp lived on millionaire's row and sent his wife out prostituting?

He lit another cigarette and promised himself he'd leave when it was finished. He couldn't make anymore sense of Lou's situation today than he had twenty years before, but he'd give her another five minutes...

"It was Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, but without the lappy ending," said Jonathan. "We lived together for a year before Emma allowed me to meet her parents-she iisisted we wait until we were sure we wanted to get married." He smiled painfully. "So we invited them to the flat on Christmas Eve to give them the good news ... and it was worse than anything I'd imagined. She warned me ier father wouldn't like it, but she didn't tell me he'd call me a 'dirty nigger' and then start lamming into her. I left the room when he slapped her ... and she moved out on Christmas Day. She hasn't spoken to me since."

"Where did you go?"

"I hid in the lavatory."

"What did Emma say?"

"That I was a coward and I'd embarrassed her-nothing I didn't deserve. She was looking for a man who would stand up to her father, and I couldn't ... so we split up."

"Is she with anyone else?"

"I don't know."

"Have you called her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He closed his eyes. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know, Jon, but I can guess. Because suffering in silence makes you feel better about yourself? Because you've persuaded yourself Emma would rather have a relationship with a brutish father who abuses her than with a coward who hides in the lavatory?" George's tone was abrasive. "Perhaps you're afraid he'll come round and hit you, and you've decided Emma isn't worth the thirty seconds of pain? Perhaps you agree with her ... you are a coward and an embarrassment and she'll be better off without you? Or you're like Howard ... and you hope that if you self-mutilate long enough someone like me will come along and rehabilitate you."

He took to rubbing his face again. "She'll refuse to speak to me," he said harshly. "That's why I haven't phoned."

"Oh, I see," said George in mock surprise, "you're afraid of rejection. Well, well, well! What a man of double standards you are, Jonathan. It doesn't matter whose feelings you've hurt ... just so long as yours don't suffer. Are those the rules you operate by?"

"You know they aren't."

"I don't, I'm afraid. You shared a bed with the girl and made love to her. At the very least you have an obligation to find out if she's all right." She gave him an ironic smile. "Or am I being very old-fashioned?"

"You look like shit," said Billy, examining the new bruises under his sister's makeup. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she said, pulling her scarf over her mouth. "Nick's got a fucking awful temper, but he doesn't mean to hurt me ... not really. He's powerfully jealous, which I guess means he loves me."

Billy took her arm and steered her toward a cafe in the alleyway opposite Dingles. "You're such a tit, Lou," he said, using a term he'd often called her in childhood. "When are you going to learn that guys who love their wives don't beat them up?"

"Don't start," she said crossly. "I had enough of the lectures before. I wouldn't be here except I was afraid you'd come banging on the door again."

He pushed open the cafe door and led the way to an empty table. "What do you want? Tea? Coffee? Something to eat?"

"Black coffee," she said ungraciously, "but I can't pay for it because he took all my money."

So what's new? Billy thought, as he went to the counter. The only difference between now and twenty years ago was that she was better dressed and lived in an expensive house. The beatings still happened ... she was still having to touch her family for spending money ... she still didn't want her brother knocking on her door. It was damn weird whichever way he looked at it.

He returned with two coffees and put one in front of her. "So who's Nick Fletcher?" he asked, sitting down. "What does he do?"

"He's a businessman," she said.

"What kind of business?"

"He's a bookie."

"Never heard of him."

"No reason why you should." She changed the subject abruptly. "So what have you been doing with yourself, Billy? Are you married? Got kids?"

He nodded. "Do you remember Rachel Jennings? Sister of Mark Jennings who was in your year? We got hooked up in 'eighty-five and had twin daughters two years later-Paula and Jules-they're sixteen now."

"God!" said Louise. "You mean I'm an aunt?"

Billy grinned. "Of two redheads. What about you? Did you have any? Am I an uncle?"

She stared into her coffee cup. "I had a miscarriage once but that's the closest I came. It's a bit of a bugger really. I'd have liked kids."

There was too much regret in her voice for him not to believe her, and he wondered who'd told Councillor Gardener otherwise. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. So how are the folks? Are they still in the old house?"

"No, Rachel and I bought it off them so they could move to Cornwall." He gave her a potted history of the family's fortunes since 1980. "Dad's supposed to have retired but he works as a jobbing gardener to avoid going stir-crazy at home, and Mum got born-again religion two years ago. She's a parish visitor or something: calls on old people who can't leave their houses ... then spends every Sunday in church. Dad can't understand it at all, keeps telling her she must have a lot on her conscience."

It was seeing the smile vanish suddenly from Louise's face that made him think about what he'd said. He'd heard Robert Burton use the expression several times, but he'd always assumed it was a mild joke to account for Eileen's sudden obsession with Jesus. Billy knew it annoyed his father, even made him jealous to have his pliant wife find an interest in life that excluded him, but he'd never taken the teasing seriously.

He watched his sister's gaze drop to the coffee cup again. "Is there something on her conscience?" he asked curiously.

"How would I know?" she snapped. "I haven't spoken to her in years."

"Then why are you looking so guilty?" She didn't answer.

He stirred sugar into his own coffee. "Do you want to know how I found you?"

"Not particularly, but you'll tell me anyway. It used to give you a hell of a buzz to prove how clever you were tracking me down. You were a real pain, Billy. The folks'd click their fingers and you'd come messing up my life again ... and you never even asked yourself if I wanted to be found."

"The first time I did, we lost touch with you," he said prosaically. "Was that what you wanted? I can't believe it. You couldn't take their money off me quick enough every time I turned up. You had upward of a thousand quid in a couple of years ... but you were damned if you'd come by and say thank you. That's all they wanted, to see you once in a while and know you were still alive." He sipped his coffee. "It was you got the buzz out of me traipsing around after you, made you think you were important. It's the same reason you let men hit you-you want the attention."

"Cut the crap," she said with a bitter edge to her voice, "I'm not in the mood. I had a habit up to three years ago and it turned me into a zombie." She raised her eyes again. "Go on, tell me how you found me. I know you're dying to."

"I had a visit from a woman councillor about ten days ago. Her name was George Gardener..."

Jonathan took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He was still painfully thin, with wrists and hands protruding from his cuffs like paddles, and George wondered if he had ever developed beyond the bullied adolescent who grew too fast for his clothes. She recalled Roy's derisive comments about Howard Stamp's "scrappy little beard" and "sparrow chest," and wondered if Roy had spotted the same similarities between Howard and Jonathan as she had. It would certainly explain his attempt to see Jonathan "off." George doubted Howard had ever left his house without running a gauntlet of abuse, which raised the question, how did he find the courage to leave it at all?

"What would I say to her?" Jonathan asked. "I'm sorry? It'll never happen again? It will, George. If her father slapped her twenty times, I'd still run away. I'm like my mother. I'd rather anyone had their jaw broken than me ... including Emma. I'm everything she called me ... I'm everything my mother was." He drew a shuddering breath. "And I hated my mother."

"Therefore Emma hates you," said George flatly.

"I don't blame her."

"Except it's a grand example of transference, Jon-a cockeyed view of the world where past relationships poison present ones." She gave a small laugh. "Let me put it another way-if you chose to play your mother, then what role did you give Emma? What did you want her to be?"

"Girlfriend ... partner ... lover. We didn't have any problems till her father showed up."

"Are you sure?"

Jonathan had been watching an elderly man approach along the pavement. He had a tiny Yorkshire terrier on a lead and every time the dog showed an interest in a lamppost, he yanked it away like a hairy yo-yo. It was obvious he resented the animal, either because it belonged to his wife or because he thought the red ribbon in its fringe reflected badly on him, but the harshly snapping lead was an easy cruelty.

"...you can be so unkind, Jon. I'm not your keeper ... nor am I responsible when things go wrong for you..."

He shifted his attention back to George. "I don't know," he said honesdy. "I was never that close to anyone before. I was a disappointment sometimes, but I didn't mean to be. I usually received a lecture when it happened."

George looked intrigued. "So you turned her into a nanny? How interesting. I'm not surprised she packed her bags. Women today don't even want to be nannies to their children, let alone their husbands."

"I did not," said Jonathan irritably. "She may have acted like one sometimes, but that wasn't my choice. I wanted an equal."

"Then your signals are confusing. We all get treated according to the reactions we provoke, Jon. I've known you half a second but it's obvious everyone nannies you ... Emma, Andrew, me ... even Priscilla Fletcher while she was stealing your wallet. I expect you have secretaries at work who do it." She raised her eyebrows in inquiry. "It's wonderful for your ego-means there's always nanny to blame when things go wrong-but quite incompatible with a mature relationship between equals."

He turned away angrily to watch the old man. "I didn't ask you to do this," he said in a strained voice. "I made a simple statement. I said I didn't want to talk to Roy. If you'd respected that, we wouldn't be having this conversation." He paused briefly, as if wondering about the wisdom of saying anything else, before letting rip: "You're like Emma ... you go on and on ... pick, pick, pick ... and for what? So that I'll stand up to some fucking bastard I hardly know, just because you don't like the way he treats you."

"We all have transference reactions of some degree or other," George countered mildly. "My father blighted my life."

Jonathan glared at her suspiciously. "That's not the impression you give. You always talk as if you were fond of him."

"I was. No other man came close. Why do you think I've never married?"

Louise looked very shaken by the time Billy had finished the account of his meeting and telephone call with George Gardener. Her hands were trembling so much that she couldn't lift her cup without spilling the coffee. "If you knew it was me, why the hell did you tell her to go to the Trevelyans?" she hissed.

"Because she was going to go anyway ... maybe not immediately, but she'd have got round to it eventually." He lit a cigarette and offered it to her. "I thought it was quite clever of me," he said with as much artistry as she used in her lies, "so a thank-you wouldn't come amiss."

Tears glittered on her lashes as she fumbled the cigarette into her mouth. "What's clever about it? I'll have a sodding detective on my doorstep next."

"So? You can prove you aren't Cill Trevelyan. I'm sure the folks still have your birth certificate." He lit a cigarette for himself and leaned forward. "The reason it was clever is that, by being helpful, I persuaded this Gardener woman that Priscilla Fletcher isn't Louise Burton. That's not to say she won't find out, but at least it gives you time to come up with an explanation."

She stared at him with suspicion. "For what?"

"For a kickoff, why you've turned yourself into Cill's clone. Why have you, as a matter of interest?"

"None of your business."

"Is it guilt? Did something happen to her?"

"She was raped."

"Other than that."

She wouldn't look at him. "Why did it take you so long to find me? You said your meeting with George was ten days ago."

"I've been on days for a while, so I haven't had time. And you're ex-directory. I had to persuade a mate at the post office to give me your address." He took note of the way she said "George." "Do you know this woman, Lou?"

"No."

"All right, do you know of her? She seems pretty clued up about you ... or rather Priscilla Fletcher. She told me you live in Sandbanks, that you were married to Roy Trent and that you had a son by him when you were in your teens." Billy's heart sank as he watched fear widen his sister's eyes. "Oh Christ, Lou!" he muttered, lowering his voice. "What the hell did you get into? Was she right about Roy? Were you lying when you said you hadn't had kids?"

He could read her expressions as easily as when she'd been a child, and he watched her face as her mind manufactured alternative versions of history, only to discard them. None was convincing enough to persuade him that she wasn't in trouble. "I wasn't lying about kids," she said finally, "but Roy had one. A boy. He's grown up now and lives in London-courtesy of Wandsworth prison-but he stayed with us for a while when we first married. That'll be where the nosy cow got the son bit from, I should think, though I'd bloody well like to know who told her. The kid was a nightmare ... always on the take, always in trouble with the cops ... he's the one caused me and Roy to split up."

"Who was his mother?"

"One of Roy's tarts. I told him he didn't need to take the boy on, but he had a thing about his own dad dumping him, so he wouldn't listen. The kid ended up in prison-" her mouth twisted-"surprise, surprise-he was sixteen when we took him on and nineteen when they banged him up-and in three years he managed to ruin everything Roy and I had going."

"When was this?"

She wiped the glowing end of her cigarette around the sides of the ashtray, then took another drag before squashing it. "We got married in 'ninety-two, split up after nine years of me being told his bloody son's problems were my fault and divorced last year. It was a fucker, Billy. Roy and me would have done OK-he still fancies me something chronic-it was the bloody kid caused all the trouble."

There was too much information and Billy wasn't practiced enough to sort the wheat from the chaff. Why had Louise married Roy at all? Had she been one of his tarts? What had she done to make his son's problems her fault? What happened after the divorce? When did she marry Nick Fletcher? How did she know Roy still fancied her? Was he the reason for her black eye and swollen lip?

In the end he asked the question that troubled him the most. "Did you ever go inside Grace Jefferies's house?" he demanded, gripping her wrist between his strong fingers. "I want the truth, Lou."

The change of expression was too obvious. This was an explanation she'd rehearsed. "Don't be an idiot!" she said scornfully, wriggling her hand free. "You know damn well I didn't. I was barely thirteen years old and I'd had my head done in because my best friend went missing. Ask Mum if you don't believe me. She stood guard over my door in case I did something stupid."

"I said ever, Lou. I didn't say, 'Were you in there the day she was murdered?' "

Louise reached for his pack and lighter and took another cigarette. Her hands were trembling again. "I never went in Mrs. Jefferies's house. Satisfied?"

"No." Billy shook his head. "I think you and Cill hid out with her when you truanted. I remember you telling me once that she had a bigger telly than ours."

Her mouth started working fiercely and she lifted her scarf to hide it. "You haven't changed much, have you, Billy?" The tears glimmered on her lids again. "You always were a fucking nuisance."