Disordered Minds

*17*

THE CROWN AND FEATHERS, FRIAR ROAD, HIGHDOWN

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 7:35 P.M.

George had predicted that Roy would be affable, at least at the start, so his hostile demeanor when they entered the kitchen worried her. She wasn't much of a psychologist, she realized, as she glanced at the CCTV monitor showing the bar. Forewarned was forearmed, and a man like Roy would always favor attack as the best form of defense. As usual, the second monitor was dead, and, not for the first time, she wondered why he needed two. Jonathan reacted to the animosity immediately, jutting his jaw and clenching his fists at his sides, instinctively bracing himself for assault. It was reminiscent of their first meeting but this time there was no coerced apology from Roy to oil the water.

The man was facing the door, bottom propped on the table, a beer mug in his right hand which he was carelessly wiping with a tea towel. But he held it by its handle, as if polishing were not the aim of the exercise. He appeared very relaxed and, owing to where he'd stationed himself, George and Jonathan were unable to move out of the doorway into the room. They were too close together and it put them at a disadvantage, not least because it made them look comical.

Roy grinned. "Well, well, well ... if it isn't the Odd Couple. What can I do for you?"

"We wanted a chat," said George lightly.

He stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "It's not a good time. If you come back tomorrow morning, I'll see what I can do." He shifted his attention to Jonathan. "Not you, mate, you're barred." His eyes narrowed threateningly. "I don't like people who accuse me of lying, and I sure as hell don't want them in my pub."

"Jon never-" George began.

"Let him speak for himself," Roy cut in. "He's got a tongue, hasn't he? Or is he too scared to use it?"

Jonathan didn't say anything.

"That figures. I sussed you as a wimp the first time I saw you." He pushed himself upright and took a step forward. "End of conversation. Now sling your hook before I phone the cops and have you arrested for causing a nuisance."

George was the first to retreat. "Come on," she said, plucking at Jonathan's jacket. "He's within his rights, unfortunately. A licensee can exclude anyone he wants from his premises and he doesn't have to give a reason for doing it."

But for the first time in his life, Jonathan stood his ground. "Then I'll have to change his mind."

Roy dropped his right hand and took another step forward, holding the glass at his side. "And how are you planning to do that?"

"Not by fighting you," said Jonathan mildly, relaxing his clenched fists. "In the first place I'm not armed and in the second place it would give you an even better excuse to exclude me." He indicated the courtyard. "There's a black BMW parked in the road, registration number R848 OXR. It was there when I met George-I saw it when I left-and again in the evening when Andrew Spicer drove me back here to collect my wallet. Is it yours, Mr. Trent?"

"None of your business."

"Do you know what car he drives, George?"

She frowned, remembering a reference to a BMW but unable to recall why. "As far as I know, it's a van. He keeps it in a garage at the back."

"The ticket clerk at Branksome Station said the woman who went through my briefcase drove away in a black BMW. I think it's your ex-wife's car, Mr. Trent. She said she'd seen me here and knew who I was, and she was certainly here when my agent came for my wallet." He glanced toward the stairs. "Is she upstairs now? If so, we'd like to talk her."

Roy raised his left palm and shoved it against Jonathan's chest. "Out!" he ordered. "Now! Go on! Piss off, the pair of you!"

Jonathan backed away immediately. "There's no need for violence, Mr. Trent." He raised his voice. "Tell Priscilla Fletcher we'll wait by her car till she comes out. We'd like to ask her about Cill Trevelyan's gang rape by Roy Trent, Colley Hurst and Micky Hopkinson."

"Keep your voice down," Roy snarled. "There's customers can hear you."

Jonathan ignored him. "We also want to ask her about Grace Jefferies's murder," he called. "We know Roy Trent lived in the same road as Howard Stamp, and Louise Burton lived opposite Grace. We think Priscilla can tell us the connections. We're prepared to wait as long as it takes. She can't leave her car out there forever."

It was George who thwarted any attempt Roy might have made to shut Jonathan up. She used her briefcase to block his upswinging arm. "How dare you do that?" she squeaked, her face turning brilliant red. "You can't intimidate us the way you intimidated those defenseless children. What happened to Cill? What happened to Louise? How many other little girls did you rape?"

Roy might have reacted if his barmaid and one of his regulars hadn't appeared in the corridor behind Jonathan. They stood openmouthed, listening to what George was saying. "In the kitchen," he told George and Jonathan tersely. "And you-" he pointed to the girl-"back behind the bar. It's a private argument ... none of your business."

But Tracey wasn't inclined to go that easily. "It didn't sound very private. Everyone could hear it. Should I phone the police?"

"No."

Tracey turned to George, her expression alight with curiosity. Perhaps she felt a sisterhood with the other woman after the remarks about "rape," or perhaps she didn't like her boss much. "What about you, love? Are you OK? Has someone been hurting you?"

George shook her head. "I'm all right for the moment, Tracey, but if there's anymore shouting, I believe you should call the police. We haven't come for a fight, but things get out of hand very quickly when people lose their tempers."

"That's for sure," said the girl with feeling. She took a last look at Roy and there was a hint of derision in her eyes, as if things had been said that struck chords with her. "I'll see you later then."

Roy gave an abrupt nod and shut the door on her, but it was a while before he said anything. He stood with head bowed, staring at the floor, and it was obvious to both George and Jonathan that he was working out what to do. Jonathan, buoyed up by success, wanted to seize the advantage, but George put a finger to her lips and persuaded him to stay quiet. Every so often, the boards creaked on the floor above, although whether from the natural contraction and expansion of wood or under the weight of an eavesdropper's stealthy footsteps it was impossible to tell.

When Roy finally spoke, it was without heat. "By rights, I should put a lawyer on to you," he said, looking up. "What you've done is slander me in front of my customers and staff. It's true that I was taken in for questioning about Cill Trevelyan's rape, along with Colley and Mick, but we denied it and there was no evidence to connect us with it. The girl who gave the information, Louise Burton, didn't know the names of the boys and didn't identify us-" he shrugged-"so the cops ended up questioning if a rape had even happened."

He moved away from the door and reached for his cigarette pack on the table. "I'm not going to say we weren't wild, because we were. Everyone despaired of us, including ourselves. We were never in school ... couldn't read ... always on the make." He bent his head to the lighter. "About the only thing that made life bearable was alcohol and, when we couldn't get it, we'd be thinking of more extreme ways to top ourselves. In that respect, we were no different from Howard." He fixed his attention on Jonathan. "You talked the other day about him having nowhere to go except inside himself. Well, we were no different. We did similar stuff ... not to ourselves so much, though it happened-" he flexed his fingers-"Mick was the worst, always carving spirals on the back of his hands-but mostly we targeted other people." His mouth twisted cynically. "This isn't easy to say, and you probably don't want to hear it, but we felt good when someone else was hurting. It meant we weren't the only people living shit lives."

He fell into a brief silence while he took a drag on his cigarette. "We were awful to Howard," he said abruptly. "It went on for years ... started when we were nippers and he was in his teens. He lived down the road from us and we were at him all the time. Mick used to prod him in the back with his knife ... drew blood quite often till Howard got himself a leather jacket. It was too damn easy. He was such a miserable little wimp." Again he focused his attention on Jonathan. "I guess we hoped he'd fight back-show a bit of spirit-but he never did. Too much common sense, perhaps." His eyes hardened as if he were making the point for Jonathan. "Like George said earlier, things get out of hand when people lose their tempers, and Howard was really scared of Mick's knife."

Jonathan leaned his hands on the back of a chair. "There were three of you and one of him," he said matter-of-factly. "What kind of odds were those?"

"Not good," Roy admitted, "which is why he showed sense by ducking and weaving. The trouble is, it made us worse. Most days he hid-either in his house or at his gran's-but we were always on the lookout for him. You both keep saying he didn't kill his gran. Well, he did. And the reason I know is because we wound him up for it. Mick was always on his back, jeering at him because he didn't have a weapon, and one day Howard pulls a sodding great carving knife and starts slashing at Colley. They said at the trial he went berserk and slashed his gran ... well that's what he did with Colley. He was completely out of it ... mad as a bloody hatter and so wild Mick and me couldn't get close. He cut Colley on the arm a couple of times before we legged it, and our next stop was the hospital. Far as I remember, Colley had twenty stitches, and he was still carrying the scars five years later."

He turned to George. "I'm not proud of it, which is why I didn't want you finding out. We were scared Howard was going to blame us for turning him into a raving lunatic, but the cops never came near us even though most of the street knew we'd been bullying him. The strange one was Wynne. She used to hiss at us every time she saw us, but she didn't say anything, not even at the trial." He flicked ash to the floor. "I've never understood why not. If they'd gone with diminished responsibility, he'd have been sent to Broadmoor and given some psychiatric help. Instead they banged him up in Dartmoor, where he was never going to make it."

George pulled out a chair and sat down, clearing a space for her case. "He pleaded not guilty," she said, flicking the catches, "therefore your treatment of him was irrelevant to his defense. You know that as well as I do, Roy. Rather more interesting is why the prosecution didn't quote this episode with the carving knife to strengthen their case." She took out her notepad. "Did Colley report it? What explanation did he give the hospital?"

"He said he'd been in a fight but didn't give any names."

"Why not?"

Roy shrugged. "We spent all our time avoiding the cops. No point getting involved if we didn't have to."

"When did it happen?"

"A month or two before Grace was murdered. I don't remember exactly."

Jonathan stirred. "How well did you know her?" he asked.

"Not at all."

"Then why call her Grace?"

There was a small hesitation. "Everyone did. It's how she was labeled in the newspapers."

"You said you couldn't read."

Irritation flickered briefly in the dark eyes. "So? It was the main topic of conversation in my dad's shop. He read every damn newspaper ... told anyone who wanted to hear what the latest update was."

Jonathan reached over to flick back a page of George's notepad. "According to our information, you were estranged from your father. Your parents' marriage failed and you went to live in Colliton Way with your mother. Your father remarried and refused to have anything more to do with you." He looked up. "Presumably your stepmother had children of her own and didn't want an illiterate thug for a role model?"

Roy's jaw tightened. "What's the big deal? George always refers to her as Grace, and so do you in your book, Dr. Hughes." He smiled grimly. "And before you jump on me for that, I learned to read in a young offenders' institution when I was sixteen. I did twelve months for burglary ... and it taught me a few things-mostly that prison was a mug's game."

Jonathan straightened and took out his own cigarettes. "The big deal is that I don't believe you, Mr. Trent," he said, nicking his lighter. "Howard going berserk with a knife a month before Grace was murdered is a little too convenient, don't you think? It's quite impressive if you managed to concoct it in the last few minutes, but it sounds more like a story you and your friends invented at the time."

"Why would we do that?"

"In case you were questioned."

Roy shook his head dismissively. "We wouldn't have been. We were never in the frame. Call me a liar as much as you like-it's water off a duck's back-but you're trying to prove a negative. Our patch was Colliton Way and the rundown buildings on the industrial estate at the back of it. We didn't know Grace from Adam, never went near her house and wouldn't have wanted to. It was when we strayed outside our boundaries that we got into trouble ... sticking close to home meant we were left in peace. And that's how we liked it."

Jonathan stared him down. "The only reason you weren't in the frame was because Howard confessed. If he hadn't, you'd have been high on the list of suspects. The police had questioned the three of you only five days before about the rape of a missing girl who lived just two streets away from Grace. You matched the description given by that girl's best friend, Louise Burton, who lived opposite Grace. You were well acquainted with Howard Stamp, knew that he had a grandmother, knew that he took refuge in her house and knew that he bought goods for her at your father's shop. One of your gang, Micky Hopkinson, regularly carried a knife. Another, Colley Hurst, had red hair, as did Louise Burton, who was truanting regularly and was certainly associated with you."

"Then why couldn't she identify us?" Roy snapped.

"Didn't is the word you're looking for, Mr. Trent. Why didn't she identify you?"

"Because it wasn't us."

George looked up from her note-taking. "It's easily proved, Roy. Her brother, William, witnessed the rape and, if you're agreeable, I'll show him a photograph of you and see what he says. Do you have any from when you were a teenager? Better still, do you have a group picture of yourself with Colley and Micky?"

This time the hesitation was a long one. "No," said Roy at last. "It's a period of my life that I'd rather forget." He crushed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray and moved to look at the monitor. "Have you any idea how difficult it is to try to make something of yourself after the kind of childhood I had? You have to cut yourself off from everyone you know and start again. I've no idea where Colley and Mick are now ... what happened to them ... if they're still alive." He gave a grunt of amusement. "I don't think there were any pictures-you'd have to know someone with a camera to have your photo taken-and we didn't. Only the rich sods went in for that kind of crap."

It was an excuse that might have appealed to Jonathan-there was hardly any record of his childhood either-but George just laughed. "Oh, please! Spare us the violins. I bought a little Brownie in 1960 for about three and fourpence ... which is under twenty pence in today's money. It was hardly a rich man's pastime. There must be some snaps of you. Anything from your late teens or early twenties would do. You wouldn't have changed much. What about a wedding photo?"

"The wife took them."

"Priscilla Fletcher?"

"First wife ... mother of my kid."

George eyed him for a moment. "How many wives have you had?"

"Two," he said harshly. "Not that it's any of your business."

"What was the name of the first one?" He didn't answer.

"Not my business?" she asked with a smile. "Well, you're probably right." She removed a digital camera from her case, then eased back her chair preparatory to standing up. "If you've no objections, I'll take a photograph of you now. There's a function on my computer that allows me to airbrush out the signs of aging, so I should be able to produce something that approximates to what you looked like in 1970."

Roy turned his back immediately. "Don't even think about it," he warned, "not if you want your camera intact when you leave."

"It's to your advantage," she pointed out mildly. "If you had nothing to do with the rape then William Burton will exonerate you." She placed the camera on the table in front of her and shuffled through her case. "Let me show you a photograph of Cill Trevelyan just before she went missing ... see if that jogs your memory at all. She bears a striking resemblance to your second wife." George slid the copy across the table toward his rigid back and paused to see if he'd bite. "I also have one of Priscilla, taken by Jim Longhurst at a barbecue here." She lined the second picture up beside the first. "The ticket clerk confirmed that she was the dark-haired woman who went through Jonathan's briefcase at Branksome Station."

Roy lit another cigarette but wouldn't look at the photographs. "What's the point you're trying to make? That I married Cill Trevelyan?"

"Did you?"

He gave an angry laugh. "Of course I bloody didn't. The kid vanished. If the cops had done their job properly, they'd have put her father in the dock."

"He had an alibi," said Jonathan. "He was at work all night."

Roy half turned. "There was only his wife's word he didn't do it before he left. The cops didn't believe Mrs. Trevelyan anymore than anyone else did. She was protecting her husband."

Jonathan watched George scribble notes across a page. "Why would she want to?" he asked.

"Because she was just as guilty. She should have taken better care of the girl."

"In what way?"

"Kept her out of harm's way. That's what mothers are for."

It was a remark that begged a number of questions, thought Jonathan, recalling his own situation. How far was any mother responsible for her child's victimization-unless she was the abuser? What if she were being abused herself? Where did responsibility to others end and the drive for self-preservation take over? What was anyone's duty in life when terror was an all-consuming emotion? How far was Roy projecting his mother's neglect of him onto Mrs. Trevelyan? How far was he simply trying to divert attention from his own involvement?

"What harm are you talking about?" Jonathan asked bluntly. "The rape?"

"The beltings her father used to give her ... that'll be how he killed her."

"Was it Cill who told you about them?"

Roy flicked him a withering glance. "Couldn't have been, could it, as I never met her. It was in the newpapers, mate. It was given to me secondhand, like everything else, till a halfway decent screw decided I needed an education."

George intervened. "If David Trevelyan killed her, then when and how did he get rid of the body?" she asked matter-of-factly. "According to Miss Brett, he reported her missing as soon as he reached home on the Saturday morning, which means he had to kill her and bury her between the time she was sent home on the Friday afternoon and before he started his night shift. That's a tall order. The body would have to be deep enough-and far enough away from his house-to prevent it ever being found ... or, if it was, to make it feasible that she'd been killed by an abductor." Neither man said anything.

"The only Trevelyan who had all night was Jean," George went on slowly, "and a woman would have to be Myra Hindley to dispose of her daughter and appear normal afterward."

"It happens," said Roy.

"Except the psychology's wrong," George protested. "I should have thought this through before. Look-" she tapped her pencil on the newspaper clippings-"first Mrs. Trevelyan told the police that there were difficulties at home and that her husband had had a row with Cill, then she gave an interview to the press about her regret and anguish that they'd both been so strict with her." She turned a perplexed face to Jonathan. "But she'd have said the opposite if she knew the child was dead. She'd have stressed what good relationship she and her husband had had with their daughter."

"Perhaps she was being clever."

"The kid was always in trouble with her dad, and everyone knew it," said Roy. "If her mum had pretended different, there'd've been even more eyebrows raised."

"A person would have to be psychopathic to work that out after a night's digging and no sleep," said George sarcastically. "Not to mention cleaning the house of every shred of evidence that a murder had been committed."

"All I know is what people said at the time," Roy countered stubbornly. "He killed the kid and she was protecting him. It forced them out in the end."