Disordered Minds

*18*

9 GALWAY ROAD, BOSCOMBE, BOURNEMOUTH

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 8:00 P.M.

Robert Burton picked up the receiver after a single ring and Billy pictured him in the cramped hallway of his bungalow, standing, waiting for the call to come, then pouncing on the telephone before it disturbed his wife. Billy had always had an easy, if distant, relationship with his father, but suspicion corroded trust and he didn't bother with pleasantries. "I want to talk to Mum," he said.

"She's not here."

"You said she'd be back by seven."

"She's on one of her parish visits. It's obviously taking longer than she expected." There was a ten-second hiatus as his hand muffled the receiver, but not before Billy had heard his mother's voice in the background. "Sorry, son, the cat was after the wire. Why don't I ask Mum to call you when she comes in?"

"No thanks," Billy responded curtly. "I'd rather you put her on now. I know she's there. I heard her."

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

"Then tell her I'll drive down tomorrow."

Another brief pause. "Why aren't you at work?" his father asked. "You know what I think about these twenty-four-hour strikes. You're letting the country down, expecting the army to cover for you while they're trying to fight a war in Iraq. It's unpatriotic, son."

Billy stared irritably at the wall. It was the sort of diversionary tactic his father always used. "Give it a rest, Dad, I'm not in the mood. I'm between shifts ... back on days from Friday. Now, put Mum on, please. I really do need to talk to her."

I'll try, but I don't think she'll come."

The receiver was placed beside the telephone and Billy heard his father walk into the sitting room. He couldn't make out what was being said because his parents spoke in whispers, but his mother's lighter tread returned. "Hello, dear," she said in her usual inexpressive tone. "Dad says you've found Louise again. How is she?"

"Hasn't Dad told you? I sent him an email."

"He said she was back to her old tricks." His mother sighed with what sounded like a genuine regret. "There's nothing to be done about it, Billy. I pray every day that she'll be given back to us but Jesus can only work miracles with people who have faith."

Billy wasn't interested in metaphysical solutions. "There's a woman asking questions about Grace Jefferies's murder," he said baldly. "According to her, Howard Stamp didn't do it, and I remember you lying to the police about knowing Mrs. Jefferies. You said you didn't know where she lived and had never talked to her ... but you did and you had. So why did you lie, Mum?"

He expected her to deny it, or say she didn't remember, but she surprised him with honesty. "Because I was worried for the family," she said. "We were already connected with one scandal and I didn't want us dragged into another. You were so young you've forgotten how awful it was-everyone was terrified-we thought it was going to happen again until Howard Stamp was arrested."

Billy refused to be diverted from the lie. "You were worried even before the police came to the house," he said. "I was watching you. Your hands were shaking."

Eileen hesitated, as if debating the merits of truth. "I thought it was to do with Cill," she said after a moment. *I was afraid they'd found her body and the whole thing was going to become even more of a nightmare." She made a small noise that sounded like a laugh. "It was such a relief when they said Mrs. Jefferies was dead. I thought, oh, thank goodness, no one can say we had anything to do with that. It was a small lie, Billy, and I wasn't the only one," she went on. "No one admitted to knowing her. It was bad enough what happened, without being singled out for questioning. We all just wanted it to go away, and it did, of course, as soon as the wretched grandson confessed."

Billy stared at the wall again. "Why would you think Cill's body was in Mullin Street?"

More hesitation. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just meant I was afraid they'd found her body ... not where it might be, just that it was somewhere. I'd been thinking about nothing else for days ... when were they going to find the poor child's body? And with all those policemen around..." She petered into silence.

Billy wanted to believe her. Even at ten years old, it had been his first thought-that the police had come to Mullin Street because of Cill Trevelyan. "Cill and Lou used to go into Mrs. Jefferies's house to watch her telly. I know you knew that because I heard Mrs. Jefferies tell you."

Eileen didn't answer.

"Did you never think Cill might have gone there when she ran away? You should have told the police, Mum. So should Lou."

A tiny edge of malice entered his mother's voice. "And what do you think the Trevelyans' reaction would have been if I'd suggested Cill was involved in a murder? Jean was already screaming at me like a fishwife every time she saw me." She took a breath. "It's all very well criticizing, Billy, but I had two seconds to make up my mind and I'm still sure I did the right thing."

Perplexed, Billy rubbed his head. "I'm not saying she had anything to with the murder," he protested, "I'm just saying she might have gone there when she ran away."

"Well, if she did, it was nothing to do with us."

"Except everyone was trying to find her. Why didn't you or Lou say something when Lou was questioned about the rape?"

There was a catch in his mother's voice. "She wasn't asked, neither was I ... and I don't understand why you're being so beastly to me-"

The receiver was taken by his father. "You're upsetting your mother, son. What's the point you're trying to make? Because if you're suggesting she had something to do with that bloody woman's death, you'll have me to deal with. Understood?"

Billy thought of his mother's long, red hair, which he used to fumble into loose plaits whenever she let him. It had been an intimacy they shared until she dyed it a deep auburn when they moved. After that he was never allowed so close again, and the intimacy was reserved for Louise, who, at the same time, became a brown-haired urchin called Daisy. Until now he'd forgotten how jealous he'd been. "Did she have anything to do with it, Dad?" he asked harshly. "Councillor Gardener said it was someone with ginger hair killed Mrs. Jefferies ... and Ma sure as hell had ginger hair before you made us cut and run from Mullin Street. So did Louise. You called them 'the terrible twins.' Remember?"

The line went dead immediately.

THE CROWN AND FEATHERS, HIGHDOWN, BOURNEMOUTH

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 8:15 P.M.

George was intensely skeptical. "That would mean three people were all suspected of murder in the same place, at the same time-" she ticked them off on her fingers-"Howard Stamp, David Trevelyan and Jean Trevelyan-and with two different victims. Don't you think that's a trifle unlikely, Roy? It's not as though murder's a common crime in this country. Manslaugher, maybe, but not murder. There wouldn't have been more than three to four hundred during 1970, and to have two of them happen a couple of streets apart and within days of each other is a statistical improbability."

"Unless they were connected," said Jonathan.

"We don't even know if Cill's dead," George pointed out, leveling the tip of her pencil at the photograph of Priscilla Fletcher. "That might be her."

Jonathan watched Roy's gaze stray toward the picture. "Is it, Mr. Trent?"

"No."

"Do you mind telling us who she is?"

The other man shrugged. He was growing more relaxed as each minute passed, and Jonathan wondered why. Because they'd strayed from Howard Stamp? "She was calling herself Priscilla Curtis when I wed her."

"Then how can you be so certain she wasn't Cill Trevelyan? She looks just like her." He watched for a reaction, but Roy's expression remained deadpan. "You can't have it both ways, Mr. Trent," he went on. "If you never met Cill, then you have no way of knowing if she was the woman you married."

Roy stared at George's busily writing hand. "You're on the wrong track, mate," he said, allowing irritation into his voice. "I don't deny I was caught up in a bad crowd when I was a lad, but I wasn't involved in murder and I don't know what happened to Cill Trevelyan-" he jabbed a finger at the tabletop to reinforce his next sentence-"and neither does my ex. Now you can take my word for that or you can go to the cops and run this crap past them, because I've had enough. I may not have told George precisely how I knew Howard-I wasn't proud of teasing the poor little bugger-but everything else I've said is true." He stood up and moved toward the door in clear dismissal. "Take it or leave it, because this conversation ends now."

Jonathan exchanged a glance with George. "Then you won't object if we ask Priscilla to corroborate this," she said to Roy.

He eyed her with some amusement. "Go ahead, but you'll have to find her first." He nodded at the monitor. "I watched her sneak out about ten minutes ago."

George frowned at the screen. "Why does that please you?" she asked. "I'd be mad as a hatter if the only person who could prove I was telling the truth left me in the lurch."

"She'll back me up when you find her."

"Depending on how well you prime her," said George sarcastically. She shook her head. "You haven't done much of a job so far, Roy. She seems to drop you in it more often than she helps you out. I presume it wasn't your idea to steal Jonathan's wallet ... you didn't need to, you'd already seen him off. So why did she do it?"

"You're plucking at straws," he said dismissively. "There was no crime committed. Your friend got everything back intact."

George made an abrupt decision. "I think we'll go with your second option and take what we've got to Sergeant Lovatt," she said, gathering her bits and pieces together and cramming them into her case. "Neither Jon nor I believe that Cill Trevelyan's disappearance and Grace Jefferies's murder weren't connected, and if the sergeant suspects that Priscilla's Cill, then he'll certainly want to talk to her ... and to you."

Roy opened the kitchen door and stood back. "Feel free," he told her, "but you'll be making idiots of yourselves. You've got nothing at all if Priscilla can prove she wasn't Cill-which she can-and the cops won't resurrect Howard just so you can make money out of a book. They had him bang to rights at the time, and everyone knows it-" his lip curled-"except you two."

Jonathan took the case and gestured to George to precede him. "I'm sure they said the same about James Watson and Francis Crick," he murmured, "and look how right they proved to be. The discovery of the double helix was a conceptual step, but Watson and Crick were the only two who believed it at the beginning."

The other man's jaw jutted aggressively. "You should learn to speak English, mate. I don't know what you're talking about."

Jonathan halted in front of him. "Of course you don't, but that's not my problem-mate-it's yours. You're an ignorant sociopath."

Roy made a grab at his arm but Jonathan was ready for it. He wrapped his fist around Roy's in a surprisingly gentle gesture and pushed it away. "I'm talking about the three-dimensional structure of the DNA molecule, Mr. Trent. If the police haven't destroyed all the evidence from Grace's murder, then it may be Watson and Crick's discovery that sends you to prison."

George tut-tutted severely as she wedged herself behind the steering wheel. "You're lucky he didn't hit you."

Jonathan grinned. "He was afraid you were going to scratch his eyes out."

She smiled automatically, but her mood had turned to despondency. "So what do we do now? He's right about the police, you know. It wouldn't be fair to waste Fred Lovatt's time with this. We haven't anything concrete-it's all just speculation. We don't even know who Priscilla Fletcher is, let alone if she was in Highdown in 1970. She might have grown up in Sydney for all we know."

"She speaks with a Dorset accent."

"That's not proof of anything."

Jonathan was on top of the world, buoyed up by adrenaline, so her sudden depression took him by surprise. "What's up?"

"We're no further forward than we were an hour ago."

"Did you expect to be?"

"Yes," she said wearily, leaning her elbows on the wheel, perversely worn out by the excitement. "What was the point of doing it otherwise?"

To triumph over a phobia, thought Jonathan, wondering if that was his single, most powerful reason for doing anything. He felt better than he had for months and he couldn't understand why George was being so negative.

"I can't see how we move on," she continued. "I suppose we can corner Priscilla Fletcher but even if she agrees to speak to us, it won't get us anywhere. All she has to do is tell us her name was Mary Smith and we won't be able to prove any different. We haven't the authority to insist on a birth certificate."

"What about her husband? He must know as much of her history as Roy does."

George gave an impatient sigh. "And how do we approach him? If we go knocking on the door, it'll certainly be Priscilla who answers, and she'll slam it in our faces. I don't know anything about him, except that he's some sort of bookie, and even that's a bit doubtful." She nodded toward the .pub door. "My source was Tracey and she had it secondhand off Jim Longhurst. I don't even know the man's Christian name."

"Well, we can't do anything tonight," said Jonathan firmly, consulting his watch, "so let's just sleep on it. I need to be at the station by nine, otherwise I won't be home till after one-thirty. If you can drop me at Branksome, I'll take a taxi into town."

George wouldn't hear of it. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, starting the engine and pulling away from the kerb. "'Andrew would be furious if you spent borrowed money on a cab. I'm sure he meant you to buy food with it."

"Probably."

"Then buy a sandwich on the train and start taking care of yourself."

He wasn't listening. "What about William Burton?" he suggested. "I'd say he's worth another shot, particularly if we can persuade him to come to the police station with us and name the boys who raped Cill. Lovatt can hardly ignore that, not if we show him your two photos. He's bound to interview Priscilla Fletcher in those circumstances ... Roy, too, if he's one of the three that Burton accuses."

George cheered up immediately. "Do you think he'll do it?"

"I don't know," said Jonathan, "but it has got to be worth a try." His mind worked through the possibilities. "We also need to find the Trevelyans. If they didn't have anything to do with Cill's disappearance, then they'll be ahead of us in the queue, piling on the pressure. I need to listen to the tape because I'm guessing Roy told us a lot more than you think he did-it's just a question of isolating what's important."

"Did you get it all?"

"I hope so." He took a recorder from his pocket and pressed "rewind," letting it run for five seconds before touching "play." Roy's jeering tones broke into the silence inside the car. "...You'll be making idiots of yourselves. You've got nothing at all if Priscilla can prove she wasn't Cill..." Jonadian cut the voice short. "That's the first thing that needs sleeping on," he murmured.

"You think he's lying?"

"No," said Jonathan regretfully.

George was promptly downcast again. "That's what I thought when he said it."

"So?"

"There's no point looking for Cill's parents."

"Wrong," said Jonathan affectionately. "It makes it even more important. How would you feel if someone was masquerading as your daughter? You'd want to know why, wouldn't you?"

George glanced at him in surprise. "Is that what she's doing?"

"It's as plausible as my transference theory. One's conscious, the other's unconscious ... I guess it depends whether you think the lights are on and no one's at home or if there's method in her madness."

George was doubtful. "What's the point?"

"Of a masquerade? Perhaps she's doing an Anna Anderson-reemerging as the Grand Duchess Anastasia in order to lay claim to the Romanov fortune. Cill was an only child, don't forget, so there might be some money to be made out of it."

"Priscilla lives on Sandbanks," protested George. "Her husband must be rolling in it."

Jonathan shrugged. "Perhaps Fletcher doesn't own the house ... perhaps he insisted on a prenuptial agreement."

"Yes, but ... it's absurd," she said forcefully. "Even if the Trevelyans managed to buy a house in the West Country, it'll be worth a pittance. They were living in council accommodation when they were in Lacey Street, so the best they could have done was make an exchange, then buy whatever property they ended up in ... and council property's never that valuable."

"It'll still be worth something."

"Then why isn't she calling herself Cill Trevelyan? Why hasn't she made herself known to the parents? It's the most far-fetched theory I've ever heard," she finished indignantly.

"OK, OK," said Jonathan with a small laugh. "It was just an idea. The only other theory I've come up with is coincidence-that a woman called Priscilla looks just like a Priscilla who went missing and happened to marry her rapist, Roy Trent-but that seems equally far-fetched. And you know how much I hate coincidences."

George concentrated on her driving for several minutes. "Anna Anderson led a comfortable life," she said, breaking her silence. "I saw a documentary on her a while back and there were a number of people who believed she was Anastasia. She lived on their charity for years, then ended up marrying a rich American who treated her like royalty."

"She was a fraud," said Jonathan. "They used DNA samples to prove she was a Polish factory worker."

"That wouldn't worry her ... not once she was dead. It's living like a princess while you're alive that's important." There was a gleam in her eye. "Put it this way, if she was Anastasia, then she was robbed of her inheritance, but if she was a Polish factory worker, then she did extremely well out of the deception. But it wasn't the Romanov family who kept her in clover-they refused to recognize her-it was the people she conned..."

From: Dr. Jonathan Hughes [jon.hughes@london.ac.uk]

Sent: Thurs. 5/1/03 11:16

To: geo.gar@mullinst.co.uk

Cc: Andrew Spicer

Subject: Roy Trent

Dear George,

Herewith some thoughts re: the tape. As agreed, I have conferred with a psychologist colleague and we have divided Trent's statements into four categories.

Category 1 (statements that we both believe to be true)

1. The gang bullied Howard with a knife.

2. Howard subsequently acquired a knife and went berserk.

3. The gang experienced similar suicidal thoughts to Howard's.

4. Their stamping ground was Colliton Way.

5. They got into trouble when they left it.

6. Trent detested prison and did not want a repeat.

7. He regrets his behavior.

8. Priscilla Fletcher is not Cill Trevelyan.

Category 2 (statements that we are undecided about)

1. Trent and his gang did not know Grace.

2. David Trevelyan killed his daughter.

3. Jean Trevelyan told lies to protect him.

Category 3 (statements that may not be true but that Trent himself believes)

1. Howard killed Grace Jefferies.

2. He did so as a direct result of being bullied by Trent, Hurst and Hopkinson.

3. Wynne Stamp could have helped her son's defense by citing the gang.

Category 4 (statements that we both believe to be false)

1. Trent did not know Cill Trevelyan-he did.

2. Louise Burton did not know the names of the rapists-she did.

3. She did not identify them because they weren't involved-they were.

4. Trent has not seen Hurst or Hopkinson since they were youngsters-he has.

5. His ex-wife knows nothing about Cill's disappearance or Grace's murder-she does.

I should stress that our conclusions may be wrong-deciphering content and tone of voice is not an exact science by any stretch of the imagination (!)-nevertheless, Trent's responses were interesting. My colleague was impressed by the way he dealt with questions about himself, his gang and Howard Stamp, less impressed by his answers about Cill Trevelyan. As you will see from Category 4 above, most of the "lies" are associated with Cill and the rape.

Despite this, my colleague made the point that Trent was prepared for questions about Cill, viz. his calm response after you and I accused him of it. "It's true that I was taken in for questioning..." etc. This suggests he knew we'd found out about it. Yet only two people were aware of that-William Burton and Miss Brett. It is highly unlikely that Miss Brett reported the fact to Roy Trent or anyone who knew him, but quite probable that William Burton passed it on, either directly to Trent or to Priscilla Fletcher.

Had our accusation come out of the blue, my colleague believes Trent would have postured and protested rather more strongly while he tried to collect his thoughts. In addition, he employed some fairly aggressive diversionary tactics at the beginning in order to prevent us asking anything at all. Since he seemed fairly comfortable talking about Howard, it was questions about Cill Trevelyan and/or Priscilla Fletcher that he wanted to avoid.

Of particular notice is that he shifts the conversation very quickly to Howard-where he feels on stronger ground-and only becomes comfortable talking about Cill when he knows Priscilla Fletcher has left the building. In light of what's on the tape and also Trent's attempts to keep you away from the Cill Trevelyan story, it seems reasonable to make the following assumptions:

1. William Burton repeated details of your conversation with him.

2. Priscilla Fletcher knew Cill Trevelyan well enough to copy her look.

3. Trent does not want us to talk to Priscilla.

I am left with the conviction that Trent was not involved in any way with Grace's murder-and genuinely believes that Howard was guilty. However, I have an equal conviction that he (a) raped Cill; and (b) knows what happened to her. If those conclusions are right, then Priscilla Fletcher was party to the crime(s), and my best guess at the moment-whatever Miss Brett may have said to the contrary-is that Priscilla Fletcher is Louise Burton, that William Burton knows it and that he almost certainly alerted his sister to your interest in the story.

Where that leaves us on Howard, I don't know. I won't abandon his "miscarriage of justice" lightly, but I am concerned about the "slashing and stabbing" incident described by Trent. When I wrote Howard's chapter in Disordered Minds, there was nothing to suggest a history of "manic" behavior against others. But if the episode happened-and we find proof of it through hospital records/Hurst/Hopkinson and/or their families/neighbors-then we will have to rethink. It indicates that Howard had a breaking point, was ready to ignore injury to himself and had a knife. You can't blame him-he had a miserable existence-but it makes our job harder.

For the moment I suggest we concentrate on bearding William Burton in his den and attempt through him to gain access to Priscilla Fletcher. I'm afraid it may turn out that the two stories are unconnected, as the police decided at the time, but we need to establish this for our own satisfaction.

Best wishes, Jon

P.S. Am sending a copy of the tape by snail mail.

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

Sent: Sun. 5/4/03 14:29

To: jon.hughes@london.ac.uk

Cc: Andrew Spicer

Subject: Conclusions

Oh dear! Snail mail delivered, and I do rather agree with you. It's so disappointing. I set such high hopes on Louise Burton or Colley Hurst and it's wretched to have them dashed. If you remember, I was depressed on the way to the station because, even while Roy was speaking, I thought what he said about Howard and his gang sounded like the truth. I was especially struck by Roy's references to "suicidal tendencies" and "shit lives," both of which are well documented in literature about alienated youth.

I shall email some possible dates tomorrow, but at the moment I'm questioning the sense of wasting anymore time on Cill or Louise. I fear it's what you said at the beginning-coincidences are seductive-and if the police didn't make a link in 1970, then it's doubtful there was one.

Best, George

P.S. What happened with Emma's father?

From: Andrew Spicer [Andrew@spicerandhardy.co.uk]

Sent: Mon. 5/5/03 10:46

To: jon.hughes@london.ac.uk; geo.gar@mullinst.co.uk

Subject: Earning advances

Dear both,

I am in the middle of negotiating a delicate-but healthy-deal which is based on a presumption of Howard Stamp's innocence. While I have listened to a copy of the tape and also been mildly entertained by your hand-wringing emails on the subject of whether or not Roy Trent was telling the truth about his revoltingly unpleasant behavior as an adolescent, may I remind you that the object of the exercise is to make him tell you everything he remembers about the Stamp family.

Personally, I couldn't give a monkey's toss how suicidal he felt in his teens. If it's of any interest to you, I experienced identical feelings at fourteen when I contemplated my preordained fate of gaining huge amounts of weight like my mother, failing to score with attractive women like my father, then taking on the family firm in order to deal with authors who keep changing their minds.

Despite these miserably unappealing prospects, I did not go out and rape a 13-yr-old because I enjoyed watching people hurt; nor did I provoke a sad young man with a harelip and learning difficulties into producing a knife because my psychopathic friend had sliced his back whenever he felt like it. Should I now be worrying about you, Jon, because you stood up to Trent and called him a sociopath? Was that a "manic" incident? And what about your "berserk" episode on Bournemouth Station? Does this mean none of us is safe anymore?

You know Howard had a knife because he was a self-mutilator, and there was no point going against Trent and his gang without it. Give the poor chap credit for finding some courage at last, instead of assuming that one desperate attempt at gaining self-esteem led to an automatic downward spiral of murderous behavior. In your shoes, I'd be looking for evidence that his confidence improved in the wake of the incident. Find Wynne. Talk to her. Ask her why Howard agreed to go job-hunting on the Monday and Tuesday before Grace was found. Whose idea was that? Hers or his?

Meanwhile, go back to George's neighbor's testimony which states that Howard could not have committed the murder on the Wednesday because he did not arrive at Grace's house until 2:00 p.m. Then reread Jon's chapter on Howard where the defense pathologist argued that the murder happened on the Monday while the above job search was happening. If the knife-wielding episode worries you so much, then concentrate on opportunity. How and when could Howard have done it?

I hate to be a Victorian parent, but get real, for God's sake! Anthropologists who invite pretentious colleagues to listen to a tape over a cup of tea and councillors with politically correct leanings are persuadable enough to make me weep. Of course Roy Trent was convincing. He's had years of practice ... he even persuaded one of his victims to marry him, if Jon's theory about P. Fletcher being Louise Burton is correct. Plus he's managed to keep George at arm's length from this story ever since he met her, by allowing her free access to his pub for "surgeries" in order to woo voters.

Next time you see him ask him how the Crown and Feathers survives without customers. Who owns it? Where's the money coming from? These are the interesting questions, and if either of you had ever run a business, you'd know it. You were a tax inspector, George, Trent's finances should be grist to your mill. The man's a crook, so of course he doesn't want to go back to prison. Name me one who does!

Best, Andrew Spicer

P.S. OK, pal, give us the dirt. What did happen with Emma's father?

From: Dr. Jonathan Hughes [jon.hughes@london.ac.uk]

Sent: Thurs. 5/8/03 14:33

To: geo.gar@mullinst.co.uk; Andrew@spicerandhardy.co.uk

Subject: Emma's father

The bastard called me an asylum seeker, punched me in the gut and manhandled me out the door. And yes-pal-much as I hate to admit it, you're right! One swallow doesn't make a summer, so unless Howard had better luck than I did the next time he stood up to someone, he probably went back to carving his initials on his arm. However, the odds are high that the "next time" was Grace, and the poor little sod lost it when she didn't run away. My pretentious colleague says there's no going back after the first cut, unless you're clearheaded enough to realize what you're doing ... and that's well-nigh impossible when there's a red mist in front of your eyes. 99% of murders are committed in anger, and the reason the cases are tried as murder, not manslaughter, is because the culprits try to cover their tracks afterward. Be warned! If Jenny or Greg test your patience too far, and you bop one or other of them on the head with a crowbar, phone the police immediately and plead provocation. You may get five years if the judge recognizes what a saint you've been toward a couple of shysters ... but you won't get life.

Nevertheless, I have taken on board your Victorian strictures. You always were a bully, Andrew. I think it comes from being small and fat ... although galloping baldness clearly isn't helping. The real mystery is why you have so much self-esteem. Considering what you look like, and the fact that beautiful women ignore you, it ought to be zero. J.

P.S. To avoid further emails on the subject of my love life, Emma wasn't there and I haven't heard from her. According to her mother, who followed me out, she is getting married on August 9 to a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant with a double-barreled name. I have written to congratulate her.