Disordered Minds

*23*

SANDBANKS PENINSULA, BOURNEMOUTH

THURSDAY, MAY 15, 2003, 2:45 P.M.

Sasha Spencer drew up outside the Fletchers' house in full view of a CCTV camera on a lamppost and reached into the backseat for her briefcase. Whether she was being monitored or not, she could see no point in pretending to be anything other than she was. She stepped out of the car, smoothed her skirt and took stock of the adobe facade before opening the gate. She had taken the trouble to consult an estate agent before she drove onto the peninsula and had discovered not only that Palencia was a rented property but also that the present tenant had announced his intention not to renew the lease. Was Ms. Spencer interested in taking it on?

There were no cars in the driveway and no answer to her persistent ringing of the doorbell, A garage to the left of the house was also empty. She looked for cameras but, if they existed, they were well hidden. Ostentatiously consulting her watch, she followed a path down the right-hand side, looking in windows as she went, before knocking loudly on the kitchen door. There was no response. Indeed, the only sign that the house was inhabited was a sun lounger on the lawn with a towel over it.

According to Billy Burton, Louise had said her husband was in his study the day Billy called, but Sasha had seen only a sitting room and a small dining room. With another quick scan for cameras, she moved past the kitchen and peered through the next set of windows, shading her eyes to cut out the glare of the sun. This room, too, was unoccupied but she could see the back of a computer console on the desk and a large flat-screen television on the wall behind it. Light flickered across its surface and she wondered if it was active until she realized it was a reflection from the computer monitor. She narrowed her eyes to see if she could make out the image but, even as she watched, the reflection vanished.

It was a moment or two before she questioned why. Then she straightened abruptly and stepped back. The monitor had shut down automatically because the computer hadn't been used for a preset number of minutes, usually fifteen. Someone was in the house, and a reactive prickling between her shoulders told Sasha she was being watched. With a look of annoyance, she consulted her watch again, then retraced her steps to the front. She took a business card from her pocket, scribbled, "FAO Louise Burton. Please call me. Need to speak to you urgently re: Cill Trevelyan" on the back and pushed it through the door. As she left, she had a strong suspicion that, even though she hadn't seen any cameras, all her movements had been recorded.

25 MULLIN STREET, HIGHDOWN, BOURNEMOUTH

THURSDAY, MAY 15, 2003, 3:30 P.M.

George opened the door and smiled inquiringly at the visitor on her doorstep. "How can I help?" she asked, assuming the young woman was a constituent.

Sasha took in the bizarre hat and red face without inching. "Are you Councillor Georgina Gardener?"

"Yes."

Sasha produced her operating license. "I'm Sasha Spencer. I work for WCH Investigations. You visited our offices a month ago asking for information on Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan. My colleague took your details but was unable to assist you for confidentiality reasons. I was wondering if you'd be willing to give me a few minutes of your time now."

George was too surprised to say anything for several seconds. "Well, well, well!" she then declared. "And Jonathan doesn't believe in coincidences!" She chuckled at Sasha's expression. "You'd better come in. We're in the garden."

Sasha felt at a distinct disadvantage as she was shepherded outside, introduced to Dr. Hughes, whose head attire was even more peculiar, and given a kitchen chair to sit on. She had no idea who he was, didn't take greatly to his amused smile and wasn't given a chance to run through her spiel before Councillor Gardener piled in with her own comments. She was better informed than Billy Burton realized and canny enough to recognize that Sasha wouldn't be there unless the Trevelyans had authorized it. She asked the young woman bluntly what had made them decide to do it. "It can't have been my approach to your colleague, because I didn't explain why I was there. And you wouldn't have driven all this way just to find out why I asked for their address."

"I'm afraid the issues of confidentiality remain the same, Councillor Gardener. I'm not at liberty to say."

"Has someone else contacted you?" She took the woman's silence for assent and looked at Jonathan. "It must have been William Burton. Interesting, eh? Why does he want his sister investigated?" She turned back to Sasha. "Have you spoken to her?"

"Who?"

"Priscilla Fletcher."

There was a pronounced pause before Jonathan took pity on Sasha. In a funny sort of way, she reminded him of George. A little on the chubby side, inappropriately dressed for a warm day in Bournemouth and certainly no beauty. Her mouth kept reaching nervously for a smile, as if she'd been trained to defuse difficult situations by offering a symbol of good will, but it wasn't something that came naturally to her. As usual, he failed to take into account the effect his intense gaze had on people and decided she hadn't been long in her job.

"Why don't you let Ms. Spencer tell us why she's here?" he suggested to George. "At the moment she's looking a trifle shell-shocked ... which was rather my experience the first time I met you."

George promptly pulled an apologetic face. "I'm so sorry, dear. I thought it would be simpler if we just got on with it ... but Jonathan's right. Please-" she made an inviting gesture-"go ahead."

Sasha wondered what to say. She had been taught to go through certain formalities, but she was more used to the nervous responses she'd had from the Burtons than to this amused impatience. She played for time by opening her briefcase and taking out her notebook. "If I may, I'll begin by explaining my company's policy with regard to your rights and the rights of my clients. You are under no obligation to answer my questions, however-" She broke off as Jonathan cleared his throat. "Who are you?" she demanded abruptly. "Why are you so interested in CillTrevelyan?"

Jonathan gave a nod of approval. "How prepared are you to share information?" he asked. "We're fairly well informed on her story, but there are gaps in our knowledge that you might be able to fill."

"I can't breach client confidentiality."

He exchanged a glance with George. "Then there's no incentive for us to help you," he said. "We've put time and effort into researching Cill's story, and you wouldn't know Priscilla Fletcher was worth investigating if Councillor Gardener hadn't paid a visit to William Burton."

Sasha tried another smile. "Do you know where Cill Trevelyan is?"

"No."

"Do you know if she's still alive?"

"No."

"Then what do you know that's worth my breaking company rules?"

"Enough to give you a helping hand," said George. "Have you spoken to Priscilla Fletcher?"

Sasha shook her head. "I've just come from her house. I'm pretty sure someone was inside but they refused to answer the door. I've no idea if it was her or her husband." She hesitated. "Her brother says you have a photograph of her as she is now. May I see it?"

"As long as you show us one of Cill as a child," said George. "The Trevelyans must have given you one, but all we have is a black-and-white newspaper cutting. Trade for trade? We'll tell you something ... you tell us something."

Sasha wasn't as naive as Jonathan thought, so she played with her pencil and pretended to think about it. They'd be freer with their own information if they thought hers had to be enticed out of her.

As if to prove her point, Jonathan leaned forward. "Live dangerously," he encouraged her, "otherwise George'll psychoanalyze you ... and that's a nightmare."

Louise spotted the card the minute she entered her front door. It lay on the carpet a meter from the doormat as if a current of air had wafted it from the letter box. She picked it up and read it, then thrust it hurriedly into her pocket. If she gave any thought at all to the cameras and tapes that ran in twenty-four-hour loops in Nick's office, it was only in relation to her own arrival. She retreated through the door, her busy mind already working out excuses for her rapid turnaround, and left as quietly as she'd arrived.

Jonathan passed David Trevelyan's statement to George and bent his head to read Jean's. The noise of an occasional car filtered through from the road outside, but otherwise the only sounds were a distant motor-mower and the hum of crickets in the grass. Sasha sat patiently waiting, wishing there was an umbrella. Her skin was reddening in the sun and sweat was running down her back.

"Why don't you take off your jacket?" said Jonathan suddenly. "You'll fry if you're not careful."

Sasha gave her automatic smile. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Have a hat," said George, whipping off the pink straw creation and offering it across.

"No ... I'm all right ... thank you."

Jonathan came to the end of the page and pushed it away. "Very interesting." He turned his attention to Sasha again. "Have you met either of them? What are they like?"

"No, it was a predecessor who interviewed them. He noted down his impressions afterward." She sorted through her briefcase, looking for them. "I've listened to the tapes and spoken to Mr. Trevelyan on the phone, but that's all. Here we are." She read from the page: "'David Trevelyan: Big, impressive man with easy manner. Did most of the talking. Clearly blames himself for what happened. No sense that he was keeping anything back. Jean Trevelyan: Slender, good-looking woman. More subdued than her husband. Spent most of the interview in tears. Also blames herself. No sense that she was keeping anything back. Some disagreement between them over the rape. Jean believes it happened. David can only focus on the way it allowed Cill to be portrayed as a tart. This still makes him angry.'" She looked up. "That's it."

"Does he talk on the tapes about the argument with Robert Burton?"

"All the time. He's convinced the Burtons set out to blacken Cill's name deliberately."

"Why?"

"He's not very sure. He keeps talking about the end result-that the police decided she was promiscuous, probably had a boyfriend she'd never told anyone about, and therefore wrote her off as a runaway." She paused to collect her thoughts. "He accuses Louise of lying about everything, including the rape. He says she was diverting mention from something she'd done and accuses the Burtons of backing her up to avoid the police taking too close an interest in their own daughter."

"That last bit is probably true," said George thoughtfully, mulling over what Sasha had told them. "They wouldn't want anyone taking an interest in Louise if William's right about the abuse." She folded her hands over David Trevelyan's statement. "I wonder how much the mother knew."

"She enabled it to happen," said Sasha.

"Mm." George pursed her lips in thought. "Except she couldn't know about the abuse and the rape. One or other, perhaps ... but not both."

"Why do you say that?" asked Jonathan.

"Because she'd have told Louise to keep her mouth shut at the police station. There was no guarantee they'd accept Louise's story. If they'd had her examined to see if she'd been raped as well, then her father's abuse might have shown up."

There was a short silence. "So what do you think happened?" asked Sasha.

"God knows," said George despondently. "There's too much to take in ... I can't see the wood for the trees."

"It's not that bad," said Jonathan reassuringly, reaching for a clean sheet of paper. "Let's start with what we know to be true." He jotted them down as he spoke. "The rape. The names of the rapists. Cill and Louise's connection with Grace. Mrs. Burton's knowledge of it. Her readiness to lie to the police." He glanced from one to the other. "Anything else?"

"Abuse," said Sasha.

"We'll come to that in a minute. I'm after anything that's supported by an independent witness."

"The fight between the girls," said George, "presumably also the fight between Robert Burton and David Trevelyan ... and Robert Burton's remark about Cill deserving what she got. The fact that Cill didn't disappear until after her father left for work." She gestured toward Sasha. "The Trevelyans' known commitment to trying to trace their daughter. The Burtons' willingness to let theirs go. Louise's troubled history-marriage to one of the rapists ... remarriage to a man of the same type-"

"Do we know that for a fact?" Jonathan broke in.

"She had a black eye when William saw her," said Sasha.

"We don't know it was given to her by her husband-" he tapped Andrew's bullet points-"and it may not have been real, anyway. She turned up with fake bruises when she went to see our agent."

"What do you know about her husband?" Sasha asked. "William tells me his name's Nicholas Fletcher and he's a bookie, but he hasn't been able to find out anything else."

George shrugged. "We haven't done much better. He had a fight with Roy Trent over Priscilla on one occasion-" she pulled a wry face-"assuming you believe my not very reliable source at the Crown and Feathers who got the information secondhand off a customer. The barmaid," she explained. "She told me the other day after Jonathan and I had a set-to with him."

Sasha looked interested. "Did Mr. Trent report it? I might be able to find out Fletcher's details if he did."

"I shouldn't think so. He gives the police a fairly wide berth."

"When was this?"

"Two years ago. It was before Tracey started working there, which is why it's hearsay."

Sasha consulted her own notes. "Didn't you say Priscilla was at the pub in February when she stole Dr. Hughes's wallet?" George nodded.

"Does her husband know she's still seeing him?"

"No idea ... and it may not be relevant, anyway, if she's still working as a prostitute and her husband's her pimp." Her mouth turned down disapprovingly. "It's all very murky, whichever way you look at it. My father would be spinning in his grave if he knew the antics people get up to these days. What's wrong with being loyal to one partner? It always used to work."

Sasha caught Jonathan's gaze and a flicker of amusement shivered between them.

George pretended not to notice. "If she isn't in her house now, then she may well be at the Crown and Feathers. She's like a bee to a honeypot where Roy's concerned. I never noticed her car before, but now, almost every time I pass the pub, it's there in the road. You'd think she'd be worried about Nicholas seeing it. I mean, if I've noticed it, why hasn't he?"

"What sort of car is it?"

"Black BMW," said Jonathan. "We can even give you the registration number."

Sasha eyed him thoughtfully. "What about Nicholas? What does he drive?"

"Pass."

"Then perhaps the BMWs his. It's worth a try." She took out her mobile telephone. "There were no cars at the house when I was there," she explained, "but I'm sure there was someone in the house." She punched in a number. "Can you write out the registration?" she asked Jonathan. "This is a check I can run quite quickly through the office."

Louise slid through the kitchen doorway and watched Roy peeling potatoes. He was working at a chopping board near the monitor, and he had his back to her. It was funny how he reminded her of her father. They had similar builds and similar ways of speaking, but she didn't think either of those triggered memories of Robert. It had more to do with the fact that Roy was always preparing meals. "I don't know why you bother," she said into the silence. "Who's going to eat them?"

He'd known she was there. Just like her father, he always heard her come in. "Private room's booked out till midnight," he told her. "Card game." He wiped his hands on a towel and turned round. "What's up?"

She walked round the table to give him Sasha Spencer's card. "That bitch George must have told them. What should I do?"

Roy squinted at the writing on the back. "How did you get it?"

"It was posted through the letter box."

"Did you tell Nick?"

"Don't be an idiot!"

Roy jerked his head toward the monitor. "I've been watching him. He was waiting by the letter box when this Spencer woman poked it through." He tucked the card back into her pocket. "You'd better start working out how to tell him who Louise Burton is. He'll probably kill you for it ... but I'm past caring."

She raised her mouth to his and teased him with her tongue. "Nick I can handle. What do I do about Sasha Spencer?"

He stared into her eyes before pulling her into a rough embrace. "What you always do," he said with a grim smile. "Tell her it was someone else. Cill'll not stay buried this time. There's too many people asking questions."

George went inside to make a pot of tea, Jonathan suggested moving the table to a spot further down the garden where a neighbor's tree offered some shade. Sasha accepted gratefully. He tucked her chair well under the tree, then retrieved the other two, placing his in the sunshine, at an angle to the table, and stretching his long legs in front of him. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Strange things genes," said Jonathan nonchalantly. "My father was a Jamaican road sweeper and my mother was a Chinese maid."

Sasha glanced at his card. "You've done well," she said. "They must be proud of you."

Perhaps they were, he thought. "So what got you into tracing children?" he asked.

"An ad in the local newspaper," she admitted honesdv "I thought it sounded more interesting than my previous job."

"Which was?" "Office work." "What sort?"

"I worked for the Inland Revenue." She laughed at his expression. "Now you know why I wanted to leave."

"It's not that," he said. "George used to be a tax inspector in London." He laughed. "You'll be telling me you have degrees in psychology and behavioral science next."

"I wish I had. They'd be more useful in this game than medieval history." She paused. "She's an interesting person. Have you known her long?"

"Not really." He rearranged the postman's hat so that the peak settled more comfortably on his neck. "It just seems as if I have." He smiled at Sasha's expression. "That was a compliment. She has a disproportionate effect on the people she meets ... her influence on them is stronger than theirs on her."

"Some people are like that. Louise Burton, for example."

"Do you think so?" Jonathan asked curiously. "To me, she has all the attributes of a loose cannon."

Sasha shrugged. "Then why does everyone protect her? Her brother ... Roy Trent ... possibly even Nicholas Fletcher. Why does your agent want to believe she's telling the truth? There must be something about her that attracts people. You said yourself you felt comfortable with her until you discovered your wallet was missing."

"It's a man thing," he answered cynically. "Miss Brett wouldn't agree with you. She didn't like her at all."

"But she didn't punish her the way she punished Cill," Sasha pointed out.

George picked up the tail end of the conversation as she brought out a tray of cups and a teapot. "Cill went back to rescue her before the rape," she reminded Jonathan as she resumed her seat, "which suggests she perceived Louise as more vulnerable than she was. Weakness can be a strength in certain situations, particularly if it's used to manipulate emotions."

"It didn't work for Howard or Grace," he said.

"No," she agreed, "but they weren't manipulators."

"And Louise is?"

"She was very successful at persuading you to let her look through your briefcase ... and Andrew into feeling sorry for her." She wagged a finger at him. "She had a good teacher, Jon. There's no more manipulative personality than an abusive father ... and no one with less moral sense. It's an appalling role model for an impressionable child. You should know that better than anyone."

"Are you saying I'm manipulative?"

George chuckled. "You could write a book on it, my dear."

Louise lit a cigarette. "Don't tell me what to do, Roy. You're not my bloody keeper. Never have been. You all think you own me because of what happened, but you don't ... I own you." She moved away from him. "You're so like my dad, darlin', you wouldn't believe. Love you, love you, love you, baby ... now gimme what I want or I'll thrash the living daylights out of you." Her eyes flared disparagingly. "I used to think he was God till he started feeling up Cill ... then I realized what a dirty little creep he was ... and I hated him. It was OK when he told me he loved me better than Mum. It wasn't OK when he said Cill was his favorite."

Roy had heard it all before. Every time she was stoned or drunk the shabby family secrets poured out, contaminating her, contaminating him. He wondered sometimes if he would ever have been drawn into this suicidally symbiotic relationship if she'd told him the truth at thirteen, but he was honest enough to recognize that he would. The sort of madness that had possessed them all that fatal May in 1970 was generated by drink and self-loathing, and the problems of a skinny child who held no attraction for them wouldn't have been heeded, much less understood.

She was right about ownership. She had held their fate in her hands for thirty-plus years, and the only thing that had kept her alive was heroin. Stumbling from one fix to another, she had been a threat to no one. Clean, she was a walking time bomb. "Take care, Lou," he warned. "I can't protect you forever."

She blew a lungful of smoke in his direction. "You're so arrogant," she said scornfully. "Did you never think I might be protecting you? You're the one Nick's worried about, darlin'. You know what he's like-gets a bee in his bonnet and there's no shifting it. I told you months ago he didn't like you buddying up to George, but you wouldn't listen."

"That's crap."

She gave an indifferent shrug. "Why do you think he lets me come here? He doesn't trust you ... wouldn't trust Micky either if he was still alive. It's him told me to go through the wog's briefcase. He's round the bloody twist ... sees ghouls and goblins everywhere."

It was partially true. The bits of Nick's memory that remained intact had fused into a looped tape of events that bore little resemblance to reality. Somewhere in the regions of his mad mind, it was only Grace's death he remembered.

Sasha closed her palm over her mobile's mouthpiece. "The car's registered in the name of Priscilla Fletcher Hurst." She frowned at George. "Where does the Hurst come from? I thought you said her previous husband was Roy Trent."

"Colley Hurst," said George slowly. "How very stupid of me. It's an old-fashioned abbreviation of Nicholas." She sorted through her folder for the transcript she'd made of her conversations with Billy Burton. "Her brother said her first husband was called Mike," she said, looking at Jonathan. "Could that have been Micky Hopkinson?"

"Wouldn't he have recognized him?"

"He said he was in prison so he never saw him."

Jonathan hunched forward in his chair. "What kind of a databank are you accessing?" he asked Sasha. "Is it worth telling your colleague to feed in Nicholas Hurst-maybe Michael Hopkinson, too-and see if he comes up with anything?"

"We'll give it a try but I wouldn't think so, not unless they've been convicted in the last ten years." She spoke into the phone again, giving both names, then hung up. "He'll call back in a couple of minutes with a yea or a nay." She pondered for a moment. "We have a sister company of inquiry agents who can find out anything you want to know-bank account details, family details, employment and car history, even medical and social service records-but, as most of that information's privileged, the costs are higher, to cover the company's risk. I know for a fact that Mr. Trevelyan can't afford it, but if either of you can, it might be worth a try."

"How much?" asked George.

"Upward of five hundred pounds."

George pulled a face. "Is it ethical?"

Jonathan exchanged another amused glance with Sasha. "Absolutely not," he said. "I should think it breaches every privacy law that's ever been written ... but bloody interesting, George. We could use some of this famous advance Andrew keeps promising us."

"What about your debts?"

He bared his teeth at her. "Don't keep reminding me."

"Someone has to. You'll be grateful-"

She broke off as the mobile rang and Sasha put it to her ear. "Yup," she said, "go ahead." She wrote fast in shorthand across her pad. "Got that. What about Michael Hopkinson? OK ... thanks." She laid the phone on the table. "Nothing on Hopkinson, but three years ago the Metropolitan Police was ordered to pay Nicholas Hurst two hundred thousand in compensation for brain damage, wrongful arrest, wrongful imprisonment and loss of earnings. At the time of his injuries he was managing a William Hill betting shop in the East End. He was in and out of hospital for three years and returned to Bournemouth in 2001 when the compensation came through. Last known address-" she raised her head-"the Crown and Feathers, Friar Road, Highdown."

"Good lord!" exclaimed George. "How very incestuous it all is. Do you realize that if Mike was Micky Hopkinson, then she's been married to all three of them at one time or another? Why aren't the men jealous of each other?"

"Because they have no more feelings for Louise than they do for each other," said Jonathan.

"There used to be a law that said wives couldn't testify against their husbands," put in Sasha. "I don't know when it was repealed, but perhaps they think it still applies."

Jonathan shook his head. "They're a tribe," he said. "Marriage is just a device to keep Louise within the fold." He paused. "The interesting question is why she goes along with it ... unless she has more to gain than they have."

"Like what?"

"Security?" he suggested. "It's a primary tribal instinct."

From: Sasha Spencer [S.Spencer@WCHinvestigations.com]

Sent: Wed. 5/21/03 1002

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

Subject: Report on Roy Trent, Crown and Feathers, Friar Road, Highdown

Dear George and Jonathan

Re: the report from Bentham Inquiry Agents

Bentham's agent has given me a verbal account of his investigation into Roy Trent. Copies of the full report will be posted on to you as soon as they're ready, but in the meantime the following is a summary of his findings:

1. Roy Trent has ownership of the pub until his death. His first wife, Robyn Hapgood, was the daughter of the previous owner. She OD'd on heroin in 1988, leaving the property to Trent for his lifetime, and after that to their son, Peter (12 years old at the time of her death). The property's heavily mortgaged-possibly to pay inheritance tax at the time of Robyn's father's death (1984)-but Trent keeps up the repayments. The debts will be cleared in 2009.

2. Peter Hapgood, now aged 28, has a criminal record and a history of drug abuse. He was first sentenced in 1994 and is currently in the second year of a 5-year term for aggravated burglary.

3. Trent has received numerous offers on the pub and has rejected them all. It is not clear why as he has insufficient funds to develop it himself. There may be a clause in the will preventing him from selling it-but this is unlikely as such clauses can be challenged. Bentham's view is that he is holding on until the property's free of debt.

4. He married Louise Burton a.k.a. Daisy Burton a.k.a. Priscilla Hopkinson in 1992.

5. Michael Hopkinson OD'd in 1986 after several terms in prison. He and Louise married in 1974 (she was 17). She became chronically drug-addicted (heroin/crack cocaine) and maintained her own and her husband's addictions through prostitution.

6. Following their marriage, Trent made some attempts to wean her off drugs (e.g. obtained a placement in a rehab center where she lasted 6 weeks before relapsing). One source, not corroborated, says she had an affair with Peter while he was under his father's roof. The same source suggests it was Louise who got the boy (a) addicted and (b) into crime to supply them both.

7. Trent offered Nicholas "Colley" Fletcher Hurst free accommodation in 2000 and applied for a "quickie" divorce which came through in June 2001.

8. Louise began an affair with Nicholas while he was at the Crown and Feathers and they moved into rented accommodation on Sandbanks in August 2001. Hurst's compensation came through in October 2001 and he and Louise married in November 2001. Louise has been "clean" since she hooked up with Hurst.

9. Louise continues to be a regular visitor to the pub.

10. Trent is well regarded by the local community (cf. George's initial impressions). The consensus view is that he has not jumped on the "leisure bandwagon" but continues to provide a service for the poor of Highdown who can't afford expensive prices. He has a reputation for being anti-drugs.

11. Full details of Trent's bank balance and mortgage history are in the report. Also, Peter Hapgood's criminal record. Trent himself spent 6 months in a juvenile institution for 5 counts of theft.

The Bentham agent suggests you look very closely at the drug connections. Despite Trent's publicly expressed views on the subject, there's been a high level of abuse among the people he's associated with. The main source (ex-prostitute who claims Trent was her pimp in the last '70s) claims she was buying class-A drugs off him until 1985 when she quit. No evidence that he's still dealing, but there are question marks over the profitability of the pub and Trent's apparent ability to make repayments on the loans.

There's a garage at the back which the agent was unable to investigate without blowing his cover, but it's heavily alarmed, has a CCTV coaxial cable supply and a hatch that faces onto an alleyway. (He obtained some digitally enhanced photographs from his car which are supplied with the report.) It would be possible to mount a surveillance operation from one of the neighboring houses to establish if it's being used for dealing, but the operation would be extremely expensive in manpower and fees, with no guarantee of success, and would be better done by the police. The agent's words to me were, "There may just be a Ferrari in there."

Re: Robert and Eileen Burton

After discussing the Burtons with my senior colleague, I have decided to put them on hold until we've had a chance to talk to Louise. It would, of course, be a great advantage to interview her from an informed position but, as Robert Burton's email to his son and the conversation William had with his mother both suggest that they will deny everything, no advantage would be gained. A premature meeting would only alert them to a possible police investigation, which in turn might prejudice future cooperation, particularly from Eileen Burton.

Re: Louise Burton/Priscilla Fletcher

I can confirm that her initial contact last Friday, May 16, was followed up yesterday with a proposal to meet at her house on Monday, May 26, at 1100. In this first instance, I suggest I meet with her alone and allow her to set the agenda. Assuming you're both free, I will report to you at George's house afterward.

Hoping this meets with your approval, My best wishes Sasha Spencer

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

Sent: Wed. 5/21703 1706

To: S.Spencer@WCHinvestigations.com

Cc: geo.gar@mullinst.co.uk

Subject: Playing safe

Dear Sasha

Thank you for this, but I question the wisdom of holding the meeting in the lions' den. I urge you to go back to Louise and suggest neutral territory. N.B. Colley Hurst is a brain-damaged rapist who may have been party to Grace Jefferies' murder.

These are not sane people you're planning to confront, Sasha. George and I may have agreed to fund a rather dodgy investigation into Roy Trent. We did not authorize ill-considered interviews with possible murderers.

Please do something, George! You're the psychologist. Is this sensible?

Best, Jon

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

Sent: Thurs. 5/22/03 0841

To: S.Spencer@WCHinvestigations.com

Cc: jon.hughes@london.ac.uk

Subject: Playing safe

Dear Sasha

Written in haste. Jonathan is right. At least question why Louise would let you into her house when her brother's experience was the exact opposite-no entry under any circumstances. Please reconsider. Everything we know about Colley Hurst suggests he's a violent man. Best, George

From: Sasha Spencer [S.Spencer@WCHinvestigations.com]

Sent: Thurs. 5/22/03 1207

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

Subject: Trust me

Dear Jon & George

I'm over 21.1 don't need nannies!

Sasha