Disordered Minds

*4*

Inside, the two men eyed each other like a couple of silverback gorillas preparing to fight over a ripe female. Roy Trent, at a disadvantage because he was on his knees trying to bring the fire to life, or because he genuinely cared for the fat little gnome behind Jonathan, capitulated first. "Listen, mate, I'm sorry," he said, shoveling coal into the grate. "I saw this big black geezer gripping old Jim's hand and giving him the evil eye, and I thought, shit, he's dressed up like a dog's dinner and he's talking like Laurence bloody Olivier. I mean, it's not normal, is it? We all know Jim's a miserable old sod, but we tend to switch off and let him get on with it. It's George's fault really. All she told me was that an author was coming-some fellow who'd written about poor old Howard-so I was expecting a puny little critter in an anorak. I mean, Howard's hardly front-page news, is he?" He flicked Jonathan an assessing gaze. "The real trouble is, you don't have a foreign name. I mean, Jonathan Hughes-what could be more English than that? Now, if you'd been called Mohammed or Ali, there wouldn't have been a problem." He stood up, wiping his coal-blackened hands on his trousers. "Apology accepted?" he asked, proffering his right.

Jonathan, well aware that he'd been purposely maligned, grasped the hand firmly in his and bore down heavily on the man's metacarpal bones. "As long as you accept mine."

There was a flicker of irritation in Roy's eyes but he answered pleasantly enough. "OK. What do you want to apologize for?"

"Making wrong-headed judgments about whites," said Jonathan. "It's a bad habit of mine. You all look the same to me."

"Go on, I can take it. What's the punchline?"

"Germans are well educated, the French are well dressed, the Irish have talent and Americans are polite." He shrugged. "As the British are none of these things, I invariably make mistakes in my dealings with them." He removed his raincoat and hung it on a hook beside the door before smoothing his jacket and hoping the shiny patches on the elbows wouldn't be noticed. "I apologize for the suit. I wore it as a courtesy to the person I was meeting-" he felt George stir uncomfortably behind him-"but I should have realized how inappropriate it would be. Of course, if your pub had been called the Pig and Wallow, there wouldn't have been a problem-I'd have had an idea what to expect-but the Crown and Feathers suggested a classier establishment."

There was a long pause while Roy thoughtfully massaged his fist. "Just for the record, so you don't get it wrong another time, you can't tell a pub by its name, mate. The Pig and Wallow could be the best inn you'll ever come across."

Jonathan smiled slightly. "Thank you for enlightening me," he murmured. "Being black and foreign does make the vagaries of English naming traditions very difficult to understand."

Roy jutted his chin aggressively. "You left out our good qualities. We don't take life as seriously as the Germans ... we don't bellyache like the French ... we don't emigrate at the drop of a hat like the Irish ... and we don't worship money like the Americans." He tugged his old jumper over his beer gut. "I'll concede the bad dressing, though. So what nationality are you?"

"As British as you, Mr. Trent."

"Except I'm English."

The room was a small one with a table laid for two and a couple of leather armchairs on either side of the fire. Jonathan motioned to one of the chairs, inviting George to sit down. "May I take your coat?"

She clamped her arms over her chest. "No, I'm fine."

He wondered what she was wearing underneath. Pajamas? It wouldn't surprise him. Nothing would surprise him today. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Please."

He crossed one elegant leg over the other and put on his spectacles. "If you're asking what my racial roots are, Mr. Trent, then my father's family is Iranian and my mother's family is north African. I have an English name courtesy of my paternal great-grandfather, who was called Robert Hughes, and the reason I'm British is because I was born here and hold a U.K. passport. I attended a London comprehensive school, won a place at Oxford and am now a research fellow in European anthropology at the University of London. I speak English, French and Farsi fluently and can get by in German and Spanish." He steepled his hands under his chin. "So what are your racial roots? I'd say there's a lot of Welsh in you."

"None at all," said the burly man suspiciously. "My parents are both Dorset folk."

"Interesting. Yet your Celtic genes are so strong."

"How do you make that out?"

"Body shape, stature, eye color, facial type. A true Englishman would have Anglo-Saxon characteristics. He'd be taller and fairer, with blue or gray eyes and a finer bone structure. You have strong Celtic features-wiry dark hair and brown eyes-and your body shape is endomorphic. It's why the Norsemen called the Welsh trolls, because they were short, dark, hairy men with big bellies." He glanced at George as she made small tut-tutting noises. "I'd say you're at least seventy-five percent Welsh, Mr. Trent."

That's rubbish," said the other man crossly. "You can't tell an Englishman just by looking at him. I'm fat because I eat too much. It doesn't make me bloody Welsh."

Jonathan touched his hands to his forehead in obeisance. "I do apologize. I hadn't realized being Welsh was such a problem for you. It's another area of the English psyche that I've never understood. I thought it was the Scots and Irish you didn't like."

"I am not Welsh."

George gave a nervous little wave. "He's teasing you, Roy. The Angles and Saxons were Germanic peoples who invaded England in the fourth century ... at the same time as the Jutes and Vikings. The Jutes were Danes, the Vikings were Norwegian. Prior to that we were conquered by the Romans-who were Italians-and seven centuries later we were taken over by the Normans who were French." She squeezed her eyes at Jonathan in painful pleading. "Dr. Hughes was joking about endomorphs-I'm one, you're one-an Iranian could be one. It's got nothing do with nationality, anymore than color has. For most of us nationality's a choice, Roy ... not a birthright."

"Not for me it isn't," he said stubbornly. "I was born here. It's the asylum seekers who look around for something better that choose."

George gave a disheartened shrug as if his xenophobia was not new to her. "At least recognize that it was the whites who invented economic migration, Roy. Everyone who went to America was looking for a better life."

Jonathan watched the man's mouth set into even more obstinate lines. He was tempted to tell him they both belonged to the same racial group, Caucasian-the non-Negroid peoples of Europe, the Middle East, north Africa and western Asia-including the Welsh-but it would only offend him. Instead he took pity on George's red face and extended a hand. "Shall we start again? I'm afraid I've been very ill-tempered since last night when I flew in from New York and was put through the wringer by an immigration officer. He asked me my views on Osama bin Laden. When I refused to answer, he kept me hanging around for an hour while he checked to see if my passport was genuine."

Roy accepted the olive branch. "Why did you refuse?"

"Because there was only one answer. Even bin Laden's most fanatical supporters are hardly likely to admit it to an immigration officer."

Roy appreciated the point. "Did he ask the whites the same question?"

"What do you think?"

"No."

Jonathan nodded. "You learn to live with it, Mr. Trent. At times like this, when people are frightened, there's always a presumption of guilt if your face doesn't fit. It's depressing. It happened to the Irish living in England every time an IRA bomb went off. It happened to Howard Stamp when people thought a Manson-style killer was roaming Highdown."

But mention of Howard Stamp brought an immediate cooling. Roy glanced at his watch. "I'd better see what's going on downstairs. Can I get you something to drink? Are you allowed alcohol? George suggested a Gevrey-Chambertin to go with the hotpot but perhaps you'd prefer something else? Wouldn't want to offend your religion or anything."

"I'm an atheist," said Jonathan, watching him, "and the Gevrey-Chambertin sounds excellent. Thank you."

"I'll be back shortly." He patted George's arm as he passed. "If you don't take that coat off soon, girl," he murmured, loud enough to carry, "you'll spontaneously combust ... and the hat's not doing you any favors either, trust me. If you're going to be judged on your looks, you might as well get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

Trent closed the door behind him, but listened for a minute or two before he walked away. His first remark to Hughes had been accurate. "A jumped-up wog in fancy dress." The man was certainly doing himself no favors with George. Apart from anything else, he was insisting on calling her Miss Gardener. With an amused smile he walked down the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door, only for his amusement to turn to anger when he saw his ex-wife watching the CCTV monitor in the corner.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked angrily. "I told you to stay away."

She glanced at him. "I fancied a look at the famous author."

"Why?"

"So I'd recognize him again. I don't trust you, Roy, never have. When were you planning to tell me he was black?"

"I didn't know myself." He stared at her for a moment before taking a couple of wine glasses from a cupboard and transferring them to a tray. Age had been kind to her, whereas George looked every one of her years. The difference was character. George was ugly, unassuming and kind; his ex was a good-looking bitch.

She flicked the fringes of her cashmere scarf. "A sad little anorak, you said, who doesn't know shit except what he's got from old newspapers. Instead Denzel Washington turns up."

"He says he's an Iranian."

"Who cares? He's black enough to be a nigger." The woman's pale eyes narrowed aggressively. "Your girlfriend's going to bust a gut to help him whatever he is. She's a do-gooder, for Christ's sake, and it's PC to be nice to wogs."

"Yeah, well this one's an arrogant bastard. I don't think George likes him much." He grinned suddenly. "You can thank me for that. I put his back up before she even arrived, and now she's having to grovel."

The woman looked interested. "Did you do it on purpose?"

He nodded toward the monitor. "Seemed worth a shot. I watched that old fool Jim Longhurst needle him for ten minutes, then went out and added to his grief. He's easily offended ... but it doesn't stop him looking down his nose at proles. He's treating poor old George like something the cat brought in."

"I watched her go after him. She'd have licked his black arse if he'd given her half a chance."

Roy gave a contemptuous snort. "You might ... she wouldn't."

"He's not bad looking."

"Looks like a woofter to me," said Roy, wiping his hand on his trousers as if it had been contaminated. "It won't cut any ice with George. She's only interested in what he can do for Howard."

"You sure she doesn't know anything?"

Roy shrugged as he reached for the Gevrey-Chambertin. "What's to know? If it wasn't Howard who killed Grace, then it was some other kid with ginger hair. The best either of them can do is clear the little sod's name." He placed the bottle on the tray with a corkscrew. "But there isn't a chance in hell they'll put anyone else in the frame-" he flicked her a speculative glance-"unless you know something I don't, Cill."

"Don't call me that," she snarled. "What about DNA? He mentions it in the book."

He could feel the heat of her impatience. "There's nothing to test it against," he said calmly. "All the evidence was destroyed after Howard died. George pestered the police for years until they told her it was incinerated." He hefted the tray and pushed past her. "Now get lost before someone sees you."

"I suppose you heard that," said George with a sigh as the door closed behind Roy.

Jonathan nodded.

"Oh, well." She tugged off her hat and sent her stubbly gray hair shooting skyward with static electricity. "I had an argument with the hairdresser," she explained apologetically, before discarding her coat to reveal an old yellow jumper with car oil down the front and a pair of equally grubby gray leggings tucked into her boots. "And I'm on nights at the moment so I didn't wake up till eleven. I thought I'd check the car before I put on my glad rags and, when it wouldn't start..." She gave a self-deprecating shrug. "I agree with you about it being courteous to dress up, Dr. Hughes, but I ran out of time to change. I rather hoped you'd be an elderly, short-sighted professor ... and wouldn't notice."

Her hair looked more like the aftereffects of chemotherapy, and he wondered if the glad rags included a wig. He rose to his feet and pulled the other chair forward. "The only reason I'm wearing a suit, Miss Gardener, is because I'm going to Verdi's Falstaff tonight." He smiled as he sat down again, but it was a mechanical civility rather than an expression of friendship. "Let's just agree that first impressions aren't always right ... and take it from there."

Her enthusiasm returned immediately. "Oh, thank goodness," she said with feeling, dropping into the other chair. "I was beginning to wonder how we'd get through this meal if I had to watch my p's and q's for hours. Putting on airs isn't my strong point-as you've probably noticed." Her voice had no accent until her pitch rose and the vowels betrayed London roots. "My poor mother despaired of me. She wanted a dainty, well-behaved daughter and she got a bull in a china shop."

"Is she still alive?"

"No. Died of breast cancer when I was fourteen." She pulled another face as if screwing her eyes and lips into gargoyle twists was a nervous mannerism, and Jonathan thought how astonishingly ugly she was. "She was ill for a long time before that so I was effectively brought up by my father. He had no airs and graces either, which is why I never learned them."

"What did he do?"

She smiled affectionately, bobbing forward to sit on the edge of her seat. "He was a postman."

Jonathan stretched his feet toward the fire and leaned back to put distance between them. "Is he still alive?"

She shook her head. "Heart attack fifteen years ago. That's when I upped stumps and came to Bournemouth. I'm afraid the genes aren't healthy on either side. If I make old bones it'll be a miracle, though it won't upset me hugely if I don't," she said matter-of-factly. "There's a lot of misery in old age."

"Jim being the perfect example," Jonathan said dryly.

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "You can't blame old age for that. According to Roy, he's always been miserable. Did he tell you about his medals?"

Jonathan nodded.

"You have to feel sorry for him. He has flat feet so he spent the war emptying dustbins. He's told the medal story so often that I think he believes it now, but it's sad when someone has to invent a history because their lives have been such a disappointment." The eyes, a bright blue, examined him closely. "My father always said the hardest cross to bear was a chip on the shoulder. The more you resent it, the heavier it gets."

He wondered if she was having a dig at him. "How come the night shifts? What do you do?"

"Nothing very grand. I work in a nursing home."

"As a nurse?"

"Just a care assistant. I used to be a tax inspector when I lived in London." She smiled at his expression. "We don't all have horns, you know. Some of us are quite nice."

"Why give up? Couldn't you have transferred to a tax office down here?"

"It seemed like the right time to reassess priorities. In any case, I enjoy working with dementia. All my patients have amazing imaginations, none of which bears any relation to logic or reality. I have one old lady who's convinced her husband was murdered. She tells everyone he was bludgeoned to death by angry neighbors."

Jonathan looked doubtful. "Doesn't it upset her?"

"Only when she's told it's not true. It's her fifteen minutes of fame to produce a conversation stopper while a naive young nurse is trying to feed her. She sulks if people point out that her memory's at fault. It's like telling Michael Jackson he's black." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh lord! Foot in mouth. Didn't mean to use the b-word. Sorry!"

"Just don't use the w-word," Jonathan said, hiding his irritation.

"What's that?"

"Welsh."

She gave a squeak of laughter. "Oh dear! That was quite funny, wasn't it? What's wrong with the Welsh, for goodness sake?"

"King Offa built a dyke in the eighth century to keep them in Wales," he said ironically. "I expect it has something to do with that."

Another giggle. "How did you know Roy would react the way he did?"

"Because he wants to be thought of as English. If I'd accused him of being Scottish or Irish, he'd have been just as angry. He probably doesn't like Lancastrians or Yorkshiremen either, so his Englishness is very much West Country based." He raised an eyebrow. "If you scratched him hard enough, his preferred passport would say Dorset. That's the only tribe he wants to belong to."

She examined his face for a moment. "And you, Dr. Hughes? What tribe do you want to belong to?"

It was a question he couldn't answer. Indeed, it was easier to list the tribes he didn't want to join-blacks, whites, yellows, browns, mulattos-than to name the one he did. His father wanted him to acknowledge his paternal roots, his mother hers, and all he could do was make the best of being British. And that wasn't easy. Easy would have been for his warring parents to have remained in their own countries, rather than emigrate to England, produce a single child and wait eighteen years to declare their hatred for each other. Had Jonathan been born in the homeland of either of his parents, he might have felt he belonged. Instead they'd left him rudderless, with only a flimsy passport to prove who, and what, he was.

He reached for his briefcase. "Shall we talk about Howard Stamp? I thought you might be interested in some of the letters I've received."

"If you like," George agreed.

"He's the reason we're here," Jonathan reminded her.

"Oh, I doubt it," she said. "I can't think of a single occasion when I've had just one reason for doing anything. Can you?"

He snapped the catches on his briefcase. He had no intention of discussing philosophy with her. "There's a woman who was at school with him-Jan-but she didn't give me an address or surname. Roy might be able to identify her. Another correspondent mentioned a schoolteacher. It would be useful to find her if she's still alive." He extracted the letters and handed them over.

George didn't read them immediately. "Have you ever thought that Howard's only purpose in life was to be a scapegoat? That's rather sad, don't you think?"

Jonathan nicked through the remaining letters. She'd be telling him God moved in mysterious ways next. "I'm more interested in the shortcomings of the police and judicial systems," he said patronizingly, "particularly when they have to deal with inadequate personalities or accused from different cultures who don't have a facility with language."

"I see," was all she said, before bending her head to the first piece of paper.