Disordered Minds

*5*

The Gevrey-Chambertin made George's face even redder, a fact remarked on by Roy when he reappeared with their lunch. "You want to watch it," he warned her. "You'll be done for drink-driving if you're not careful."

He was solicitous of her in a ham-fisted way, and Jonathan wondered about the exact nature of their relationship. She certainly took Trent's comments in better spirit than he would have done, but then friendship for him meant mutual respect. Anything less wasn't friendship. "You'll die a lonely old man," Andrew had warned once. "Loyalty is worth more than respect."

"Same difference."

"Hardly. Your sycophantic friends wouldn't dream of pointing out your flaws."

"What makes you think they're sycophants?"

"Because you choose them carefully. You need to be admired, Jon. It's a gaping flaw in your character."

"So what does that make you?"

"A loyal friend from Oxford days-your only friend from Oxford. You should think about that. It may be my easygoing personality, though I suspect it has more to do with the fact that I'm eight inches shorter than you, took over the family business and cheated on my wife."

"Meaning what?"

"That you can look down on me, literally and figuratively, so I've never threatened your self-esteem. My business success, such as it is, is transparently inherited, and my failed marriage means I'm no better at keeping women than you are. It's an interesting paradox in your character. You demand respect for yourself, but you can't give it. The minute you decide you're being eclipsed, you move on. I assume it's fear of perceived failure and not jealousy of another's good fortune that makes you do it, but it's a damned odd way to conduct your life."

Jonathan watched George use a letter to fan her face and tamped down a sudden rush of contempt. He looked away to hide it, questioning quite seriously whether there was something wrong with him. He felt divorced from the room, from the people in it, even from himself-this level of detachment wasn't a normal symptom of jet lag. He wondered if the wine was to blame. Strange tremors, like electric shocks, shot up his arm every time he lifted the glass to his lips, although only he seemed aware of them. "You can't go on like this ... you should see a, doctor..."

The room was too warm. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip. "I gather you knew Howard Stamp," he said to Roy as the man laid the table.

"Depends what you mean by 'know,' mate. He used to pop into my dad's shop once in a while to pick up stuff for his gran but, as he never said much, we weren't exactly close."

"Where was the shop?"

"You'll have passed it on your way here. It's the newsagent in Highdown Road."

Jonathan remembered. "Was he older than you? He'd be in his midfifties if he was still alive."

"Yup," Roy agreed unhelpfully, retrieving salt and pepper pots from a cupboard. "You wouldn't have thought it at the time, though. He managed to grow a bit of a mustache and a scrappy little beard, but he never looked his age. He was a right little wimp ... even his voice failed to develop. My dad called him 'sparrow chest' and told him to get a Bullworker ... but he never did." He paused, dunking back. "He should've done. He'd have had more confidence with a muscle or two."

"You called him 'poor old Howard' earlier. I assumed you had some sympathy for him."

"In retrospect I do-he was bullied rotten-but at the time..." He broke off with a shake of his head. "A bloke couldn't afford to feel sympathy then. The kids today think tihey invented street cred but it's been around for decades. Only a loser would have admitted friendship with Howard."

"Classic torture tactics," murmured Jonathan mildly. "The Scylla of isolation and the Charybdis of fear."

Roy paused in what he was doing. "Scylla"-Cill?-at least, had struck a chord. "If you spoke English," he said carefully, "I'd know what you were talking about."

"Scylla and Charybdis were six-headed monsters who inhabited rocks in the Mediterranean," said George. "Ulysses had to steer his ship between them without being snared by either in Homer's Odyssey."

Roy relaxed noticeably. "I expect you're right," he drawled, "but it still isn't English."

"Howard was between a rock and a hard place," Jonathan explained, "bullied because he was friendless, and friendless because he was bullied. He had nowhere to go except inside himself. The outward sign of his distress was cutting his arms."

Roy shrugged. "Not my fault, mate. You can't hold the rest of us responsible because Howard didn't have the bottle to stand up for himself. We all got teased, but most of us learned to deal with it." He removed the casserole dish from a hotplate on the sideboard and placed it on a mat in the middle of the table. "Good eating," he said, before vanishing again.

"Was he one of the bullies?" Jonathan asked, clenching his fist involuntarily on the arm of his chair.

George noticed it and heard the edge to his voice. "Probably," she answered honestly, "but then all the children were. I don't think it would be right to single Roy out as an aggressor. He was five or six years younger than Howard, so he wasn't at school with him, and the school bullies were the worst." She heaved her bottom out of the chair and moved to the table. "Perhaps scapegoat was the wrong description. Whipping boy might have been better. The first had the sins of the Jews laid on his back before he was chased into the wilderness, the second was flogged for the failings of others. In either case, the guilty escaped punishment. It's a very twisted concept."

"But an old one." Jonathan pulled out the other chair. "Jesus died on the cross to take the sins of the world on himself. Or have I got that wrong?"

She smiled slightly. "You know you haven't," she said, unfolding her napkin, "but there's a difference between the son of God absolving the world and some poor goat being expected to do it." She took his plate and spooned lamb hotpot onto it. "Here's another animal sacrifice," she joked, handing it to him. "Help yourself to vegetables. As far as I know, they've never had to atone for anyone's sins. Or am I wrong, Dr. Hughes?"

There was more of the same during the meal. Serious remarks interspersed with teasing darts. She seemed intent on proving her general knowledge to him, and he let her do most of the talking while he struggled to eat the lamb hotpot. His appetite, as usual, was negligible and after five minutes he pushed his half-finished plate away and lit a cigarette without asking permission in case she refused. He wanted to remove his jacket, but he was worried she'd notice his fraying shirt cuffs.

Every so often he tried to break her garrulous flow. His questions were factual. Was Howard's primary school still in existence? Would they have records? Which secondary school did he attend? Was that still in existence? Would they have records? She answered readily enough, only to go off on a tangent immediately, and his frustration grew. He wanted to remind her that this was a fact-sharing meeting, instigated at her invitation, but he didn't know how to do it because he wasn't used to voluble middle-aged women who pulled faces and giggled under the influence of drink.

After half an hour she pushed her plate aside and propped her chubby elbows on the table. "Do you mind if I asked some questions now?"

"What about?"

"You." She shook her head as his expression closed immediately. "Not personal questions, Dr. Hughes, questions about why you became interested in Howard's case. For example, how did you come across it and where did you research it? Downing and Kiszko's cases were fairly well known even before their convictions were quashed, but interest in Howard died with him. He's not mentioned in books or on the Internet and, as I said in my first letter, the story was dead long before I moved to Mullin Street. So what brought you to him?"

"A book," said Jonathan with unnecessary emphasis, "although, admittedly, it's only available in academic libraries-Clinical Studies by Dr. Andrew Lawson. It was published in 1975 and has been out of print for years. It's a collection of psychiatric assessments, one of which was Stamp's. I quote it in Disordered Minds ... the attribution is in a footnote." He smiled the mechanical smile again. "I always assume readers share my interest in bibliographic references, but obviously I'm wrong."

George's cheeks turned a brighter crimson. "I hadn't realized that's what sparked your interest. May I ask why it did?"

He shrugged. "I thought I made it clear in what I wrote. There were parallels between Stamp's case and the other cases I detailed. It seemed obvious to me that, had he lived, his conviction would have been quashed."

She nodded. "Most of your information comes from newspaper coverage. Is that the only research you did?"

He saw a criticism immediately. "It's a common enough resource tool, Miss Gardener ... but, no, I also had some correspondence with Adam Fanshaw, who in turn put me in touch with Stamp's solicitor. They're both retired now, but they were able to fill in some of the gaps, particularly about Grace's history. The solicitor sent me a copy of a letter that was quoted at the trial, but it contained some rather more interesting information that I referred to in my book. I also consulted a psychological profiler."

She toyed with the edge of her plate. "Do you ever consider the advantages your dark skin gives you?" she asked abruptly.

He frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Most decent people would hate to be thought of as racist. Surely that works in your favor some of the time?"

It was another tangent, but he didn't understand where it was leading. "I don't follow."

She held his gaze for a moment. "Presumably most educated whites, meeting you for the first time, make a point of expressing interest in what you say ... even if it bores them. Isn't that an advantage of being dark-skinned? They wouldn't show the same courtesy to an overweight, middle-aged white woman." She smiled slightly. "But then being fat is a lifestyle choice-and being colored isn't."

"I wouldn't know, Miss Gardener. You're the first person who's accused me of being boring. I don't see how it relates to Howard."

"I was wondering how far he contributed to his own bullying," she mused. "How far does anyone contribute to their own bullying?"

"They don't. Howard became a target because of his harelip. He couldn't help it, anymore than blacks and Asians can help having dark skin. Bullying's a form of terror-and terrorists always choose the easiest targets."

She reverted to the subject of research. "Were documents your only tool? Did you never think of coming down to Bournemouth to find people who knew Howard?"

It was another criticism. "Not until today, no. But neither did I go to Rochdale to research the Kiszko case, nor Bakewell to research the Downing case."

"Didn't you think it was important?"

"My expertise lies in examining and analyzing available records, not in hammering on doors looking for long-lost witnesses. The Stamp case was one chapter in a long book that took over a year to write. I felt there was enough documentary evidence to posit the possibility of a mistrial, and you clearly agreed, otherwise you wouldn't have written to me. The idea now is to take the case further."

"I'm not trying to offend you," she said. "I'm just interested in how an academic approaches a subject like this. I'd love to have gone to an established university myself, but it wasn't easy for a postman's daughter at the tail end of the sixties."

Oh, please! Did she think it was any easier for a half-breed from a sink estate to win a place at Oxford at the tail end of the eighties? "It's precisely because I thought it was important to find people who knew Howard that I included a contact address in the book," he said patiently. "It's also why I'm here today-" he took out another cigarette-"although I don't seem to be making much progress."

"Only because you think your agenda's more important than mine."

He flicked his lighter to the tip. "What makes you say that?"

"Body language."

"For Christ's sake, stop being so bloody stuffy. You look as if someone's rammed a. broomstick up your backside."

He forced a smile to his face. "Do you mind if I take off my jacket?"

She noticed he was sweating. "Be my guest." She watched him stand up and meticulously empty his pockets before carefully draping the fine wool over the back of the chair. He tucked his wallet, passport and a couple of pens into his briefcase, then unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and folded them back. It was an interesting routine, she thought-very Pavlovian. "The reason I'm asking these questions," she went on as he took his seat at the table again, "is because, unlike you, I have done the legwork ... on and off since I first heard Howard's story." She took a folder from the carrier bag she'd brought with her. "These are my notes."

The file was a good two inches thick. "May I see them?"

"Not yet," she said with surprising firmness. "First I'd like you to tell me what you plan to do with them."

"Assuming they add to the knowledge I already have-and with your permission of course-I'll include them in a new book."

"About what? Howard ... or the iniquities of the judicial system?"

"Both, but Howard principally."

"May I ask why?"

Jonathan saw no reason not to be honest. "My agent's impressed by the number of letters I've received-not all of them sympathetic-but there does seem to be considerable interest in Howard."

"And your agent thinks the book will sell?"

He nodded.

"That's good." She propped her chin in her hands. "Now let me tell you why I'm interested in the case. As I said in my first letter, my introduction to it was through one of my neighbors who knew Grace by sight. They had a nodding acquaintance, but they weren't friends and they didn't socialize. Whenever my neighbor talked about the murder she always concentrated on the horror of it and the impact it had on the street. She said it was months before she dared go out and years before she opened her door without worrying about being murdered ... in other words, long after Howard was convicted." She fell into a brief silence while she marshaled her thoughts.

"I asked her if she believed they'd caught the right man," she went on after a moment, "and she said no. Others were persuaded by his confession and the evidence, but she wasn't." She placed a hand on the folder. "She was one of the witnesses who came forward to say she'd seen Howard on the day of the murder, but she wasn't called at trial. At the time she was relieved, because she'd never been in court before and she'd found the police questioning intimidating. Afterward she questioned why her evidence had been excluded. She even wrote to her MP about it, although she never received an answer." She pulled a face. "It's not atypical, but considering what she had to say it should have been taken up." She fell silent again.

"What was it?"

"That she'd seen Howard's arrival and not his departure. She was cleaning her sitting-room window when she watched him let himself into his grandmother's house with his key. She had the radio on and she was listening to the lunchtime news on the Home Service. The presenter signed off just after Howard closed the door." George smiled impatiently at his lack of understanding. "In 1970 Radio 4 was called the Home Service, and the lunchtime news finished at two o'clock. It was followed by The Archers, and my father tuned in every day." She rapped her knuckles on the edge of the table. "There really is no way that Howard could have done everything he was accused of in half an hour."

Jonathan felt a stirring of excitement. "Did this woman make a statement?"

"Yes. I used my contacts on the police committee to try to get hold of the original, but we didn't have any success. If the file's still in existence, no one knows where it is-the best guess is that it was destroyed after Howard died. However, I do have a copy that my neighbor dictated to me from memory in 1997. It won't be exactly the same, of course, but she signed it and we had it officially notarized." She heaved a sigh. "Poor woman. She died shortly afterward, riddled with guilt that she hadn't made more of an effort to keep him out of prison."

He dropped ash onto his plate. "Why didn't she?"

"Because she was a humble little person who had absolute faith in the police. Before the trial she assumed her evidence wasn't important enough to call her as a witness; afterward she started to worry about it. She said she spoke to the local bobby, and he told her it was done and dusted. She made an attempt to contact Wynne, but Wynne had already been rehoused because of the furor ... then Howard hanged himself."

"And she gave up?"

"Yes."

"When did she write to the MP?"

"Three days before Howard died. She assumed that's why she never had a reply. Then I came along and stirred her up again." She paused. "I still don't know if it was the right thing to do. She'd managed to persuade herself he wouldn't have confessed if he hadn't done it, and her conscience would have been easier if she could have gone on believing that."

"You can't blame yourself."

She gave a small laugh. "You'd be surprised what I can blame myself for, Dr. Hughes. At the moment I'm beating myself up because the car wouldn't start. They say a good beginning makes a good ending, so the reverse must be equally true ... start badly and it goes downhill from then on."

Jonathan ignored the comment. From his perspective, things had improved considerably since she'd started taking the meeting seriously, and he wondered how long she intended to make excuses. It was a peculiarly English characteristic to keep worrying at the vomit. He took a notepad and pen from his briefcase. "What was your neighbor's name?"

Her blue eyes searched his black ones for a moment before, with obvious regret, she screwed her face into pained apology. "Oh dear, this is where we hit the buffers at the bottom of the slope. I'm afraid I'm not going to tell you, Dr. Hughes, nor will I allow you to read my notes. I've made free with one piece of information that points to Howard's innocence because I'm embarrassed to have brought you all the way down here only to send you away empty-handed. However, if you want to write this book, then you'll have to put in the hours yourself-as I have done."

He stared at her with contempt, saying nothing, and she wiggled her shoulders uncomfortably. "I'm sure you'll believe it's a racist thing, but it isn't. I've spent fifteen years researching Howard's case, the last ten trying to bring it to public attention. I was so optimistic when I heard your interview on Radio 4 and read your book, but now..." She broke off with a shake of her head.

He gave a cynical laugh. "But now that you know Disordered Minds has raised the interest to a commercial level," he finished for her, "you'll try to write the book yourself. Have you ever written anything before, Miss Gardener? It's not easy, you know."

She tucked the folder back into its carrier bag and stood up, reaching for her coat. "You misunderstood me. The reason I won't share my information with you, Dr. Hughes, is because I don't like you." She shrugged. "You exploit your color to intimidate people, and in my book that's a form of abuse. You might not have treated me like dirt if I'd been better dressed or hadn't arrived late, but I doubt it. As my father was fond of saying, what can you expect from a pig but a grunt?"