Disordered Minds

*7*

CENTRAL POLICE STATION, BOURNEMOUTH

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2003, 8:30 P.M.

Andrew Spicer was not amused to be summoned from his office in London at five o'clock that evening to drive to Bournemouth to vouch for his friend. The most basic checks on Jonathan's identity had revealed that a man with his name had had his passport queried the night before when he flew in from America, and police, unimpressed by his behavior after he was arrested for running amok at Bournemouth's main station, insisted on proof of who he was before they would consider releasing him. It was the opinion of the doctor summoned to test Jonathan Hughes for drugs and excessive alcohol-both of which proved negative-that further tests were required. The man was clearly ill. Jonathan was advised of his right to go to hospital, but as he retreated into silence, refusing both medical assistance and a solicitor, there was little to be done except approach Andrew Spicer, literary agent, whose name and address were on several letters in Jonathan's briefcase. An attempt was made to contact Councillor George Gardener, whose correspondence suggested a lunch appointment at the Crown and Feathers, but every call was intercepted by an answerphone. There was a similarly negative response from the pub itself, which wasn't due to open again until five-thirty.

How seriously ill was he? At death's door? Mental, rather than physical, said the doctor, so hardly an emergency. Once Andrew was persuaded to drive from London, the police lost interest. They had other fish to fry, and a safely contained, tearful Arab posed less of a threat than impatient drivers on freezing roads.

When Andrew finally arrived at eight-thirty, tired and hungry after sitting in gridlock on the M3, he was shown Jonathan through a two-way mirror. "Do you know this man?" he was asked by a uniformed sergeant who introduced himself as Fred Lovatt.

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"Jonathan Hughes."

"What's your relationship with him?"

"I'm his literary agent."

"How long have you known him?"

Andrew unbuttoned his jacket and pointed to a chair. "Am I allowed to sit down? I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm dead on my feet." He slumped onto it when the sergeant nodded. "What's he done?"

"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Spicer."

"Twelve years ... thirteen years. We were at Oxford together, but I didn't get to know him well until he brought his first manuscript to me in 'ninety-two. We've been friends ever since."

"What's his profession?"

"Academic. He's a lecturer and research fellow in European anthropology at London University. Rather a good one, as a matter of fact ... and much appreciated by his students because he takes the trouble to make the subject interesting."

The sergeant pulled out another chair. "Is there a reason why he wouldn't tell us that? Why would he have a problem if his university was approached for verification?"

Andrew studied his friend's face through the window. "What are you charging him with?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"Then why are you holding him?"

"Because he's committed an offense and he's refusing to answer questions on it. He won't be released until we're satisfied it's safe to do so."

"What offense?"

Sergeant Lovatt consulted a piece of paper. "Running amok at Bournemouth Central. He collided with passengers and screamed about being-" he arched an eyebrow-"assuming this is right ... fall staff? Possibly full staff? He's refusing to explain what it means. Do you have any ideas, sir?"

Andrew frowned. "It's a Verdi opera. It's on at Covent Garden tonight. Falstaff ... Sir John Falstaff. He's a comic character from Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor, also Henry IV Parts 1 and 2 and Henry V. He's a big fat man with large appetites."

The sergeant looked doubtfully toward Jonathan, whose shirt was hanging off his thin shoulders. "Why .would Mr. Hughes claim to be this man?"

"He wouldn't have said being Falstaff, but he might have said going. He's opera-mad. He told me he had a ticket for it ... that's why he flew home last night. Otherwise he'd have canceled today's appointment and waited for a cheaper flight."

Lovatt read the paper again. "According to the witnesses, he said, 'I am Falstaff.' One of them claims he also said, 'The devil's a woman.' Is he married? Does he have problems at home?"

Andrew shook his head. "He had a steady girlfriend for a while, but they split up after Christmas. I don't think it affected him much; he never gave the impression it was serious."

"Is he a Muslim?"

"No." The fat little man smiled slightly. "Nor is that question sequential on 'the devil's a woman,' Sergeant. As far as I'm aware, it is not Islamic doctrine that Satan wears a dress. They believe the opposite: it's the devil in men-the trouser snake-that's the problem. That's why their women cover themselves."

The sergeant was unmoved. "Does this Falstaff character have problems with women?"

Andrew looked interested suddenly. "He certainly does in the opera. Verdi took the story from Shakespeare's Merry Wives, where Falstaff is portrayed as a figure of fun. He loses all his money and comes up with a plan to improve his finances by seducing the rich wives of Windsor. When the women find out about it, they devise humiliating punishments for him."

"What kind of punishments?"

"Slapstick stuff. I haven't seen it for a while but, as far as I recall, they dump him in a river, then make him parade around in fancy dress. It's the trouser-snake theme. The women lead him on by pretending to like him-get him excited, in other words-then slap him down when he thinks he's about to score. It's a tale of male mockery by feisty ladies. The lesson is that women are intellectually and ethically superior to men."

The sergeant gave a grunt of disapproval, as if the lesson didn't appeal to him. "Pretty topical then. That's all anything's about these days."

Andrew didn't disagree. "It always has been. It's the battle of the sexes ... men are from Mars and women from Venus. Human nature never changes. We can analyze our DNA, email each other across the world, transplant hearts ... but the fundamentals remain the same. Men hunt, and women control the family. Simple as that. Shakespeare's perceptions are as true now as they were when he recorded them four hundred years ago. He was a behavioral scientist before behavioral science was invented-" he ticked the air-"a genius of a psychologist, with a very real understanding of the dynamics of relationships-particularly male-female relationships."

"Mm."

"Sorry," said Andrew. "I'm a fan ... tend to get carried away."

"I've only ever seen Hamlet. Someone told me the whole play could be reduced down to the speech about suicide. 'To be or not to be.' Is that right?"

"He's certainly a man who explores his own tormented identity. In that respect, it's a precursor of modern theater."

Sergeant Lovatt studied Jonathan through the window. "Does Mr. Hughes have a tormented identity?"

Andrew followed his gaze. "Don't we all?"

"Some more than others, I suspect," the other said blandly. "Has he ever displayed any mental problems that you're aware of?"

Too many to count, Andrew thought. Envy ... resentment ... insecurity ... self-loathing ... just like his agent and every other poor sod on the planet who didn't measure up to expectation. "No," he said. "What makes you ask?"

"Your friend resisted arrest and refuses to explain himself. We're interested why."

"Presumably because he doesn't believe he's done anything wrong. He writes books about the pitfalls of social stereotyping and the failings of the criminal justice system when it treats the stereotype and ignores the individual. I imagine he's working on the principle that if you haven't charged him, then he shouldn't have been arrested in the first place."

The sergeant shook his head. "There was nothing wrong with the arrest, sir. Mr. Hughes was detained under stop-and-search powers after going berserk in a public place. When he was taken into custody, he tried to hit an officer with his briefcase."

"Did he make contact?"

"Barely. If he wasn't such a big girl's blouse, he'd be facing a charge of assault, and that's a serious offense." A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. "He's not much of a fighter, your friend. The transport policeman who detained him said it was like wrestling with a stick insect."

"What about the people he bumped into?"

"They were willing to let it go."

"So what's left, other than refusing to answer questions? I thought that was a right, not a crime."

"Unless you make a habit of it. He flew in from America last night and was detained for an hour for the same reason."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" said Andrew impatiently. "It happens every time. If it's not his views on bin Laden, it's which bloody cricket team he supports. I'm never asked questions like that, and if I were I'd say Osama was a splendid fellow just to see what reaction I got." He leaned forward. "If no one else wants to pursue it, you've no reason to hold him."

"We still want an explanation, Mr. Spicer. Heathrow's on heightened alert because of terrorist threats, and the same applies in the major conurbations. Unusual behavior is taken seriously."

"More so when the suspect looks like an Arab, I suppose."

The man didn't say anything.

"If you have his passport, then you know he's British. It used to mean something."

"He isn't carrying anything that can identify him, sir. That's why we asked you to drive down here."

Andrew looked surprised. "He must have his passport. He's irrational about the damn thing ... so terrified of losing it he pats his breastpocket all the time."

The sergeant shook his head. "No passport."

"What about his wallet?"

"No wallet. No money. No credit cards. No train ticket. Certainly no opera ticket to Verdi's Falstaff. He's a bit of a mystery, your friend. All he has in his briefcase are a pay-as-you-go mobile telephone-with a rundown battery-and some letters addressed to him care of Spicer & Hardy-" he eyed Andrew thoughtfully-"which makes his refusal to cooperate rather surprising. You'd think he'd be falling over himself to prove who he is."

"Or explains it," Andrew countered. "When was the last time you had your identity questioned twice in twenty-four hours? You haven't questioned mine. How come I'm squeaky clean without a passport, but Jonathan isn't? Is he right? Are you a nonperson if you're paperless and dark-skinned in this country?"

"You came voluntarily, sir, and Mr. Hughes did not. He was detained legitimately and asked to account for himself. When he refused, he was arrested and brought here. Had he been willing to answer a few straightforward questions, he would have been released as soon as we had confirmation that his answers were true."

"What sort of questions?"

"Address, job, next-of-kin details, what took him to America. Nothing out of the ordinary ... and nothing we wouldn't ask a white man in the same circumstances."

"I've told you his job, so to be strictly accurate it's Dr. Hughes, not Mr. Hughes. He lives in a flat in West Kensington-off the top of my head it's 2b Columbia Street or Road-and his next of kin are his parents, though he hasn't seen them for years. They divorced shortly before he went up to Oxford, and I believe his mother repatriated. He doesn't know-or care-what happened to his father. As for the trip to America, he was attending the funeral of one of his students who was killed in a racist attack on the streets of New York." He glanced at the window again. "Jon's the one who pulled strings to win him an educational scholarship, so I shouldn't think he's feeling too happy that the lad was murdered."

"How does he afford it on an academic's salary?"

"What?"

"Trips to America, Paul Smith suits, Versace shirts, tickets to the opera, Armani glasses. What kind of books does he write? Bestsellers?"

Andrew hesitated before he answered. "Not exactly. He's a single man with no dependents."

"It's an expensive lifestyle, Mr. Spicer. Does he own his flat?"

"I've no idea."

"Does he have any other income that you know of?"

"No." He studied the sergeant's deadpan face for sev-ejal moments. "What are you suggesting?"

"These are uncertain times, Mr. Spicer."

Andrew laughed. "If you're thinking he's some sort of terrorist, you're way off beam. He hates violence."

The sergeant allowed himself a small smile. "Does he live alone, sir?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Rent and mortgages in Kensington don't come cheap, Mr. Spicer."

This was a policeman with a great capacity for taking in knowledge, Andrew thought, as he watched Jonathan take off his designer specs and polish them on the end of his tie, revealing how red his eyes were. In repose and under the bright lights, his face looked gaunt, while his shoulders had the skinny rigidity of a clothes hanger. Andrew's feelings for Jon had always been ambivalent. Their friendship was based on mutual liking and a shared interest in literature and good wine; however, Andrew despised Jonathan's adopted accent, he despised the snobbery, and, very particularly, he despised the lies. Until today he had never had reason to believe they were anything but a cloak for insecurity, but now he wondered. It was certainly true that the cloak had become increasingly transparent in the last few months.

He turned back to the policeman. "That suit's come out so often you could check your face in the elbows, and the specs are purely for show. I'm not his bank manager so I don't know how he conducts his finances, but it wouldn't surprise me if he's up to his eyes in debt. Money talks loudly, and to someone like Jon a place in Kensington and tickets to the opera are probably worth the interest on a loan."

"Meaning what?"

"Some people need to promote a false image of themselves. You can flaunt a trip to Verdi's Falstaff, but you can't flaunt an empty fridge." He saw the skepticism in the other man's eyes, although whether it was for Jonathan's stupidity in wasting money on the opera or disbelief of Andrew's analysis, it was impossible to say. "I know very little about how terrorists work, but I assume the first rule is, don't draw attention to yourself. Is running amok normal behavior?"

The sergeant shrugged. "We had a doctor check him for drugs and alcohol. His view is that Mr. Hughes is close to a breakdown. I'm no expert in terrorists either, Mr. Spicer, but I imagine it wreaks havoc with the mind ... particularly if your own death is part of the process."

Andrew couldn't disagree with that. "It's more likely his house of cards is collapsing. Maybe the split with his girlfriend caused it ... maybe he was more serious about her than I thought." He paused, recalling a remark Jon had made in the wake of Emma's departure. "I couldn't love her the way she wanted..." "He's not an easy man to read. Most of what he thinks and feels stays locked inside his head."

"Go on."

"I'm guessing it started at Oxford. I didn't know him so well then, he moved in a smarter circle than I did. It's a precious place ... or can be," he corrected himself. "The mythology of dreaming spires and gilded youth. To a cynic like me, it's pretentious nonsense-even corrupting-but to someone who comes from the wrong side of the tracks, if s seductive."

"He doesn't sound like someone from the wrong side of the tracks."

"That's part of the fiction. He bought into the idea that image was everything-if you can pass yourself off as one of the elite, then you're made. The problem is, you have to support the lifestyle-and if you can't afford it, you lose your friends." Andrew shrugged. "I think he's afraid he's about to be exposed as a fraud. Which probably answers your question about why he didn't ask one of his colleagues at the university to vouch for him."

The sergeant looked thoughtful. "It's an offense to misrepresent yourself in a job application."

Andrew shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with his qualifications," he said with a wry smile. "It's his breeding he's worried about. The man's an anthropologist. It won't be easy admitting he's the unlikely product of a Jamaican road sweeper and a Hong Kong maid when he's made a habit of passing himself off as a dark-skinned Caucasian."

Andrew, given half an hour to persuade his friend to answer questions, eschewed sympathy in favor of brutal honesty. He listed the options. Assuming Jonathan had nothing criminal to hide, he had a choice of explaining himself and hitching a ride home with Andrew that evening, or keeping up the silence and spending a night in the cells while police made inquiries of his friends and colleagues in London. If he chose the latter, his detention would become public knowledge and he would have to make his own way home if and when he was released. As the police had found no credit cards, cash or return ticket in his pockets or in his briefcase, that could prove difficult.

If Jonathan could not afford his own lawyer, there was a duty paralegal kicking her heels in the waiting room. However, unless he wanted to prolong his agony by explaining his actions to a stranger-bearing in mind the potential charges were minimal-he'd be mad to waste time on a bored young woman who hadn't taken her exams yet. The police doctor who'd tested his urine had hinted at depression, and if Jon persisted in silence there was a strong possibility his next stop would be the psychi-atric department at the local hospital. The knock-on effects of this, when an explanation for his absence reached the university, would be rather more serious than a quiet consultation with a GP in London.

Finally, his agent, who knew more about his author than his author realized, had already blown the gaffe on Jonathan's financial situation, self-esteem problems and inability to sustain relationships ... so it was pointless continuing to save face.

"You could lend me some money to get home," Jonathan muttered, staring at the floor.

"I could, but I'm not going to. What happened to yours?"

"It was stolen."

"Why didn't you tell the police?" "Because they're fascists, and they only arrested me because I'm black." There was some truth in that, thought Andrew, but now wasn't the time to say it. "Grow up, Jon!" he said curtly. "Football hooligans are regularly arrested for running amok, and ninety-nine point nine percent of them are white. Your color didn't come into it. In any case, you are where you are. You can either keep licking your wounds, or you can show .some sense. Rightly or wrongly, you're banged up in a provincial nick with question marks over your behavior. God knows what's been going on, but you can either tell me about it... or you can tell the sergeant. Either way, you need to tell someone."

Jonathan dropped his head into his hands but didn't answer.

"What happened with Councillor Gardener? How did that go?"

"She called me a pig."

"She? I thought it was a man."

"Short, fat and bossy. A bit like you, except she's a hideously ugly middle-aged spinster who spends most of her time making faces."

Andrew lined up a chair beside him and sat down. "Why did she call you a pig?"

Jonathan ground his knuckles into his eyes. "She didn't like me. Accused me of bullying her and said, 'What you can expect from a pig but a grunt?' "

"What did you do?"

"I left."

"I meant, how did you bully her?"

"I didn't ask her what her flaming qualifications were."

It wasn't much of an explanation but Andrew made a reasonable guess at what had happened. "By which I presume you patronized her ... and she didn't like it."

Jonathan gave an indifferent shrug which Andrew took for assent.

"Who stole your wallet?"

More knuckle-grinding. "I think it was the woman at the station, but it could have been any of them."

"What woman?"

"The one who helped me."

"What was her name?"

"I don't know, she wouldn't tell me."

"Was this before or after you ran amok?"

"Before."

"Why did you need help?"

"The police thought I had a bomb in my briefcase so she opened it to prove I was harmless." Jonathan gave a stifled laugh. "She said she was being charitable ... and I believed her. That's how stupid I was. Since when did a woman do anything for free?"

Wondering if that was an oblique reference to Emma, Andrew filed the statement away. The minutes were ticking away and he couldn't afford to be sidetracked. "The sergeant didn't mention a bomb. He said you bumped into other passengers and shouted about being Falstaff."

"It was a different station. They were watching me from the entrance because I was sweating."

"Which station?"

"Branksome."

"It's been freezing all day. Why were you sweating?"

"I felt ill. You can't be ill in this country if you're black. It frightens the natives."

"Don't talk crap, Jon! We have our ups and downs but, by and large, we're pretty peaceful."

"Then why are we going to war?"

Andrew turned to look at him. "Is that what this is about? Were you given a hard time in the States?"

His friend gave a hollow laugh. "It's an Arab thing. We're all potential terrorists."

Andrew shook his head. "Except you're not an Arab. You're half Jamaican, half Chinese and by some freak of genetics you ended up looking like a Bedouin."

Jonathan's jaw set in a hard line. "How do you know what my parentage is?"

"You got rat-arsed the week after Emma left. I couldn't follow most of it but I had the Caribbean-Asian conflict rammed down my throat." A confused loathing of his parents mixed with racist hatred of anyone of Afro-Caribbean or Chinese descent because of the vicious gangs who had terrorized him as a child.

"Why haven't you mentioned it before? Why let me go on pretending?"

"It wasn't my business. If you want to be an Arab or an Iranian, then so be it. I don't see it matters very much unless it causes problems for you. Does it?"

Nationality's a choice, not a birthright... "No."

"Then why are you here? Why were you feeling ill at the station?"

"It was jet lag. I just needed a bit of time, so I leaned against a wall."

"How long for?"

"I can't remember."

"Then this woman appeared and went through your briefcase?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you think that was a bit peculiar?"

Jonathan glanced at him, showing eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. "I do now," he muttered. "At the time I believed her. I even thanked her for her kindness. You can't get much stupider than that ... allowing a woman to make a fool of you, then thanking her for doing it."

It explained the Falstaff reference, Andrew thought. "Oh, come on, pal, you were conned. It sounds like a professional scam ... look for people in trouble, then rip them off while you're pretending to help them. You should have told the police. She's probably well known to them."

Jonathan didn't say anything.

"All right, I'll tell them. What did she look like? What sort of age?"

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea."

He went back to staring at the floor. "I felt sick every time I moved my eyes, so I never really looked at her."

Andrew shook his head. The whole story was becoming more and more bizarre, and he found himself sympathizing with the sergeant's view that Jon was suffering mental problems. "This isn't a figment of your imagination, is it?" he asked bluntly. "Does this woman actually exist?"

"Why would I invent her?"

"Because you're up shit creek without a paddle, mate. You've lost your passport, your money and your return ticket. You've alienated the only useful contact for a book on Howard Stamp and had yourself arrested for behaving like a maniac. What the hell's been going on?" No answer. Andrew stood up. "This is crazy. I'll ask them to phone George Gardener. At least she can tell us what happened at the pub."

"She said she knew Roy Trent and saw me at the Crown and Feathers."

"George Gardener?"

"The woman. She had a dark fringe and spoke with a Dorset accent."

"Who's Roy Trent?"

"The landlord." There was a long pause. "He's the bully, Andrew. He pretends to be helping her, but he does it in a cruel way. He called me a wog and a darkie and said I only got the place at Oxford because I was the token black."

"Ri-i-ight." Andrew watched him for a moment before turning the door handle. "When did you last have a decent night's sleep, Jon?"

His friend gave another muted laugh. "I think too much," he answered cryptically.