"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.
*8*
The sergeant agreed to telephone the Crown and Feathers but, rather than throwing any light on Jonathan's story, Roy Trent said the pub had been virtually empty at lunchtime and he didn't remember a dark-haired woman. He knew a number of brunettes and auburns but, without a name, he couldn't be anymore helpful. In any case, he'd found Jonathan's wallet and passport on the floor of the upstairs room when he'd come to clean it. He'd assumed Jonathan would phone as soon as he realized they were missing but, as he hadn't, he was planning to ask George Gardener to return them because she knew his address. "What's with the dark-haired woman?" he finished curiously.
"A female of that description gave Dr. Hughes assistance at Branksome Station. She claimed to know you."
"So?"
"Dr. Hughes says she went through his briefcase."
"And he thought she'd stolen his wallet?"
"Yes."
"How come it's taken you so long to call? It's hours since he left."
"He didn't tell us anything was missing until a few minutes ago, sir."
Roy gave a surprised laugh. "He's got real problems, that fellow. Why didn't he phone? The first place you'd check is where you took your jacket off. I'd've put his mind at rest quick as winking."
The sergeant caught Andrew's eye and looked away. "What sort of problems?"
"The whole-world's-out-to-get-me sort. He's just the type to jump to the conclusion his stuff's been stolen instead of thinking it might have been his fault. Mind, he'd've found out he'd dropped it a damn sight sooner if he'd let me call a taxi. But he wouldn't have one. Insisted on walking, even though it was bucketing down. Why did he need assistance?"
"We're not sure. Was he drunk when he left your pub?"
"Couldn't have been, not on what he had here ... couple of glasses of wine, maximum. He might have been drinking before he arrived, of course, but he didn't look like it. He was sweating when he left, but that was because he'd blotted his copybook with George and she was rabbiting on at full blast about what a jerk he was. He couldn't get out fast enough, which probably explains why he didn't check his pockets properly."
"Do you have George Gardener's number?"
"Sure. She's on nights this week so you'll have to call her at work. Hang on, I'll find it for you." He came back with a nursing-home number a few seconds later. "It's the Birches," he said when the sergeant asked which one it was.
"The Birches," repeated the sergeant, writing the number on his notepad. "Is that the big place on Hathaway Avenue?"
"Yup."
"How easy will it be to get hold of Ms. Gardener?"
"Not difficult. She carries a pager."
"Right. Thank you, Mr. Trent."
"Hang on! What about this bloody wallet and passport? Does Hughes want to pick them up or should I post them?"
"I'll send a car."
A wary note crept into Roy's voice. "This isn't some sort of insurance scam, is it? There's not much in the wallet, you know ... just a couple of twenties and some tickets. I assumed, as he didn't come back for it, he keeps his credit cards somewhere else. I'll be bloody angry if he tries to accuse me of stealing from him."
"He's not accusing anyone of anything at the moment, sir."
"Then what's the story? It all seems mighty peculiar to me."
You and me both, thought the sergeant, as he avoided the question by thanking the landlord again and cutting the line. He tapped his pen on his desk for a moment, then asked Andrew to find out from Jonathan what was in the wallet. "It's important, Mr. Spicer. If you think you're being lied to, please tell me."
While Andrew was out of the room, he consulted with the Transport Police, then checked for any call outs of the regular force to Branksome Station that afternoon. Both came up negative. There was no response at Branksome, which had closed for the night, but an operative at Bournemouth Central said the only information logged on the line about an Arab acting suspiciously was the "running amok" episode for which Jonathan had been arrested.
Andrew listened to the tail e
nd of the conversation when he returned. "Do you think he imagined this woman?"
The sergeant shrugged. "Not necessarily, but he may have embroidered the encounter when he found his wallet was missing. He seems to like painting himself as a victim of injustice."
"Is that what the landlord said?"
The other man ignored the question. "I'm not unsympathetic, Mr. Spicer. It can't be easy for any dark-skinned person with all the anti-Muslim feeling that's in the world at the moment. What does he say was in the wallet?"
"Nothing worth stealing ... except to him: a return ticket which he needed to get back in time for the opera, the Falstaff seat and forty-odd quid. He wasn't asked to show his ticket at Branksome, which is why he didn't discover it was missing till he reached Bournemouth Central. He says he should have just got on the train and blagged his way back to London, but he was too tired to think of it."
"What about credit cards?"
Andrew shrugged. "He wouldn't say where they were, but he's not claiming they were in the wallet."
George Gardener was as surprised as Roy to be answering police questions about Dr. Hughes six hours after she thought she'd seen the back of him. She knew nothing about the missing wallet and passport, but she'd left the pub shortly after Jonathan. Like Roy, she had no recollection of a dark-haired woman. "There was hardly anyone there," she told the sergeant. "I only remember seeing Jim Longhurst. I suppose people may have come in while Dr. Hughes and I were upstairs, but he left by the back door, and that's not visible from the bar."
"Mr. Trent said you had a row with Dr. Hughes. May I ask what it was about?"
"We didn't row," she said. "Roy's probably talking about me voicing my opinions in the kitchen. I believe Dr. Hughes heard me, which is why he refused to wait for a taxi."
"Did he come by taxi?"
She hesitated. "I don't know ... no, I don't think so. His raincoat was very wet when he got into my car, too wet for the few minutes before I caught up with him."
"Was this before or after you voiced your opinions?"
"Before. I was late for our meeting and there was a misunderstanding between him and Roy. I went after him in my car."
"What sort of misunderstanding?"
She sighed. "Roy made a remark that Dr. Hughes interpreted as racist. We were both expecting a white man-it's not a foreign name, you see, which is how the misunderstanding occurred." She paused. "Has he lodged a complaint against Roy?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Then what's this about?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out, Ms. Gardener. It would help if you gave me a summary-brief, if possible-of this meeting. What was the reason for it? What happened to make you voice opinions about Dr. Hughes?"
"Oh dear! It all seems very petty now."
"Please."
Sergeant Lovatt was expecting a rambling account but, in the event, it was surprisingly concise. George explained their common interest in Howard Stamp and referred to the differences between herself and Jonathan as a "personality clash." Their dislike had been mutual, and she'd recognized very early that she'd be walking on eggshells if she tried to work with him. Their attitudes to life were diametrically opposed-possibly because she was a generation older and Dr. Hughes aspired to more sophisticated standards than she cared about or was capable of achieving-so she had found it impossible to take the meeting further.
"I'm sorry if he's offended," she finished, "but I did explain that it wasn't a racist issue. Sometimes chemistry works and sometimes it doesn't. Sadly, in this case it didn't ... and I wasn't prepared to hand my notes to someone whose motives I distrusted."
"Mm."
"Does that help, Sergeant?"
Not really... "Did he say he was feeling ill while he was with you, Ms. Gardener?"
"No."
"Did he look ill?"
Another hesitation. "If you'll forgive what appears to be another racist remark ... his skin was too dark to tell. I know when white people are ill-even strangers-but I'm not well enough acquainted with black faces to recognize symptoms. He mopped his brow fairly regularly and didn't eat much-but there was a fire in the room and I assumed he didn't like Roy's food." Her concern sounded in her voice. "Now I feel awful. Is he ill? Is that why you've called?"
"He appears to have left his wallet and passport at the Crown and Feathers, Ms. Gardener. It upset him. Without a return ticket, he had no means of getting back to London in time for the opera."
"I see," she said, although the lack of conviction in her voice suggested the opposite. "Why didn't he phone Roy?"
The sergeant stared across his desk at Andrew. "Perhaps he was embarrassed. There seem to have been some very unfortunate remarks made at this meeting. Thank you for your help."
He replaced the receiver. "I need verifiable contact details before he leaves, Mr. Spicer. However, I see no reason to detain him any longer tonight. I believe your assessment of your friend is right-that he has money difficulties and that the loss of his wallet pushed him off balance. It can be retrieved from the Crown and Feathers where he left it. I'll give you directions there, although I suggest you leave Dr. Hughes in the car and collect it from Mr. Trent yourself. If your friend gets himself into anymore trouble tonight, he will not go back to London. Understood?"
Andrew nodded. "Is this the end of it?"
Lovatt's expression was unreadable. "I've no idea, Mr. Spicer. I shall submit a report but I can't say whether any further action will be taken." He stood up. "If your reading of your friend is accurate, then you should encourage him to seek professional help. I repeat, unusual behavior is taken seriously these days ... whatever the reasons for it."
Andrew checked his watch as he shut the passenger door on Jonathan. It was after ten o'clock and he was desperately hungry. He toyed with the idea of finding something to eat before driving to Highdown, but he didn't think he could do it and reach the Crown and Feathers before closing time. It made him irritable, and he slammed his own door with unnecessary force as he climbed in behind the wheel.
"I'm sorry," said Jonathan quietly. "I'd have chucked those letters in a bin if I'd known they were going to call you."
Andrew fired the engine and reversed out of the police car park. "Not your fault," he said with commendable control. "Better someone who knows you than someone who doesn't."
Jonathan clamped his hands between his knees. "Better no one at all. I should have taken the first train."
Andrew never held grudges. "You were a breakdown waiting to happen, pal. All you'd have done is postpone it." In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection he punched Jonathan lightly on the shoulder. "Be grateful it didn't happen at the opera. You'd have gone to pieces watching poor old Falstaff being pilloried-and that would have been horribly public."
"You can't get more public than Bournemouth Central."
"Certainly not if you're Jamaican. The brothers don't seem to have found Dorset yet."
Jonathan turned away to stare out of the window. "You're black, Jon, and it's tearing you apart. However much you don't want to admit it, you have to address it at some point."
"What do you want me to say? I'm black and I'm proud?"
"Why not? It's my mantra. I say it all the time. I'm a short, fat, ugly white bloke so I tell myself, 'I'm black and I'm proud' and I go out and strut my stuff. It doesn't mean anyone sees anything except a short, fat, ugly white bloke, but it gives me a hell of a buzz. I'd swap with you any day."
"No, you wouldn't. It's hell being black."
"Would you swap with me?"
"Yes."
Andrew laughed. "Like hell you would! It's no fun being five foot five. I can't even reach the pedals on this blasted car without jamming the seat against the steering wheel. You need a big personality to be a midget."
"At least you've got a car."
Andrew refused to rise and a silence fell. He wanted more explanation than Jonathan had given but he was wary of provoking further self-indulgent misery. Whether Jon was ge
nuinely depressive, or simply depressed by a combination of circumstances, he was in no mood to view his situation objectively. And that was a pity because his best opportunity to learn how to do it was now. Objectivity was a talent Andrew had in spades, and not for the first time he wondered what Jonathan would say if he knew the truth about his agent.
Jonathan watched Andrew follow two signs to Highdown before he spoke. "Where are we going?"
"You dropped your wallet and passport at the Crown and Feathers. We're stopping off for them on the way."
"Who says?"
"The sergeant phoned the landlord. He found them after you left."
Jonathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "He can't have done," he murmured. "I took everything out of my breast pocket and put it in my briefcase when I removed my jacket. George Gardener watched me do it. I put the passport in the wallet and the wallet in the napped pocket."
"Then it fell out," said Andrew reasonably.
"No. I checked when I put the correspondence back in the case. It's habit. The last wallet I had was stolen at a party when I left my jacket lying around. Now I always remove it and put it somewhere safe. And I never go anywhere without my passport."
"OK."
The corner's of Jonathan's mouth lifted in a faint smile. "Don't you believe me?"
"I'm too tired to care," Andrew said bluntly, drawing up behind a black BMW. "It doesn't make any difference anyway. The sergeant told me to pick the damn stuff up from the Crown and Feathers, and that's what I'm going to do ... the emphasis being on I, Jon. You can wait in the car while I go inside."
There were a few more customers in the bar than when Jonathan had been there but Andrew's impressions were no more favorable than his friend's. He approached a young woman behind the bar. "Is Roy Trent around?" he asked.
"He's at the back. Can I help?"
"A friend of mine left his wallet here at lunchtime. I believe Roy's expecting someone to call for it."
"Oh, yes." She looked doubtful. "He told me it'd be a policeman."
"The man he spoke to was Sergeant Lovatt. He said he would send a car ... but he didn't specify who would be in it. I was volunteered." He took out a card. "My name's Andrew Spicer and I'm a literary agent. The wallet belongs to one of my authors, Jonathan Hughes. Would you mind asking Roy to bring it out?"
Disordered Minds Page 11
