"I guess it's OK." She raised the hatch in the counter. "If you go through that door over there, it takes you past the saloon and into the kitchen. It's a white door. He's in there."
Andrew questioned the business's viability as he negotiated the walkway behind the counter of the darkened, empty saloon. Overheads alone must have been crippling, and to keep a room that size unoccupied was financial suicide. Nor did it make any sense. All the manager had to do was recruit a decent chef and build a reputation for good eating. He crossed the hall where Jonathan had stood listening to George's outburst, tapped on the white door opposite and pushed it open.
A man was sitting at the table watching a couple of television monitors in the corner. He switched one off as Andrew came in, then rose aggressively to his feet. "You're in the wrong room, mate. This is private."
"The barmaid told me to come through. Are you Roy Trent?"
"Yes."
Andrew proffered his card. "My name's Andrew Spicer. I'm Jonathan Hughes's agent. Sergeant Lovatt asked me to pick up his wallet and passport from you."
Trent glanced at the card, then used his bulk to shepherd Andrew out of the room. "She's a complete dipstick, that girl," he said with irritation. "I left them behind the till in the bar and told her to hand them over when the car arrived. If you retrace your steps and tell her I said you could have them, you'll be fine." He looked up the stairs as footsteps sounded on the landing.
Andrew followed his gaze. "It wasn't her fault. She was expecting a policeman."
A woman appeared on the landing and started down the steps, only to pause when she saw Roy had company. The light was dim but Andrew had a glimpse of a pale face beneath a dark fringe before the landlord thrust against him and forced him to step backward. "I'll come with you," he said affably. "Knowing Tracey, she probably won't be able to find them. You know the saying the lights are on but there's no one at home-it was written for her. She's pretty enough-decorates the bar nicely- but that's about all."
Andrew, annoyed by the shoving, recognized that Trent was talking for the sake of talking and decided to dig his heels in. "Is that the woman who helped Jonathan at the station?" he asked, coming to an abrupt halt and turning round. "If so, I'd like to thank her."
Trent shook his head. "No."
"No what? No, it wasn't her ... or no, I can't thank her?"
"It wasn't her."
Andrew showed surprise. "How do you know without asking? She matches the description Jon gave, and the woman said she knew you."
Trent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "A lot of people know me, mate, but that's not the lady that helped your friend. This one's just arrived." He gestured impatiently to Andrew to proceed. "Now ... do you want this wallet or not?"
Andrew led the way back into the lounge bar and watched Trent retrieve a slim black leather holder from behind the till with a passport tucked between its folds. "Check it by all means," he said, "but, like I told the copper who phoned, there's very little in it. If anything's missing, it went missing before Dr. Hughes got here."
Andrew opened it and flicked through the contents. "Nothing's missing," he agreed. "The only thing unaccounted for is how it came to drop out of his briefcase. It's the old-fashioned upright sort and it doesn't fall over very easily. Even if it did, it wouldn't lose its contents."
There was a lull in the conversation on the other side of the bar as curiosity drew the customers to listen. Suddenly, Trent had time on his hands. "Listen, mate, I'm just the guy who found it," he said good-humoredly. "If it wasn't in his briefcase, then it was in his jacket pocket. I don't see it matters one way or the other-long as he gets it back. You just tell him I'm glad it worked out for the best."
Andrew smiled. "Ms. Gardener watched him transfer it from his jacket to the case ... and Dr. Hughes checked that it was still there before he left the pub."
Trent shrugged. "Then he made a mistake. What's the big deal, anyway? You said yourself there's nothing missing." He caught the eye of one of his customers and pulled a comical face. "What's the world coming to, eh, Tom? You keep a guy's wallet safe, and the next thing you know you're being hauled over the coals for it. Me, I was expecting thanks ... but I might as well have been pissing in the wind. Forget gratitude-" he shifted his attention back to Andrew-"it's all about compensation these days."
Andrew chuckled as he tucked the wallet into his own breast pocket. "At least be honest-er-mate. The police have already told you there's no question of compensation." His eyes snapped in challenge. "I'm sure you know as well as anyone that truth is in the detail ... and I'm one of those boring people who finds detail interesting." He extended an open palm. "Thank you. Jon will be very grateful to have everything back intact." He gripped Trent's hand, very much as Jonathan had done earlier, crunching the metacarpals in a surprisingly strong grasp for a small man. "It's been interesting seeing the way you do business."
*9*
Andrew folded himself into the car and leaned across Jonathan to retrieve his mobile from the dashboard pocket. He punched in the numbers for directory inquiries. "Yes, please, Bournemouth. The Birches, Hathaway Avenue ... it's a nursing home." The sergeant wasn't the only one with a retentive memory, he thought, as he clicked onto the nursing home number. "Yes, hello, I'm sorry to bother you at such a late hour but I was wondering if I could have a quick word with George Gardener ... no, it's not personal ... it's a follow-up on the call she had earlier from Sergeant Lovatt." He absorbed the irritation from the other end. "I do apologize. You have my guarantee I'll only keep her for a minute or two. Yes, I'll wait ... thank you."
He plugged the mobile into the car microphone, then took out Jonathan's wallet and handed it to him. "Trent's a bastard," he said cheerfully, "and I think I've just seen your dark-haired thief."
Jonathan looked at him in surprise. "You don't know what she looks like."
"No," Andrew agreed, "but she had a dark fringe and Trent didn't want me anywhere near her. He frogmarched me away."
A breathy voice came through the car speakers. "Hello. This is George Gardener."
"Andrew Spicer, Ms. Gardener. Jonathan's agent. You contacted him through my office, if you remember."
"They said it was the sergeant again."
"It's the same matter. I was with Sergeant Lovatt when you spoke to him earlier. I wonder if you'd be kind enough to confirm one small detail for me. Jon tells me you watched him take off his jacket and put his wallet and passport in his briefcase. Is that right?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "He was very meticulous about it."
"Did he take it out again at any point?"
"No ... well, not when I was in the room with him at least. He may have done so after I left." There was a beat of silence. "I don't understand what's going on. Why all these questions? What's happened to Dr. Hughes?"
Andrew stared through the windshield. What the hell...? There'd almost certainly be a piece about it in the local newspaper tomorrow. "He became distressed after his wallet was stolen," he said curtly, "and, unfortunately-the way things are at the moment-a dark-skinned Arab who shows visible agitation is viewed as a threat. He's been under arrest for six hours and was only released after I drove down from London to vouch for him."
She sounded baffled. "I thought Roy found the wallet at the pub."
"Let's just say it was in his possession, Ms. Gardener. I picked it up from there ten minutes ago. Whether Dr. Hughes dropped it is another matter altogether."
"I still don't understand."
"No," agreed Andrew, "neither do we, so I suggest you ask Mr. Trent for an explanation. It's not as though the wallet was even worth stealing."
"Was anything missing?"
"No."
"Is Dr. Hughes saying Roy stole it?"
"No," said Andrew again. "He believes it was a dark-haired woman on Branksome Station who helped him when he wasn't feeling well."
She took time to assimilate this information. "Well, I'm sorry he was ill, but I still don't
understand what it has to do with Roy."
"The woman claimed to be a friend of Mr. Trent's ... and she clearly must be, Ms. Gardener, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to return the wallet to me."
"She said she was a friend of his ex-wife's," corrected Jonathan in an undertone.
"Did you hear that, Ms. Gardener?"
"Was that Dr. Hughes speaking?"
"Yes."
"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. I can't help feeling partly to blame. None of this would have happened if I hadn't been late."
Jonathan shook his head but didn't say anything.
"He said the woman claimed to be a friend of Mr. Trent's ex-wife," Andrew prompted her. "She has a dark fringe and speaks with a Dorset accent. Does that ring any bells?"
"I'm afraid not. I've never met his wife, and certainly none of her friends. Perhaps she was lying?"
"Then how did Mr. Trent get the wallet back?"
Another silence while she considered the conundrum. "Perhaps Dr. Hughes is mistaken," she said unhappily. "Perhaps he took it out again after I left. We were both rather rattled." She waited for Andrew to respond, and when he didn't: "It all seems very strange," she finished lamely.
"I agree. If Mr. Trent provides you with an explanation, I'll be interested to hear it."
She didn't answer immediately. "If nothing's missing, he'll say it's a storm in a teacup."
"Of course he will," Andrew acknowledged. "He's obviously more used to lying than telling the truth."
She tut-tutted indignantly. "That's a terrible accusation to make against a man you don't know."
"Surely not," said Andrew ironically. "As the saying goes: what can you expect from a pig but a grunt?"
Cill lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into Roy's face. He'd backed her into a corner of the kitchen and his thrashing finger had been lambasting her for what seemed like hours. It reminded her of their tempestuous marriage before she left him for Nick. "Give it a rest," she said sulkily. "There's no harm done. I got the sodding thing back to you quick enough, didn't I? How was I to know he'd go running to the cops instead of making a phone call?"
"He's a wog, you stupid bitch. They always go to the police. Why the fuck did you do it?"
"Because it seemed like a good idea at the time." She whooshed out another cloud of smoke to force him into retreat. "I wanted his address, and the letters only had his agent's address."
"Why?"
"In case you've been lying to me."
His eyes narrowed. "About what?"
"How much you've told the fat spinster. You're too damn friendly with her. I thought maybe she's been pricking your conscience. Nick thinks you've gone soft, Roy-there was a time when the only thing a bleeding heart liberal was worth was a damn good kicking."
He gave a snort of angry laughter. "Nick thinks!" He turned to the CCTV monitor. "You're married to a gorilla, Cill. All he thinks about is sex and food. You made a bad bargain there, darlin'."
She ignored him. "All right, I think you've gone soft. What difference does it make? Nick always agrees with me if I give him what he wants."
"Jesus, you're so thick! What were you planning to do if you did get his address? Kill him? Thanks to me, he was away and done with. George didn't want anything more to do with him." He jabbed the finger in her face again. "He's a faggot-no fucking guts; I knew the minute I clapped eyes on him he'd be a pushover. I riled him, so he riled George ... happens every time. Then you have to stick your nose in and land me with his sodding agent."
She smacked his finger away. "What's he going to do?" she demanded crossly. "The wogs got his wallet back intact. If you stick to your story, there won't be a problem."
"I know blokes like Spicer. Once they get the bit between their teeth, they never stop. He knows damn well Hughes didn't drop his wallet here."
"He's a midget," she said dismissively. "Since when were you frightened of midgets?"
"Since I was taught some sense. It's a pity you never learned any, darlin'. Small guys use their brains ... big guys like your brain-dead husband put all their energy into getting atop the nearest available tart."
"What's he gonna do?" she repeated sulkily.
"Talk to George," Roy said grimly. "I'll put money on it."
"So?"
"She'll be at me with the questions again." He brought his fist up and rested it under her chin. "If you'd let it alone, Cill, she'd've gone on with her research and got precisely nowhere because I was the only source she had." He moved his knuckles up her soft skin, caressing it gently, before pressing them against her cheekbone. "Now she'll come looking for you, and if you drop me in it one more time-" he spread his lips in an evil smile-"I'll use this in such a way that even the gorilla you married won't recognize you."
Cill ignored him again. Roy's threats were never more than bluster. "Nick's getting worse, you know. He's been dropping things, but he won't go near the doctors. I think the paralysis is spreading."
Roy lowered his fist and turned away. "Well, you won't be shedding any tears over it. He's worth more to you dead than alive."
"Maybe I have feelings for him."
"Don't talk crap," said Roy dismissively. "The only feelings you have are for his money. You're getting quite a taste for the high life one way and another."
"Someone had to look after him."
He gave an angry laugh. "You're so full of it, darlin'. You thought you'd get a pussycat ... instead you get a drooling lunatic whose anger control mechanism's shot to pieces."
Her pale eyes glittered malevolently. "He adores me," she said, "always has. I make him feel better about himself."
"Only because he doesn't know who you are."
It was true, but she was damned if she'd admit it. Half of Nick's brain had been scrambled seven years ago in London when two Metropolitan coppers ran him head first into a lamppost before taking their boots to him. They claimed they mistook him for a drug baron who was known to carry a gun. The fact that a gun was never found, the only drugs he had on him were class-C tranquilizers and he was held in a cell for three hours before he was given medical attention meant compensation of two hundred thousand for brain damage, wrongful arrest and imprisonment. It had taken his solicitors five years to win it through the courts, but Cill had thought dumping Roy to play Florence Nightingale to a cripple was a gamble worth taking.
"You won't be shedding tears neither, darlin'," she said, running a soft hand up between Roy's shoulder blades. "I always said I'd share it, and I will." She dug her fingernails into the nape of his neck. "In any case, it was you told me to do it."
He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. "I'll swing for you one of these days, Cill."
She touched her lips to his cheek. "Don't be silly, darlin'. I'm the only girl you've ever loved."
It wasn't until Andrew turned onto the A31 and put his foot down that Jonathan roused himself to speak. "Thanks."
"Pleasure. We'll stop at the first service station and get something to eat. There's one on the M27."
"I'm OK. Don't worry about me."
"I'm not. I'm worrying about myself. I haven't eaten since breakfast." He glanced at Jonathan's tired face. "You'll be eating, too, pal, whether you like it or not. You can't go on starving yourself ... not if you want to remain sane."
"I'm not starving myself."
"Then why are your clothes hanging off you?" He flicked the indicator and pulled out into the fast lane of the dual carriageway. "You can stay with me tonight, then tomorrow I'm taking you to my doctor."
"I can't. I have a tutorial at eleven."
"I'll phone your department and say you won't be in till Monday."
"I really-"
"Cut the crap," Andrew said sharply. "I've hauled my arse halfway across the country to bail you out. The least you can do is humor me. If nothing else, the doc will give you some knockout pills to help you sleep."
Jonathan hunched his shoulders. "They don't work. I've tried ... nothing works when your brain won't switch o
ff."
"Is it Emma?"
His friend gave a mirthless laugh. "No."
"Then what's the problem?"
It was a moment before Jonathan answered. "The usual," he said with sudden resignation, as if recognizing that Andrew needed something for his trouble. "Rueing the day I was born into this bloody awful country ... wishing I was white and rich. It's an apartheid thing. Either you belong or you don't."
He spoke with such bitterness that Andrew didn't doubt he believed what he was saying. Perhaps it was true. "Who said you don't belong?"
Another humorless laugh. "You mean apart from immigration officials, policemen, Dorset landlords and anyone else who fancies a swipe?"
"Apart from them," Andrew agreed calmly.
"Everyone's prejudiced-it's been worse since the attack on the Trade Center."
"That was eighteen months ago, and you've only been twitched since Emma left."
Anger sparked briefly in Jonathan's eyes. "Drop it, OK. If it makes you feel comfortable, then go ahead, blame my problems on a failed relationship-it's how you excuse yours."
"I don't recall ever discussing my problems with you, Jon. We usually pore over yours for hours on end."
"Yes, well, stop blaming Emma. The truth is what happened today. Strangers don't see me, they see someone who isn't a member of their cozy club. You try dealing with that day after day and then tell me you sleep soundly at night."
"We're all in the same boat. When strangers look at me, they see a bald short-arse with zero status. It's just as painful ... particularly when women do it. I watch their eyes skate over my head while they look around for a big, handsome fellow with a full head of hair-" he gave an amused chuckle-"and I wouldn't mind if I didn't have a preference for tall women. That's life. You have to recognize it's going to happen and be willing to make a few compromises."
"Like what?"
Disordered Minds Page 12
