Disordered Minds

'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.

*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