Disordered Minds

immaterial as long as he was able to generate it. But hers had been an emotional response and he didn't think she'd appreciate a lesson in logic.

The sound of rising voices came from the kitchen. '...sake, woman. Keep the volume down,' said Roy firmly. 'You'll have Jim quoting you all over the shop if you're not careful.'

'What does it matter if he does?'

'You'll be done for slander.'

'I couldn't give a damn. He's not even very bright, Roy, just a miserable little hick who's taught himself to speak properly. I don't believe a word he says. I'll eat my bloody hat if he ever went to Oxford-a polytechnic more like. God knows how he got a doctorate.'

'Jesus! Will you calm down, girl!'

'Why should I? He never once asked if I had any qualifications, just wrote me off as a postman's daughter. You should have seen his reaction when I told him what Dad did, he couldn't put enough distance between us.'

'What makes you think he's a hick? He sounds like a right ponce to me.'

'Only because you've never lived in London. You can take the man out of the city, Roy, but you can never take the city out of the man. I should know, I was born and brought up in the blasted place. His accent's all over the shop. He's a fake, a bloody little con man who'd rather exploit other people than do the work himself. He's not interested in justice, he just wants to make money. I'm so angry, Roy.'

'Disappointed, more like.' There was the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. 'Buck up, girl. There'll be others. Like you say, it took fifty years before Derek Bentley got his pardon.'

'But I haven't got fifty years, Roy.'

'Then you'll have to prove the doctors wrong, darlin'. Stay put. I'll get rid of him, then I'll take a look at your battery. It's had over an hour so it ought to be charged.'

There was a click as a door swung open, and Jonathan turned toward it, his face unusually apprehensive. The pain in his abdomen was like an acid burn eating through his stomach wall, and he wished to God he'd brought some indigestion tablets with him. He swallowed bile, blaming the hotpot for his problems, and Roy grinned, seeing only discomfort at George's trashing of his character.

'You're all right, mate,' he said, closing the kitchen door behind him. 'I'm not going to bite you. It's pissing with rain, so I came to find out if you want a taxi to the station. If I ring now, it'll take ten minutes or thereabouts. You can wait in the bar or hop back upstairs.' His grin broadened. 'You're safe as long as I keep George in the kitchen.'

Jonathan made a feeble attempt to regain the moral high ground. 'I don't know what I did to upset her.'

'Then you'll have something to puzzle over on the train ride home. So ... shall I call a taxi or would you rather walk?'

'Why did she write to me if she wasn't willing to pool information?'

'Because she's been trying for years to get someone interested. She was pleased as punch when she heard you on the radio. Thought you were the guy to get things moving.'

'I am.'

'George doesn't think so. As far as she's concerned, you're just after the credit. Howard can go hang himself- excuse the pun-if you can make money out of it. That's not George's way. Never has been.'

'I'm happy to acknowledge her input. I'll pay her a percentage of the royalties if her information leads to something.'

Roy shook his head. 'You really don't get it, do you? She spent half an hour apologizing for my big mouth, then she realized you're more of a bigot than I am. For the record, she has two Open University degrees-one in psychology and one in criminology-also an external Ph.D. from Sussex in behavioral science.' The amusement returned to his voice. 'You shouldn't make assumptions, mate. George is far too modest to call herself a doctor- unlike you-but she's just as entitled. The difference is, she earned her qualifications the hard way: in the evenings while she held down a full-time job. You got yours the easy way- free-paid for by the likes of George. That's where being the token black pays dividends.'

'You're wrong,' said Jonathan flatly.

'Not according to George. You shouldn't look down your nose at people, mate, not if you want their cooperation. She's a good old girl, she'll bust a gut for anyone, but she doesn't like bullies, she doesn't like people who take advantage and she doesn't like snobs.' He pointed a thumb at the floor. 'And you're all three. Now ... do you wanna taxi or do you wanna walk?'

It was the accusation of bullying that gave Jonathan most pause for thought as he retraced his steps along Highdown Road. Anger had always simmered behind his insecurity, erupting sometimes in uncontrollable tantrums against his mother and his demented grandfather, but he had never thought of himself as a bully. That was a title he reserved for his father, whose frustration could explode into violence with terrifying speed. There had been no joy in Clarence Hughes's life, merely a daily grind of menial toil for the local council that had stultified his intellect and driven him to rage against the only people who were safe-his family.

From early childhood Jonathan had understood what fueled his father's resentment even though he hated him for it. Clarence had wanted to amount to something in life, but immigration to Britain-far from offering him the opportunity to shine-had been a soul-destroying move. He wasn't a stupid man, but his heavily accented English, and his lack of recognized qualifications, had closed the door to jobs that would have given him status. Instead, he labored at menial tasks and hid his contempt for the people he worked with. The victims of so much repressed emotion were his family, in particular his only child, on whom all hopes of a better future were placed.

Such weighty expectations had taught Jonathan to compartmentalize his life early, hiding his secrets as fearfully as a thief. To his mother, he was a popular boy whose late returns from school were due to visits to friends. To his father, he was an intelligent, hard-working student who stayed on after hours to work in the school library. To his teachers, he was the son of an Indian lawyer and Ugandan doctor who'd been expelled by Idi Amin in the 1970s and had their wealth confiscated. To his bullies, he was invisible.

The truth-that he'd hidden in the school lavatories because he was too frightened to walk home, and had