Disordered Minds

After that he lost it. He ran about the station, barging into people and shouting at them. Some thought he was a pathetic lunatic. Some thought he was dangerous. When two transport policemen tackled him to the ground, he called them fascist scum and struck at them with the briefcase until one of them wrenched it from his grasp and kneed him in the gut.

*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.'