Disordered Minds

'What about his wallet?'

'No wallet. No money. No credit cards. No train ticket. Certainly no opera ticket to Verdi's Falstaff. He's a bit of a mystery, your friend. All he has in his briefcase are a pay-as-you- go mobile telephone-with a rundown battery-and some letters addressed to him care of Spicer & Hardy-' he eyed Andrew thoughtfully-'which makes his refusal to cooperate rather surprising. You'd think he'd be falling over himself to prove who he is.'

'Or explains it,' Andrew countered. 'When was the last time you had your identity questioned twice in twenty- four hours? You haven't questioned mine. How come I'm squeaky clean without a passport, but Jonathan isn't? Is he right? Are you a nonperson if you're paperless and dark-skinned in this country?'

'You came voluntarily, sir, and Mr. Hughes did not. He was detained legitimately and asked to account for himself. When he refused, he was arrested and brought here. Had he been willing to answer a few straightforward questions, he would have been released as soon as we had confirmation that his answers were true.'

'What sort of questions?'

'Address, job, next-of-kin details, what took him to America. Nothing out of the ordinary ... and nothing we wouldn't ask a white man in the same circumstances.'

'I've told you his job, so to be strictly accurate it's Dr. Hughes, not Mr. Hughes. He lives in a flat in West Kensington-off the top of my head it's 2b Columbia Street or Road-and his next of kin are his parents, though he hasn't seen them for years. They divorced shortly before he went up to Oxford, and I believe his mother repatriated. He doesn't know-or care-what happened to his father. As for the trip to America, he was attending the funeral of one of his students who was killed in a racist attack on the streets of New York.' He glanced at the window again. 'Jon's the one who pulled strings to win him an educational scholarship, so I shouldn't think he's feeling too happy that the lad was murdered.'

'How does he afford it on an academic's salary?'

'What?'

'Trips to America, Paul Smith suits, Versace shirts, tickets to the opera, Armani glasses. What kind of books does he write? Bestsellers?'

Andrew hesitated before he answered. 'Not exactly. He's a single man with no dependents.'

'It's an expensive lifestyle, Mr. Spicer. Does he own his flat?'

'I've no idea.'

'Does he have any other income that you know of?'

'No.' He studied the sergeant's deadpan face for sev-ejal moments. 'What are you suggesting?'

'These are uncertain times, Mr. Spicer.'

Andrew laughed. 'If you're thinking he's some sort of terrorist, you're way off beam. He hates violence.'

The sergeant allowed himself a small smile. 'Does he live alone, sir?'

'I believe so, yes.'

'Rent and mortgages in Kensington don't come cheap, Mr. Spicer.'

This was a policeman with a great capacity for taking in knowledge, Andrew thought, as he watched Jonathan take off his designer specs and polish them on the end of his tie, revealing how red his eyes were. In repose and under the bright lights, his face looked gaunt, while his shoulders had the skinny rigidity of a clothes hanger. Andrew's feelings for Jon had always been ambivalent. Their friendship was based on mutual liking and a shared interest in literature and good wine; however, Andrew despised Jonathan's adopted accent, he despised the snobbery, and, very particularly, he despised the lies. Until today he had never had reason to believe they were anything but a cloak for insecurity, but now he wondered. It was certainly true that the cloak had become increasingly transparent in the last few months.

He turned back to the policeman. 'That suit's come out so often you could check your face in the elbows, and the specs are purely for show. I'm not his bank manager so I don't know how he conducts his finances, but it wouldn't surprise me if he's up to his eyes in debt. Money talks loudly, and to someone like Jon a place in Kensington and tickets to the opera are probably worth the interest on a loan.'

'Meaning what?'

'Some people need to promote a false image of themselves. You can flaunt a trip to Verdi's Falstaff, but you can't flaunt an empty fridge.' He saw the skepticism in the other man's eyes, although whether it was for Jonathan's stupidity in wasting money on the opera or disbelief of Andrew's analysis, it was impossible to say. 'I know very little about how terrorists work, but I assume the first rule is, don't draw attention to yourself. Is running amok normal behavior?'

The sergeant shrugged. 'We had a doctor check him for drugs and alcohol. His view is that Mr. Hughes is close to a breakdown. I'm no expert in terrorists either, Mr. Spicer, but I imagine it wreaks havoc with the mind ... particularly if your own death is part of the process.'

Andrew couldn't disagree with that. 'It's more likely his house of cards is collapsing. Maybe the split with his girlfriend caused it ... maybe he was more serious about her than I thought.' He paused, recalling a remark Jon had made in the wake of Emma's departure. 'I couldn't love her the way she wanted...' 'He's not an easy man to read. Most of what he thinks and feels stays locked inside his head.'

'Go on.'

'I'm guessing it started at Oxford. I didn't know him so well then, he moved in a smarter circle than I did. It's a precious place ... or can be,' he corrected himself. 'The mythology of dreaming spires and gilded youth. To a cynic like me, it's pretentious nonsense-even corrupting-but to someone who comes from the wrong side of the tracks, if s seductive.'

'He doesn't sound like someone from the wrong side of the tracks.'

'That's part of the fiction. He bought into the idea that image was everything-if you can pass yourself off as one of the elite, then you're made. The problem is, you have to support the lifestyle-and if you can't afford it, you lose your friends.' Andrew shrugged. 'I think he's afraid he's about to be exposed as a fraud. Which probably answers