Disordered Minds

Andrew fired the engine and reversed out of the police car park. 'Not your fault,' he said with commendable control. 'Better someone who knows you than someone who doesn't.'

Jonathan clamped his hands between his knees. 'Better no one at all. I should have taken the first train.'

Andrew never held grudges. 'You were a breakdown waiting to happen, pal. All you'd have done is postpone it.' In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection he punched Jonathan lightly on the shoulder. 'Be grateful it didn't happen at the opera. You'd have gone to pieces watching poor old Falstaff being pilloried-and that would have been horribly public.'

'You can't get more public than Bournemouth Central.'

'Certainly not if you're Jamaican. The brothers don't seem to have found Dorset yet.'

Jonathan turned away to stare out of the window. 'You're black, Jon, and it's tearing you apart. However much you don't want to admit it, you have to address it at some point.'

'What do you want me to say? I'm black and I'm proud?'

'Why not? It's my mantra. I say it all the time. I'm a short, fat, ugly white bloke so I tell myself, 'I'm black and I'm proud' and I go out and strut my stuff. It doesn't mean anyone sees anything except a short, fat, ugly white bloke, but it gives me a hell of a buzz. I'd swap with you any day.'

'No, you wouldn't. It's hell being black.'

'Would you swap with me?'

'Yes.'

Andrew laughed. 'Like hell you would! It's no fun being five foot five. I can't even reach the pedals on this blasted car without jamming the seat against the steering wheel. You need a big personality to be a midget.'

'At least you've got a car.'

Andrew refused to rise and a silence fell. He wanted more explanation than Jonathan had given but he was wary of provoking further self-indulgent misery. Whether Jon was genuinely depressive, or simply depressed by a combination of circumstances, he was in no mood to view his situation objectively. And that was a pity because his best opportunity to learn how to do it was now. Objectivity was a talent Andrew had in spades, and not for the first time he wondered what Jonathan would say if he knew the truth about his agent.

Jonathan watched Andrew follow two signs to Highdown before he spoke. 'Where are we going?'

'You dropped your wallet and passport at the Crown and Feathers. We're stopping off for them on the way.'

'Who says?'

'The sergeant phoned the landlord. He found them after you left.'

Jonathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 'He can't have done,' he murmured. 'I took everything out of my breast pocket and put it in my briefcase when I removed my jacket. George Gardener watched me do it. I put the passport in the wallet and the wallet in the napped pocket.'

'Then it fell out,' said Andrew reasonably.

'No. I checked when I put the correspondence back in the case. It's habit. The last wallet I had was stolen at a party when I left my jacket lying around. Now I always remove it and put it somewhere safe. And I never go anywhere without my passport.'

'OK.'

The corner's of Jonathan's mouth lifted in a faint smile. 'Don't you believe me?'

'I'm too tired to care,' Andrew said bluntly, drawing up behind a black BMW. 'It doesn't make any difference anyway. The sergeant told me to pick the damn stuff up from the Crown and Feathers, and that's what I'm going to do ... the emphasis being on I, Jon. You can wait in the car while I go inside.'

There were a few more customers in the bar than when Jonathan had been there but Andrew's impressions were no more favorable than his friend's. He approached a young woman behind the bar. 'Is Roy Trent around?' he asked.

'He's at the back. Can I help?'

'A friend of mine left his wallet here at lunchtime. I believe Roy's expecting someone to call for it.'

'Oh, yes.' She looked doubtful. 'He told me it'd be a policeman.'

'The man he spoke to was Sergeant Lovatt. He said he would send a car ... but he didn't specify who would be in it. I was volunteered.' He took out a card. 'My name's Andrew Spicer and I'm a literary agent. The wallet belongs to one of my authors, Jonathan Hughes. Would you mind asking Roy to bring it out?'

'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.'