guilt money.'
'It depends what you value. As long as the business isn't threatened, I'd rather be thought of as a bit of a dog than an embarrassing burden on my wife's conscience. Do you think Jenny would be on the phone all the time, or Greg would invite me to dinner, if they thought I was a sad, lonely git who still hankered after his ex-wife? Would the girls be happy to stay overnight if I'd slagged off their mother for two-timing me?' He spoke matter-of-factly without any attempt at sympathy. 'More importantly, the parents see their grandchildren whenever they want. They castigate me regularly for causing the breakup but go on treating Jenny as their daughter-in-law. All in all, I'd say it was cheap at the price.'
Jonathan's incredulity deepened. What did a man have to gain by turning himself into a whipping boy for an errant wife and critical parents?
'I hope you agreed with her. I was never too sure she totally believed in Claire.'
'I did as a matter of fact. I said you'd married too young, and the marriage was bound to fail.' He thought back. 'She wasn't very happy about it.'
'Her pride was dented. She thought she was the only woman in my life.'
'What about your pride?'
'Shot to pieces till I invented Claire. She was a great restorative.'
'I'd have wanted revenge.'
Andrew shrugged. 'I couldn't see the point of going to war over something I couldn't control. You can't force people to love you ... you can't force them to be loyal. All you can do is keep affection alive and hope for the best.'
He was living in cloud cuckoo land, thought Jonathan. 'Are you expecting Jenny to come back?'
'No.'
'Then I don't get it. What's the quid pro quo for acting honorably if no one knows you're doing it?'
'I don't have to walk around with a neon sign on my forehead, saying 'loser.' '
Jonathan felt the familiar anger knot inside his jaw. 'Meaning that I do, I suppose?'
' 'Fraid so. You're a sitting duck for the Roy Trents of this world.'
COUNCILLOR G. GARDENER
25 Mullin Street, Highdown, Bournemouth, Dorset BH15 6VX
Andrew Spicer
Spicer & Hardy Authors' Agents
25 Blundell Street
London W4 9TP
April 2, 2003
Dear Mr. Spicer:
I hesitate to write to Dr. Hughes as he may not wish to correspond with me, but I would be grateful if you could pass on my apologies to him and my best wishes for his recovery. I have had a long conversation with Sergeant Lovatt and, though he refused to go into details, he did say that Dr. Hughes had been unwell.
The circumstances of our meeting were unfortunate, and I take much of the blame. I have some experience of illness, and I should have realized that Dr. Hughes's reticence was physiologically based. He was clearly exhausted, but I made no allowances for poor health, jet lag or even the severity of the weather that day. My only excuse is blind dedication to exculpating Howard Stamp, and a long history of disappointment in the attempts I've made to do so. I am now so programmed for failure that I see it before I need to.
He thought Dr. Hughes was drunk as he was swaying and trying to focus on the other platform to keep his balance. His face was wet-the clerk thought it was rain until he realized Dr. Hughes was sweating-and he was clutching his briefcase to his chest. Several trains went through but he didn't take them. At least two people thought he was a suicide bomber trying to pluck up the courage to go through with it. The clerk was worried enough to consider phoning the police. However, a woman approached Dr. Hughes for what appeared to be a prearranged meeting. They smiled and talked and Dr. Hughes gave her his briefcase from which she removed some papers. The clerk remembered seeing the woman earlier in the ticket hall, and assumed Dr. Hughes had misunderstood where the meeting was to take place. He admitted he wouldn't have been worried if Dr. Hughes hadn't been an Arab-he would have dismissed him as a drunk. He was relieved when the woman helped him onto a train and took the problem out of his hands. She had dark hair and held a scarf to her mouth, but he couldn't remember anything else about her except that she left in a black BMW that had been parked for forty-five minutes in the 'drop-off only' zone.
Because this seemed to validate Dr. Hughes's version of events, I made some discreet inquiries about Roy Trent's ex-wife. Her name is Priscilla Fletcher, formerly known as Cill Trent. I was unable to discover her maiden name, but she has been described to me as midforties, medium height, slim, dark hair cut in a straight fringe, light-colored eyes (possibly blue) and attractive. Her current husband, Nicholas Fletcher, is in 'business'-there's some mystery over exactly what he does-and they live in Sandbanks, an expensive part of Poole. She had a child by Roy-a son, now in his thirties (!)-but none by Fletcher. Because of the son, she and Roy remain on good terms. While there is no evidence that this is the woman who approached Dr. Hughes, the description seems to fit.
Nevertheless, I remained puzzled as to why Priscilla Fletcher, an apparently wealthy woman (or indeed one of her friends) would have taken the wallet. For this reason I related the clerk's story to Roy Trent, embroidering the description of the woman to more closely resemble Priscilla Fletcher, and asked him what he made of it in view of Dr. Hughes's certainty that she was the thief. Roy's reaction was interesting. He treated it as a joke and said if Dr. Hughes was right, the woman must have returned to the pub after it closed for the afternoon in order to leave the wallet on the floor of the room where Dr. Hughes and I had lunch. And that hadn't happened. I agreed the story was absurd, pointing out that she must also have known where the lunch took place, which would suggest someone very familiar with the running of the pub. Therefore, unless Roy recognized the woman's description, Dr. Hughes must be mistaken. Roy agreed that he did
