Disordered Minds

'None of your business.'

'Is it guilt? Did something happen to her?'

'She was raped.'

'Other than that.'

She wouldn't look at him. 'Why did it take you so long to find me? You said your meeting with George was ten days ago.'

'I've been on days for a while, so I haven't had time. And you're ex-directory. I had to persuade a mate at the post office to give me your address.' He took note of the way she said 'George.' 'Do you know this woman, Lou?'

'No.'

'All right, do you know of her? She seems pretty clued up about you ... or rather Priscilla Fletcher. She told me you live in Sandbanks, that you were married to Roy Trent and that you had a son by him when you were in your teens.' Billy's heart sank as he watched fear widen his sister's eyes. 'Oh Christ, Lou!' he muttered, lowering his voice. 'What the hell did you get into? Was she right about Roy? Were you lying when you said you hadn't had kids?'

He could read her expressions as easily as when she'd been a child, and he watched her face as her mind manufactured alternative versions of history, only to discard them. None was convincing enough to persuade him that she wasn't in trouble. 'I wasn't lying about kids,' she said finally, 'but Roy had one. A boy. He's grown up now and lives in London-courtesy of Wandsworth prison-but he stayed with us for a while when we first married. That'll be where the nosy cow got the son bit from, I should think, though I'd bloody well like to know who told her. The kid was a nightmare ... always on the take, always in trouble with the cops ... he's the one caused me and Roy to split up.'

'Who was his mother?'

'One of Roy's tarts. I told him he didn't need to take the boy on, but he had a thing about his own dad dumping him, so he wouldn't listen. The kid ended up in prison-' her mouth twisted-'surprise, surprise-he was sixteen when we took him on and nineteen when they banged him up-and in three years he managed to ruin everything Roy and I had going.'

'When was this?'

She wiped the glowing end of her cigarette around the sides of the ashtray, then took another drag before squashing it. 'We got married in 'ninety-two, split up after nine years of me being told his bloody son's problems were my fault and divorced last year. It was a fucker, Billy. Roy and me would have done OK-he still fancies me something chronic-it was the bloody kid caused all the trouble.'

There was too much information and Billy wasn't practiced enough to sort the wheat from the chaff. Why had Louise married Roy at all? Had she been one of his tarts? What had she done to make his son's problems her fault? What happened after the divorce? When did she marry Nick Fletcher? How did she know Roy still fancied her? Was he the reason for her black eye and swollen lip?

In the end he asked the question that troubled him the most. 'Did you ever go inside Grace Jefferies's house?' he demanded, gripping her wrist between his strong fingers. 'I want the truth, Lou.'

The change of expression was too obvious. This was an explanation she'd rehearsed. 'Don't be an idiot!' she said scornfully, wriggling her hand free. 'You know damn well I didn't. I was barely thirteen years old and I'd had my head done in because my best friend went missing. Ask Mum if you don't believe me. She stood guard over my door in case I did something stupid.'

'I said ever, Lou. I didn't say, 'Were you in there the day she was murdered?' '

Louise reached for his pack and lighter and took another cigarette. Her hands were trembling again. 'I never went in Mrs. Jefferies's house. Satisfied?'

'No.' Billy shook his head. 'I think you and Cill hid out with her when you truanted. I remember you telling me once that she had a bigger telly than ours.'

Her mouth started working fiercely and she lifted her scarf to hide it. 'You haven't changed much, have you, Billy?' The tears glimmered on her lids again. 'You always were a fucking nuisance.'

*16*

25 MULLIN STREET, HIGHDOWN, BOURNEMOUTH

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2003, 5:00 P.M.

GEORGE'S house was a 1930s semi, with white pebble-dashed walls and anachronistic mock-tudor features in contrasting black. There was an embossed petal motif beneath the eaves, diamond leaded panes in the windows and two skimpy wooden beams set at right angles to each other to suggest a structural wooden frame. 'It's typical of its period,' she said with irony, when Jonathan made no comment.

He smiled back. 'Rather like Poundbury, then-relatively new but pretending to be old.'

'Just good old prewar sham,' she said, leading the way up a short path to the front door, 'but at least it was built to last. I'm not a big fan of the outside either but the inside's all right.' She turned her key in the lock. 'According to the neighbor who saw Howard's arrival, it's an exact replica of Grace's house.' She nodded toward a block of flats fifty yards down the road. 'That's where it was before it was pulled down.'

'Where did the Burtons live?'

George swung the door open and held it ajar with her knee. 'Number 18,' she said, pointing to a terrace of brick houses opposite the flats. 'They used to be council-owned but they were sold to the tenants in the eighties.'