Disordered Minds

as you like-it's water off a duck's back-but you're trying to prove a negative. Our patch was Colliton Way and the rundown buildings on the industrial estate at the back of it. We didn't know Grace from Adam, never went near her house and wouldn't have wanted to. It was when we strayed outside our boundaries that we got into trouble ... sticking close to home meant we were left in peace. And that's how we liked it.'

Jonathan stared him down. 'The only reason you weren't in the frame was because Howard confessed. If he hadn't, you'd have been high on the list of suspects. The police had questioned the three of you only five days before about the rape of a missing girl who lived just two streets away from Grace. You matched the description given by that girl's best friend, Louise Burton, who lived opposite Grace. You were well acquainted with Howard Stamp, knew that he had a grandmother, knew that he took refuge in her house and knew that he bought goods for her at your father's shop. One of your gang, Micky Hopkinson, regularly carried a knife. Another, Colley Hurst, had red hair, as did Louise Burton, who was truanting regularly and was certainly associated with you.'

'Then why couldn't she identify us?' Roy snapped.

'Didn't is the word you're looking for, Mr. Trent. Why didn't she identify you?'

'Because it wasn't us.'

George looked up from her note-taking. 'It's easily proved, Roy. Her brother, William, witnessed the rape and, if you're agreeable, I'll show him a photograph of you and see what he says. Do you have any from when you were a teenager? Better still, do you have a group picture of yourself with Colley and Micky?'

This time the hesitation was a long one. 'No,' said Roy at last. 'It's a period of my life that I'd rather forget.' He crushed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray and moved to look at the monitor. 'Have you any idea how difficult it is to try to make something of yourself after the kind of childhood I had? You have to cut yourself off from everyone you know and start again. I've no idea where Colley and Mick are now ... what happened to them ... if they're still alive.' He gave a grunt of amusement. 'I don't think there were any pictures-you'd have to know someone with a camera to have your photo taken-and we didn't. Only the rich sods went in for that kind of crap.'

It was an excuse that might have appealed to Jonathan-there was hardly any record of his childhood either-but George just laughed. 'Oh, please! Spare us the violins. I bought a little Brownie in 1960 for about three and fourpence ... which is under twenty pence in today's money. It was hardly a rich man's pastime. There must be some snaps of you. Anything from your late teens or early twenties would do. You wouldn't have changed much. What about a wedding photo?'

'The wife took them.'

'Priscilla Fletcher?'

'First wife ... mother of my kid.'

George eyed him for a moment. 'How many wives have you had?'

'Two,' he said harshly. 'Not that it's any of your business.'

'What was the name of the first one?' He didn't answer.

'Not my business?' she asked with a smile. 'Well, you're probably right.' She removed a digital camera from her case, then eased back her chair preparatory to standing up. 'If you've no objections, I'll take a photograph of you now. There's a function on my computer that allows me to airbrush out the signs of aging, so I should be able to produce something that approximates to what you looked like in 1970.'

Roy turned his back immediately. 'Don't even think about it,' he warned, 'not if you want your camera intact when you leave.'

'It's to your advantage,' she pointed out mildly. 'If you had nothing to do with the rape then William Burton will exonerate you.' She placed the camera on the table in front of her and shuffled through her case. 'Let me show you a photograph of Cill Trevelyan just before she went missing ... see if that jogs your memory at all. She bears a striking resemblance to your second wife.' George slid the copy across the table toward his rigid back and paused to see if he'd bite. 'I also have one of Priscilla, taken by Jim Longhurst at a barbecue here.' She lined the second picture up beside the first. 'The ticket clerk confirmed that she was the dark-haired woman who went through Jonathan's briefcase at Branksome Station.'

Roy lit another cigarette but wouldn't look at the photographs. 'What's the point you're trying to make? That I married Cill Trevelyan?'

'Did you?'

He gave an angry laugh. 'Of course I bloody didn't. The kid vanished. If the cops had done their job properly, they'd have put her father in the dock.'

'He had an alibi,' said Jonathan. 'He was at work all night.'

Roy half turned. 'There was only his wife's word he didn't do it before he left. The cops didn't believe Mrs. Trevelyan anymore than anyone else did. She was protecting her husband.'

Jonathan watched George scribble notes across a page. 'Why would she want to?' he asked.

'Because she was just as guilty. She should have taken better care of the girl.'

'In what way?'

'Kept her out of harm's way. That's what mothers are for.'

It was a remark that begged a number of questions, thought Jonathan, recalling his own situation. How far was any mother responsible for her child's victimization-unless she was the abuser? What if she were being abused herself? Where did responsibility to others end and the drive for self-preservation take over? What was anyone's duty in life when terror was an all-consuming emotion? How far was Roy projecting his mother's neglect of him onto Mrs. Trevelyan? How far was he simply trying to divert attention from his own involvement?

'What harm are you talking about?' Jonathan asked bluntly. 'The rape?'

'The beltings her father used to give her ... that'll be how he killed her.'

'Was it Cill who told you about them?'