Halfway between Wimbourne Minster and Dorchester he passed the turning for Briantspuddle. The village lay tucked away behind the folds of the hills, invisible from the main road, and the lane leading to it dived down between the high hedges like a secret shaft. In a moment's idle fancy he entered the village and found time turned back, saw himself meeting a twenty-year-old Jasmine as she walked out the door of her cottage. What would he say to her, and how would she answer him?

He shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of it, and thought that if he didn't sort this out soon he would go right round the bend.

"A bit hard to find" turned out to be an accurate description of Farrington Center. He'd stopped for a sandwich in Dorchester, at a tatty teashop at the top of the High Street, then blithely taken the road north.

A half-dozen wrong turnings and three stops for directions later, he drove slowly down a farm lane. The last helpful pedestrian, an old woman in an oiled jacket and heavy brogues, out walking her terrier, had assured him "this wurrit be," so he kept on in good faith. A high chain-link fence appeared at the top of the bank on his right, and rounding a curve he caught a brief glimpse of red brick before it was again hidden by trees.

The fence continued until it angled back upon itself at an unmarked junction. An asphalt drive led up the hill in the direction from which he'd come, and a faded sign informed him he'd reached the visitor's entrance of the Farrington Mental Health Center. He followed the drive through the trees and parked the Midget in the small, empty carpark at its top. Before him spread a vast, Victorian pile of red masonry. The place had an almost tactile air of neglect and decay. Chipboard-covered windows gave the buildings a blank, abandoned look, and the grounds were overgrown with a thicket of rank vegetation. Apart from the main complex of buildings stood a chapel built of the same orange-red brick, but its windows were broken out and the door hung from its hinges.

Kincaid locked the car and walked toward the only visible sign of habitation, a small wood and plaster annex attached to the front of the nearest building. He pushed through the double glass-doors and found himself in a lino-floored hallway. Doors stood open along the corridor and he could hear the soft clicking of electronic keyboards and an occasional voice.

A young woman hurried from the first door on his left, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand. She stopped when she saw him, a startled expression on her face. Apparently casual visitors didn't make a habit of dropping in at Farrington Center. "Can I help you?"

He showed her his warrant card and smiled. "I'm Duncan Kincaid. I'd like to see a patient here, a Timothy Franklin."

"Tim?" She seemed even more nonplussed than before. "I can't imagine anyone wanting to see Tim," she said, then seemed to collect herself. Shaking his hand, she said, "I'm sorry. I'm Melanie Abbot. The Director's not in the facility today but I'm his personal assistant." She looked both confident and capable in her brown sweater and slacks, her glossy, brown chin-length hair framing a round cheerful face. "Why do you want to see Tim, if you don't mind me asking? It won't upset him, will it?"

"Just some routine inquiries about someone he might have known a long time ago." Kincaid gestured around him. "What's happened to this place? It looks like it's barely survived a bombing."

"Nothing so drastic. County policy's changed over the last few years. Most of the patients have been farmed out, so to speak. Halfway houses, foster homes, supervised independent living," she said earnestly, seemingly unaware of the contradiction in the last terms. "We help them become functional, self-actualizing members of the community. This facility," she repeated Kincaid's circular gesture, "is used mainly for administrative purposes now."

"But you still care for some patients?"

"Yes," said Melanie Abbot, holding her forgotten papers against her chest with one arm. Kincaid sensed a slight reluctance in her reply, as if she had somehow failed to live up to expectations. "There are a few who are simply unplaceable, for various reasons."

"Like Timothy Franklin?"

Nodding, she said, "We've made tremendous progress treating schizophrenia in the last decade, but Tim is one of the rare schizophrenics who does not respond to medication." She looked down at the papers still clutched to her chest and glanced at her watch. "Look, I've got to use the fax. Let me show you to the patients' sitting room and I'll ring a nurse to bring Tim down."

The floor in the patients' sitting room was covered in lino even more stained and yellowed than that in the annex's corridor. Straight-backed chairs, cushioned in cracked orange vinyl, sat haphazardly pushed against the walls. A fuzzy picture flickered on a television in one corner, and a rubber plant drooped dispiritedly in the other. In a wheelchair parked in front of the telly sat a woman wearing a green cotton hospital gown and felt slippers. Her head listed to one side like a sinking ship, and spittle oozed from the corner of her open mouth. Kincaid could not bring himself to sit down.

The door opened and a man came into the room, followed by a white-uniformed nurse. "Here's the gentleman to see you, Timmy." To Kincaid she added brightly, "He's having a good day today. I'll be just up the corridor if you need me."

Kincaid knew that the man who stood staring so placidly at him must be near fifty, but his physical beauty gave the impression of a much younger man. Timothy Franklin's dark hair held no gray and the skin around his dark eyes was unmarred by lines. He was about Kincaid's height and build, but the fit of the baggy cardigan and corduroys he wore made Kincaid think he might recently have lost weight.

"Hello, Tim." Kincaid held out his hand. "My name's Duncan Kincaid."

"Hullo." Tim allowed his hand to be grasped but returned no pressure, and his tone, while not unfriendly, held no interest at all.

"Can we sit down?"

Instead of answering, Tim shuffled over to the nearest orange chair and sat, resting his hands on the scarred wooden arms.

Kincaid pulled a chair around so that he could face him and tried again. "Do you mind if I call you Tim?"

A blink, and after a long pause, "Timmy."

"Okay, Timmy." Kincaid cursed himself for the false heartiness he heard in his own voice. "I want to ask you about someone you knew a long time ago." Timmy's eyes had strayed to the soundless television. "Timmy," Kincaid said again, as normally as he could. "Do you remember Jasmine?"

The dark eyes left the television and focused on Kincaid, then a smile lit Tim's face and transformed it. " 'Course I remember Jasmine."

It was a few seconds before Kincaid realized that the expected How is she? What's she doing? responses were not going to follow. "You were friends, weren't you?" he asked, wishing he had more knowledge of how Tim Franklin's mental disorder affected his thought processes. Was his memory intact?

"We're mates, Jasmine and me."

"You went around together, didn't you, in the village?"

Tim nodded, his gaze drifting back to the television.

Kincaid tried a little more aggressive tack. "But your mum and Jasmine's Aunt May didn't like your being friends. They tried to stop you from being together, didn't they?"

Tim made no response and Kincaid grimaced in frustration. "Do you remember Jasmine leaving, Tim? Did that upset you?"

Although Tim's eyes remained fixed on the telly, one of the hands which had been resting loosely on the chair arm clenched convulsively. Under his breath he muttered, "Pretty hair. Pretty hair. Pretty hair."

The woman in the wheelchair moaned. Kincaid looked around, startled. He had forgotten about her as completely as if she'd been a piece of furniture. She moaned again more loudly and Kincaid felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The sound carried primitive pain, more animal than human.