Chameleon's Shadow

Ten

ACLAND AND SUSAN’S ROUTE brought them to the other end of Murray Street. As they walked down it towards Gainsborough Road, they saw a throng of people standing outside the Bell with glasses in their hands. Disasters were good for business, it seemed.

Susan’s pace slowed. ‘We’ve picked a bad night to come here,’ she said. ‘I can’t see Jackson finding time to talk to us with all of this going on.’

Acland shared her reluctance. He thought he recognized one of the brokers in a group at the edge of the pavement. ‘Maybe we should leave it till tomorrow.’

Susan shook her head. ‘They know we’re coming. I spoke to Daisy before we left.’ She fished out her mobile and scrolled for numbers that she knew weren’t there. ‘It’s such a nuisance. I used the landline both times. We’ll have to push our way in and hope for the best.’

‘We could go somewhere else and wait till the police clear the road,’ Acland suggested. ‘It can’t last forever.’ His reluctance to be there was growing by leaps and bounds.

Perhaps Susan understood this because she placed a hand on his arm, keeping it deliberately light to avoid the immediate withdrawal that was his normal reaction to being touched. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be OK. Nothing’s ever as bad as you think it’s going to be.’

But as things turned out, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Four plain-clothes policemen moved in on Acland the minute he entered the pub, removing his kitbag from his hand and pinioning his arms. Taken by surprise, he offered no resistance, but, as one of the officers handcuffed him and advised him he was under arrest, he watched Daisy, who was standing in front of him, give a small nod of acknowledgement to Susan Campbell.

*

The capture was so rapid and so professional that few of the pub’s customers realized what was happening. In under thirty seconds from the time Acland had followed Susan inside, he was in the back of a car being driven to Southwark East police station. The only explanation he was given by the two detectives accompanying him was that he was wanted for questioning in connection with an assault. Once inside the station, he was given a police tracksuit and asked to remove his clothes and boots, before being taken to a secure interview room, where he was left to brood for an hour. If the aim was to unsettle him, it didn’t work. Acland was used to being alone with his thoughts. Yet the truth was he didn’t think about anything much, not even to speculate on why he was there. Perhaps it was Susan’s cheese sandwiches, or the warm, stuffy air of the room, but he kept drifting into a light sleep. Somewhere along the line his energy levels had hit rock bottom. Like a driver at the wheel of a moving car who is too bone-weary to consider the fatal consequences of exhaustion. In a nearby room, Detective Superintendent Brian Jones removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair while he watched Acland on a television monitor. He’d come straight from the incident room, a thick-set, no-nonsense man in his early fifties, who was seen as a bully by some of his team. He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Has he been like this since you brought him in?’ he asked. ‘Pretty much,’ said an officer who’d been in the car with Acland. ‘He nods off for a couple of minutes, then jerks his head up and stares at the ceiling for a while. Like that. If he’s on anything, it’s not obvious. Dr Campbell, the woman he came with, says he’s been with her since four o’clock, and she’s convinced he hasn’t taken anything in that time. He didn’t have

any paraphernalia when we searched him.’

‘What kind of doctor?’

‘Psychiatrist.’

‘Have you asked her if she thinks he’s fit to be questioned?’

‘Yes. She says he suffers from migraines, but doesn’t believe he has one at the moment. He was talking to her quite freely in the taxi coming over.’

‘Have you told her why he’s here?’

‘Not in detail. All I said was that he answered the description of a man wanted in connection with an assault.’

‘And?’

‘She assumed it related to the incident at the pub last night.’

‘Good. That may be what our friend in there is thinking as well.’ Brian Jones removed some photographs from a folder and selected a snapshot of an elderly man looking straight into the camera. ‘I’d rather do this without a solicitor, so, in the first instance, we’ll treat him as a witness. You two –’ he pointed to the man he’d been speaking to and a detective inspector – ‘show him this and let’s see what his reaction is. If he insists on a solicitor, we may need to do the interview under caution . . . but keep pressing the fact he’s just a witness. The rest of us will watch on the monitor.’

*

Acland regarded the two officers in silence when they entered the interview room. He acknowledged their introductions with a small nod – Detective Inspector Beale and Detective Constable Khan – but otherwise remained impassive, his hands clasped loosely on the table in front of him. ‘He’s very controlled,’ said the detective superintendent, watching the screen. ‘Most people show some indication of nerves after an hour in an interview room.’ They heard Beale apologize for keeping Acland waiting as he and Khan took seats on the other side of the table, then go

on to explain that witnesses were being sought in connection with an incident earlier in the day. ‘We’re interviewing anyone who might have seen something,’ he said, leaning forward to place the snapshot in front of Acland. ‘Do you recognize this man, sir?’

Acland lowered his gaze to the picture but otherwise didn’t move. ‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell me how you know him?’

‘We had a run-in at the bank this morning. He was in the queue behind me and kept poking me in the back. I told him I didn’t like being touched and he got shirty with me.’

‘Did you hit him?’

‘No. I caught him by the wrist to stop him, then let him go when he pulled away. Is he saying I hit him?’

Beale avoided an answer. ‘What happened after you released him?’

‘Nothing. I left.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Home.’

‘Where’s home?’ Khan asked.

Acland gave the address of his flat.

‘Did you make a detour . . . go anywhere else before returning to Waterloo?’

‘No,’ said Acland, glancing at the photograph again. ‘I went straight there.’

‘What time did you arrive?’

‘Eleven . . . twelve. I can’t really remember.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

Acland nodded. ‘The woman upstairs and a next-door neighbour.’

‘Do you know their telephone numbers?’

‘No.’

‘Names?’

‘Not the neighbour’s, but the woman in the flat above calls herself Kitten. Her mail was addressed to Sharon Carter, so I presume that’s her real name.’ He watched Khan write it down. ‘What am I supposed to have witnessed?’

Beale eyed him for a moment. ‘Mr Tutting was taken to hospital at about one-fifteen this afternoon.’

‘Who’s Mr Tutting?’

‘This gentleman –’ Detective Inspector Beale tapped the snapshot – ‘the one you had a run-in with at the bank.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Beale hedged. ‘He collapsed in the street.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Acland looked at the photograph again. ‘He had more guts than most people of his age . . . He told me to stick a sign on my back saying I was a bad-tempered bastard.’

Brian Jones signalled to another member of his team. ‘Hop in there and pull Beale and Khan out . . . but make sure the photo remains on the table. We’ll leave Acland to stew for ten minutes. I want to see what he does. And get Khan on to this Kitten female. We need to verify some times.’

*

Left alone, Acland showed no interest at all in the photograph. After a minute or two of staring ahead, he stood up, placed his hands on the floor and performed a perfect gymnastic handstand against the wall. He held his position for a full minute before embarking on a series of vertical press-ups, lowering his forehead to within an inch of the floor before pumping his arms straight again. ‘He’s a strong lad,’ said Jones, ‘but I can’t think that’s doing much for his migraines.’ Detective Inspector Beale, a tall, fair-haired man in his mid-thirties and Jones’s number two on the inquiry team, watched the monitor over the superintendent’s shoulder. ‘Does he know he’s being filmed?’ ‘What if he does?’ ‘That kind of press-up’s damned hard to do. It probably helps that he’s thin as a rake – less weight to shift – but . . . even so. Perhaps he’s telling us something.’ ‘What?’

‘That he’s strong enough to wait us out. The only time I tried a vertical press-up, I got stuck in the down position.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘Honestly?’ Beale collected his thoughts. ‘I’ll be surprised if he’s our man. He’s too straight. He wasn’t fazed by Walter Tutting’s picture and I didn’t notice any hesitations before he answered my questions. If he’d beaten the poor old boy’s head in, I don’t believe he’d have given me the spiel about Walter calling him a bad-tempered bastard.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Look at his control . . . it’s like watching a metronome.’ Jones swung his chair towards the inspector. ‘OK, let’s say you’re right. Why did Walter tell the paramedics that it was “the bloke at the bank with the eyepatch” who did it? Are you suggesting there were two men with eyepatches at the bank today and Walter had a run-in with both?’

‘No, but Walter lost consciousness again very quickly and his daughter says he forgets where he lives sometimes . . . so he might have confused the two incidents. Maybe he never saw his attacker and just assumed it was the same man.’ He jerked his chin at the monitor. ‘The only reason this lad’s in the frame is because the uniformed guys recognized his description from last night. We wouldn’t have known where to start otherwise.’

Thoughtfully, the superintendent tapped his forefingers together. ‘He’s the sort of person we’re looking for . . . ex-army . . . volatile temper . . . a fight last night . . . a run-in this morning with an eighty-two-year-old . . . knows how to damage people . . . doesn’t like being touched. Why does he have a psychiatrist in tow? What’s that all about?’

‘According to Dr Campbell, she’s just a friend.’

‘Why did she accompany him to the Bell?’

‘For moral support. He felt he’d made a fool of himself last night and didn’t want to face the landlady alone.’

‘The landlady being another doctor.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Yes. She’s quite a character, apparently. Goes by the name of Jackson and operates as an out-of-hours locum. I’ve left a message with her call service asking her to come in ASAP.’ He paused. ‘It’s another reason why I don’t fancy Lieutenant Acland for the attack on Walter. According to Susan Campbell, Dr Jackson offered him a room at the pub and he decided to take it because he doesn’t like where he’s living at the moment. But why would he come back so soon after beating an old guy half to death? He must have known the place would be crawling with police.’

‘He didn’t expect Walter to be in any condition to give a description.’

‘But he couldn’t rely on other witnesses staying quiet. It was broad daylight and the eyepatch makes him distinctive. Someone was bound to have seen him . . . if only in Gainsborough Road.’

Jones shrugged. ‘History’s littered with perverts who return to the scenes of their crimes. It gives them a thrill to see how important they’ve become.’ He glanced at the screen again. ‘I’m more interested in why female doctors seem to be falling over themselves to offer support. Why does he need it? What’s wrong with him?’ He stood up. ‘Did you say Dr Campbell’s still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s have another chat with her.’

*

But Susan couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer questions about Acland’s psychiatric or medical conditions. ‘He’s not my patient. I’m just a friend.’ The superintendent nodded. ‘I appreciate that, Dr Campbell, but all we need to know is whether, in your judgement as a friend, he’s competent to answer questions. It’s not in his interests or ours to compromise the information he gives us.’ She shrugged. ‘All right . . . I’d say he’s perfectly competent.’ ‘You told my sergeant he has migraines.’ ‘On and off. He had a bad one last night, so I doubt he’ll have another in the short term. You’ll know to back off if he does. He goes white as a sheet and starts vomiting.’

‘Was it a migraine that prompted the assault last night?’

‘I’ve no idea. I wasn’t there and I haven’t asked him about it.’

‘Does Dr Jackson know? Is that why she offered him a bed . . . to stop him attacking people when he has migraines?’

Susan gave a surprised laugh. ‘Good Lord! That’s an outrageous conclusion to draw, Superintendent. For the record, I know of no occasion when Charles has lashed out during a migraine. If you ask him – or indeed Dr Jackson, who witnessed the episode last night – I’m sure they’ll both say he’s too incapacitated to move when the pain’s bad enough to make him retch.’

‘What about the lead-up to a migraine? How many times has he lashed out then?’

‘From personal experience, never. Charles has always behaved entirely appropriately in my company.’

‘But you know about the incident last night.’

‘Only that it happened. I’ve no idea what caused it. Have you asked the other man? It usually takes two to make a fight.’

Jones subjected her to a long scrutiny. ‘Why are you so protective of Lieutenant Acland? Do you see yourself as a mother figure in his life?’

‘What makes you think I’m protecting him?’

‘Because you’re still here, Dr Campbell. Aren’t you confident that he can look after himself?’

‘Perfectly confident . . . but I’ve never had a friend arrested in front of me before. I expect it happens to you all the time –’ her eyes gleamed ironically – ‘but I’m entirely ignorant of the etiquette in these circumstances. I fear it wouldn’t be good form to leave without saying goodbye.’

‘Would you like Inspector Beale to ask Charles if he wants you to stay?’

She shook her head. ‘It’ll be a waste of time. He’ll certainly say no.’

‘And you wouldn’t leave anyway?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m curious, Dr Campbell. He’s not your patient . . .

you’re not related to him . . . there’s a considerable age gap between the two of you . . . you don’t regard yourself as a mother figure . . . he doesn’t need your protection . . . yet you refuse to leave. What’s the basis of this friendship?’

Susan allowed her amusement to show. ‘Are you wondering if Charles and I have an intimate relationship, Superintendent?’

‘The possibility did occur to me.’

‘I’m flattered that you think he might be interested,’ she said in a lightly mocking tone, ‘but I have enough trouble showing enthusiasm for sex with men of my own age. I couldn’t possibly cope with an active twenty-six-year-old. If you must make leaps of imagination, try admiration instead. Do you have a son?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘So just four years younger than Charles, who’s trying to come to terms with the death of his crew, the loss of his career, partial blindness, low-level tinnitus, migraines and disfigurement . . . and all in the service of his country. How well would you have dealt with that at twenty-six? How well will your son if a similar tragedy happens to him?’

*

‘He’d expect me to keep him in idleness, and his mother to wait on him hand and foot, the same as he’s doing now,’ said Jones acidly as he and Inspector Beale returned to the viewing room. ‘He’s got a degree in business studies – paid for by yours truly – and he sits on his bloody arse all day playing computer games. I threatened to throw him out if he doesn’t get a job, and the wife started bleating about unconditional love. What’s that supposed to mean, eh?’ ‘It’s American for putting up with crap from your children,’ said Nick Beale with a smile. ‘We have to embrace them whatever they do because it’s our fault they’ve gone off the rails. We haven’t given them enough love.’

‘Too much, more likely.’ He lifted an enquiring eyebrow at Ahmed Khan. ‘Any joy?’

The detective constable nodded. ‘According to Sharon Carter, Charles Acland had returned to his flat by eleven-thirty. She was watching This Morning on the television and they had a row because he lit a bonfire in the garden. She said her window was open and she noticed the smoke while the fashion segment was on . . . and that’s always after eleven-thirty apparently. I’ll double-check with the TV company, but Sharon’s confident about the time.’

‘What was he burning?’

‘Old files. Sharon said the ashes are still out there, with charred pieces of paper and cardboard. Lieutenant Acland trod on the fire when she threatened to call the police.’

‘Does she know when he left again?’

Khan gave another nod. ‘She watched him get into a cab at three-thirty. He put his kitbag in first, then she said he gave her two fingers behind his back before climbing in after it. She knows it was three-thirty because the Ricki Lake Show was just starting on ITV2.’

‘Could he have gone out between either of those times without her seeing him?’

Khan looked amused. ‘I doubt it. I had chapter and verse of everything he’s done in the last month. This is one very bored woman, sir. She seems to keep one eye on Acland and the other on her television set.’

‘Does she fancy him?’

‘Not any more. She said he was rude to her when she tried to be neighbourly, but she’s carrying one heck of a grudge over it. I suspect she made a pass at him and was comprehensively rejected. She referred to him several times as a closet gay.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure we should place too much reliance on this, but she also told me she thought he was the gay killer. She said he’s a complete weirdo. He goes running most days and shouts in his sleep at night.’

Jones glanced at the monitor, which showed Acland back in his chair and staring fixedly at the wall in front of him. ‘Perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps the attack on Walter isn’t part of the series.’