Chameleon's Shadow

Eleven

DESPITE KITTEN’S BAD-TEMPERED support for his story, the police were in no hurry to release Acland. It would be several more hours before his clothes, boots and kitbag were returned to him. During that time, most of which he spent in silent contemplation of his hands, he gave minimal details of his army service, refused the offer of a solicitor and granted permission for a search of his property.

His clothes were meticulously examined for bloodstains, his flat was turned upside down, and the bonfire ashes retrieved from the garden to sift for anything other than paper and cardboard. Sharon ‘Kitten’ Carter was reinterviewed in person and repeated her vitriol about Acland’s ‘weirdness’, while the elderly next-door neighbour corroborated her timings before offering some vitriol of his own against her.

There was a brief flurry of excitement when a call came through from the Forensic Science Service to report that washed-out blood splatters had been detected on the right sleeve of Acland’s jacket, the right cuff of his shirt and the knee areas of his trousers, but it was quickly dashed by Nick Beale, who’d had a five-minute interview with Jackson.

He placed a rough sketch of a man on the table, with written descriptions of his clothes – brown leather jacket, grey cotton trousers, white cotton shirt, Caterpillar bruiser roll boots – and arrows pointing to the jacket sleeve, the shirt cuff and the trouser knees with Rashid Mansoor’s blood beside them.

‘The descriptions match what the lieutenant was wearing when we brought him in,’ Beale told Jones, ‘and Dr Jackson advised us not to waste time on the marked areas. She said both she and Acland were splashed during the fight in the pub because this Mansoor had a nosebleed. She washed the lieutenant’s shirt and trousers, and sponged down the jacket, but these are the places where the stains were visible.’

‘Damn!’

‘Do you want FSS to run a DNA match with Tutting?’

‘There’s no point if it isn’t his blood,’ said the superintendent morosely. ‘This inquiry’s already cost a fortune. I’d be hard pressed to justify an expensive DNA procedure for no good reason, particularly if we have to trawl around looking for this Rashid Mansoor character in order to eliminate him.’

‘Except, if Acland did strike Walter, it’s possible the blood splatters might have replicated the fight last night.’

‘And pigs might fly, Nick,’ said Jones with sudden weariness. ‘FSS describe the stains as “washed-out”, but there’s no washing machine or dryer in Acland’s flat and he wouldn’t have had time to do them by hand. The place is as basic as they come.’ He blew a despairing whoosh of air from his mouth. ‘The guy’s a monk. He seems to live a completely spartan existence.’

‘So why are we hanging on to him?’

‘He fits the profile . . . and if Tutting isn’t part of the series, Acland might still have been responsible for the first three.’

Beale shook his head. ‘The timeline doesn’t work. According to Dr Campbell, he’s been out of circulation for months. First in Iraq . . . then in a hospital in Birmingham.’

Jones shook his head. ‘I had another word with her. She said he had a fiance´e who lived somewhere in this area and he used to visit her regularly . . . possibly around the time Peel and Britton were killed. Dr Campbell also said Acland was staying with her at the time Kevin Atkins was found. She remembers discussing the murders with him.’

*

In a parallel operation, Walter Tutting’s small terraced house had become a major crime scene. Unlike the previous murders, the attack had taken place in the hallway. On a first reading of the evidence, a scenes of crime officer phoned to advise Detective Superintendent Jones that it looked as if Walter had put up a fight as soon as the assailant entered.

‘I know it’s early days, Brian, but there’s nothing to suggest this bastard got much beyond the front door. Something must have spooked Walter because we think he took a walking stick from a stand in the hall and tried to defend himself. We found one lying on the carpet near a pool of blood.’

‘Walter’s blood?’

‘Yes . . . probably from a cut on his head.’

‘Is there blood on the stick?’

‘Not that we could detect . . . I sent it for analysis about three hours ago. If we’re lucky, Walter landed a blow on something useful and we’ll get some DNA off it. The best scenario would be that the old boy hit hard enough to mark his attacker . . . which might be a detail worth releasing to the press. If someone already has suspicions about a partner or colleague, an unexplained bruise might just persuade them to call us.’

‘Are you sure the stick wasn’t used against Walter?’

‘As sure as I can be. I checked with his consultant at St Thomas’s and she’s confident that the defence wounds on his arm and shoulders were made by something heavier and more compact . . . like a hammer or a baseball bat.’

‘What about the indentation in the wall?’

‘It’s certainly similar to what we found in the other properties – semicircular and fairly deep into the plaster – but I’m guessing it was a first attempt that missed rather than an angry thrashing around afterwards . . . which may be why Walter had time to arm himself with the walking stick. There are no blood or skin traces in it, as there were in the others . . . and, if it was a baseball bat, it was covered in some kind of fabric. We think we’ve found fibres.’

Jones frowned into the receiver. ‘There were no fibres in the plaster indentations in the other houses.’

There was a short pause while the SOCO broke off to speak to someone in the room. ‘I need to go, Brian. Look, I’ll have more tomorrow, but at the moment I’m thinking on the hoof. Assuming this is the same guy, then a possible scenario is that he carries the weapon in a bag and only takes it out when he’s ready to use it. In Walter’s case, it never got that far. Our man lashed out – bag and all – as soon as he realized the old boy was spooked.’

‘Are there enough fibres to tell us what kind of bag?’

‘I don’t know, but you might be interested in the consultant’s idea. When I described the indentation to her, she suggested a glass paperweight in a sock.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘A paperweight would certainly be easier to carry around London undetected, but I can’t see it doing the sort of damage we’ve seen on the previous victims. You made the point yourself, we haven’t found fibres anywhere else . . . and, out of the sock and without a handle, there wouldn’t be any leverage. All the force would have to come from the speed of the attacker’s arm.’

‘But it’s possible.’

‘Not in my opinion. Most of us would drop a lump of glass as soon as we broke into a sweat . . . but if you come up with a fit, strong guy with dry palms and a grip like steel, I suppose it might be...’

*

Acland fitted the bill nicely, thought Jones, as he introduced himself and shook the young man’s hand. No sweat and fingers like grappling irons. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long,’ he went on, pulling out the other chair and sitting down. ‘Has anyone explained to you why?’ ‘Not really.’ The detective superintendent clicked his tongue in apparent condemnation of his team. ‘My fault. I should have given clearer instructions . . . or reached here sooner. Can I offer you a cup of tea or something to eat?’

‘No thank you.’

Jones pulled off his jacket and slung it over the chair behind him. ‘Which do you prefer? Charles or Lieutenant Acland?’

‘Whatever you like. You’re the policeman.’

The superintendent smiled. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry, Charles. The custody officer tells me you’ve been in this room for over five hours. By rights, you should be climbing the walls and demanding to know what’s going on.’

Acland regarded him warily. For whatever reason – perhaps because they didn’t fit the man’s Rottweiler appearance – he was suspicious of Jones’s attempts at pleasantry. ‘Would it have done me any good?’

‘It wouldn’t have done any harm. We’re fairly used to irritation in interview rooms . . . particularly from the innocent.’ He held the younger man’s gaze for a moment. ‘A man with infinite patience is rare. It makes me wonder if you have a better idea what this is all about than you’ve been letting on. Are you willing to say how much you know . . . or how much you’ve guessed?’

Acland leaned forward to place a finger on Walter Tutting’s photograph. ‘This man was taken to hospital earlier in the day after collapsing in the street. I’m guessing that whatever caused his collapse wasn’t natural because your men stopped the traffic to search the road.’ He took a breath. ‘You’ve made up your minds I had something to do with Mr Tutting’s collapse, either because I was seen arguing with him at the bank this morning or because I was involved in a fight last night at the Bell . . . probably both. With the help of Jackson, Daisy and Susan Campbell, you arrested me when I returned to the pub and brought me here in handcuffs to answer questions.’

‘Go on.’

‘That’s it . . . a combination of what I’ve been told and what I’ve guessed.’

‘If you thought we were investigating you, why didn’t you ask for a solicitor?’

‘You’d have been even more suspicious.’

‘It doesn’t work like that, Charles.’

‘Yes, it does. That’s why I gave you free rein of my property and possessions to prove I have nothing to answer for.’

Jones wasn’t surprised that Susan Campbell had declared Acland fit to answer questions. He certainly fitted the profile of a ‘forensically aware’ killer. ‘I admire your confidence.’

‘In myself or in the police?’

‘Both.’

Acland shook his head. ‘I have no confidence in the police. The inspector said I was here as a witness . . . but he was lying. I was arrested and brought here as a suspect and I don’t even know what crime I’m supposed to have committed.’

Jones folded his hands on the table. ‘Do you want to make a complaint?’

‘Not unless you tell me you’ve found something incriminating in my kitbag or at my flat. We’ll both know how it got there if you do.’

‘Are you suggesting I or one of my team would plant evidence?’

‘Judging by the way I’ve been treated so far . . . yes.’

Jones smiled slightly. ‘You’re very alert for a man who had such a serious migraine incident last night that a doctor had to attend to you. Do vertical press-ups clear your brain, Charles?’

‘If they do, that’s my business . . . and I don’t like being filmed. This is a free country, not a police state.’

‘I’m sorry you have such a dim view of us. We make more enemies than friends in our line of business, but someone has to do it . . . Rather like soldiering, wouldn’t you say?’

Acland ignored the jibe. ‘I have a dim view of the whole of society. You’re just one face of it.’

‘Have you ever been arrested before?’

‘No.’

‘You take a dim view of Muslims as well, I hear . . . and elderly men.’ Jones reached for Walter Tutting’s photograph when Acland didn’t answer. ‘What did Mr Tutting do to annoy you? Did he think you were gay and make a pass?’

Acland looked faintly outraged. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Why? Which part of the idea offends you? That an elderly man might be gay or that he might think you’re gay?’

‘Neither. I’m just not as obsessed with sex as you seem to be.’

The superintendent steepled his hands in front of his mouth and studied the young man curiously. ‘You’re quite a puritan.’

Acland stared back at him with a frown of incomprehension. ‘What do any of my views have to do with Mr Tutting? He poked me in the back, that’s all.’

‘I’m interested in why you seem to have taken against society. Have you been treated badly since you came home?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘So what’s changed?’

‘Me. I feel as if I’m living in a world that’s obsessed with trivial things . . . and I can’t see that any of them matter much.’ He sounded uncomfortable, as though voicing his beliefs was alien to him.

‘And what does matter, Charles?’

‘I’m still trying to find out. I’ve been reading about a Danish philosopher called Søren Kierkegaard. He said, “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.” That’s about as much understanding as I have at the moment.’

‘Reality can be pretty grim.’

‘It depends what you make of it.’

Jones nodded. ‘What about love? Where does that fit in?’

No answer.

‘Weren’t you in love with your fiance´e, Charles? I gather she lives in this area and you visited her regularly last year. We need her name and address.’

Shock flared briefly in the younger man’s eye. ‘Who told you?’

‘Dr Campbell.’ Jones raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Did she make a mistake? Was the information supposed to be confidential?’

Acland hunched forward and pumped his fists beneath the table. ‘Jen has nothing to do with this. I haven’t seen her in months.’

‘Nothing to do with what, Charles?’

Silence.

‘If she lives nowhere near Mr Tutting we won’t bother her . . . but if she does –’ Jones allowed a beat of silence to pass – ‘we might need to look at whether you’ve had a run-in with him before.’

‘She wouldn’t know one way or the other.’

‘Will your parents be able to give me her name and address? Your regiment?’

A flash of real dislike sparked in Acland’s eye. ‘Her name’s Jen Morley and she’s in Flat 1, Peabody House, Harris Walk . . . and if that’s anywhere near Mr Tutting then it’s a coincidence.’ He unclenched his fists and pressed his palms on the table as if he was about to stand up. ‘Why are you doing this? Don’t I have any rights over who you’re allowed to discuss my private business with?’

The superintendent spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Not if I need an independent witness to confirm what you tell me.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried that Ms Morley’s going to say something detrimental about you, then it might be in your interest to consult a solicitor.’

Acland tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. He took several deep breaths through his nose.

‘We can take a break any time, Charles. Perhaps you’d like to change your mind about that cup of tea?’

‘It won’t make any difference.’

True, thought Jones. ‘Did Mr Tutting’s poking finger annoy you enough to follow him home?’

‘Not unless he lives in the tube station and was fast enough to sprint ahead of me after I left the bank. Your inspector said he collapsed in the street. Was that another lie?’

Jones ignored the question. ‘Our forensic staff have found bloodstains on your jacket, shirt and trousers. Do you want to explain how they got there?’

Acland’s dislike flared up again, but this time his anger was palpable. It throbbed in the air between them. ‘I knew you’d plant something on me,’ he snarled. ‘You’re more corrupt than the ragheads we were ordered to protect. They’ll stab anyone in the back if it gives them an edge, but at least they’re open about it.’

There was a short, thoughtful silence while Jones rubbed the side of his jaw with the back of one hand. ‘Let me understand you correctly. Are you saying there’s no way blood could be found on your clothes unless the police put it there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did Dr Jackson tell us it came from Rashid Mansoor’s nose? Was she lying?’ He watched the knuckles on Acland’s fists turn white with suppressed frustration. ‘It makes me suspicious when I’m accused of corruption, Charles. I ask myself what the other person’s trying to hide.’

‘Nothing,’ said Acland through gritted teeth, ‘but at least you know how it feels to be accused of something you haven’t done.’

‘Do you own a baseball bat?’

‘No.’

‘What about a glass paperweight?’

‘Everything I have is in my kitbag.’

‘Which holds how much? Not a lot. For most men of your age, their laptops and stereos would take up several kit bags. Where’s the rest of your stuff?’

‘If you mean the things I don’t use any more, they’re at my parents’ house in Dorset. The stereo’s defunct, the computer’s so old it works by clockwork and I’ve grown out of reading the Beano or playing with model aeroplanes.’

‘Do you have a storage container somewhere?’

‘No.’

‘What about friends? Is anyone looking after anything for you?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve seen what’s in your kitbag, Charles. Are you telling me that’s all you own in the world?’

‘Yes.’

‘No one travels that light.’

‘I do.’ The young man gave an indifferent shrug. ‘You should try it one day. It’s easier to keep going when you’re not weighed down by possessions.’

‘So we’re back to a world obsessed by trivia?’

‘If you like.’

‘And to a man who needs to be on the move all the time. Are you afraid your past is going to catch up with you, Charles? Are you happier leaving everyone behind?’

Acland’s lips twisted fractionally. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in the rut you’re in. You look about as pleased with your life as my father does, and he’s been grinding along the bottom of a furrow for years, carrying the debts of a farm on his back.’

‘Perhaps he feels it’s the responsible thing to do. We can’t all scrounge off others. Someone has to create the wealth.’

‘That’s the general view.’

Jones’s smile was sarcastic, prompted as much by the memory of his own debts as by a political view on individual responsibility. ‘But you disagree?’

Acland stared past him as if searching for a distant horizon. ‘I wouldn’t put my life on the line for it. Chasing wealth is no more ethically justified than turning your back on it.’

‘Which makes you what? A monk?’

‘An idiot,’ Acland said slowly, shifting his attention back to the superintendent. ‘I went to war for people like you and ended up with this.’ He touched his patch. ‘Pretty stupid, eh?’

*

Jen Morley reacted angrily when DI Beale and DC Khan rang her doorbell at ten-thirty at night. She delivered a few choice expletives via the intercom, said they’d woken her up and refused to let them in. ‘How do I know you’re the police?’ she hissed in an undertone. ‘You could be anyone.’

Beale leaned into the speaker beside the glass-panelled entrance to the block. ‘I can see your front door from here, Ms Morley. If you open it, I’ll give you a number to call. Ask for a description of Detective Inspector Beale and check it against the person you see.’

‘I can’t, I’m naked.’

‘I’m happy to wait while you put something on.’

There was the sound of a man speaking in the background and Jen raised her voice to answer him. ‘No, it’s just some yobs mucking around. I’ll be back in a minute.’ She dropped into a whisper again. ‘Look, do me a favour and fuck off,’ she snapped. ‘I’m busy, OK. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

Beale placed a hand over the intercom and nodded to Khan. ‘Check the window,’ he whispered, nodding towards a lighted, curtained pane to the right. He lowered his hand again. ‘We only need five minutes, Ms Morley. I appreciate it’s late at night but it is important. Do you have a dressing gown? You can talk to us outside your flat if you’d rather.’ He replaced his hand over the speaker as Khan slipped back beside him.

‘There’s a half-clothed Jap with her,’ the other man breathed. ‘He’s tapping his watch and hanging on to his wallet for dear life.’

‘Five minutes, Ms Morley,’ Beale said again. ‘That’s all we need.’

‘Jesus!’ she said angrily. ‘OK, wait there.’ The handset at her end rattled furiously onto its rest.

They watched her emerge from her door and shut it carefully behind her, before clutching her robe about her middle and making her way across the communal hall. From twenty yards away, she had a willowy elegance that fleetingly reminded both men of someone they knew; close to, the impression faded. There was nothing elegant about the bloodshot eyes, the smudged make-up or the swollen bottom lip that suggested someone had been chewing on it.

She opened the door a couple of feet and inserted herself in the opening to prevent them entering. ‘You’d better have something more than that if you’re expecting to come in,’ she hissed when Beale tried to introduce himself and show his card. ‘A search warrant at least.’

Beale wondered how often she’d been served with a warrant and made a mental note to check the records. ‘We just want to ask you some questions, Ms Morley. We understand you were engaged to a man called Charles Acland until a few months ago? Is that correct?’

‘What if I was? What’s he been saying about me?’ She touched the sleeve of her gown to the end of her nose. ‘It’ll be lies whatever it is.’

It wasn’t the answer Beale had been expecting. As a delaying tactic, he took out his notebook and flicked through it. ‘You remind me of someone,’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘Have we met before?’

‘Uma Thurman,’ she retorted impatiently, as if it should have been obvious. ‘Everyone thinks I’m Uma Thurman.’

Beale nodded, wondering if she realized how rough she looked. ‘I can see the resemblance now.’

‘Whatever. Just get a move on. I’m freezing to death here.’ She rubbed her arms to prove the point. ‘Charlie always lies. I could have had him done for rape . . . and he knows it.’

Beale nodded again, as if he had this information already. ‘When did that happen?’

‘The last time I saw him . . . before he went to Iraq. Then he tried to strangle me in the hospital after he came back.’ Her hand strayed to her neck. ‘I bet he hasn’t told you that.’

‘No.’

‘Did he tell you about the rape?’

Beale shook his head.

‘There you are, then. You can’t believe anything he says. If you want my opinion, his brain’s more damaged than his face. Ask his psychiatrist if you don’t believe me. He knows what happened. He was there when Charlie tried to kill me.’

He...?‘What’s this psychiatrist’s name?’

Jen looked on the point of answering, then changed her mind. ‘I can’t remember. I left as fast as I could in case Charlie had another go.’ She was becoming restless. ‘Look, it’s water under the bridge. I haven’t seen Charlie for months and that’s the way I want it to stay. Are we done now?’

‘Not quite, Ms Morley. It’s the time when you were together that we’re interested in. How often did Charlie come here?’

‘Whenever he could. He was crazy about me.’

‘Every weekend?’

‘Sure . . . when he wasn’t driving his tank over Salisbury Plain . . . or going to bloody Oman on manoeuvres.’

‘Over what time period? When did you first get together?’

She glanced over her shoulder, as if she could hear something from her flat. ‘Most of last year. We met at the beginning and split just before he went Iraq.’

Beale checked his notebook. ‘Do you remember if he was in London the weekends of the 9th/10th or 23rd/24th of September?’

‘Is this a joke? I don’t even remember what I was doing last week.’

Both policemen could believe that. ‘Have you any way of checking?’ Beale asked.

‘No.’ She frowned at him. ‘What’s this about? What’s Charlie done?’

When Beale hesitated, DC Khan stepped in. ‘Do you mind telling us what caused the split?’ he asked. ‘Was there a specific reason?’

She looked at him with an expression of contempt. ‘I didn’t much like being raped.’

‘I understand that,’ he agreed, ‘but you said Charlie was crazy about you . . . and rape suggests an unacceptable level of violence within the relationship.’

She started to close the door. ‘He’s not good at controlling his anger.’

Khan placed his hand on one of the glass panels to prevent her. ‘What did you do to make him angry?’

‘Nothing,’ she said coldly, ‘except refuse to give him what he wanted.’

‘Which was?’

‘Use your imagination. What do men usually want?’

Khan smiled slightly. ‘It depends on the terms and conditions. Most men expect to get it free from their fiance´es.’

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

‘Did he catch you with a client, Ms Morley? Is that what made him angry?’

‘Fuck off!’ With a sudden surge of fury, she used both hands to slam the door, glaring at them briefly through the glass before turning on her heel.

Beale watched her re-enter her flat. ‘Great!’ he said sarcastically. ‘I play up to her movie-star image and you call her a prostitute. How did you think she was going to react?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Khan thoughtfully, ‘but she’s pretty aggressive. What do you reckon she’s on?’