Chameleon's Shadow

Twelve

IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS possessions, Acland was asked to sign a receipt, confirming that every item had been returned. He unpacked his kitbag and checked the contents in front of DI Beale and the custody officer. The inspector felt oddly embarrassed as the young lieutenant withdrew his meagre tally of belongings. Apart from the clothes, which represented a tiny proportion of what Beale had in his own wardrobe, there was a small radio, a wind-up alarm clock, a toilet bag, a pair of trainers, some leather flip-flops, a mess tin and metal cup, a thermos flask, a spoon, knife and fork, a notebook, a couple of pencils and a paperback entitled An Introduction to Philosophy.

The super was right, thought Beale. Either there was a storage container somewhere or this lad was a monk, and the question that intrigued them all was, how had a monk ever become engaged to a woman like Jen Morley? Susan Campbell had refused, or been unable, to shed any light on it.

‘I’ve never met her and I’ve never discussed her with Charles,’ she said firmly.

Brian Jones had invited her into the side room where Acland was still being screened on the monitor. ‘Would you be willing to speculate?’ he asked. ‘This lad strikes us as being abstemious to the point of obsession, while DC Khan and DI Beale here describe Ms Morley as an aggressive, foul-mouthed call girl. What might the attraction have been?’

‘Sex.’

Jones gave a grunt of amusement. ‘As simple as that?’ He glanced at the screen. ‘He’s handsome enough on his right-hand side. He must have been quite a catch before the injury. I find it hard to believe he’d tie himself to a prostitute just for sex. Why didn’t he pay her for it?’

‘She’s not your run-of-the-mill Tom,’ said Beale. ‘More of a high-class hostess for visiting businessmen. She has a good speaking voice and probably scrubs up well . . . even if she was looking pretty rough this evening.’

‘She’s funding a habit,’ said Khan confidently. ‘She just about held it together while we were talking to her, but it was a close shave. If we’d waited outside her flat, we’d have seen her head for her dealer the minute her client left.’

Jones switched his attention back to Susan. ‘Could Charles have been hoping to save her? I wouldn’t have thought he was that naive or stupid, but he’s certainly a puritan . . . and puritans have a nasty habit of believing they can cure other people’s behaviour.’

‘You’re asking me questions I can’t answer,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what Charles was like when he was engaged to Jen . . . I don’t know what she was like. All personalities develop over time

– we tend to mould ourselves to the people we live and work with – but prolonged drug abuse is often associated with the biggest changes. If this gentleman here –’ she indicated Khan – ‘is correct, then it’s possible the Jen he saw tonight is not the one Charles became engaged to.’

‘What about him? He’s had a pretty serious bang to the head. Can that affect the personality?’

‘Of course. But in numerous different ways. How long do we have? My lecture on short-term memory loss usually takes an hour.’

Jones tapped an impatient finger on the table. ‘It’s a simple question, Dr Campbell.’ ‘But the answer isn’t, Superintendent. There are too many variables.’

‘Give me one.’

‘Depending on the severity of the injury, it’s possible that a bang on the head may lead to impaired mental function – such as difficulty remembering, confusion and loss of communication skills. As this often gives rise to irritability and frustration, then, yes, a bang on the head can be said to affect the personality.’

Jones closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Is the Charles we’ve met tonight the one who was visiting Ms Morley on a regular basis last year?’ he asked grimly.

‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t meet him until after they split.’

‘All I want is an opinion, Dr Campbell. It’s hardly a breach of confidentiality if Charles wasn’t your patient at the time and isn’t your patient now. I need persuading that he has nothing to do with this inquiry . . . and your refusal to offer any guidance isn’t helping with that decision.’

Susan frowned. ‘Which inquiry? The inspector said his alibi stood up for the assault on Mr Tutting.’

‘Any information that supports his story will be helpful.’

‘I don’t have any information.’ She held his gaze for a moment. ‘Look, it may come as a shock to you, but you probably know him better than I do. The longest conversation I’ve ever had with Charles was in the taxi coming here.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘I was trying to disabuse him of the idea that pretty lesbians are kept women, and butch lesbians don’t know how to operate washing machines.’ Humour crept into her voice. ‘Would you like me to do the same for you, Superintendent? I imagine your understanding of lesbian relationships is no more profound or more sophisticated than Charles’s.’

‘If he’s that ignorant, why does he want to live with a couple of them? Does he think he can cure them?’

Susan wasn’t amused. ‘It’s irrelevant what their sexual orientation is; he’s choosing to live with Jackson and Daisy.’

‘Why?’

Susan shrugged. ‘At a guess, he knows he has to start trusting people again, and he believes he’s found someone dependable in Jackson. She won more respect from him in a single night than anyone else has done since his injury.’ Her glance rested on the screen for a moment. ‘It won’t surprise me if he’s changed his mind, though. Trust is a fragile thing at the best of times.’

*

DI Beale and his uniformed colleague shook their heads when Acland pointed to some items of clothing that he hadn’t repacked in his kitbag and asked if either of them objected to him taking off his shirt in order to add some layers underneath. But Beale was shocked by how thin Acland was. The ribs of his back showed all too clearly, giving unhealthy credence to the idea of a self-denying ascetic; where he found the strength to do vertical press-ups was a mystery. Beale watched the lieutenant pull three T-shirts over his head before replacing his shirt. ‘You look as if you’re planning to head for the Antarctic,’ he said in a friendly tone. Acland ignored him to examine his boots and jacket, which were in a separate pile. He used his sleeve to rub the toe of a boot. ‘What did they use on these?’ ‘Blood detectors... probably luminol or fluorescein.’ Acland pulled a second pair of socks over his feet and laced up his boots. ‘Do I get compensated if the leather goes rotten two weeks down the line . . . or is that the price I pay for being a witness?’ ‘It shouldn’t.’ ‘Right,’ said Acland without emphasis, as he shrugged into his jacket, ‘like an armful of injections shouldn’t give you Gulf War Syndrome.’ He picked up his wallet and checked it before tucking it into his kitbag and drawing the strings tight. ‘Is that it?’ The custody sergeant passed him a receipt and a pen. ‘We just need your signature, sir . . . also the address where we can contact you and a mobile phone number if you have one.’ ‘You know I don’t. You’ve searched everything I have.’ Acland signed his name, hesitated briefly, then wrote, ‘The Bell, Gains-borough Road’ beneath it. ‘What happens if I decide to move on from the Bell?’

‘You’re at liberty to do that, Lieutenant, as long as you or Dr Jackson notify us of your new address. There are no police bail conditions attached to your release, but that status could well be revised if you fail to inform us of your whereabouts.’

‘My car’s out back,’ said Beale. ‘I’ll drive you down myself. Dr Campbell phoned Daisy Wheeler ten minutes ago. She’s expecting us.’

Acland busied himself with the straps of his kitbag. ‘Why would Dr Campbell make the phone call?’

‘She offered to do it when I told her we were releasing you. She’s been in the waiting room all the time you’ve been here.’

Clearly surprised, Acland raised his head. ‘Have you been questioning her?’

‘Only to establish your alibi.’

‘Then what’s she still doing here? Why hasn’t she gone home?’

‘For support, I imagine,’ Beale answered matter-of-factly. ‘She says she’s your friend. I promised to drive you both to the Bell when your interview was over.’

There was a flicker of indecision on the lieutenant’s face before he gave a small nod. ‘I hadn’t realized . . . I thought she’d be long gone.’ He hoisted the strap over his head so that the bag lay diagonally across his back. ‘I appreciate the lift . . . thanks . . . but do you mind if I wait outside while you fetch Susan? I could really do with some fresh air.’

‘Sure.’ Beale opened the door and pointed to the right. ‘Down here, hang a left at the end and the exit to the car park is straight ahead. Mine’s the silver Toyota nearest the building.’

‘Cheers.’

Beale wondered about that look of indecision as he watched the younger man walk away. He wondered, too, about the extra layers of clothing. He raised his voice. ‘You’re not planning to abscond are you, Lieutenant?’

Acland paused briefly, turning to look at him. ‘If I did, I’d be letting Susan down,’ he said, ‘and I’ve never let a friend down yet.’

*

Susan lit a much-needed cigarette as she and Beale exited the police station to find a deserted car park. She propped her bottom against the Toyota bonnet and puffed smoke into the air while she watched the inspector scout around the exit to see if Acland was in the road. ‘What did you expect?’ she asked him. ‘I warned you he might change his mind.’ ‘He said he wouldn’t let a friend down,’ protested Beale impatiently, ‘and as it was in reference to you, I assumed he meant it.’ He eyed her accusingly, as if it were her fault. ‘He gave me his word.’ ‘Obviously not, if he doesn’t view me as a friend,’ said Susan thoughtfully. ‘You should have let me speak to him in the interview room.’ Beale flicked the remote on his key fob and opened the passenger door for her. ‘He can’t have gone far. We’ll drive around and see if we can spot him.’ He pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign on his dashboard. ‘Sorry. Rigid rule, I’m afraid. You’ll have to put the fag out before you get in.’ Obligingly, Susan obeyed before lowering herself into the seat. ‘I think we should go straight to the Bell. It’ll be a waste of time looking for him. He won’t come with us even if we do find him.’ ‘Wouldn’t you rather go home?’ ‘No,’ she said firmly, attaching her seat belt. ‘I need to talk to Jackson. She said she’d be back at the pub by twelve-thirty.’ Beale climbed in the other side. ‘I suspect Charles is planning to spend the night in the open – he added another layer of clothes before he left – so I’ll have him picked up in the morning.’ He put the key in the ignition and started the engine. ‘Let’s just pray no one gets murdered between now and then,’ he said with feeling, ‘because I’m not sure who’ll be for the higher jump . . . him or me.’

Susan smiled unsympathetically. ‘You need your head examining if you seriously believe that Charles Acland would pass himself off as a male prostitute in order to prey on lonely old men.’

Beale fired the engine, engaged the gears, then looked over his shoulder to reverse out of the parking space. ‘What made you come up with that comment?’

‘Your superintendent mentioned the gay murders . . . wanted to know if Charles had been in London when the last one happened.’

‘He wouldn’t have told you that posing as a male prostitute is the murderer’s MO. We don’t know how he gets in.’

‘I read the newspapers.’

Beale turned on to the main road. ‘The press is guessing . . . we’re all guessing.’ He glanced at her. ‘But let’s say you’re right, why should that exclude Charles?’

‘Because the whole idea of sex alarms him at the moment. He’s an intensely private person who won’t let anyone get too close. Your boss described him as abstemious. I’d describe him as self-protective and fastidious. Do you think that state of mind is conducive to sexual activity?’

‘There’s nothing to indicate that intercourse took place. The murders may have been the reaction to a proposition of gay sex.’

Susan shook her head. ‘Charles would never have got as far as the bedroom,’ she said confidently. ‘He won’t even enter a front door without coaxing. He’s uptight about his facial disfigurement, does everything he can to keep people out of his private space and won’t intrude on anyone else’s. There’s no way he’d get beyond the hall in a stranger’s house –’ she arched an ironic eyebrow – ‘particularly if he thought sex was behind the invitation.’

The inspector glanced at her. ‘So why didn’t you give that opinion to the superintendent? He’d have released Charles three hours ago if you had.’

With a sigh of irritation, she lit another cigarette without asking his permission. ‘No, he wouldn’t. He’d have done what you just did . . . jump at any half-arsed theory that might associate Charles with the attacks. I don’t even know why he came under suspicion in the first place.’

Beale lowered her window a couple of inches to draw the smoke away from him. ‘The man who was attacked today effectively named Charles as his assailant.’

‘How? Your boss told me he was unconscious.’

‘He came round briefly when the paramedics arrived. When they asked him who’d done it, he said it was a man with an eyepatch, and Charles admits that he had a row with Mr Tutting earlier in the day.’

‘He told me about that. He said some old chap kept jabbing him in the back. Was that Mr Tutting?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why have you allowed Charles to go?’

‘His alibi stood up,’ said Beale, drawing to a halt at some traffic lights. ‘We think Mr Tutting confused the two incidents because Charles was back at his flat by the time the attack happened –’ he cast an ironic glance at Susan – ‘having yet another row. This time with his upstairs neighbour.’

She sighed again. ‘He told me about that, too. As I understand it, the woman’s lonely and she took against Charles when he rejected her advances.’ She paused. ‘You must think he’s in fights all the time, but I don’t think that’s true. I agree he’s had a bad twenty-four hours, but the fact that he came to me suggests he’s aware of it and doesn’t want it to happen again.’

‘What makes you think the super wouldn’t have understood that?’

‘Too many negative associations. Fights . . . rows . . . aversion to sex with a woman . . . seeking help from a psychiatrist. In your boss’s shoes, I’d have leapt for the more obvious conclusions. At least this way he seems to have found out for himself that Charles is so opposed to anything to do with the flesh that he’s slowly killing himself from starvation.’

Beale recalled the protruding ribs. ‘Is he doing it deliberately?’

Susan flicked her cigarette out of the car window. ‘I don’t know, but if you want to pray about anything, then pray it’s not Charles’s body that’s found tomorrow morning.’

The traffic lights turned green but Beale ignored them. ‘Are you serious?’

‘It depends how many reserves he has.’

Beale moved off in response to a car’s flashing lights behind him, but drew into the kerb once he was through the junction. ‘I can’t ignore information like that, Dr Campbell,’ he said, turning to her. ‘If your concerns are valid and he’s as vulnerable as you suggest, then I’m duty-bound to organize a search for him.’

‘That’s why we’re going to the Bell,’ she said. ‘He’ll avoid policemen like the plague . . . but I think he might talk to Jackson.’

The inspector shook his head as he reached into his jacket pocket for his mobile. ‘How’s she going to find him? He could have walked a mile in any direction by now.’

Susan laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I have an idea where he might be,’ she said, ‘but if I’m wrong, it won’t do any harm to delay for half an hour. At least give Jackson a chance.’

‘You’re placing a lot of faith in this woman, Dr Campbell.’

‘Not half as much as I’m placing in Charles,’ she murmured cryptically.