Chameleon's Shadow

Twenty-four

FROM DEREK HARDY’S PERSPECTIVE there seemed to be a period of calm after Jackson’s departure. The two detective constables left, and Jones and Beale moved to a vacant table, giving up beer in favour of coffee and sandwiches. They were friendly enough to the landlord and his staff, but they rebuffed any attempt to find out why they were still there. After half an hour, Derek decided they’d abandoned work for the night like any other customer and went to check on Acland.

To avoid waking the man, he eased the door open quietly and looked towards the bed, but a lighted table lamp showed that it was empty. Derek’s response was to step into the room and look around, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably when he saw Acland, fully dressed, standing in the shadow behind the door.

‘Jesus Christ! You gave me a bloody shock! You all right, mate?’

‘What do you want?’

Derek spread his hands to demonstrate his peaceful intent. ‘Just doing what Jacks asked me to do . . . making sure you’re still breathing.’ He started to back out. ‘Sorry for the intrusion. I didn’t want to make a noise in case you were asleep.’

‘Are the police with you?’

The older man shook his head. ‘There’s a couple downstairs still.’

‘I thought you were them.’

‘I guessed. You sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you don’t look it,’ said Derek bluntly. ‘You should follow doctor’s orders, son, and stay in bed. Jacks said she’ll be back for you tomorrow morning.’ He watched the young man’s shoulders relax slightly. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you, sir, everything’s fine.’

Perhaps it was the courtesy ‘sir’ and the obvious contradiction between the words and the pallor of Acland’s face, or perhaps, like Willis, Derek saw how young the lieutenant really was. In either event, he reached out a fatherly hand. ‘Come on,’ he said kindly, taking Acland’s arm. ‘You need to lie down.’

There was a movement in the doorway behind him. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Hardy,’ said Jones. ‘I think you’ll find the lieutenant prefers to make his own way.’ He walked into the room and looked at Acland’s rigid posture. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Charles?’

‘Yes.’ He freed his arm and backed into the corner.

Jones nodded pleasantly to the publican. ‘Your bar steward gave us permission to follow you up here.’ He indicated Beale in the doorway. ‘We wanted a quick word with you before we left.’

‘What about?’

‘It’ll wait.’ He shifted his genial attention to the lieutenant. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d be up and about, Charles. We’ve a couple of questions for you, too, if you can spare us a few minutes. That’s not a problem, is it?’

DI Beale watched Acland respond exactly as the superintendent had predicted. ‘He’ll agree,’ Jones had said. ‘There’s something in his character . . . a bloody-minded determination never to back down . . . that’ll push him to confront us however ill he feels.’

‘What if he does?’ his number two had retorted. ‘Anything he says will be discounted as unreliable. The CPA will rule the circumstances oppressive and refuse to admit the evidence.’

‘Only if it’s incriminating and Charles refuses to repeat it under taped conditions.’

‘Why gamble? Why not wait until tomorrow morning and do it properly?’

‘Because we’re more likely to get the truth out of him tonight.’

‘And jeopardize a prosecution in the process,’ Beale said with sharp criticism. ‘At least consider the rest of the team before you go charging in like a bull in a china shop. We’ve all worked damned hard on this inquiry and no one’s going to thank you for a botched job at the end.’

‘Including you?’

‘Especially me,’ the inspector said with emphasis. ‘I’ll even put on record that I object to any interview with Charles Acland tonight . . . and warn you that, if you insist on going ahead with it, I shall advise the lieutenant to keep his mouth shut.’

Jones ran a thoughtful hand up the side of his jaw. ‘You should have been a lawyer, Nick. You’re even more of a stickler for the rules than Pearson is. As a matter of interest, what incriminating confession are you expecting Charles to make? Impeding the safe operation of a vehicle on one of Her Majesty’s highways?’

Beale refused to be drawn. ‘I’m not playing guessing games, Brian. I’ve told you what I think.’

Jones sighed impatiently. ‘But that’s all we’ve been doing for months ... guessing . . . and you’re the expert on it, my friend. How many new ideas have you run past me tonight, eh? Ben Russell might have been the ginger-haired lad who came in here with Walter . . . Walter’s daughter might have imagined the cheap perfume . . . the prostitutes might have been boys . . . Charles Acland might have pushed Chalky into the river last night after a row over a duffel bag—’ He broke off. ‘What the hell does that bag have to do with anything?’

*

Derek Hardy shifted uneasily as Beale joined Jones in the room and the two men ranged themselves on the other side of the bed from the lieutenant. ‘I’m not sure you should be doing this,’ he said. ‘You can see the lad’s poorly.’ ‘It’s up to Charles,’ murmured Jones. ‘If he doesn’t feel well

enough to speak to us, he only has to say so.’ He lowered himself on to a hard-backed chair, as if to demonstrate that he knew Acland’s mind better than Derek did.

Beale studied the young man’s face which, despite its pallor, was set in grim determination to accept the superintendent’s challenge. ‘You’re under no obligation to talk to us now, Lieutenant,’ he said firmly. ‘If you prefer, you can come to the station tomorrow. Indeed my advice would be to do that. I agree with Mr Hardy, you don’t look well enough to answer questions.’

‘I’m OK. I’d rather do it now.’

‘At least let him lie down,’ Derek protested. ‘Dr Jackson said he should be in bed.’

‘Would you like to do that, Charles?’ the superintendent asked.

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think you would.’ He smiled. ‘And just to reconfirm for these gentlemen’s benefit, you’re quite willing to answer a few questions? It’s purely for background information. I estimate ten minutes or so. Is that acceptable to you?’

‘Yes.’

Jones glanced at the landlord. ‘Thank you, Mr Hardy. We’ll take it from here. Would you mind closing the door as you leave?’ He waited until Derek’s footsteps had vanished down the corridor. ‘There’s no requirement to stand to attention, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘You’re not on parade.’

‘You’ll think less of me if I don’t.’

Jones eyed him with amusement. ‘It’s certainly more usual to see signs of nerves in the people we interview. Don’t you have anything to feel guilty about, Charles? You’re a rare man, if so.’

‘Nothing that concerns you.’

‘Is that right?’ Jones crossed his legs and made a play of consulting a notebook that he took from his pocket. ‘So why does your name keep cropping up in this inquiry? We’ve been told you used this pub on a few occasions last year. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘You always sat alone and cold-shouldered anyone who tried to talk to you.’ The inflection of the superintendent’s voice took on a judgemental note. ‘That suggests you were antisocial even before you went to Iraq.’

‘If you like.’

‘Then I’m genuinely confused. Why would Dr Campbell lead us to believe it’s your disfigurement that’s caused you to be wary of people?’

‘She wouldn’t know. She didn’t meetmeuntilafterIhadsurgery.’

‘She said your commanding officer described you as friendly and outgoing until the accident.’

‘He was a good man. I got on with him.’ Acland abandoned his rigid posture to press his palms against the wall to support himself. ‘And the attack on my Scimitar was not an accident, Superintendent. It was a targeted explosion that killed two of my troopers.’

‘I apologize,’ Jones said immediately. ‘It wasn’t my intention to belittle what happened . . . or your part in it. To call it an accident is to suggest that two brave lives were wasted through negligence.’ He met the lieutenant’s gaze. ‘And that would certainly be something to feel guilty about.’

Acland stared back at him. ‘You don’t even know what bravery is.’

‘Then tell me.’

But Acland shook his head.

‘Is it about proving you have bigger balls than the person next to you? Is that why you tried to steer Dr Jackson off the road tonight? To see what she’s made of?’

A spark – an acknowledgement that Jones was right? – glinted in the younger man’s good eye. ‘Is that what she’s told you?’

Jones ignored the question. ‘Why did you need to test her? What did she do to provoke you?’

‘Talked too much.’

‘About what?’

‘Sex.’

Jones lifted an eyebrow. ‘With whom?’

‘No one in particular. She was telling me about the types she fancies and the types she doesn’t.’

‘So it was a discussion about gay sex?’

‘I wouldn’t describe it as a discussion.’

‘A lecture?’

‘Something along those lines.’

Jones was sceptical – he couldn’t imagine Jackson delivering a monologue on same-sex relationships to anyone as fastidious about the subject as Charles Acland – but he didn’t press the issue. ‘Did Dr Jackson know you’d used this pub before when she brought you here?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. I haven’t mentioned it to her.’

‘Did you ever come across a man called Harry Peel in here? Taxi driver . . . five feet ten . . . late fifties . . . dark curly hair . . . London accent. Ring any bells?’

Acland shook his head. ‘I came in here to get away from things, not to talk to people.’

Jones noted the ‘get away from things’ but let the remark go for the moment. ‘That wouldn’t have prevented Harry from approaching you,’ he said. ‘He was one of the regulars. Everyone describes him as a friendly sort who’d strike up a conversation with anyone. He used to hand out cards for his taxi service. Are you certain you don’t remember him?’

A flicker of something showed in Acland’s face – recognition? – but he gave another slow shake of his head.

‘He sat at the far end of the bar with a couple of older men and only drank orange juice because of his job.’

‘I vaguely remember some older men – I think they were always there – but I don’t remember anyone else.’

Jones watched him closely. ‘Do you recall seeing either of those men outside the pub?’

‘No.’

‘One of them was the old fellow at the bank . . . Walter Tutting. Are you sure you didn’t recognize him when he started poking you?’

‘No,’ said Acland again, frowning at the superintendent in what appeared to be genuine puzzlement. ‘I thought he was a complete stranger.’

‘Then you’re either very bad on faces or you had a lot to think about when you were sitting at the bar.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Acland. ‘I came in here maybe four or five times during June and July last year. A lot’s happened since.’

Jones nodded. ‘You said you wanted to get away from things. What kind of things?’

The lieutenant didn’t answer immediately. He bought himself some time by running his tongue across his lips and feeling at the cut on the right-hand side of his mouth. ‘We were heading off to Oman for desert training throughout August. The logistics of organizing something like that does your head in after a while. It helps to have some space to get away from it.’

He was a bad liar, thought Jones. ‘Didn’t your girlfriend give you space?’

‘She wasn’t happy about me going to Oman.’

Jones nodded. ‘So it was Ms Morley, rather than logistics, who was doing your head in?’ He paused. ‘Is that why you were always alone?’

Acland didn’t answer.

‘Harry Peel was murdered on or around 9 September 2006. Do you recall if you were in London that weekend, Charles?’

Beale watched the lieutenant brace his legs to support himself against the wall. To his eyes, Acland looked close to collapse and he was intrigued by the need the man seemed to have to demonstrate his toughness to the detective superintendent. He had a sneaking feeling that it was being done out of respect, but whether the respect was for Jones or for the power he exercised as a policeman, Beale couldn’t tell. Nor was it clear if Acland had even understood the question, because he continued to look at Jones with the same mystified frown that he’d worn when he’d said he hadn’t recognized Walter Tutting.

‘Will your regiment have records of your weekends out?’ Jones asked.

Acland nodded. ‘But I can tell you myself. I was in London that weekend. I returned from Oman three days earlier on 6 September.’

‘So you came to see Jen after a month’s absence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she glad to see you?’

Silence.

Jones checked another date in his notebook. ‘What about 23 September?’ He looked up. ‘Were you in London then as well? If it helps to jog your memory, it was the weekend before you went to Iraq.’

Both men expected him to ask why that date was important, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave another nod. ‘I was at Jen’s flat on the Saturday. I went back to my base in the evening.’

‘What time did you arrive at the flat?’

‘Midday.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Where did you go afterwards? You must have spent time somewhere else if you didn’t return to your base until the evening.’

‘The Imperial War Museum.’

Jones looked sceptical. ‘Is that the recommended way to prepare for war?’

‘It was my way.’

‘Which exhibitions did you see?’

‘The Holocaust... a film about crimes against humanity.’

‘Heavy stuff,’ murmured Jones. ‘You can’t get much closer to the dark side of man’s nature than films about the brutality of war. So why did you need to remind yourself that soldiers don’t always behave with honour, Charles?’ He paused briefly. ‘What happened between you and Ms Morley that day?’

‘We decided to go our separate ways.’

Jones turned a page in his notebook and tapped his thumb against a paragraph. ‘Before or after you buggered her?’ The question was blunt enough to cause a reaction.

Acland’s hands shook visibly against the wall as he stared at the superintendent. ‘Is that why you’re here? Is that what these questions are about?’

‘Rape is a serious accusation, Charles . . . more so when the victim’s a woman and the man’s taste is to bugger her.’

DI Beale stirred. ‘You’d be well advised to take that on board, Lieutenant. If you’re wise, you’ll refuse to answer any more questions without a solicitor present.’

Acland glanced at him with a look of bewilderment, as if he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. ‘How’s a solicitor going to help me? You’ll believe Jen whatever I say.’

‘Why assume that?’ Jones asked.

‘The police always take the woman’s side.’

The superintendent shook his head. ‘The stats prove the opposite. Only a third of cases ever make it as far as court. The other two-thirds drop out at the police stage. It’s very difficult for a woman to substantiate rape . . . particularly months after the event.’ He eyed Acland thoughtfully. ‘Unless the man admits it, of course.’