The Chameleon's Shadow (23 page)

‘That’s hardly an answer to my question.’

‘I realize that.’ He broke off to order his ideas. ‘I can’t be a hundred per cent certain, of course, but I’d be very surprised if Daisy was in any danger from Charles. The only two women he’s shown any real animosity towards are his mother and Jen . . . and both of them display narcissistic personality traits. In fact, his experience of his mother may well have been why he was attracted to Jen in the first place.’ Willis fell into another thoughtful silence.

‘Go on,’ prompted Jackson.

‘Her personality was familiar to him and he mistook that familiarity for love. I doubt he even knows how narcissism shows itself in the early stages of a relationship. He certainly wouldn’t expect charm.’

* Jackson drew up behind a long line of cars waiting to turn right. ‘What sort of relationship do your parents have?’ she asked Acland. ‘They’ve been married thirty years.’ She gave a grunt of laughter. ‘What does that mean? That they’re blissfully happy together . . . or that they grit their teeth and get on with it because no one better has ever come along?’ Acland shrugged. ‘I haven’t asked.’ Jackson glanced at him. ‘Isn’t it obvious when a relationship’s successful?’ ‘Not to me it isn’t.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘It depends how you define success.’ ‘I usually go by how well a couple communicates. If they find each other interesting, then talking comes naturally. They swap information . . . share a sense of humour . . . want their partner to

enjoy what they enjoy. I see a lot of troubled relationships in my job, and they’re often characterized by mutual avoidance and silence.’

‘That’s better than constant arguments.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Jackson demurred. ‘For some people, arguing is a form of communication. It also suggests a level playing field within the relationship. It makes me suspicious when I meet a couple where one partner is afraid to challenge the other. I’ve seen too many situations where the dominant personality is abusive.’

Acland didn’t say anything.

‘Do your parents argue?’

‘Only in private. I used to hear them going at it hammer and tongs when I was a kid.’

‘So you don’t want arguments in your own relationships?’

‘No.’

‘Do you believe that’s achievable?’ she asked. ‘Women have come a long way in thirty years. There aren’t many these days who won’t fight their corner when they disagree with something.’ She spun the steering wheel to take the turn before the lights changed. ‘You don’t seriously expect your view to prevail every time, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’re bound to have arguments,’ she said matter-offactly. ‘Daisy and I agree on most things but we’ve had some ding-dong battles along the way . . . and I don’t regret them. It’s taught me what really matters to her.’

‘Do you lose your temper with each other?’

Jackson shook her head. ‘Not really. We raise our voices and storm out in a huff occasionally, but not to the extent that we see a red mist.’

‘Who wins?’

She flicked him an amused glance. ‘Who do you think?’

He was about to say ‘you’, but changed his mind. ‘Daisy.’

‘Every time,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t have her stamina. She’ll keep an issue alive for a month if it suits her. Is your mother the same?’

Acland was unprepared for the question. ‘It never goes that far,’ he said, surprised into answering honestly. ‘Dad gave up provoking her a long time ago.’

Jackson found his vocabulary interesting. ‘I thought you said they were always arguing.’

‘When I was a kid . . . not any more.’

‘So you weren’t joking when you said they went at it hammer and tongs? These were physical confrontations you were listening to?’ She paused for a moment, but went on when he didn’t answer. ‘Who was doing the hitting?’ Silence. ‘I assume from the words you used that your mother has more of a temper than your father.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Have you inherited it?’

He turned to look at her for a moment. ‘I’m nothing like my mother,’ he said flatly.

Jackson shrugged. ‘So you take after your father and avoid confrontation?’

‘Yes,’ he said harshly.

‘You didn’t back off with Rashid Mansoor during your fight in the pub,’ she pointed out. ‘You went at
him
hammer and tongs.’

‘He should have left me alone.’

‘The same way your father now leaves your mother alone?’

No answer.

‘Are you sure you’ve got your facts the right way round?’ Jackson needled him lightly. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t your mother who did the provoking and your father who lashed out in temper? If he avoids confrontation now it’s almost certainly because he’s learned to manage his anger.’

Acland leaned forward to press his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. ‘He’s too spineless to be angry about anything,’ he said contemptuously. ‘He had to drive himself to Casualty once with blood pouring out of his arm after she took a knife to him. When he came back, he told me he’d cut himself on some barbed wire. It was pathetic. He was always making excuses for her.’

‘Perhaps he was trying to protect you.’

‘He made sure everything happened behind closed doors after that . . . then packed me off to school. We played musical chairs around Mother so that she could have everything her own way.’

‘And you despise him for that?’

‘Yes.’ He opened and closed his fists till the knuckles cracked.

Privately, Jackson sympathized with him. It would explain a lot about his character, she thought, if he had no respect for the gentler of the parental role models. She even wondered if his problems with his mother stemmed from a confused admiration for her strength. ‘Except it’s hard to break cycles of abuse, Charles. If your dad grew up with an alcoholic wife-beater for a father, it must have taken extraordinary control to put up with similar treatment from your mother . . . then reach a point where it doesn’t happen any more. Most people would commend him for that.’

‘Not me. He wouldn’t have married her unless he enjoys being a doormat.’

‘He might not have known . . . unless her parents tried to warn him –’ Jackson gave a small shrug – ‘which may be the reason why she fell out with them. But even if they did, he wouldn’t have believed the warning. The relationship she had with them would have been very different from the one she had with your father.’

Acland shook his head stubbornly. ‘He lived with his own father long enough. If he’d ever found the guts to stand up to him, he might have done the same with my mother.’

‘Is that how you tried to run your relationship with Jen?’

The question, unanswered, hung in the air between them.

‘You can’t seem to decide which of your parents to emulate,’ Jackson went on. ‘Whether it’s more important to prove who’s boss . . . or to walk away when the abuse gets out of hand. Did you get a buzz from hurting Jen?’

Acland stared at her for a moment. ‘Not as big a buzz as I got from hurting my mother,’ he said before turning away to look out of the passenger window.

L
EACHED OF COLOUR
, and attached to drips and monitors, Walter more closely resembled a marble effigy than a conscious human being. He lay with closed eyes, and only the minute rise and fall of the sheet across his chest suggested life. Taking his cue from the attendant nurse, who whispered to him to speak clearly, Jones leaned forward. ‘Can you hear me, Mr Tutting? I’m a police officer. My name’s Detective Superintendent Brian Jones.’

‘You don’t need to shout. I’m not deaf.’ The old man half-opened his eyes. ‘Can’t see too well, though. Who’s the other one?’

‘Detective Inspector Nick Beale . . . Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating the assault on you.’

‘About bloody time. I’ve been wondering what I pay my taxes for.’

Jones smiled. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

‘Bastard tried to rob me.’

‘Do you know who it was?’

The old man’s lips chewed against each other as if thinking was a physical process. ‘Fucker with the eyepatch,’ he muttered suddenly. ‘Never stood a chance . . . came up behind me as I was looking for my key.’

‘The man you spoke to at the bank?’

‘That’s the one.’

Jones looked questioningly towards Beale. ‘Do you know this for a fact, sir?’ the inspector asked. ‘Did you get a good look at your attacker?’

The old man’s blue-veined lids closed again. ‘Clear as daylight . . . followed me home because he knew I had cash on me . . . nasty piece of work.’

‘Are you certain about that, sir? You said you couldn’t see too well.’

Walter’s mouth started writhing again and he mumbled something they didn’t catch. ‘Chased him off with my stick after he took a swipe at my head.’

Beale hesitated. ‘Was that inside or outside your house, Mr Tutting? Did you let him in?’

The question seemed to worry the old man. He chattered to himself under his breath and Beale thought he caught
silly old fool . . . mustn’t tell Amy
. ‘Outside.’

‘Are you certain about that, Mr Tutting? According to our witnesses, you didn’t have a walking stick with you at the bank.’

His mouth worked frantically. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘Has your daughter told you to be careful who you let in?’

‘Wouldn’t do it . . . always known what’s what.’

‘You were found collapsed in a shop doorway on Gainsborough Road, on the other side from your house. What persuaded you to cross over? Did no one offer help on your own side?’

‘Bit of distance.’

It was Beale’s turn to send a puzzled glance towards his boss. ‘Between you and the attacker?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Why didn’t you dial 999 from your house?’

‘Wasn’t going to open the door . . . bloody stupid thing to do.’

Beale was about to point out that what he was saying didn’t accord with the facts, but Jones butted in. ‘You showed a lot of courage, Mr Tutting. There aren’t many pensioners who would take on a man younger and bigger than himself. Did you see the weapon he used to hit you? Do you recall what it was?’

‘Something heavy.’

‘Do you remember doing anything that might have made this person angry?’

‘Refused to pay up.’

‘He wanted money?’

Walter’s eyes snapped open and both men thought they saw fear in his expression. ‘She right, then?’

‘I don’t know, sir. It depends who she is and what she says.’

He made an obvious effort to concentrate. ‘Amy . . . been a silly old fool.’

Jones shook his head. ‘We believe you’re the fourth person this individual has attacked, sir, and the three previous victims are dead. It’s only because you fought back that you’re still alive.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried that we’re going to repeat what you tell us to your daughter, will you accept my personal guarantee that that won’t happen? You’re the only witness we have. Your information is vital to us.’

There were too many facts for the old man to absorb. ‘It’s nothing I did . . . no one opens their doors any more.’

Stifling a sigh, Jones tried again. ‘Did you manage to land a blow? Do you recall making contact with any particular part of his body?’

Walter’s mouth set to squirming again. ‘Skin and bones ...no better than a stick insect . . . used to watch ’em at school in science lessons . . . never liked ’em.’ The look of fear flared in his eyes again. ‘Don’t tell Amy.’

* ‘How much of that was dementia and how much the after-effects of sedation?’ Jones asked the nurse, a sister, outside the unit. ‘Will he be any less confused tomorrow?’ The woman shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. We’ve been bringing him out gradually and he’s been fully awake for three or four hours now . . . so, in theory, the effects should have worn off already.’ ‘Best guess?’ She pulled a wry face. ‘You’ve seen him at his best. He was a great deal more alert when he was talking to you than when he

first came round.’ She paused. ‘For what it’s worth, the first thing he said to me was “Don’t tell Amy” and he’s been repeating it on and off ever since.’

‘Do you know what it is he doesn’t want her to know?’

‘Not for certain, but his daughter’s a dragon – she’s been on our backs from the moment he was brought in – and I’m assuming she’s the same with him. I can take another guess if you like –’ she smiled – ‘as long as you don’t blame me for being wrong.’

‘Go on.’

‘The other things he keeps repeating are “Mustn’t open the door” and “Been a silly old fool”, and I’m sure the three ideas are connected. He more or less told you as much. I suspect his daughter’s been drumming into him that he’s not to let strangers into the house and now he’s trapped in a loop of anxiety because he disobeyed her. Mustn’t open the door . . . don’t tell Amy . . . been a silly old fool.’

‘And it’s his attacker he’s talking about?’

‘I don’t know. It depends how long he’s been inviting people in. It may be a loop that’s been going on for months.’

‘What if the daughter can persuade him she’s not angry? Will that help?’

‘In terms of admitting that he opens his door? I don’t know. You’ll have to ask a geriatric psychiatrist.’

‘Best guess?’ Jones prompted again.

‘Probably not if his daughter’s the one he’s scared of. I’d say you’d have better luck with an expert therapist.’ She paused again. ‘Does it matter? Walter wasn’t confused about who did it. He gave you a good description.’

‘Assuming he was telling the truth. He lied about where the attack took place.’

‘Only because he’s afraid of Amy.’

Thoughtfully, Jones rubbed the side of his jaw. ‘Is that common in dementia? That a person can shift from truth to lie with no difficulty? Don’t you need joined-up thinking for that?’

Beale stirred. ‘He seemed fairly switched on at the beginning,’ he pointed out. ‘Made a joke about paying taxes.’

The sister looked uncomfortable, as if she felt she was being encouraged to stray into areas that were outside her remit. ‘You need to talk to a specialist,’ she told them. ‘Everything I know about dementia could be written on the back of a fag packet.’

‘Which is a lot more than we know,’ said Jones lightly. ‘Do you mind telling us why you think some of what Walter said was true, but not the rest?’

‘I’m not sure—’ She broke off to collect her thoughts. ‘Look, I’ll answer your first question. You wanted to know if dementia sufferers can tell deliberate lies . . . and, yes, of course they can. It depends how advanced the condition is and whether, like Walter, they have something to hide. It’s the three ages of man thing – the vulnerable elderly lie in the same way that children do when they’re afraid they’re going to be given a bollocking.’

‘So why wouldn’t Walter be lying about the man with the eyepatch?’

‘Because he didn’t need to. His daughter isn’t going to be angry with him for describing his attacker. The anxiety loop is about letting the man inside, not about who he was.’ She studied their expressionless faces. ‘I’m not saying I’m right.’

Jones nodded. ‘In fact we’ve already established that our friend with the eyepatch couldn’t have done it. Walter’s lying about him as well.’ He watched irritation thin the woman’s lips. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to trip you up, I was just interested in why you found that part of Walter’s evidence convincing.’

‘He didn’t seem anxious about it.’

‘Until the superintendent asked him if he’d said or done anything to provoke the attack,’ Beale cut in. ‘He started talking about stick insects shortly afterwards. What was that all about?’

The sister shook her head. ‘I’m not the person you should be asking. I’ll call one of the consultants. They’ll be able to tell you far more than I can.’ She made to walk past them but Jones blocked her path.

‘One last question . . . and don’t worry,’ he said, raising a placating hand, ‘it’s a personal opinion I’m after, not a medical one. You described Walter’s daughter as a dragon. What kind of attacker would make her so angry with her father that he’d rather pretend it was someone else?’

She checked her watch. ‘If you hang on for a few minutes, you can ask her direct. When I phoned to say Walter had regained consciousness, she said she’d be in around six.’

‘I’d still like your opinion.’

Unexpectedly, the woman laughed. ‘Young, female and pretty,’ she said flippantly, ‘but I can’t see the dragon admitting to it . . . unless you tell her you’re looking for a girl in a miniskirt...’

* Jones took out his notebook, turned to a blank page and jotted down some sentences. ‘How old is your mother?’ he asked Beale. ‘Fifty-nine.’ ‘Happy with her life?’ ‘Not particularly.’ ‘What about your kids? How old are they?’ ‘Seven and five.’ The superintendent eyed him with amusement. ‘Good answers, Nick. I’d say that makes you the expert on depressed fiftysomethings and me the expert on bolshie teenagers.’ He tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to Beale. ‘I’ll take Ben, you take Ms Tutting. If you can persuade her to answer these questions, we might get somewhere, but you’ll probably have to talk around the subject first.’ Beale read what Jones had written.
Does Walter use prostitutes? Where does he find them? How long’s he been doing it? Does he have a regular?
‘Cheers,’ he said acidly. ‘Do you want to give me some hints on how I’m supposed to discuss an eighty-two-year-old’s

sexual habits with his daughter? It’s not something I’ve done on a regular basis.’

‘Use your imagination.’ Jones clapped his number two on the back. ‘Just make sure you speak to her before she gets to her father. We won’t get a sniff at prostitutes if she thinks she can blame the assault on Charles Acland.’

* Beale parked himself on a chair in the corridor and phoned through to one of his colleagues to find out what Amy Tutting had been asked in previous interviews. Not very much was the answer. ‘She was fairly distraught, so we didn’t press too hard.’ Most of the questions had related to Walter’s regular daily habits, how often she visited him, what she knew of his movements on the day, a check of a police inventory of the contents of his house, and a list of his friends and acquaintances. She had spoken of her father’s increasing forgetfulness but hadn’t mentioned putting pressure on him to keep his door closed. Beale’s colleague described her as ‘a bit uptight’, but only because she burst into tears and let rip at her brothers for refusing to help with Walter’s care. ‘She works full-time as a PA and said it was tiring trying to cope on her own.’ Beale rose to his feet as a smartly dressed, middle-aged woman came through the swing doors. ‘Ms Tutting?’ He offered his hand when she nodded. ‘Detective Inspector Nick Beale. I know you’re keen to see your father, but may I borrow you for five minutes before you do? Sister’s lent me a small office at the other end of the corridor.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘It
is
important, ma’am, otherwise I wouldn’t ask.’ She was pleasant-looking in a conventional way, with well-groomed dark hair and light make-up, but there were deep grooves at the side of her mouth that suggested it turned down more often than it turned up. She wasn’t smiling now. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’

Beale produced his warrant card. ‘There’s a phone in the sister’s office. You can double-check my credentials from there.’

Uninterested, she returned the card. ‘I’ve already told your people everything I know. What good will another five minutes do?’

‘I’d rather discuss that in private, Ms Tutting. Some of the issues your father’s raised are quite sensitive.’

She frowned unhappily but allowed herself to be shepherded down the corridor. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything he says, you know. He forgot my mother’s name a couple of weeks ago . . . kept insisting it was Ella . . . but that’s the name of one of my sisters-in-law. He remembered Mum the next day, but there was no arguing with him at the time. He doesn’t like being told he’s wrong.’

Beale closed the office door and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Had Ella been to visit him that day?’

‘Hardly. She and my brother live in Australia.’

Beale favoured her with a sympathetic smile as he took the other chair. ‘What about your other brother? Is he any closer?’

‘Manchester . . . but it might as well be Australia. Dad hasn’t seen him in twelve months. He made a flying visit on Sunday because he wanted to know what was happening with the house . . . but he wasn’t prepared to sit with Dad.’ She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag. ‘He said he didn’t have time because he had to be back in Manchester by seven.’

‘Leaving you to shoulder the responsibility as usual?’

The woman nodded.

‘That can’t be easy, not when you’re working a forty-hour week and trying to have a life of your own. Do your brothers know how hard it is to keep track of what your father’s doing?’

Amy Tutting was no pushover. She raised suspicious eyes to Beale’s. ‘What’s Dad been saying?’

Beale hesitated. ‘It’s more what he hasn’t said, Ms Tutting. He seems to be in a continuous loop of anxiety which involves a repetition of three phrases . . . “Mustn’t open the door” . . .

“Don’t tell Amy” . . . “Been a silly old fool”.’ He folded his hands on the table and stared at the woman. ‘We think the person he’s afraid of is you.’

Her mouth turned down immediately. ‘Only because I told him I was going to have him certified and put in a nursing home. I’m fed up with it. He’s in arrears on his council tax . . . sitting on fuel bills that haven’t been paid since the last quarter.’ She took a rattling breath through her nose. ‘He expects me to cover them, but I don’t see why I should.’