The Chameleon's Shadow (25 page)

‘Can’t remember.’

The solicitor weighed in again. ‘Ben told you during his first interview that he has no clear recollection of details from Friday, Superintendent – nor, indeed, from a couple of weeks before his admission – other than that he was regularly sick and may have passed out a couple of times. His consultant confirmed these symptoms as typical of type one diabetes and the further complication of ketoacidosis.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Pearson. I also recall that the consultant mentioned mental stupor as a precursor to coma, and I’m wondering how a boy in a dazed state –’ he introduced sarcasm into his tone – ‘which appears to prevent him remembering
anything
– managed to find his way around Covent Garden in the dark.’

‘I was probably on auto-pilot,’ said Ben, observing Jones through half-closed lids. ‘If you go to a place often enough, you can find it in your sleep. Don’t remember doing it, though.’

‘Do you remember being in the Bermondsey area at lunchtime?’ Jones asked.

‘Don’t reckon I was. Never been there in my life as far as I can tell . . . don’t even know where it is.’ He scowled at his solicitor. ‘Is he allowed to do this? The doctor’s told him how sick I was, and it sure as hell ain’t got nothing to do with the stuff in my rucksack.’

‘Do you have any evidence connecting Ben with the attack on Mr Tutting, Superintendent?’

‘Not directly, but we believe he knows who was involved. His position will be a lot stronger if he confirms that for us now.’

‘Is this a fishing trip, Superintendent?’

Jones shook his head. ‘Far from it. At this stage, the only thing that’s preventing Ben from being interviewed under caution as a suspect in the assault on Mr Tutting are the constraints his illness puts on me under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’ He glanced at Ben’s mother, who was sitting with her habitually bowed head. ‘Whoever attacked Mr Tutting has a deep contempt for the elderly. First the poor old fellow was fleeced of his savings, then he was tossed aside as of no further value. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.’

Mrs Sykes stirred. ‘My Ben wouldn’t do a thing like that. Would you, love?’

‘Course not. I like old people. Chalky’s old. My stepdad’s old. May have had the odd row with ’em, but I’d never hit ’em.’

‘Is that where you draw the line?’ asked Jones.

‘What line?’

‘It’s OK to steal off an old person, but not to hit him.’

‘I ain’t never stolen off an old person.’

‘According to your stepfather, you have. You used his Switch card to take three hundred quid out of an ATM the day before you ran away. He also found other withdrawals of lesser amounts when he went back through his bank statements. He blames himself for recording his PIN in his diary and giving you the impression that stealing was easy.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘Stealing off family’s different from stealing off strangers.’

‘Meaning what? That it’s a lesser crime or it’s easier to get away with?’

‘Mum and Barry know why I did it.’

‘And that makes it acceptable?’ Jones asked drily, eyeing the woman.

She raised her head. ‘It was a difficult time for him. He did some things he regrets. Barry and I understand that.’

Jones studied her face with interest. ‘Does your understanding extend to the cell phones Ben has admitted stealing in the last four months? He uses interesting terminology when he refers to his victims . . . he calls female victims “bitches” and male victims “mother fuckers”. Both suggest disdain for the people he robs.’

‘None of them was
old
, though,’ said Ben with a gleam of satisfaction in his pale eyes, as if he’d scored a point. ‘I wouldn’t call an old bloke a mother fucker . . . I’d call him a geezer. In any case, you don’t see that many of ’em flashing their mobiles around in the street, so they ain’t that easy to rob.’

‘It’s not a moral issue, then, it’s a practical one. If a frail eighty-two-year-old made it easy for you, you’d treat him the same way you treat a teenager.’

‘Think what you like,’ the boy said dismissively. ‘It don’t make no difference to me if you twist what I say.’

‘An elderly black lady was punched and kicked not so long ago for her mobile phone. She was so badly injured, she had to be hospitalized.’

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘For the record,’ the solicitor interjected, consulting his watch, ‘my client, Ben Russell, said he doesn’t steal from old people, nor does he refer to them in derogatory terms. I am also drawing Superintendent Jones’s attention to an earlier interview where the phrases “bitch” and “mother fucker” were discussed at length. These are recognized street slang for young females and males respectively, and in no way suggest contempt on the part of my client.’ He tapped his watch. ‘We agreed ten minutes. I shall have to insist that we end the interview now.’

‘By all means.’ Jones bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘What are we keeping you from, Mr Pearson? The opera?’

The man’s mouth curved in a faint smile. ‘I don’t write the rules, Superintendent. I am merely obliged on behalf of my client to remind you that they exist.’

‘Then I suggest you remind your client similarly. As an overworked taxpayer, I presume I’m in the ludicrous position of both investigating this self-confessed thief –’ he gestured towards Ben – ‘and paying you to protect him.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ the solicitor agreed. ‘The French would call it the theatre of the absurd, but it’s the price we pay for living in a civilized democracy.’ He turned an unsympathetic gaze on his client. ‘I do understand your frustrations, however. I’ve never met a policeman yet who would describe what he sees on a daily basis as civilized.’

*

Jones waited until he, Beale and the WPC were clear of the building before he asked the female officer what she’d made of the solicitor’s parting remarks. ‘Did you get the impression Pear-son was trying to tell us something?’

‘Only that he doesn’t like the kid. He doesn’t like the mother either. While you were talking to Nick outside, the pair of them kept whingeing on about compensation for police harassment. I could tell from Mr Pearson’s body language that the whole conversation was making him angry.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he could see no basis for such a claim but they were within their rights to pursue it through another solicitor if they chose.’ The woman laughed suddenly. ‘He suggested they go to Grabbit and Runn in Litigate Street and keep their fingers crossed that a malicious suit didn’t result in Ben being charged with multiple counts of theft.’

F
OR A WOMAN WHO
prided herself on her common sense, Jackson felt a superstitious spike of alarm when she returned after a second patient visit to find her car deserted.
Now what?
She stared up and down the well-lit road, but there was no sign of Acland anywhere, nor was there a message under the windscreen wipers to indicate where he’d gone or why. She wasn’t even sure what had spooked her unless it was her lingering suspicion about what he’d been doing the previous night.

She called Daisy on her mobile. ‘Hi . . . no, everything’s fine except that Charles seems to have vanished again. Is he with you?’

‘What do you mean “again”?’ Daisy sounded annoyed. ‘Did he come back?’ The noise of customers was loud in the background.

‘He was waiting by the car when I went out. He said he’d been walking all night.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! You’ve got to stop this, Jacks. It’s ridiculous. He’s not your responsibility.’

Jackson stifled a sigh. ‘We’ll talk about it later. I just wondered if he was there, that’s all.’

‘Not that I know of . . . unless he’s in his room. Do you want me to take a look?’

‘No,’ Jackson said sharply. ‘Let him be.’

Daisy’s voice grew clearer, as if she’d moved out of the bar into the corridor. ‘What’s going on?’ This time her tone was suspicious. ‘Why are you so worried about him suddenly? You’re not his
mother
, Jacks . . . though I’m beginning to wonder if that’s what this is all about.’

Jackson watched a lean figure emerge from behind a transit van fifty yards away. ‘Forget it,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘That’ll be a change,’ came the acid reply. ‘I hardly get a look-in these days.’

Jackson’s expression was grim. ‘Give it a rest,’ she snapped. ‘I hate this kind of thing at the best of times, but it really gets on my nerves when there’s no reason for it.’

‘Then tell him to stop treating me as if I don’t exist,’ Daisy hissed. ‘That’s what’s getting on
my
nerves . . . in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘You’re too touchy-feely for him. He feels threatened by you.’

‘Is that what he’s told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you fell for it?’

‘I certainly took on board that he has no idea how to respond to a sexy lesbian with a cleavage,’ Jackson answered. She lowered her voice as Acland drew nearer. ‘He’s on his way back. I shall have to stop in a minute.’

‘Well, tell him, if he thinks I’m going to dress in a burkha, he’s got another think coming,’ Daisy said crossly. ‘It’s my blasted house, for Christ’s sake. If he doesn’t like the way I do things, he can take himself off.’

‘Which is precisely what he does when he comes with me,’ Jackson murmured, ‘but you don’t like that either.’ She flipped the mobile closed and waited for Acland to come within earshot. ‘I’m not a taxi service, Lieutenant. Another time, I’ll drive away without you.’

‘You should have done it this time,’ he told her. ‘Your next patient’s only two streets away. I’d have met you there if you hadn’t waited.’

‘Thanks for telling me,’ she said acerbically. ‘Couldn’t you have left a message . . . saved me the bother of trying to track you down?’

He gestured towards the transit van. ‘I could see you from over there. If you’d climbed straight into the car, instead of making the phone call, I’d have come running.’

She opened the boot and put her bag inside. ‘Why didn’t you, anyway?’

Humour lines appeared around Acland’s good eye. ‘Perhaps I was testing you. Perhaps I wanted to see how long you’d hang around.’

‘Cut the crap,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’m not in the mood for jokes.’

He eyed the mobile which was still in her hand. ‘Daisy been giving you a hard time again?’

‘No.’ She tucked the gadget into her pocket. ‘What’s with the van?’

‘Nothing. I was using it as cover, that’s all.’

‘For what?’

‘To look into one of the flats in that block.’ He jerked his chin towards a modern brick construction opposite the parked transit.

‘Great! So now you’re a Peeping Tom as well as a stalker?’

The humour lines deepened round Acland’s eye. ‘It’s Jen’s flat, and some of the stuff belonged to me. I wondered if any of it was still there. I moved it in when we got engaged.’ He shook his head at Jackson’s expression. ‘Nothing to see. The curtains are pulled.’

She held his gaze for a moment, recalling his insistence that everything he owned was in his kitbag. Like the police, she’d questioned how anyone could exist on so little. ‘I didn’t think you had any property in London, other than what you carry with you.’

‘I don’t, not any more. Jen appropriated the lot. I was just curious to see if she’d kept any of it. There were some artefacts that I got from South Africa a few years back—’ He broke off, as if he’d said too much.

‘Are you sure you weren’t trying to catch a glimpse of Jen?’ Jackson asked as she took her place behind the wheel.

Acland shook his head. ‘I saw her leave in a taxi about fifteen minutes ago. That’s why I went down for a look.’ The side of his mouth lifted slightly. ‘She had a punter with her . . . fat little fellow about so high –’ he raised his palm to shoulder height – ‘I couldn’t see too well, but it was probably a Jap. She always said Japs were the most gullible.’

‘About what?’

‘The difference between Uma Thurman and a cheap whore.’

* Jones gave Beale a summary of his interview with Ben as they headed for the Crown. ‘He was ready for questions about the attack on Walter Tutting, jumped in PDQ with reasons why he couldn’t have done it.’ ‘You think he was involved?’ ‘Not necessarily. He may just be scared he’s going to be charged with something he didn’t do. It depends what he thinks he needs to defend himself against. He’s been plugged in to his TV set since he arrived and Walter certainly featured on the news over the weekend.’ ‘Along with a rape in Richmond Park, a stabbing in Leytonstone and assorted brawls outside pubs,’ Beale said reasonably. ‘Why would he expect questions about Walter and not about the other assaults?’ ‘That’s what we need to find out. If he wasn’t responsible for the attack, he may be able to point us in the direction of who was.’ ‘Did you ask him?’ ‘No,’ said Jones with sudden weariness. ‘I need something a lot stronger than guesswork to prise information out of the little toerag.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘Have we had any luck with Chalky? Any sightings?’ ‘Not yet. Khan located the women that Charles Acland told us about, but they haven’t seen him for weeks.’ ‘Which women?’ ‘Five lesbians who hang around Docklands,’ Beale told him.

‘According to Khan, they said Chalky was lying if he claimed any kind of friendship with them. They avoid him as far as possible . . . He’s frightening when he’s drunk and verbally abusive when he isn’t. The last time they saw him was about three months ago.’

‘What about the hostels and the drop-in centres?’

Beale shook his head. ‘Same story. We’ve left contact details in case he turns up, but they all said he never comes in during the summer. He’s a bit of a loner, by all accounts. We can’t find anyone in the homeless community who claims to spend time with him.’

‘What about the alleyway?’

‘A patrol’s been looking in twice a night every night. He hasn’t shown up there either.’

‘Is he still in London?’

‘No idea . . . but we’ve put out a general alert to the neighbouring forces and we’ve had nothing back. He appears to have dropped off the radar completely.’

‘Have you checked the hospitals?’

‘Only the London ones. Shall I extend the radius?’

Jones seemed unduly pessimistic that evening, as if the long hours were finally taking their toll. ‘I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. What’s Chalky going to say if we do find him? He told Dr Jackson he’d only known Ben for a month, and Ben didn’t put it much longer. Six weeks at most.’

‘Assuming either of them is telling the truth.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be? Ben doesn’t know what Chalky told Dr Jackson.’

Beale shrugged. ‘I can’t get my head round the relationship. Why would an antisocial drunk even notice if a kid was being propositioned by gays?’ He flicked his indicator to turn off the main road towards the Crown pub. ‘It would make more sense if it was the other way round, and it was Ben who took pity on Chalky.’

‘Why?’

‘Chalky’s the one who gets pissed on.’

* Jackson was taken aback by Acland’s casual reference to Jen being a ‘cheap whore’. It seemed as out of character for an intensely private man –
calculatedly out of character?
– as his earlier willingness to discuss his parents. She recalled the end of her conversation with Robert Willis when he mentioned something Susan Campbell had told him. ‘According to the police, Jen’s a high-class prostitute. They asked Susan if Charles’s reasons for wanting to marry her were because he wanted to save her.’ The psychiatrist paused. ‘I suggest it’s the other way round . . . that he had no idea what she did and only found out late in the relationship that he’d been sharing her with her clients. He wouldn’t have handled that well.’ ‘Not many men would.’ ‘Indeed,’ said Willis, ‘and I imagine quite a few in the same situation would have taken the sort of revenge that Charles took. Sex is a major issue for him – probably because it was offered and withheld at whim.’ ‘That doesn’t make him safe,’ said Jackson. ‘What if he’s developed a taste for rape?’ ‘All the evidence points the other way,’ said Willis. ‘He wouldn’t be so ashamed of himself if he felt comfortable with what he did. Frankly, I’d be a lot more worried if you told me he sat in the bar all day staring at Daisy without saying anything. Predatory rapists have strong sexual appetites and tend to use pornography and Peeping Tom activity to support their fantasies . . . but that’s not a description that fits Charles.’ No, thought Jackson, reaching for the ignition and turning the key. The most apt description was the superintendent’s ‘monk’. She put the car into gear. ‘Are you saying Jen’s a prostitute?’ she asked Acland, as if it was something she didn’t already know.

‘She bills herself as a hostess, but it amounts to the same thing.’ He sounded indifferent.

‘What does she need the money for?’ Jackson asked, pulling out into the road.

He stared dispassionately through the windscreen. ‘She lost her meal ticket. I used to pay for everything until I wised up.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘I thought she was a struggling actress who couldn’t afford her rent. Some joke.’

‘What was she really spending the money on?’

‘Take your pick. She was freebasing on crack the last time I went to the flat.’

Thedayoftherape...?
‘What happened?’

‘She told me to snort some coke myself and loosen up.’

‘Did you?’

Acland shook his head.

‘When was this?’

‘End of September . . . the weekend before I went to Iraq. In a funny sort of way it was a relief. It’s easier to accept things if you can blame a drug.’ He lapsed into silence.

‘What things?’

‘Being an idiot. She was the most confident person I’d ever met at the beginning. Nothing fazed her. It was like winning the jackpot . . . looks and personality all wrapped up in one.’ He made a sound in his throat that sounded like a laugh. ‘I should have realized it was too good to be true.’

Jackson flicked him a sympathetic glance. ‘What do you know about cocaine addiction, Charles?’

‘It destroys people.’

‘It certainly alters aspects of the personality,’ she said calmly. ‘It can produce a variety of responses – euphoria, heightened sexuality, overwhelming confidence – but you wouldn’t assume those were drug-induced traits unless you were told. The downsides are aggression and paranoia, particularly in long-term users.’

Acland didn’t say anything.

‘When did you find out?’

‘About what? The drugs or the prostitution?’

‘Either.’

‘The day I told her it was over.’

‘At the end of September.’

Acland shook his head. ‘Closer to the beginning. She didn’t like me being the one to end it. A man doesn’t walk out on Jen . . . not without being made to look a fool first.’

Jackson pulled up outside her next patient’s house and killed the engine. She found the timeline, and details, of when and how he ended the engagement confusing. ‘Why did you go back at the end of September?’

Acland set to squeezing his knuckles again. ‘To fetch my stuff. She wasn’t supposed to be there. The agreement was I’d use my key and leave it behind when I left. She reneged on that the way she reneged on everything else.’

‘I’m surprised you thought you could trust her.’

He stared at his hands. ‘I didn’t. I just hoped she’d show a bit more sense.’

* Beale drew his Toyota into a parking space in front of the Crown and leaned forward to watch a woman emerge from the side of the pub. ‘Do you see the blonde?’ he asked Jones. ‘That’s Jen Morley . . . Charles Acland’s ex . . . the call girl Khan and I interviewed the other night, the one who fancies herself as Uma Thurman.’ The superintendent followed his gaze and took in the swept-back hair and high-necked, figure-hugging outfit that the girl was wearing. ‘She could pass for her tonight. I’ve seen a lot worse.’ They watched her walk to a waiting cab where a small, portly man climbed out of the back and held the door open for her. ‘Did you check to see if she’s on file?’ asked Jones, watching the vehicle pull away. ‘She was arrested a couple of years ago during a blitz on crack

houses in south London. She fell into the bracket of users who picked the wrong time to visit their dealers. She was given a caution, but not charged. I couldn’t find anything else.’

Jones glanced towards the unlit passageway at the side of the pub again. ‘What are the odds on a supplier being down there?’

‘High,’ said Beale matter-of-factly. ‘From what Khan and I saw the other night, she’s pretty far gone. I can’t see her getting through a couple of hours with a client without some assistance.’

London
Evening Standard
– Wednesday, 15 August 2007