The Chameleon's Shadow (15 page)

‘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?’

I
N 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.’