‘What was he burning?’
‘Old files. Sharon said the ashes are still out there, with charred pieces of paper and cardboard. Lieutenant Acland trod on the fire when she threatened to call the police.’
‘Does she know when he left again?’
Khan gave another nod. ‘She watched him get into a cab at three-thirty. He put his kitbag in first, then she said he gave her two fingers behind his back before climbing in after it. She knows it was three-thirty because the Ricki Lake Show was just starting on ITV2.’
‘Could he have gone out between either of those times without her seeing him?’
Khan looked amused. ‘I doubt it. I had chapter and verse of everything he’s done in the last month. This is one very bored woman, sir. She seems to keep one eye on Acland and the other on her television set.’
‘Does she fancy him?’
‘Not any more. She said he was rude to her when she tried to be neighbourly, but she’s carrying one heck of a grudge over it. I suspect she made a pass at him and was comprehensively rejected. She referred to him several times as a closet gay.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure we should place too much reliance on this, but she also told me she thought he was the gay killer. She said he’s a complete weirdo. He goes running most days and shouts in his sleep at night.’
Jones glanced at the monitor, which showed Acland back in his chair and staring fixedly at the wall in front of him. ‘Perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps the attack on Walter isn’t part of the series.’
Eleven
DESPITE KITTEN’S BAD-TEMPERED support for his story, the police were in no hurry to release Acland. It would be several more hours before his clothes, boots and kitbag were returned to him. During that time, most of which he spent in silent contemplation of his hands, he gave minimal details of his army service, refused the offer of a solicitor and granted permission for a search of his property.
His clothes were meticulously examined for bloodstains, his flat was turned upside down, and the bonfire ashes retrieved from the garden to sift for anything other than paper and cardboard. Sharon ‘Kitten’ Carter was reinterviewed in person and repeated her vitriol about Acland’s ‘weirdness’, while the elderly next-door neighbour corroborated her timings before offering some vitriol of his own against her.
There was a brief flurry of excitement when a call came through from the Forensic Science Service to report that washed-out blood splatters had been detected on the right sleeve of Acland’s jacket, the right cuff of his shirt and the knee areas of his trousers, but it was quickly dashed by Nick Beale, who’d had a five-minute interview with Jackson.
He placed a rough sketch of a man on the table, with written descriptions of his clothes – brown leather jacket, grey cotton trousers, white cotton shirt, Caterpillar bruiser roll boots – and arrows pointing to the jacket sleeve, the shirt cuff and the trouser knees with Rashid Mansoor’s blood beside them.
‘The descriptions match what the lieutenant was wearing when we brought him in,’ Beale told Jones, ‘and Dr Jackson advised us not to waste time on the marked areas. She said both she and Acland were splashed during the fight in the pub because this Mansoor had a nosebleed. She washed the lieutenant’s shirt and trousers, and sponged down the jacket, but these are the places where the stains were visible.’
‘Damn!’
‘Do you want FSS to run a DNA match with Tutting?’
‘There’s no point if it isn’t his blood,’ said the superintendent morosely. ‘This inquiry’s already cost a fortune. I’d be hard pressed to justify an expensive DNA procedure for no good reason, particularly if we have to trawl around looking for this Rashid Mansoor character in order to eliminate him.’
‘Except, if Acland did strike Walter, it’s possible the blood splatters might have replicated the fight last night.’
‘And pigs might fly, Nick,’ said Jones with sudden weariness. ‘FSS describe the stains as “washed-out”, but there’s no washing machine or dryer in Acland’s flat and he wouldn’t have had time to do them by hand. The place is as basic as they come.’ He blew a despairing whoosh of air from his mouth. ‘The guy’s a monk. He seems to live a completely spartan existence.’
‘So why are we hanging on to him?’
‘He fits the profile . . . and if Tutting isn’t part of the series, Acland might still have been responsible for the first three.’
Beale shook his head. ‘The timeline doesn’t work. According to Dr Campbell, he’s been out of circulation for months. First in Iraq . . . then in a hospital in Birmingham.’
Jones shook his head. ‘I had another word with her. She said he had a fiance´e who lived somewhere in this area and he used to visit her regularly . . . possibly around the time Peel and Britton were killed. Dr Campbell also said Acland was staying with her at the time Kevin Atkins was found. She remembers discussing the murders with him.’
*
In a parallel operation, Walter Tutting’s small terraced house had become a major crime scene. Unlike the previous murders, the attack had taken place in the hallway. On a first reading of the evidence, a scenes of crime officer phoned to advise Detective Superintendent Jones that it looked as if Walter had put up a fight as soon as the assailant entered.
‘I know it’s early days, Brian, but there’s nothing to suggest this bastard got much beyond the front door. Something must have spooked Walter because we think he took a walking stick from a stand in the hall and tried to defend himself. We found one lying on the carpet near a pool of blood.’
‘Walter’s blood?’
‘Yes . . . probably from a cut on his head.’
‘Is there blood on the stick?’
‘Not that we could detect . . . I sent it for analysis about three hours ago. If we’re lucky, Walter landed a blow on something useful and we’ll get some DNA off it. The best scenario would be that the old boy hit hard enough to mark his attacker . . . which might be a detail worth releasing to the press. If someone already has suspicions about a partner or colleague, an unexplained bruise might just persuade them to call us.’
‘Are you sure the stick wasn’t used against Walter?’
‘As sure as I can be. I checked with his consultant at St Thomas’s and she’s confident that the defence wounds on his arm and shoulders were made by something heavier and more compact . . . like a hammer or a baseball bat.’
‘What about the indentation in the wall?’
‘It’s certainly similar to what we found in the other properties – semicircular and fairly deep into the plaster – but I’m guessing it was a first attempt that missed rather than an angry thrashing around afterwards . . . which may be why Walter had time to arm himself with the walking stick. There are no blood or skin traces in it, as there were in the others . . . and, if it was a baseball bat, it was covered in some kind of fabric. We think we’ve found fibres.’
Jones frowned into the receiver. ‘There were no fibres in the plaster indentations in the other houses.’
There was a short pause while the SOCO broke off to speak to someone in the room. ‘I need to go, Brian. Look, I’ll have more tomorrow, but at the moment I’m thinking on the hoof. Assuming this is the same guy, then a possible scenario is that he carries the weapon in a bag and only takes it out when he’s ready to use it. In Walter’s case, it never got that far. Our man lashed out – bag and all – as soon as he realized the old boy was spooked.’
‘Are there enough fibres to tell us what kind of bag?’
‘I don’t know, but you might be interested in the consultant’s idea. When I described the indentation to her, she suggested a glass paperweight in a sock.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘A paperweight would certainly be easier to carry around London undetected, but I can’t see it doing the sort of damage we’ve seen on the previous victims. You made the point yourself, we haven’t found fibres anywhere else . . . and, out of the sock and without a handle, there
wouldn’t be any leverage. All the force would have to come from the speed of the attacker’s arm.’
‘But it’s possible.’
‘Not in my opinion. Most of us would drop a lump of glass as soon as we broke into a sweat . . . but if you come up with a fit, strong guy with dry palms and a grip like steel, I suppose it might be...’
*
Acland fitted the bill nicely, thought Jones, as he introduced himself and shook the young man’s hand. No sweat and fingers like grappling irons. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long,’ he went on, pulling out the other chair and sitting down. ‘Has anyone explained to you why?’ ‘Not really.’ The detective superintendent clicked his tongue in apparent condemnation of his team. ‘My fault. I should have given clearer instructions . . . or reached here sooner. Can I offer you a cup of tea or something to eat?’
‘No thank you.’
Jones pulled off his jacket and slung it over the chair behind him. ‘Which do you prefer? Charles or Lieutenant Acland?’
‘Whatever you like. You’re the policeman.’
The superintendent smiled. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry, Charles. The custody officer tells me you’ve been in this room for over five hours. By rights, you should be climbing the walls and demanding to know what’s going on.’
Acland regarded him warily. For whatever reason – perhaps because they didn’t fit the man’s Rottweiler appearance – he was suspicious of Jones’s attempts at pleasantry. ‘Would it have done me any good?’
‘It wouldn’t have done any harm. We’re fairly used to irritation in interview rooms . . . particularly from the innocent.’ He held the younger man’s gaze for a moment. ‘A man with infinite patience is rare. It makes me wonder if you have a better idea what this is all about than you’ve been letting on. Are you willing to say how much you know . . . or how much you’ve guessed?’
Acland leaned forward to place a finger on Walter Tutting’s photograph. ‘This man was taken to hospital earlier in the day after collapsing in the street. I’m guessing that whatever caused his collapse wasn’t natural because your men stopped the traffic to search the road.’ He took a breath. ‘You’ve made up your minds I had something to do with Mr Tutting’s collapse, either because I was seen arguing with him at the bank this morning or because I was involved in a fight last night at the Bell . . . probably both. With the help of Jackson, Daisy and Susan Campbell, you arrested me when I returned to the pub and brought me here in handcuffs to answer questions.’
‘Go on.’
‘That’s it . . . a combination of what I’ve been told and what I’ve guessed.’
‘If you thought we were investigating you, why didn’t you ask for a solicitor?’
‘You’d have been even more suspicious.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Charles.’
‘Yes, it does. That’s why I gave you free rein of my property and possessions to prove I have nothing to answer for.’
Jones wasn’t surprised that Susan Campbell had declared Acland fit to answer questions. He certainly fitted the profile of a ‘forensically aware’ killer. ‘I admire your confidence.’
‘In myself or in the police?’
‘Both.’
Acland shook his head. ‘I have no confidence in the police. The inspector said I was here as a witness . . . but he was lying. I was arrested and brought here as a suspect and I don’t even know what crime I’m supposed to have committed.’
Jones folded his hands on the table. ‘Do you want to make a complaint?’
‘Not unless you tell me you’ve found something incriminating in my kitbag or at my flat. We’ll both know how it got there if you do.’
‘Are you suggesting I or one of my team would plant evidence?’
‘Judging by the way I’ve been treated so far . . . yes.’
Jones smiled slightly. ‘You’re very alert for a man who had such a serious migraine incident last night that a doctor had to attend to you. Do vertical press-ups clear your brain, Charles?’
‘If they do, that’s my business . . . and I don’t like being filmed. This is a free country, not a police state.’
‘I’m sorry you have such a dim view of us. We make more enemies than friends in our line of business, but someone has to do it . . . Rather like soldiering, wouldn’t you say?’
Acland ignored the jibe. ‘I have a dim view of the whole of society. You’re just one face of it.’
‘Have you ever been arrested before?’
‘No.’
‘You take a dim view of Muslims as well, I hear . . . and elderly men.’ Jones reached for Walter Tutting’s photograph when Acland didn’t answer. ‘What did Mr Tutting do to annoy you? Did he think you were gay and make a pass?’
Acland looked faintly outraged. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Why? Which part of the idea offends you? That an elderly man might be gay or that he might think you’re gay?’
‘Neither. I’m just not as obsessed with sex as you seem to be.’
The superintendent steepled his hands in front of his mouth and studied the young man curiously. ‘You’re quite a puritan.’
Acland stared back at him with a frown of incomprehension. ‘What do any of my views have to do with Mr Tutting? He poked me in the back, that’s all.’
‘I’m interested in why you seem to have taken against society. Have you been treated badly since you came home?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘So what’s changed?’
‘Me. I feel as if I’m living in a world that’s obsessed with trivial things . . . and I can’t see that any of them matter much.’ He sounded uncomfortable, as though voicing his beliefs was alien to him.
‘And what does matter, Charles?’
‘I’m still trying to find out. I’ve been reading about a Danish philosopher called Søren Kierkegaard. He said, “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.” That’s about as much understanding as I have at the moment.’
‘Reality can be pretty grim.’
‘It depends what you make of it.’
Jones nodded. ‘What about love? Where does that fit in?’
No answer.
‘Weren’t you in love with your fiance´e, Charles? I gather she lives in this area and you visited her regularly last year. We need her name and address.’
Shock flared briefly in the younger man’s eye. ‘Who told you?’
‘Dr Campbell.’ Jones raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Did she make a mistake? Was the information supposed to be confidential?’
Acland hunched forward and pumped his fists beneath the table. ‘Jen has nothing to do with this. I haven’t seen her in months.’
‘Nothing to do with what, Charles?’
Silence.
‘If she lives nowhere near Mr Tutting we won’t bother her . . . but if she does –’ Jones allowed a beat of silence to pass – ‘we might need to look at whether you’ve had a run-in with him before.’
‘She wouldn’t know one way or the other.’
‘Will your parents be able to give me her name and address? Your regiment?’
A flash of real dislike sparked in Acland’s eye. ‘Her name’s Jen Morley and she’s in Flat 1, Peabody House, Harris Walk . . . and if that’s anywhere near Mr Tutting then it’s a coincidence.’ He unclenched his fists and pressed his palms on the table as if he was about to stand up. ‘Why are you doing this? Don’t I have any rights over who you’re allowed to discuss my private business with?’
The superintendent spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Not if I need an independent witness to confirm what you tell me.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried that Ms Morley’s going to say something detrimental about you, then it might be in your interest to consult a solicitor.’
Acland tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. He took several deep breaths through his nose.
‘We can take a break any time, Charles. Perhaps you’d like to cha
nge 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.’
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