Chameleon's Shadow

by Minette Walters

  ‘Since he got here. It was even stronger when he was awake.’

  ‘Have you tried speaking to him? Calling his name? Any response?’

  ‘No. He’s been like this from the moment he passed out.’

  She turned the torch on the youngster’s neck, where patches of inflamed skin stood out against his ashen pallor. ‘How long have you known him, Chalky?’

  ‘A month or so. He’s a pretty lad, so the shirt-lifters came after him. I took him under my wing cos I don’t hold with that kind of malarkey. The fact a little lad’s run away shouldn’t make him easy meat for the first predatory pervert that passes by.’

  ‘I agree. Has he been complaining of thirst?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘Does he pee a lot?’

  ‘Anywhere he fancies.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Said he was eighteen . . . but I reckon fifteen’s nearer the mark. What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘His symptoms suggest diabetic coma brought on by a buildup of chemical poisons in his blood.’ She took out her mobile, scrolled down her menu and punched in a number. ‘Yes . . . Trevor Monaghan, please . . . Dr Jackson . . . It’s an emergency. Cheers.’ She glanced up at Chalky. ‘Go back to the railings and holler when you see an ambulance, and you –’ she said to Acland, fishing her car keys out of her back pocket – ‘hop round to my car and get my medical bag out of the boot. It’s a black BMW and it’s parked on the corner of Caroline Street opposite this bar.’ She pressed the keys into his hand. ‘Trevor? Are you on call? I need you to meet me in A&E. I’ve one sick kid for you, mate . . . Deep diabetic coma . . . initial diagnosis, ketoacidosis shock from untreated type one. Can you organize the ambulance from your end? Yes . . . absolute priority . . . the corner of Caroline Street and Russell Street in Covent Garden...And we need a fire crew . . . there’s no way out of here without ladders...’

  *

  ‘Is he going to die?’ asked Chalky twenty minutes later as the paramedics loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. He’d been impressed by the speed of the operation. Seconds after shouting down to Jackson that the ambulance had arrived, he’d called again to say that a fire crew were erecting a ladder gantry over the railings. ‘You’d have to be pretty ill to have this many people turn out for you.’ Jackson was using Acland’s back to write a note to the consultant. ‘He’s very ill, Chalky. Juvenile diabetes is a serious condition, and living on the streets won’t have helped any.’ She signed her name and tucked the piece of paper into an envelope which she took from her medical bag. ‘If it’s any comfort, I’m sending him to an expert.’ She slapped the envelope into Chalky’s hand. ‘Make yourself useful . . . Give this to the driver, then grab your stuff and follow me down to my car. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.’ She levelled a finger at Acland. ‘You, too . . . and bring everything of Ben’s. There might be some personal information in it.’ Acland shook his head and retreated against the nearest wall, where his, Ben’s and Chalky’s bags were stacked. Because of the narrow confines of the passageway, they’d been ordered to remove themselves and their possessions before the stretcher was brought in. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know the boy.’ ‘Me neither,’ said Jackson, kneeling to close her bag, ‘but it didn’t stop you involving me in his problems.’ ‘It was your choice to come here.’ ‘True.’ She stood up. ‘So what’s the deal?’ ‘There isn’t one. You’re not responsible for me. You go your way . . . I’ll go mine.’

  She eyed him curiously for a moment, then gave a small shrug of disappointment. ‘You’re not the person I thought you were,’ she said.

  ‘Ditto,’ Acland murmured.

  ‘Then we’ve both wasted our time.’ She offered a small nod of farewell and headed towards the ambulance, where she had a brief word with the paramedics and Chalky before continuing on to her car.

  Chalky came back. ‘Shift your arse,’ he ordered. ‘Your lady friend wants to follow the meat wagon so that we can see the lad safely delivered.’ He retrieved all the bags from the pavement, including Acland’s kitbag, and set off after Jackson.

  Acland stalked angrily behind him. ‘Did she tell you to do that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take my kitbag.’

  ‘Just doing you a favour, mate.’

  ‘Not interested. I want my stuff.’

  ‘Then show the lady some gratitude first.’ Chalky crossed Caroline Street and dumped all the bags into Jackson’s open boot before slamming it shut. ‘Grow up, son,’ he said scathingly. ‘Do you think anyone’s ever cared enough to come looking for me?’

  *

  Jackson made no comment when Acland slid into the seat behind Chalky and pulled the door closed. She merely lowered the windows to dispel some of the older man’s aroma then headed down towards the Aldwych. Amused by Chalky’s cheerful announcement that it was the first time he’d been in a car since he’d walked out on his old woman, she encouraged him to talk about himself. How old was he? ‘Last time anyone took notice, thirty-three . . . but I gave up counting after that. I went for a drink with some mates . . . had a few too many jars . . . and found the wife waiting for me when I got home. She had a bad temper, that woman. Didn’t want to celebrate my birthday herself but got steaming mad because I did.

  Is that fair or is that fair?’

  Jackson smiled. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Now you’re asking.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Twenty-two years, give or take a year or two. I was born in ’51 . . . joined the army in ’69 . . . spent three years in Germany . . . did a couple of stints in Northern Ireland . . . married in ’78 . . . fought in the Falklands in ’82 . . . cashed in my chips a year later . . . then took to the road when I couldn’t stand the missus any longer. She blamed me for the lack of nippers. That’s what got her riled.’

  ‘Did you think about getting help for it?’

  ‘Nah. Waste of time. Reckoned the best thing I could do was bugger off and let her have a bash with someone else.’ He sounded quite cheerful about it. ‘It wasn’t much of a marriage. She only liked me when I wasn’t around – sent letters and such – then, soon as I came home, the knives came out.’ He pulled a face. ‘The drink might have had something to do with it. Couldn’t face her without a few jars under my belt . . . Kept asking myself why I’d tied myself to a roly-poly pudding – no offence – when I should have gone for something I could have got my arms round.’

  ‘What did you do after you left the army?’

  ‘Couldn’t settle to anything. The world seemed pretty flat after the Falklands.’ Chalky sighed. ‘I should have stayed a soldier. I got a buzz out of going to war.’

  Jackson glanced at Acland’s face in the rear-view mirror, but if he had any fellow-feeling with Chalky’s views, he wasn’t showing it. ‘What rank were you?’

  ‘Made it to corporal just before we left for the South Atlantic. Best year of my bloody life that was . . . been downhill ever since.’

  This time Acland did show some interest. ‘Which regiment?’ he asked.

  ‘Two Para.’

  ‘Which company?’

  ‘B Company.’

  ‘So you were in the attack on Goose Green?’

  Chalky lifted a grimy thumb in the air. ‘Certainly was. It was us took Boca Hill. I lost a good mate there.’ He shook his head in sudden wistful nostalgia. ‘We joined up together and I can hardly remember what he looked like now . . . Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  Acland stared out of the window as Jackson turned on to Waterloo Bridge. The river was only beautiful at night, when the lights along its banks gleamed like diamonds on black velvet, and the Palace of Westminster, lit by arc lamps, looked more like a fairy castle than the seat of government. In daylight hours, with the embankments and bridges thronged with people and cars, he could see no beauty in it at all. ‘So how come a corporal from 2 Para ends up drinking meths in the gutter?’ he asked harshly.

  Surprisingly, Chalky didn
’t take offence. ‘I never drink the dyed meths,’ he said, as if such abstinence were a matter for pride, ‘though I still go for the white stuff when I can get it. It’s not so bad – rots your brain and rots your liver – but it’s cheap and it keeps the boredom at bay for a few hours.’ He scratched the beard at the side of his face. ‘I prefer cider.’

  ‘That’s not an answer. You wouldn’t have made corporal if you hadn’t had something going for you. What happened to that person?’

  Chalky shrugged. ‘Who knows, son? Maybe he just got lost on the Falklands.’

  Fourteen

  THE AMBULANCE HAD ALREADY arrived by the time Jackson turned off Lambeth Palace Road into St Thomas’s A&E entrance. With every emergency parking space taken, she glanced at Acland in the mirror and asked him if he had a valid driving licence.

  He nodded. ‘No one’s asked for it back yet.’

  She pulled over and opened her door. ‘There’s a staff car park round the side. Find the main entrance and follow the signs. I just need a couple of minutes to check through the kid’s things . . . see if I can find out who he is. If you’re challenged, show this – ’ she pointed to a medical priority sticker on her dashboard – ‘and ask them to page Trevor Monaghan or phone me on this number.’ She took a card from her pocket and passed it back to him.

  ‘Don’t go looking through anything of mine,’ said Chalky firmly. ‘The black rucksack belongs to the lad . . . everything else belongs to me . . . and it’s private.’

  Jackson eased out from behind the wheel. ‘You’re safe on that score,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m not in the habit of rifling through plastic carrier bags full of rubbish.’

  She opened Acland’s door and handed him the keys. ‘You’re very trusting,’ he said, climbing out. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? You’re not planning to steal a BMW, are you?’ He watched while she opened the boot and made a quick search of Ben’s rucksack. ‘I haven’t driven since I lost my eye.’ ‘So? You can see well enough to climb railings.’ She removed a label from the inside flap with a name, Mr B. Russell, and an address in Wolverhampton. ‘I’ll take this for the moment, but can you go through his things with a fine-tooth comb after you’ve parked? We need home address, surname and next of kin.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the hospital do it?’

  ‘It’ll be quicker this way.’ She took out her medical case and slammed the boot shut again. ‘Bring the bag to reception when you’ve finished and ask them to page me or Dr Monaghan –’ she eyed him for a moment – ‘and don’t leave Chalky alone in my car. I’d prefer the contents to be intact when I come back.’

  Acland wanted to tell her that he knew what she was doing – tying him to a responsibility he hadn’t asked for – but she was gone before he could say it. In any case, part of him rose to the occasion, even if he recognized, and resented, how easily Jackson manipulated him.

  ‘You sure you can drive this thing?’ asked Chalky suspiciously as Acland climbed in beside him and turned his head to focus his good eye on the gearbox. ‘I notice no one asked me what I thought about it.’

  Acland saw with relief that the car was an automatic. ‘If you want to make yourself useful, help me get out of here. Shout if I get too close to anything on my left.’

  In the event, it was more by luck than good judgement that Acland made it safely to the car park. Chalky was about as much use as a maiden aunt who’d never been in a car in her life. He peered religiously out of his window but, with a complete lack of spatial awareness, he failed to mention a single hazard until after it had passed.

  ‘You damn near hit a bollard back there,’ he said helpfully as Acland killed the engine.

  ‘Thanks for warning me.’

  ‘Didn’t need to. You were doing OK on your own.’ He pulled a baccy tin out of his coat pocket and started to shred wisps of tobacco on to a Rizla. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘We both get out so you don’t pollute the doctor’s car any further.’

  ‘She’s some woman,’ said Chalky, rolling the paper in his fingers. ‘Seems pretty interested in you.’

  ‘She’s a lesbian.’

  The older man gave a snort of amusement. ‘The meths hasn’t totally rotted my brain, lad. I’ve a few dyke friends down in Docklands – they tend to hang together for safety – but I share a cider with them from time to time. They look after each other . . . There’s a couple of schizos in the group that the others take care of.’ He paused to run his tongue along the paper. ‘The doc’s doing the same for you.’

  Acland got out and walked round to open Chalky’s door. ‘She wants me to check the boy’s rucksack to see if she missed anything.’

  The older man studied him thoughtfully. ‘You’d better let me do that, son. The kid doesn’t like strangers poking through his stuff any more than I do. Think I didn’t notice you eyeing up the bags in the alleyway?’

  Acland ignored him. ‘I’ll only be looking for next-of-kin details. You can watch while I do it if it’ll make you happier.’

  But Chalky was more interested in creature comforts. ‘I’ll take a quiet smoke and a drink in here where it’s warm. You can show me what you’ve found afterwards . . . and I’ll tell you what’s important and what isn’t.’

  ‘No chance.’ Acland put his hand under the other man’s elbow and heaved him upright. ‘You can do your smoking and drinking on that wall over there.’

  ‘I’m not taking orders from you, lad.’

  ‘I outrank you.’

  Chalky shook him off. ‘Not in my world, you don’t,’ he said with sudden belligerence. ‘In my world, anyone who’s been at this game longer than you takes precedence . . . and that includes young Ben in there.’

  Acland kept an eye on his fists. ‘You don’t want to take me on, Corporal. I’ve been a mean bugger since the ragheads destroyed my face.’

  ‘You look it,’ Chalky agreed. ‘Seen guys like you before . . . fucked on the outside and fucked on the inside. What the hell? The wall’s as good as anywhere.’ He removed a half-bottle of vodka from another pocket. ‘I got lucky,’ he said by way of explanation as he wandered off. ‘A lass gave me a tenner this morning . . . said I reminded her of her grandpa.’

  *

  If Acland had ever thought about leaving, he abandoned the idea as he watched Chalky perch on the low wall bordering the car park and unscrew the vodka with shaking hands. Perhaps it was the desperate way the corporal sucked at the alcohol, or the fact he looked older than the fifty-six he was claiming, but the scene – Dickensian in its harsh reality – burned into Acland’s brain. He couldn’t imagine this man as a soldier with the fortitude to march and fight for two days on the desolate ridges of the Falkland Islands. He retrieved Jackson’s torch from the dashboard pocket, then opened the boot and upended Ben’s rucksack in the front corner. The ceiling light was strong enough to show objects, but Acland propped the torch on his kitbag to help him decipher anything written. He experienced a similar embarrassment to DI Beale as he surveyed the adolescent’s pathetic haul. There were more gadgets than Acland possessed – a couple of mobile telephones, a digital camera, a BlackBerry and four iPods – but fewer clothes. Acland guessed the gadgets were stolen – certainly none of them had functioning batteries – but he separated out the mobiles and the BlackBerry in case there was anything relevant on them. There were several envelopes, all addressed to Ben Russell c/o a drop-in centre in Whitechapel. Inside were handwritten letters from someone called Hannah. Acland skimmed through them. I miss you so much . . . Dad’s been over the moon since you left . . . He’s such a knobhead . . . keeps saying out of sight, out of mind . . . I feel sorry for your mum . . . I saw her in town and she looked really sad . .. At the top of each letter, by way of Hannah’s address, was The Hell Hole, but the frank marks on the envelopes suggested they’d been posted in Wolverhampton.

  In one of the rucksack pockets, Acland found a photograph of a simpering girl with straight blonde hair, heavily made-up eyes and pale pink lips. A flou
rishing dedication had been scrawled in felt-tip pen across the bottom – Love you, babe – don’t forget to write – and on the back in pencil was written 25 Melbury Gardens, WV6 0AA. It didn’t take Einstein to work out that this was the address for Ben’s return letters, although Acland doubted it was where Hannah lived. The ‘knobhead’ father wouldn’t ignore letters from London.

  He repacked the rucksack, placing the phones, BlackBerry, envelopes and snapshot in the front pocket, then dropped it to the ground at his feet. He took another look at the array of bags that Chalky claimed were his, then stepped away from the car and raised his voice. ‘Are you sure nothing else in here belongs to Ben? I remember him bringing more than just the rucksack into the passageway.’

  ‘You’re talking through your arse.’

  Acland studied him for a moment. ‘If you keep claiming to be a soldier,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll slit your bloody throat. Nothing you’ve ever done in your whole miserable life allows you to range yourself with the guys I’ve led.’

  ‘I don’t take that kind of talk off jumped-up lootenants.’ There was noticeably more aggression in Chalky’s tone, as if vodka had released the fighter in him. ‘If you’re looking for his cash, he wears it in a belt . . . same as I do. The nurses will have pocketed it by now.’

  ‘Nurses don’t steal off kids, Chalky, and neither do I. Which of these bags is his? I’ll go through the lot if necessary.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ The corporal heaved himself off the wall and came towards him. ‘I’ll have your guts if you’ve touched anything of mine.’ He loomed menacingly at Acland’s shoulder. ‘It’s the Londis bag . . . the one with the baccy and the booze. They’re no good to him here. He won’t be able to smoke and drink in a sodding hospital, will he?’

  Acland pulled the Londis carrier forward and untied the polythene handles that were holding the contents together. Two hundred Benson & Hedges and a bottle of whisky. ‘How did he get them? You said he was fifteen.’