For Derek Hardy the superintendent’s ‘jurisdiction’ was becoming uncomfortable. Having run rural pubs for twenty years before he and his wife were offered the management of the Crown, he was more used to the village bobby showing up in his shirtsleeves for a game of darts than a detective superintendent turning his bar into a new base for operations. Another two policemen had arrived, and Derek and Jackson watched the four men swap information on the CCTV monitor in the kitchen.
‘What’s going on?’ Jackson asked curiously, using a wodge of paper towel to turn the tap in the sink to avoid smearing the chrome.
‘You probably know better than I do,’ Derek said irritably. ‘Everything was fine till you showed up with sonny boy. What’s he done?’
‘Nothing to concern that lot.’
‘Why don’t you want Mel going near him?’
Jackson washed her oily hands and wrists at his sink. ‘He has a problem with women being nice to him.’ She pulled a wry face at his alarmed expression. ‘You don’t need to go into the room, Derek. Just check from the door that he’s breathing. A couple of times should do it. Once the retching stops, he’ll go to sleep.’
‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘No reason to be. He gave me his word he’ll stay in his room and not bother anyone.’ She used the paper towel again to turn off the tap, then wiped the sink with it to remove the last traces of oil. ‘I’m more worried that he’ll do something to himself, particularly if he knows that lot are still around.’ She nodded at the monitor.
‘Is he the reason they’re here?’
‘I don’t see how. They didn’t know we were coming,’ she reminded him. ‘What were you talking about when I first walked in?’
‘The old boy who was clobbered the other day. He’s one of our regulars.’
‘Walter Tutting?’ Jackson ran off another length of paper towelling. ‘They’ve already interviewed Charles about that assault and he was able to prove he was three miles away when it happened.’ She dried between her fingers as she watched Ahmed Khan pass a piece of paper to Brian Jones. ‘It has to be something you told them.’
‘Pat Streckle did most of the talking. He and Walter knew the cab driver who was killed.’
‘Harry Peel?’
Johnson nodded. ‘He used to come in here before Mel and I took over. Did you know him?’
‘No.’ She folded the towel and put it in the rubbish bin. ‘What did you tell them about Walter Tutting?’
‘Me? All I did was describe a lad I saw with him once. They were more interested in Pat’s views on whether the old boy was a closet gay or not.’ He paused. ‘Pat recognized your friend. Maybe that’s what they’re excited about.’
‘Charles?’
Derek nodded. ‘He told the superintendent he’d seen him in here before.’
Jackson frowned. ‘When?’
‘Last year . . . said he sat at the bar a few times on his own. Before we arrived,’ he added, as if Jackson’s frown was an accusation of customer-poaching. ‘He doesn’t ring any bells with me.’
She pulled her sleeves down and buttoned her cuffs. ‘Ever seen a girl who looks like Uma Thurman in here?’
Derek shook his head. ‘Who is she?’
‘Good question,’ said Jackson with a frustrated sigh. ‘Charles swore blind to me that he’d never used any of the pubs round here. If he can lie about that, he’s almost certainly been lying about his girlfriend.’
Hardy folded his arms and studied her for a moment. ‘How the hell did you come to be involved with this bloke?’
‘Because I’m a fool,’ she said crossly, ‘and I’m damned sorry to have wished him on you and Mel. He should sleep through the night, but I’ll take him off your hands first thing . . . assuming he’s still here.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
She glanced at the monitor. ‘He makes a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ she said cryptically, ‘and it’s looking less and less like coincidence.’ She moved towards the door. ‘He’s not your responsibility, Derek. If they transfer him to hospital because they want to question him, then that’s something Charles will have to deal with himself. He wouldn’t be here at all if he hadn’t acted like a prize idiot.’
*
DC Khan, one of the officers who’d joined Jones and Beale in the bar, placed a couple of printouts in front of the superintendent. ‘This –’ he touched a page – ‘is Dr Jackson’s description of Chalky, the other gives the details of the man the river police pulled out of the Thames this morning. I’ve had a word with a chap called Steve Barratt and he’s blaming paperwork for why no one made the connection. He said they checked missing persons, but there was no one matching the description.’ Jones leaned forward to scan the pages. ‘So what else has dropped through the net? We have phone calls that haven’t been followed up . . . statements that haven’t been read –’ he smacked the back of his hand against Jackson’s description – ‘and now this. What are we running here? A chimpanzees’ tea party?’ ‘We distributed Chalky’s particulars across the whole network, sir.’ ‘But you didn’t think to list him as a missing person?’ ‘No,’ Khan admitted. ‘Just that he was wanted for questioning.’ Jones looked irritated. ‘What else did this Barratt tell you? Have they done a post-mortem?’ Khan shook his head. ‘Not a full one. A pathologist took some blood and temperature readings and had a look at the external features, but there were no signs of foul play. There’s a high level of alcohol in the blood. He concluded the man was a vagrant who drowned in the river some twelve hours before his body was recovered . . . and they gave the case a low priority. According to Barratt, vagrants are the hardest to identify. It usually takes months, and no one cares when they finally come up with a name.’
Jones wasn’t interested in anyone else’s problems. ‘What about fingerprints?’
‘They weren’t planning to run a check until tomorrow, but I’ve asked Barratt to advance that process and call me when he gets a result.’
‘You mean if he gets a result. There’s no guarantee this dead man was ever convicted of anything.’
‘The chances are good, sir.’
‘Even so . . . a name isn’t going to help us. It still won’t tell us if this man was Chalky. We need someone to identify the body.’
DI Beale glanced towards the window. ‘Shall I have a word with Dr Jackson before she goes?’ he asked. ‘I think she’s still around and she’s the obvious person to do it.’
‘Why not?’ Jones agreed slowly. ‘I’d like to know how she reacts. The lieutenant seems to bring misfortune on everyone he meets.’
*
Beale called out to Jackson as he emerged from the front door and saw her about to climb into her car. She flashed him an exasperated glance and toyed with pretending she hadn’t heard. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘I really need to get on.’ ‘I’m aware of that.’ He handed her the details that Khan had printed out. ‘This man was pulled from the river this morning. We believe it might be Chalky but we need someone to identify the body. Would you be willing to help us out? We can wait until you’ve finished your shift.’ She stooped to read the page by the BMW’s internal light. ‘Is there any doubt about when he died? It says here that the body temperature suggests late last night.’ ‘We’ve no reason to question it.’ He studied her expression. ‘Why do you ask?’ The struggle she was having with herself showed in her face, but she avoided a direct answer. Instead, she handed the paper back to him. ‘The conclusion at the end says the man fell in and drowned while heavily intoxicated, and there’s no evidence of foul play. Is there any doubt about that?’
Of course Beale was suspicious. She wouldn’t be asking the questions if she didn’t have doubts. ‘We won’t know till tomorrow. The pathologist hasn’t done a full post-mortem yet.’ He folded the page and tucked it into his pocket. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Doctor?’
‘That I might not be as good a judge of character as I thought I was,’ Jackson said cryptically. Sh
e stared past his shoulder towards the Crown’s fac¸ade, before giving an abrupt sigh. ‘I have no idea where Lieutenant Acland was between midday yesterday and late this afternoon, Inspector. The last time I saw him was outside a squat in Bread Street . . . which is down near the docks . . . and I think he was looking for Chalky.’
Twenty-four
FROM DEREK HARDY’S PERSPECTIVE there seemed to be a period of calm after Jackson’s departure. The two detective constables left, and Jones and Beale moved to a vacant table, giving up beer in favour of coffee and sandwiches. They were friendly enough to the landlord and his staff, but they rebuffed any attempt to find out why they were still there. After half an hour, Derek decided they’d abandoned work for the night like any other customer and went to check on Acland.
To avoid waking the man, he eased the door open quietly and looked towards the bed, but a lighted table lamp showed that it was empty. Derek’s response was to step into the room and look around, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably when he saw Acland, fully dressed, standing in the shadow behind the door.
‘Jesus Christ! You gave me a bloody shock! You all right, mate?’
‘What do you want?’
Derek spread his hands to demonstrate his peaceful intent. ‘Just doing what Jacks asked me to do . . . making sure you’re still breathing.’ He started to back out. ‘Sorry for the intrusion. I didn’t want to make a noise in case you were asleep.’
‘Are the police with you?’
The older man shook his head. ‘There’s a couple downstairs still.’
‘I thought you were them.’
‘I guessed. You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you don’t look it,’ said Derek bluntly. ‘You should follow doctor’s orders, son, and stay in bed. Jacks said she’ll be back for you tomorrow morning.’ He watched the young man’s shoulders relax slightly. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thank you, sir, everything’s fine.’
Perhaps it was the courtesy ‘sir’ and the obvious contradiction between the words and the pallor of Acland’s face, or perhaps, like Willis, Derek saw how young the lieutenant really was. In either event, he reached out a fatherly hand. ‘Come on,’ he said kindly, taking Acland’s arm. ‘You need to lie down.’
There was a movement in the doorway behind him. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Hardy,’ said Jones. ‘I think you’ll find the lieutenant prefers to make his own way.’ He walked into the room and looked at Acland’s rigid posture. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Charles?’
‘Yes.’ He freed his arm and backed into the corner.
Jones nodded pleasantly to the publican. ‘Your bar steward gave us permission to follow you up here.’ He indicated Beale in the doorway. ‘We wanted a quick word with you before we left.’
‘What about?’
‘It’ll wait.’ He shifted his genial attention to the lieutenant. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d be up and about, Charles. We’ve a couple of questions for you, too, if you can spare us a few minutes. That’s not a problem, is it?’
DI Beale watched Acland respond exactly as the superintendent had predicted. ‘He’ll agree,’ Jones had said. ‘There’s something in his character . . . a bloody-minded determination never to back down . . . that’ll push him to confront us however ill he feels.’
‘What if he does?’ his number two had retorted. ‘Anything he says will be discounted as unreliable. The CPA will rule the circumstances oppressive and refuse to admit the evidence.’
‘Only if it’s incriminating and Charles refuses to repeat it under taped conditions.’
‘Why gamble? Why not wait until tomorrow morning and do it properly?’
‘Because we’re more likely to get the truth out of him tonight.’
‘And jeopardize a prosecution in the process,’ Beale said with sharp criticism. ‘At least consider the rest of the team before you go charging in like a bull in a china shop. We’ve all worked damned hard on this inquiry and no one’s going to thank you for a botched job at the end.’
‘Including you?’
‘Especially me,’ the inspector said with emphasis. ‘I’ll even put on record that I object to any interview with Charles Acland tonight . . . and warn you that, if you insist on going ahead with it, I shall advise the lieutenant to keep his mouth shut.’
Jones ran a thoughtful hand up the side of his jaw. ‘You should have been a lawyer, Nick. You’re even more of a stickler for the rules than Pearson is. As a matter of interest, what incriminating confession are you expecting Charles to make? Impeding the safe operation of a vehicle on one of Her Majesty’s highways?’
Beale refused to be drawn. ‘I’m not playing guessing games, Brian. I’ve told you what I think.’
Jones sighed impatiently. ‘But that’s all we’ve been doing for months ... guessing . . . and you’re the expert on it, my friend. How many new ideas have you run past me tonight, eh? Ben Russell might have been the ginger-haired lad who came in here with Walter . . . Walter’s daughter might have imagined the cheap perfume . . . the prostitutes might have been boys . . . Charles Acland might have pushed Chalky into the river last night after a row over a duffel bag—’ He broke off. ‘What the hell does that bag have to do with anything?’
*
Derek Hardy shifted uneasily as Beale joined Jones in the room and the two men ranged themselves on the other side of the bed from the lieutenant. ‘I’m not sure you should be doing this,’ he said. ‘You can see the lad’s poorly.’ ‘It’s up to Charles,’ murmured Jones. ‘If he doesn’t feel well
enough to speak to us, he only has to say so.’ He lowered himself on to a hard-backed chair, as if to demonstrate that he knew Acland’s mind better than Derek did.
Beale studied the young man’s face which, despite its pallor, was set in grim determination to accept the superintendent’s challenge. ‘You’re under no obligation to talk to us now, Lieutenant,’ he said firmly. ‘If you prefer, you can come to the station tomorrow. Indeed my advice would be to do that. I agree with Mr Hardy, you don’t look well enough to answer questions.’
‘I’m OK. I’d rather do it now.’
‘At least let him lie down,’ Derek protested. ‘Dr Jackson said he should be in bed.’
‘Would you like to do that, Charles?’ the superintendent asked.
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think you would.’ He smiled. ‘And just to reconfirm for these gentlemen’s benefit, you’re quite willing to answer a few questions? It’s purely for background information. I estimate ten minutes or so. Is that acceptable to you?’
‘Yes.’
Jones glanced at the landlord. ‘Thank you, Mr Hardy. We’ll take it from here. Would you mind closing the door as you leave?’ He waited until Derek’s footsteps had vanished down the corridor. ‘There’s no requirement to stand to attention, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘You’re not on parade.’
‘You’ll think less of me if I don’t.’
Jones eyed him with amusement. ‘It’s certainly more usual to see signs of nerves in the people we interview. Don’t you have anything to feel guilty about, Charles? You’re a rare man, if so.’
‘Nothing that concerns you.’
‘Is that right?’ Jones crossed his legs and made a play of consulting a notebook that he took from his pocket. ‘So why does your name keep cropping up in this inquiry? We’ve been told you used this pub on a few occasions last year. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘You always sat alone and cold-shouldered anyone who tried to talk to you.’ The inflection of the superintendent’s voice took on a judgemental note. ‘That suggests you were antisocial even before you went to Iraq.’
‘If you like.’
‘Then I’m genuinely confused. Why would Dr Campbell lead us to believe it’s your disfigurement that’s caused you to be wary of people?’
‘She wouldn’t know. She didn’t meetmeuntilafterIhadsurgery.’
‘He was a good man. I got on with him.’ Acland abandoned his rigid posture to press his palms against the wall to support himself. ‘And the attack on my Scimitar was not an accident, Superintendent. It was a targeted explosion that killed two of my troopers.’
‘I apologize,’ Jones said immediately. ‘It wasn’t my intention to belittle what happened . . . or your part in it. To call it an accident is to suggest that two brave lives were wasted through negligence.’ He met the lieutenant’s gaze. ‘And that would certainly be something to feel guilty about.’
Acland stared back at him. ‘You don’t even know what bravery is.’
‘Then tell me.’
But Acland shook his head.
‘Is it about proving you have bigger balls than the person next to you? Is that why you tried to steer Dr Jackson off the road tonight? To see what she’s made of?’
A spark – an acknowledgement that Jones was right? – glinted in the younger man’s good eye. ‘Is that what she’s told you?’
Jones ignored the question. ‘Why did you need to test her? What did she do to provoke you?’
‘Talked too much.’
‘About what?’
‘Sex.’
Jones lifted an eyebrow. ‘With whom?’
‘No one in particular. She was telling me about the types she fancies and the types she doesn’t.’
‘So it was a discussion about gay sex?’
‘I wouldn’t describe it as a discussion.’
‘A lecture?’
‘Something along those lines.’
Jones was sceptical – he couldn’t imagine Jackson delivering a monologue on same-sex relationships to anyone as fastidious about the subject as Charles Acland – but he didn’t press the issue. ‘Did Dr Jackson know you’d used this pub before when she brought you here?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. I haven’t mentioned it to her.’
‘Did you ever come across a man called Harry Peel in here? Taxi driver . . . five feet ten . . . late fifties . . . dark curly hair . . . London accent. Ring any bells?’
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