Acland shook his head. ‘I came in here to get away from things, not to talk to people.’
Jones noted the ‘get away from things’ but let the remark go for the moment. ‘That wouldn’t have prevented Harry from approaching you,’ he said. ‘He was one of the regulars. Everyone describes him as a friendly sort who’d strike up a conversation with anyone. He used to hand out cards for his taxi service. Are you certain you don’t remember him?’
A flicker of something showed in Acland’s face – recognition? – but he gave another slow shake of his head.
‘He sat at the far end of the bar with a couple of older men and only drank orange juice because of his job.’
‘I vaguely remember some older men – I think they were always there – but I don’t remember anyone else.’
Jones watched him closely. ‘Do you recall seeing either of those men outside the pub?’
‘No.’
‘One of them was the old fellow at the bank . . . Walter Tutting. Are you sure you didn’t recognize him when he started poking you?’
‘No,’ said Acland again, frowning at the superintendent in what appeared to be genuine puzzlement. ‘I thought he was a complete stranger.’
‘Then you’re either very bad on faces or you had a lot to think about when you were sitting at the bar.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Acland. ‘I came in here maybe four or five times during June and July last year. A lot’s happened since.’
Jones nodded. ‘You said you wanted to get away from things. What kind of things?’
The lieutenant didn’t answer immediately. He bought himself some time by running his tongue across his lips and feeling at the cut on the right-hand side of his mouth. ‘We were heading off to Oman for desert training throughout August. The logistics of organizing something like that does your head in after a while. It helps to have some space to get away from it.’
He was a bad liar, thought Jones. ‘Didn’t your girlfriend give you space?’
‘She wasn’t happy about me going to Oman.’
Jones nodded. ‘So it was Ms Morley, rather than logistics, who was doing your head in?’ He paused. ‘Is that why you were always alone?’
Acland didn’t answer.
‘Harry Peel was murdered on or around 9 September 2006. Do you recall if you were in London that weekend, Charles?’
Beale watched the lieutenant brace his legs to support himself against the wall. To his eyes, Acland looked close to collapse and he was intrigued by the need the man seemed to have to demonstrate his toughness to the detective superintendent. He had a sneaking feeling that it was being done out of respect, but whether the respect was for Jones or for the power he exercised as a policeman, Beale couldn’t tell. Nor was it clear if Acland had even understood the question, because he continued to look at Jones with the same mystified frown that he’d worn when he’d said he hadn’t recognized Walter Tutting.
‘Will your regiment have records of your weekends out?’ Jones asked.
Acland nodded. ‘But I can tell you myself. I was in London that weekend. I returned from Oman three days earlier on 6 September.’
‘So you came to see Jen after a month’s absence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she glad to see you?’
Silence.
Jones checked another date in his notebook. ‘What about 23 September?’ He looked up. ‘Were you in London then as well? If it helps to jog your memory, it was the weekend before you went to Iraq.’
Both men expected him to ask why that date was important, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave another nod. ‘I was at Jen’s flat on the Saturday. I went back to my base in the evening.’
‘What time did you arrive at the flat?’
‘Midday.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘Where did you go afterwards? You must have spent time somewhere else if you didn’t return to your base until the evening.’
‘The Imperial War Museum.’
Jones looked sceptical. ‘Is that the recommended way to prepare for war?’
‘It was my way.’
‘Which exhibitions did you see?’
‘The Holocaust... a film about crimes against humanity.’
‘Heavy stuff,’ murmured Jones. ‘You can’t get much closer to the dark side of man’s nature than films about the brutality of war. So why did you need to remind yourself that soldiers don’t always behave with honour, Charles?’ He paused briefly. ‘What happened between you and Ms Morley that day?’
‘We decided to go our separate ways.’
Jones turned a page in his notebook and tapped his thumb against a paragraph. ‘Before or after you buggered her?’ The question was blunt enough to cause a reaction.
Acland’s hands shook visibly against the wall as he stared at the superintendent. ‘Is that why you’re here? Is that what these questions are about?’
‘Rape is a serious accusation, Charles . . . more so when the victim’s a woman and the man’s taste is to bugger her.’
DI Beale stirred. ‘You’d be well advised to take that on board, Lieutenant. If you’re wise, you’ll refuse to answer any more questions without a solicitor present.’
Acland glanced at him with a look of bewilderment, as if he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. ‘How’s a solicitor going to help me? You’ll believe Jen whatever I say.’
‘Why assume that?’ Jones asked.
‘The police always take the woman’s side.’
The superintendent shook his head. ‘The stats prove the opposite. Only a third of cases ever make it as far as court. The other two-thirds drop out at the police stage. It’s very difficult for a woman to substantiate rape . . . particularly months after the event.’ He eyed Acland thoughtfully. ‘Unless the man admits it, of course.’
Twenty-five
IT WASN’T UNTIL JACKSON had finished her second house call after leaving the Crown that she opted to save time and cut security corners by putting her case into the back of the BMW rather than into the boot. As soon as she opened the door, she saw the duffel bag on the floor. Whatever was in it wasn’t big enough to fill it and the bag was collapsed in on itself, lying on its side, half-wedged under the driver’s seat. Jackson’s understanding of what it was, and how it had arrived there, was immediate. She recalled Acland’s effete pose with his jacket and a knot of alarm tightened in her gut as she made the inevitable link with the body in the Thames.
Her first instinct was a craven desire to slam the door and pretend she hadn’t seen it. There was no reason why she should have done, except that she’d chosen to stow her case on the back seat. If she continued with her shift, only she would know that she didn’t spot the bag until the early hours and the imperative to do her job was a great deal stronger than the less attractive imperative of making another trip to Southwark East police station.
Her second instinct – governed as much by curiosity as by common sense – was to check the contents. The shape inside the canvas folds suggested a conical object and she had no intention of spending an hour explaining to a bored policeman why the bag might be important...
. . . only to be told she’d handed in an empty wine bottle.
*
Acland repositioned himself against the wall, retreating as far as he could into the corner. ‘What does my relationship with Jen have to do with your taxi driver?’ he asked Jones.
‘Who says I’m talking about the taxi driver? A civil servant called Martin Britton was killed the weekend of 23 September.’ He could see from the lieutenant’s expression that he wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. ‘He worked for the MOD. Perhaps you ran into him at the Imperial War Museum.’
‘I didn’t.’
The superintendent shrugged. ‘You were angry that weekend. You might have lost your temper with anyone.’
Acland shook his head.
‘You lost it with
Jen.’
‘The anger was all on her side.’
‘Why?’
‘She was happy to take my money but she didn’t enjoy what I did to her.’
Jones frowned. ‘You paid her for sex?’
Acland nodded.
‘Why would you treat her like a prostitute, Charles?’
‘Because that’s what she is.’
Jones didn’t argue the point. ‘And you thought payment constituted consent?’
‘That was the agreement.’ His mouth twisted. ‘She made the deal and told me to do my worst. She was laughing at the beginning . . . wasn’t so keen afterwards.’
‘When did you find out she was on the game?’
‘The day I ditched her.’
‘Which was when?’
‘Three days after I returned from Oman.’
Jones eyed him curiously. ‘The weekend of the 9th?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have been angry that day as well, Charles. It doesn’t do anything for a man’s confidence to find out he’s been sharing his fiance´e with every Tom, Dick and Harry in town.’ He paused,
waiting for an answer. ‘Did you rape Jen that day as well?’
‘No.’
‘Too shell-shocked to do anything? Couldn’t believe you’d been so gullible?’
Silence.
‘So you went back two weeks later and punished her with the roughest sex you could think of. It doesn’t work that way, Charles. Prostitutes have rights, too, you know.’
‘Not when they take your money and refuse to honour the contract they don’t.’
‘How does telling you to go ahead and do your worst constitute refusal?’
‘She wasn’t planning to go through with it.’
Jones looked enquiringly at DI Beale. ‘Are you following any of this?’
‘I think the lieutenant’s saying there were two different agendas operating. His and Ms Morley’s. For whatever reason, he was willing to pay for a sex act . . . and, for whatever reason, she thought she could pocket the money without obliging him. I’m guessing, because of the relationship they’d had, she believed she knew him well enough to assume he wouldn’t demand his rights as a client.’
‘Is that correct, Charles?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Why did she think she could get away with it?’
‘She thought she knew me.’
The superintendent’s frown deepened. ‘What were you doing in her flat that day? Was your only intention to have sex?’
‘No. I went to collect my stuff before I went to Iraq. She wasn’t supposed to be there. I still had a key.’
‘So she broke her word twice?’
‘Three times. There was nothing to collect. She’d destroyed most of it.’
‘And that made you angry?’
‘Everything about her made me angry. I hated her . . . she repulsed me.’ Acland spoke with real loathing. ‘I didn’t even want to touch her. I sure as hell didn’t want her touching me.’
Jones was less perplexed by the ambiguity behind this statement than some of the others Acland had made. The line between love and hate was a thin one. ‘So you decided to punish her instead . . . and paid for the right to do it?’
‘Only to show her how it feels to be treated like a laboratory rat.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘If you press the right button you get a reward . . . if you press the wrong one you get an electric shock.’
*
Jackson stooped to pull the duffel bag upright. It was softer than it looked, made of hemp rather than canvas, and the contents were heavier than she was expecting. If there was a bottle inside, it was full. She untied the strings at the top and pulled the opening wide to disclose a plastic carrier bag loosely wrapped around a rigid object about twelve inches long. With belated caution, she swivelled the hemp bag to allow the object to lean against the back of the driver’s seat in order to retrieve some medical gloves from her case, but as she let go of the opening, the hemp fabric, unsupported, fell in folds over further objects at the bottom, at least one of which was visible. At first glance, she thought it was a mobile telephone, until she noticed the two strips of embossed metal at the top and knew she was looking at a stun gun.
*
Beale felt instinctively that his boss had taken the wrong route when Jones chose to ask Acland how Jen had rewarded him. There was a slight relaxation of the lieutenant’s stiff posture when the
superintendent homed in on sex as a currency within the relationship. ‘Did you have to negotiate for intimacy? Did Jen only sleep with you when you behaved the way she wanted?’
‘More or less.’
‘Most men would find that demeaning.’ He watched Acland for a moment. ‘More so if she had to get high just to go through the motions.’
No response.
‘We saw her outside the pub earlier. She had a client waiting in a taxi and we think she was on her way back from her dealer.’ Jones pulled what passed for a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s not easy to get excited about sex when you’re only doing it to feed a habit, Charles. You shouldn’t have taken Jen’s lack of enthusiasm to heart.’
It was a deliberate needle but Acland met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘I didn’t. I got out.’
‘You punished her.’
‘Not as much as I wanted to. You asked me the other day why I travelled so light . . . well, that’s why. There was nothing left after she slashed my clothes and trashed the rest. I had a new laptop. It was in pieces on the floor.’
DI Beale stepped in when his boss didn’t say anything. ‘What did she use to smash it, Lieutenant?’
There was a slight hesitation. ‘Probably a hammer. I kept a tool box at her flat.’
Beale nodded as if the matter were of little importance. ‘She obviously has a violent streak,’ he said idly. ‘Did she use ever the hammer against you?’
Acland’s expression closed abruptly. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure? You called yourself a laboratory rat earlier . . . talked about pressing the wrong buttons. Did you discover too late that you’d signed up to a coke-addicted bunny-boiler instead of an Uma Thurman fantasy?’
*
Jackson stared down at the exposed wooden club. She was no expert in African artefacts but the polished rounded head and stock reminded her of a picture she’d seen of a Zulu knobkerrie. There was no reason for her to place any particular significance on it – the police hadn’t shared their forensic findings with her – but the hairs on the back of her neck bristled anyway. She’d read enough of the newspaper coverage to know that the three victims of the ‘gay killer’ had been beaten to death.
Of rather more weight in her decision to step away, leave everything as it was and call the police to come to her were the two mobiles lying beside the stun gun, one of which had a strip of Dynotape stuck to its front.... . . saying ‘Harry Peel’.
*
Jones uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. ‘I think it was you who was the abuser, Charles. You’ve got a real temper on you when you’re angry, and we all know how undignified it is having to beg for sex.’ Acland moved his palms to gain a better purchase against the wall. ‘You obviously know more about that than I do.’ Jones smiled slightly. ‘I’ve never been reduced to raping a woman because I couldn’t get it any other way. And I don’t go looking at Holocaust exhibitions to wallow in misery over my own behaviour either. Did that make you feel better . . . salve your conscience . . . because the Nazis had done worse to the Jews?’ Acland took a shallow breath and put his head back. ‘That’s not how it was.’ ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You and Ms Morley had a business deal . . . compensation for a broken laptop. That’s some revenge from a man who claims not to care about possessions.’ ‘You don’t know the first thing about it.’ ‘I know this much, you don’t behave like a man who’s at peace with himself. What are you ashamed of? That you regularly beat her . . . or that you allowed her to do it to you?’
> Silence.
‘I’m guessing you came in here to drown your sorrows . . . to think about things.’ He put a cynical stress on the words. ‘Did you target Harry Peel because he annoyed you? You wouldn’t be the first pussy-whipped man to take out his frustrations on a complete stranger.’
Beale made another move to intervene. Jones’s relentless belittling provocation was driving the lieutenant deep into the corner. His pallor was catastrophic. Even his lips were bloodless. ‘You have to stop, Brian. This is too much. He needs a doctor.’
With an irritated sigh, Jones stood up and shoved his chair in front of Acland. ‘For God’s sake, sit down before you fall over. What makes you think a trained soldier is any better equipped to deal with a violent woman than the rest of us? If we fight back, we give her the opportunity to paint herself as a victim . . . If we don’t, we’re in danger of taking a knife between the ribs. Why would you want to defend her?’
Acland ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth to generate some saliva but, even so, his voice sounded brittle when he spoke. ‘I’m defending myself.’
‘Against what?’
‘Whatever your next accusation’s going to be.’ His tongue rasped against his dry palate. ‘Last time it was Mr Tutting . . . This time you started with a taxi driver who was murdered . . . then a civil servant . . . Now it’s rape and humiliation.’
Jones pointed to the chair. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘I’m damned if I’ll end up in another fight because I have to force you.’ He watched Beale pour a glass of water, then perched on the side of the bed as Acland lowered himself on to the chair. ‘I want to know why you came back to Bermondsey and why you’re involved in this investigation.’
Acland took the water with a muttered ‘Thank you’ and drank it at one swallow, before bending forward to place the glass on the floor then pressing his left hand to his eyepatch. ‘Maybe you should ring Dr Campbell and ask her to explain synchronicity to you.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘If you look for meaning in random events, you’ll probably find it.’
*
Jackson’s call was put through to DC Khan. As he listened to what she had to say, he was reading an email on his monitor.
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