Chameleon's Shadow

by Minette Walters

  Daisy, who had begun to find his attentions to her partner difficult to cope with, said he was acting as if he’d made Jackson responsible for his bail conditions. ‘It’s not your job to ensure he behaves himself,’ she said crossly. ‘Tell him to get a life and leave you alone.’

  ‘I quite enjoy having him along,’ said Jackson unwarily. ‘He’s no bother.’

  But Daisy liked that even less. ‘I might as well not exist for all the attention either of you shows me,’ she said bitterly.

  *

  Acland, who was well aware of the tensions he was creating, pushed himself away from the side of the BMW as Jackson rounded the corner. She was doing her usual trick of fiddling with her mobile as she walked along, but he was beginning to understand that she only did it to avoid eye contact with the people she passed.

  The cynical side of him said that she had choices about the way she looked. Yes, she was tall, but there was no law that obliged her to model herself on Arnold Schwarzenegger or the Muscles from Brussels, Jean-Claude Van Damme.

  On one of the few occasions when he’d found himself alone with Daisy – something he tried to avoid – he’d asked her if Jackson ever competed on the female bodybuilding circuit.

  Daisy’s response had been withering. ‘Don’t be an idiot! Have you ever looked at their photographs on the web? She’d have to prance around in a bikini and a fake tan, and stuff her breasts with silicone to give herself some boobs. Can you see Jackson doing any of that?’

  He couldn’t. Jackson was too individual to conform to a crowd-pleasing image.

  As she approached him now, he tried to picture her in a bikini with melon-sized breasts and an orange glow, but it wasn’t an image that leapt easily to the imagination. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. He half admitted he’s told the police a pack of lies, but only because I pointed out some flaws in his story. I could have done with another half-hour. His mother came back just as I was getting somewhere.’

  ‘What flaws?’

  ‘Timings. If he was as ill as he says he was when he acquired the mobile, it must have happened recently, but he’s told the police he stole it from a dark-haired man between two to four weeks ago.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Or a tallish woman. He’s using his diabetes as an excuse for confusion.’

  ‘Did he mention me?’

  ‘No.’ Jackson was surprised to see his shoulders relax slightly. ‘Were you expecting him to?’

  ‘He might have remembered me from the alleyway.’

  ‘He’s not in the business of remembering,’ she said cynically. ‘The worse his memory the fewer questions he has to answer.’

  ‘What are you going to tell the superintendent?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m in a bit of a catch twenty-two. I made a promise that I don’t particularly want to break . . . even though I think he was lying through his teeth.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘I was trying to persuade him to come clean of his own volition, but I can’t see him doing that . . . not while his mother’s around anyway.’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell Jones that it might be worth interviewing him again? That’s not a breach of confidentiality, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Jackson agreed, tucking her phone back into her pocket, ‘but it’ll be a waste of time if Mrs Sykes sits in on the interview. Ben will just stick to his original story or make up a new one. He’s pretty fast on his feet.’

  ‘Did he say if he had a duffel bag with him?’

  ‘No... denied all knowledge of one . . . along with the Londis carrier. The only thing he’s laying claim to is the rucksack.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d say it’s odds-on there was a duffel bag, and that Chalky took it because he knew what was in it. I’m sure he’s known Ben a lot longer than he admitted to us.’

  Acland looked past her towards the river. ‘I wonder what was in it.’

  Jackson studied the stiff set of his jaw. ‘Who knows?’ She paused. ‘Ben won’t have told the police if that’s what’s worrying you . . . he can’t, not if he’s telling them he knows nothing about it.’

  He met her gaze briefly. ‘Why would I worry about that? The bag’s nothing to do with me.’

  She shrugged as she opened the driver’s door. ‘Good. Then how do you feel about looking for Chalky? He seems to be avoiding the cops, but he might talk to us, and we’ve a couple of hours to kill. There’s a homeless drop-in centre in Docklands. The people there might be able to tell us where these dyke friends of his hang out.’

  ‘Sure,’ Acland said easily, opening the passenger door. ‘I don’t have a problem with that.’

  So why don’t I believe you? Jackson wondered, watching his fists pump furiously as he settled into the seat beside her.

  *

  One of the drop-in centre volunteers not only knew where the women were located but also knew Chalky. She shook her head when Jackson asked if she’d seen him recently. ‘We’ve had the police in here asking the same question,’ she said, ‘but he hasn’t been in for weeks. He only ever shows up occasionally.’

  ‘Do you know anything about him? His real name? Where he hangs out?’

  The woman shook her head again. ‘Sorry. He was in the Falklands War, that’s all I know about him. I’m told he has a bad temper when he’s drunk – some of our other clients are extremely wary of him – but we operate a strict no-alcohol policy so I’ve never seen him in that state.’

  She gave them directions on how to find the squat where the group of women lived. ‘I’m afraid it’ll be a waste of time,’ she warned. ‘The police have already spoken to them and they haven’t seen him either.’ She allowed her curiosity to show. ‘What’s made Chalky so popular suddenly?’

  ‘He helped a boy who went into a diabetic coma,’ said Jackson disingenuously. ‘We thought he might like to know the lad’s on the mend. They seem to have known each other for quite a while.’

  The woman nodded. ‘It’s only the youngsters who talk to him in here. They don’t seem as frightened of him as the older men.’

  Acland raised his head. ‘What do the youngsters want from him?’

  She looked surprised, as if the question was couched in terms she didn’t recognize. ‘I assume they find his stories about the Falklands interesting.’

  Acland looked sceptical but didn’t continue.

  Jackson picked up the woman’s response. ‘Is that what they talk about?’

  ‘It’s all he’s ever spoken about to me,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but we only listen in to clients’ private conversations if we’re invited, and I don’t recall Chalky ever doing that.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I’m afraid he’s rather suspicious of us, which is why we only see him rarely.’

  ‘What does he think you’re going to do?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Press-gang him into the God squad,’ said the woman with a deprecating smile. ‘Tie his hands behind his back to stop him drinking . . . shackle him into a bath for two hours and forcibly shave him. Most of the older ones think we have a hidden agenda to sober them up and send them out for job interviews.’

  Jackson looked amused. ‘And you don’t?’

  The woman’s smiled widened. ‘We dream from time to time.’

  *

  The squat where the group of women was living was an abandoned house in a back street scheduled for redevelopment. It was part of an ugly 1960s terrace, the middle one of nine, all with boarded-up windows and paint-blistered doors. On his own, Acland would never have gained entry, but Jackson easily passed muster, not least because she had the foresight to hold her ‘doctor on call’ card in front of her during the inspection she was given through a cracked, diamond-shaped pane in the front door. The door opened six inches. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ asked a thin-faced woman with crinkled grey hair, who could have been any age between forty and sixty. ‘I’m Dr Jackson and my friend here is Charles Acland. We’re looking for a man who goes by the name of Chalky.’ ‘The police have already been. We haven’t seen him since we took over this place,
which was a couple of months back.’ ‘So I heard,’ said Jackson, ‘but we could still do with any information you have. Are you and the others willing to give us ten minutes . . . tell us what you know about him . . . the kind of places he might be? We need to talk to him about a friend of his who’s in hospital.’ ‘Chalky doesn’t have any friends,’ the woman said dismissively. ‘Everyone gives up on him in the end. He’s a vicious bastard when he’s in drink.’ ‘This one’s a young lad called Ben Russell.’ ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He went into a diabetic coma a few days ago,’ said Jackson, ‘but he’s on the mend now. Maybe you know him? Ginger hair, sixteen years old, thin as a rake.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We think Chalky may have something that belongs to him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. He always lifts booze when he hangs around with us.’ She seemed to think this contradicted her previous assertion that Chalky was friendless. ‘We’re all in the same boat and he’s done us the odd favour from time to time . . . sees off guys who think we’re an easy target. Are you a real doctor?’

  Jackson nodded.

  A flicker of interest showed in the thin face. ‘Will you take a look at my partner? She’s had pains in her chest for days. It’s scaring the shit out of me, but she won’t do anything about it. I’ll get her to give you the low-down on Chalky in exchange. She knows him better than I do.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jackson pleasantly, gesturing towards Acland, ‘but my friend will have to come in with me. Is that a problem?’

  The woman glanced in his direction. ‘As long as he isn’t scared by noisy dykes. There’s a couple of mad ones in here who shout their heads off when they see a guy. They won’t worry about a butch stud like you, but they’ll probably go ape shit at the sight of the pirate.’

  ‘He’s a soldier,’ said Jackson matter-of-factly. ‘He’s dealt with a lot worse in Iraq.’ She took her keys from her pocket. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Avril.’

  ‘And your partner’s name?’

  ‘Mags.’

  ‘OK, Avril. Well, my car’s parked in the next road. I’ll need five minutes to collect my case.’

  Avril pulled the door wide. ‘Let your friend do it,’ she invited. ‘I’ll get one of the others to let him in when he comes back. You can talk to Mags about Chalky while he’s gone.’

  Jackson’s eyes creased with amusement. ‘No chance. He doesn’t know which drugs to remove . . . and if he’s on his own, he might be persuaded to hand the case to one of your mad girlfriends and stay outside.’

  Avril bridled immediately. ‘We’re none of us thieves.’

  ‘Good, because the strongest medication I’ll have in my possession when I return is aspirin, and the lieutenant here will be watching my back. Do you still say your partner’s suffering chest pains?’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘Just checking,’ said Jackson lightly.

  *

  Avril’s protestations of honesty appeared highly dubious when Jackson and Acland entered the house. From the glimpses they had into the downstairs rooms, the women had hijacked an IKEA lorry. They seemed to have a passion for rattan chairs, straw matting and russet-coloured throws, and it might have been a regular house but for the hurricane lamps and candles that compensated for the disconnected electricity and boarded-up windows. ‘Everything’s made in China,’ said Avril, pre-empting any questions, ‘so it’s all dirt cheap. A mate got it for us.’ She was carrying a torch and directed it towards a staircase. ‘My partner’s up here but I told the other three to stay in the kitchen. The two schizophrenics are probably more scared of doctors than they are of guys.’ She led the way to the next floor and opened a bedroom door. ‘Mags won’t want a bloke ogling her,’ she told Jackson, jerking her head at Acland. ‘He’ll have to wait outside.’ Over Avril’s head, Acland caught a glimpse of an overweight woman with bloated calves sitting in a low chair. Even by candlelight her face was the colour of lard, and the wide-eyed, anxious gaze she turned towards them suggested she knew she was going to be told something she didn’t want to hear. To Acland’s untutored eyes, death had already come knocking and he withdrew instinctively, taking up a position against the wall in the corridor. ‘Call if you need me,’ he told Jackson. ‘I’ll be right here.’

  She nodded and went into the room. As the door closed behind her, the corridor was plunged into darkness, with only a faint glimmer of candlelight shining up the stairwell from below. For the first minute or so, Acland could only hear the murmur of conversation in the room behind him, but as his eye adjusted to the darkness his ears adjusted similarly to the low-level noise in the rest of the house. The hum of women’s voices was audible from the kitchen – one louder and more petulant in tone than the rest – but he couldn’t make out what any of them was saying. Less expected was the muted rasp of a throat being inadequately cleared in the room directly opposite him across the small rectangular landing.

  Wondering if it was a trick of tinnitus, he turned his head to listen with his good ear. This time the sound was quite distinct. Whoever was in there was trying to contain a smoker’s cough by holding on to phlegm for as long as possible until the need to expel it produced an involuntary spasm. There was nothing to indicate gender – the rasp was a toneless guttural – but, as no light was escaping from under the door and Acland could think of no reason for a woman to sit in total darkness for fear of drawing attention to herself, his instinct said it was a man.

  He crossed his arms in front of him and continued to wait.

  *

  Jackson shook her head in annoyance as they returned to the car. ‘Mags couldn’t tell me anything about Chalky and didn’t like it when I said she needs to exercise and lose weight. Her heart’s as strong as an ox. The only thing wrong with her is that she’s fat, forty and flatulent, and Avril wants to keep her that way.’ ‘She looked pretty sick to me.’ ‘So would you if you never saw the daylight and your partner kept stuffing your face with burgers and chips,’ Jackson retorted grimly. ‘That is one very unhealthy relationship. It suits Avril to keep the silly woman dependent on her.’ ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows. Companionship . . . self-esteem . . . a misplaced maternal instinct. The best thing Mags could do is walk out now and return to wherever she came from.’ Irritably, Jackson snapped the locks on the BMW. ‘Avril’s a classic controller. She manipulates people by giving them what they want. Like Ben’s mother. That’s the way she operates.’

  ‘You didn’t take to Avril, then?’

  Jackson gave a grunt of amusement as she opened the boot and put her case into it. ‘I wouldn’t trust her further than I could throw her. Would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Acland with a hint of irony as he opened the driver’s door for her and stood back, gesturing for her to climb in, ‘but I don’t know the first damn thing about women.’

  Jackson arched a sardonic eyebrow. ‘You don’t know much about this one. Do I look as if I can’t open a car door for myself?’

  He stepped back immediately. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’

  ‘The last man who insisted on treating me like a piece of Dresden china was my grandfather,’ she said idly, taking off her jacket and tossing it on to the back seat. ‘I was sixteen years old and taller than he was, but he decided I should find out just once in my life how it felt to be treated like a lady. He made a big deal of helping me into his clapped-out Peugeot.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She put her foot on the sill and rested an arm along the top of the door. ‘He told me lesbians lead miserable existences, particularly the masculine-looking ones. People snigger at them behind their backs.’

  Acland stared doggedly over her shoulder, wondering where this was leading. ‘Is he eating his words now?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘I wish he was. He died a couple of years later. It’s one of the reasons I went into medicine. He had a perfectly treatable disease that went undiagnosed because his GP was a moron and the waiti
ng lists were so long. Colon cancer,’ she explained. ‘By the time the poor old boy was referred to a specialist, it was too late.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, lowering herself on to the seat. ‘He was definitely one of the good guys.’ She fired the ignition and gestured towards the passenger side. ‘Are you getting in?’

  Acland shook his head. ‘I’ll make my own way back.’

  Jackson studied him for a moment. ‘Any particular reason why you don’t want to drive with me suddenly?’

  ‘I could do with the exercise.’

  She smiled slightly. ‘You shouldn’t make eye contact when you tell a fib, Lieutenant. That stare of yours is a lot more expressive than you think.’ But she didn’t try to persuade him out of whatever he was planning to do. With a brief nod, she slammed the door and engaged her gears.

  As she drove away, she watched in her rear-view mirror as he crossed to the opposite pavement and set off back towards the squat.

  Eighteen

  THE NEWS, LATE ON Wednesday afternoon, that Walter Tutting had emerged from his coma was greeted with relief by the inquiry team. Progress on Kevin Atkins’s mobile had been painfully slow. The last incoming call, prior to Jackson’s, was from a pay phone at Waterloo station, and a half-hearted hope that the booth might produce results so many weeks later was quickly shattered when information came through that it was cleaned daily. Jones refused to authorize a forensic examination. ‘We might as well dig a hole and pour money into it,’ he said grimly.

  Over sixty entries in the address book had been followed up without success. The majority of contacts were friends, family or business acquaintances, most of whom had been interviewed and dismissed at the time of Atkins’s murder. Of the remainder, fifteen, including three male prostitutes, all ex-army, had since accounted for themselves.