Chameleon's Shadow

by Minette Walters

  Beale let the silence drift, gambling that her own irritation was motive enough to keep speaking.

  ‘It’s ridiculous. The only other way for me to manage his affairs is to put him into receivership through the court of protection, but I need a medical certificate declaring him incompetent for that, and his doctor won’t give me one. He says Dad’s only in the mild stages of dementia and might stay that way till he dies.’ She paused. ‘It’s not worth wasting time on anyway. My brothers will object as soon as the court notifies them that I’ve put in the application.’ She fell silent again.

  ‘Why?’

  Amy gave a bitter little smile. ‘They’re only interested in what they’re going to inherit. It’s no skin off their noses if Dad squanders his pension, but the house is worth about twenty times what he paid for it in 1970. They don’t care how difficult it is for me as long as their inheritance isn’t sold to pay for a nursing home.’

  Beale eyed the unhappy slump of her shoulders, wondering how blunt he could be. ‘Has your father told you what he’s spending his pension on, Ms Tutting?’

  Either she misinterpreted the question or the tentative note in Beale’s voice suggested he knew the answer already. A look of resignation crossed her face. ‘Will it get into the newspapers?’

  ‘I can’t say at this point.’

  ‘It’s so disgusting. Why would an eighty-two-year-old man want to do that kind of thing? It’s only a couple of years since Mum died.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why,’ said Beale.

  ‘I suppose he’s told you he doesn’t do anything with them . . . just wants a chat now and then because he’s lonely.’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s not true. They all know the more they play with him the richer they’ll be. I’ve found mugs with sperm in them. It’s revolting.’

  ‘Difficult for you.’

  ‘He’s so senile he forgets if he’s paid them. All they have to do is ask for money upfront and money at the end . . . and he just keeps opening his wallet. He must be the easiest touch in Bermondsey. I told the doctor, Dad’s become a free banking service to every little tart in the area . . . and do you know what he said?’ The resentful lines around her mouth scored deeper into her skin. ‘It’s probably good for his prostate.’

  Twenty

  FOLLOWING HER FIRST HOUSE call of the evening, Jackson went on the attack about Daisy. As ever, Acland was lounging against her car when she returned. ‘You look like shit,’ she said severely, abandoning her earlier attempts to persuade him to talk about Jen. ‘It doesn’t do my image any good to drag an unshaven gorilla around with me.’

  He stroked his stubble. ‘I’d have frightened Daisy if I’d appeared looking like this.’

  ‘She says you’re acting like a stalker.’

  ‘I know. I heard you arguing in the kitchen yesterday morning. That’s why I thought you needed some time to yourselves.’

  He had an answer for everything. ‘You shouldn’t have listened.’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice,’ he said mildly. ‘Daisy’s voice goes into overdrive when she’s angry.’

  ‘This isn’t easy for her.’

  ‘Only because the boot’s on the other foot for once.’

  Jackson frowned at him. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’m spending too much time with you, and that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. She’s jealous.’

  Jackson gave a surprised laugh. ‘Of you? Give me a break! She’s been jealous of the odd woman in the past . . . but it wouldn’t cross her mind to be jealous of a man.’

  Acland came close to a smile. ‘It’s nothing to do with sex . . . it’s about being the centre of attention. The only interest you’re supposed to attract is fear when she calls on you to act as a bouncer. She’d see off a dog if it wagged its tail too vigorously every time you came home.’

  ‘So now you’re a psychiatrist.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m happy to stare at her tits all day if it’ll make your life easier. It’s what every other bloke in the bar is expected to do.’

  ‘She doesn’t do it for fun,’ said Jackson, irritably popping the locks and dumping her medical case in the boot. ‘It’s good for business.’

  ‘End of discussion, then.’ In what appeared to be deliberate provocation, Acland opened the driver’s door. ‘I’ll jog back to the pub and join the fan club.’

  Jackson glared at him as she eased herself behind the wheel. ‘Get in,’ she said crossly, jerking her head towards the passenger seat. ‘I’d rather have you attached to my hip than scaring the life out of Daisy by ogling her breasts.’ She waited while he walked round the bonnet and climbed in beside her. ‘What’s the deal on this? What’s she done to make you dislike her?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s the other way round. She dislikes me.’

  ‘You’re as bad as each other,’ said Jackson with a frustrated sigh, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

  Acland gave another shrug. ‘If you want the truth, she scares the shit out of me. I don’t feel comfortable with the way she dresses . . . I don’t feel comfortable when she plays with her hair . . . and I sure as hell can’t stand the way she puts her hands on people.’

  Jackson turned to look at him. ‘Would you do anything to hurt her?’

  ‘I might if she tried to touch me,’ he said truthfully, buckling his seat belt. ‘That’s why I’m avoiding her.’

  *

  DI Beale tapped on the glass panel in Ben Russell’s door to attract the superintendent’s attention, then waited outside for Jones to appear. He caught a glimpse of one of his uniformed colleagues

  taking notes by the window, and a full view of his boss’s irritable expression as the door closed behind him. ‘The kid’s giving yes or no answers and the bloody solicitor’s protecting him at every turn. He threatens to pull the plug every time the miserable little wretch yawns.’ He moved away from the door. ‘Tell me some good news.’

  ‘You were right about prostitutes. If the daughter’s to be believed, Walter’s been entertaining most of the working girls in south London over the last six months. She’s short on detail – doesn’t know names and can’t describe any particular girls because she’s never seen any of them – but she’s adamant that half a dozen see her father as an easy touch.’

  ‘How did she come up with a number if she’s never seen them?’

  ‘Walter let it slip when she told him he was a fool to think a drug-addicted tart would give a damn about him. He said it wasn’t just one, it was more like six.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell us this before?’

  ‘The usual,’ said Beale, flicking the pages of his notebook. ‘We didn’t ask . . . she didn’t think it was important . . . she thought her father had said it was a man who’d attacked him.’ He isolated an entry. ‘I mentioned that none of the fingerprints in Walter’s house matched anything we had – and I said it was odd because I didn’t believe her father had picked on the only six prostitutes in London who didn’t have convictions – and her answer was, “I told him I wouldn’t come back if he didn’t clean up after himself.”’

  ‘So where’s the evidence of prostitution? You said, “if the daughter’s to be believed”. Are guesses all you’ve got?’

  ‘He’s been paying them. According to Ms Tutting, he’s so senile he coughs up two or three times for a single session. She says the girls use him as a free banking service every time they need a fix. She even thinks he’s given his PIN to one or two of them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A list of examples of how disgusting Walter’s been.’ Beale kept his voice deliberately matter of fact. ‘Semen in mugs . . . dirty underpants . . . the smell of cheap perfume round his trouser fly . . . fag ends in the sink. Apparently, he masturbates in front of Ms Tutting when he forgets who she is.’

  Jones pulled a grimace of distaste. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

  ‘I’d say so. She’s had some ding-dong rows with her father about money and he hasn’t denied that h
e’s spent it on prostitutes . . . claims it’s his right to do what he likes with it. I’ll check with his bank tomorrow, find out how much he’s withdrawn in the last six months.’

  ‘Why six months?’

  ‘Ms Tutting found a stack of unpaid bills dating back to February. It could be longer. She says he’s been acting weird since his wife died two years ago.’

  ‘Weird as in sexually active?’

  Beale shrugged. ‘Sexually curious, at least. She claims to have seen a telephone bill from last year which shows he racked up five hundred quid on 0900 lines in a single quarter.’

  Jones frowned. ‘Why haven’t we found that? 0900 numbers should have been ringing alarm bells for days.’

  ‘Walter threw everything away when Ms Tutting threatened to have him certified as financially incompetent. That was two or three weeks ago.’

  ‘How long’s she known about the prostitutes?’

  ‘For certain? Not much longer. A month at most . . . from the time she found the unpaid bills and challenged him about them. She’s been trying to persuade him they’re robbing him blind and he’s not to open the door if one of them rings.’

  Jones rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. ‘I’ve a damn good mind to have the idiotic woman arrested for obstruction.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Does she know how he contacts these girls?’

  Beale shook his head. ‘She says it’s the other way round. They seek him out whenever they need cash.’

  ‘He must have contacted them in the first place. Did she have any ideas on that?’

  ‘The only things she’s sure about are that he doesn’t know how to work a computer and he’s been having a drink in the same pub every night for thirty years.’ He consulted his notebook again. ‘The Crown. It’s a couple of streets away from Walter’s house. Do you know it?’

  Jones shook his head.

  ‘I’ve a nagging feeling at the back of my mind that it’s come up before in this inquiry . . . but I can’t remember where. I’m wondering if it’s one of the places that had a mini-cab arrangement with Harry Peel?’ He raised enquiring eyebrows. ‘Strike a chord?’

  ‘No. Has anyone checked it out since the attack on Walter?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ms Tutting said she mentioned it when she was asked about her father’s habits, but it didn’t come up when I spoke to one of the team earlier.’ He watched the superintendent’s expression darken. ‘It won’t be anyone’s fault, Brian. Walter’s been on a back burner because of Kevin Atkins’s mobile. Do you want me to call in to the Crown on my way back?’

  Jones looked at his watch. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll come with you.’ He jerked his thumb at Ben Russell’s door. ‘Is there anything Ms Tutting told you that might wipe the smile off laughing boy’s face?’

  Beale hesitated. ‘Nothing specific, but she has huge issues with teenage girls – the sister was bang on the button about that. I listened to a two-minute rant on how the only thing feminism has created is a generation of sexually active, celebrity-mad, half-naked, binge-drinking wannabes . . . then another two minutes on how easy they’ve made it for teenage boys to take advantage of them.’

  Jones smiled slightly. ‘So? Any copper on the beat will tell you the same.’

  ‘Agreed, but it made me wonder about Ben. He wants us to think Chalky’s his only friend in London and that he still holds a candle for Hannah in Wolverhampton . . . but I’d say that’s a little unlikely, wouldn’t you? He’s been here a while, and presumably he was a healthy sixteen-year-old before the diabetes kicked in.’

  ‘You think he knows Walter’s prostitutes?’

  Beale shrugged. ‘It’s a reasonable bet. They’re the same age group, and I can’t see letters from an absent girlfriend keeping a sexually active sixteen-year-old on the straight and narrow for long . . . or not one with Ben’s capacity for dodging and weaving.’

  *

  ‘Ten minutes,’ Jones agreed with the solicitor as he resumed his seat, nodding to the WPC to resume her note-taking. ‘Just a few more questions and then we’ll call it a day.’ He studied Ben’s bored expression for a second or two. ‘You might prefer your mother to leave the room,’ he murmured, ‘unless you’re happy to discuss your sexual activities in front of her.’ He was rewarded with a flicker of alarm, but the solicitor jumped in before the boy could say anything. ‘We agreed that questions would relate only to those items in Ben’s rucksack that he has freely admitted stealing, Superintendent.’ Jones nodded. ‘But we believe your client received or stole those items from teenage prostitutes, Mr Pearson, and I’m interested in the relationship he has with these girls.’ Pearson gave a perfunctory smile. ‘If you put those questions individually, Mr Jones, I will advise Ben to answer them. If you insist on linking them, I won’t.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer me to do it.’ He turned to the boy. ‘Ben . . . have you ever received stolen items . . . or stolen items yourself . . . from teenage prostitutes?’ ‘No.’ ‘To your knowledge, have you ever had a relationship – sexual or otherwise – with a teenage prostitute?’ ‘Not unless Hannah was one.’ He sniggered at the solicitor’s frown. ‘It was a joke, for fuck’s sake. I’ve never been with a prozzie in my life.’

  ‘Please continue, Superintendent.’

  Jones studied the man’s face and wondered what he really thought about his client. Mid-forties and well spoken, Pearson seemed an unlikely champion for a foul-mouthed Wolverhampton lad. ‘Irrespective of those answers, Mr Pearson, I intend to continue this line of questioning. Ben has a history of predatory behaviour on vulnerable under-age girls. Hannah was twelve when he first had sex with her. He was fifteen.’

  ‘We’ve dealt with this issue, Superintendent. Hannah’s parents have declined to take the matter any further.’

  Jones pulled a sceptical smile. ‘They can’t do anything else. Their daughter refuses to make a statement. She has a romantic notion that a frayed photograph and some semi-literate letters will keep an absent lover faithful.’ He turned his scepticism on Ben. ‘What’s wrong with girls of your own age? Are they too intelligent to do what you tell them? Less easy to mould?’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘How will Hannah react when she finds out you’ve been hanging around with prostitutes? Will she take it well, do you think?’

  Ben flashed him a look of dislike. ‘None of your fucking business.’

  Pearson cleared his throat. ‘My client said he’s never been with a prostitute, Superintendent.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the youngster. ‘I don’t even know any girls in London.’

  ‘You prefer boys?’

  Ben lined up his pistol hand and pointed it at Jones. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘So in all your time on the streets here, the only friend you’ve made is Chalky? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yeah . . . and if it’s Chalky you’ve been talking to, he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow most of the time. He probably meant shirt-lifters . . . calls them “girls” and “ladies” and spits on the ground behind their backs. He showed me the alleyway to get me away from them. He hates gays.’

  Jones nodded. ‘So you said the first time we interviewed you. You seem very keen for us to see this only friend of yours as a died-in-the-wool homophobe.’

  ‘If that’s a gay hater, then that’s what Chalky is.’ He swivelled the pistol hand towards the window and performed a mock recoil. ‘He said if he still had his gun, he’d shoot the buggers.’

  ‘Are those your views, too?’

  ‘Sure. Shirt-lifting’s unnatural, innit?’

  ‘But sleeping with twelve-year-olds isn’t?’

  The boy looked immediately to his solicitor to rescue him.

  ‘We’ve covered this area already, Superintendent.’

  ‘I don’t think we have, Mr Pearson. It’s the under-age girls your client’s been bedding in London that I’m interested in.’ He leaned forward. ‘We didn’t get our information from Chalky, Ben, and there was no confusion abo
ut the kind of girls that were being talked about. Young prostitutes with drug habits.’ He watched the youngster’s face for a reaction and thought he saw one. ‘What’s your role in the operation? Pimp?’

  ‘Like hell!’ Ben shifted his attention back to the solicitor. ‘He’s talking crap. I don’t know any prozzies.’

  ‘Where’s this leading, Superintendent?’

  ‘To Walter Tutting,’ answered Jones, keeping his eyes on the boy, ‘the elderly man who was beaten half to death last Friday . . . lives at 3 Welling Lane in Bermondsey. He regained consciousness a few hours ago.’

  The speed of Ben’s response suggested he’d rehearsed his answer. ‘Nothing to do with me. I was puking like a dog on Friday . . . wouldn’t have ended up in here otherwise.’

  ‘Mr Tutting was attacked at lunchtime,’ Jones said, ‘and you were functioning well enough to climb over some railings twelve hours later. Would you like to tell me where you were and what you were doing between eleven and one on Friday?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  The solicitor weighed in again. ‘Ben told you during his first interview that he has no clear recollection of details from Friday, Superintendent – nor, indeed, from a couple of weeks before his admission – other than that he was regularly sick and may have passed out a couple of times. His consultant confirmed these symptoms as typical of type one diabetes and the further complication of ketoacidosis.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Pearson. I also recall that the consultant mentioned mental stupor as a precursor to coma, and I’m wondering how a boy in a dazed state –’ he introduced sarcasm into his tone – ‘which appears to prevent him remembering anything – managed to find his way around Covent Garden in the dark.’

  ‘I was probably on auto-pilot,’ said Ben, observing Jones through half-closed lids. ‘If you go to a place often enough, you can find it in your sleep. Don’t remember doing it, though.’