‘About what? The drugs or the prostitution?’
‘Either.’
‘The day I told her it was over.’
‘At the end of September.’
Acland shook his head. ‘Closer to the beginning. She didn’t like me being the one to end it. A man doesn’t walk out on Jen . . . not without being made to look a fool first.’
Jackson pulled up outside her next patient’s house and killed the engine. She found the timeline, and details, of when and how he ended the engagement confusing. ‘Why did you go back at the end of September?’
Acland set to squeezing his knuckles again. ‘To fetch my stuff. She wasn’t supposed to be there. The agreement was I’d use my key and leave it behind when I left. She reneged on that the way she reneged on everything else.’
‘I’m surprised you thought you could trust her.’
He stared at his hands. ‘I didn’t. I just hoped she’d show a bit more sense.’
*
Beale drew his Toyota into a parking space in front of the Crown and leaned forward to watch a woman emerge from the side of the pub. ‘Do you see the blonde?’ he asked Jones. ‘That’s Jen Morley . . . Charles Acland’s ex . . . the call girl Khan and I interviewed the other night, the one who fancies herself as Uma Thurman.’ The superintendent followed his gaze and took in the swept-back hair and high-necked, figure-hugging outfit that the girl was wearing. ‘She could pass for her tonight. I’ve seen a lot worse.’ They watched her walk to a waiting cab where a small, portly man climbed out of the back and held the door open for her. ‘Did you check to see if she’s on file?’ asked Jones, watching the vehicle pull away. ‘She was arrested a couple of years ago during a blitz on crack
houses in south London. She fell into the bracket of users who picked the wrong time to visit their dealers. She was given a caution, but not charged. I couldn’t find anything else.’
Jones glanced towards the unlit passageway at the side of the pub again. ‘What are the odds on a supplier being down there?’
‘High,’ said Beale matter-of-factly. ‘From what Khan and I saw the other night, she’s pretty far gone. I can’t see her getting through a couple of hours with a client without some assistance.’
London Evening Standard – Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Body Found in River
The body of a man was recovered from the Thames in the Woolwich area this morning. His identity is unknown but he’s described as bearded with greying dark hair, of average height and build and wearing a brown overcoat. Police are investigating the circumstances surrounding his death.
Twenty-two
THE CROWN WAS SMALLER, darker and less noisy than the Bell, although it wasn’t short of customers. Their average age appeared to be older than the twenty-somethings Daisy attracted, and the place had an atmosphere of respectability rather than the boisterous buzz that the Bell’s younger clientele inspired. As soon as they walked in, both Jones and Beale questioned whether teenage prostitutes would want to frequent it, or even be allowed through the doors if they did. There was a prominent sign on the bar saying: ‘It is illegal to sell or serve alcohol to under 18s. Proof of age may be requested.’
If the publican recognized the two men as policemen, he didn’t show it. He broke off from a conversation with another customer and approached them with a smile. ‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’
Jones took out his wallet and nodded to one of the draught taps. ‘I’ll have a pint of the Special. What about you, Nick?’
‘The same, thanks.’
The man watched them while he drew beer into the first glass. ‘Any news on Walter?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘We’ve all been rooting for him. There’s a rumour going round that he’s regained consciousness. Is that true?’
Jones took a fiver from his wallet and placed it on the counter. ‘It is,’ he said equally pleasantly. ‘I’m Superintendent Brian Jones and this is Detective Inspector Nick Beale.’
‘Derek Hardy. I’ve been wondering why we haven’t seen any of you in here before. Walter hasn’t missed a night in thirty years, or that’s what he tells me anyway. Everyone knows him.’
‘You didn’t think about phoning us with that piece of information? We’ve only just learned ourselves.’
Hardy placed the first glass on a mat and started to draw the second. ‘Not my fault, mate. I called the hotline the day after the poor old sod was mugged and I haven’t heard a dicky bird out of you since.’ He nodded towards the man he’d been speaking to. ‘Old Pat did the same. He says he’s called twice and both times he’s been told the information’s been noted . . . then nothing happens.’
Jones frowned. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘The wife said you’re probably getting loads of calls. She reckoned I should go in person to the station.’ He placed the second glass on the mat and smiled at them. ‘I was planning to do it tomorrow, then you two show up. How’s that for timing?’ He took Jones’s note. ‘Four forty-eight, mate. Anything else?’
‘No thanks.’ He waited until the man returned with his change. ‘What’s so important that you’d come to the station in person?’
‘I don’t know if it’s important or not,’ Hardy confided, putting the coins into Jones’s hand, ‘but it’s a bloody odd coincidence.’ He folded his forearms on the counter. ‘A guy called Harry Peel was a regular here until he was beaten to death close on twelve months back. It was before my time – the wife and me took over as managers at the beginning of the year – but Walter talked about it once or twice . . . said you’ve never found the guy who did it.’
‘We haven’t.’
‘Well, after Walter got beaten up last Friday, Pat’s started worrying that he’s next on the list.’
‘What list?’
‘Whoever had it in for Harry and Walter. The three of them were good friends.’
Jones looked towards the elderly man at the other end of the bar. ‘Is that Pat?’
‘Yeah. Will you talk to him?’
‘Sure.’ He turned to Beale when Hardy was out of earshot.
‘Do you want to check the Gents? It’s probably a waste of time but there might be some cards in there.’
‘Now?’
‘Might as well. It’ll be a good five minutes before the old boy gets into his stride. He looks in worse shape than Walter.’
*
It wouldn’t have surprised Jackson to find Acland gone again when she returned to the car. He hadn’t been willing to explain what he meant by Jen showing more sense and showed no inclination at all to open up about the relationship. It was more of a surprise that he was there and that he reintroduced the subject of Jen of his own accord. ‘We never went anywhere in Bermondsey,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m getting to know the area better with you than I ever did with Jen.’ ‘Was there a reason for that?’ ‘I booked a table at a restaurant in the high street shortly after we met – I was trying to persuade her that a soldier’s life’s fairly normal at weekends when he’s not on manoeuvres or fighting a war – but she made me cancel when I told her where we were going. She said she had enough trouble with blokes in the street trying to chat her up, without adding waiters to the queue. I was naive enough to believe her in those days.’ ‘And what do you believe now?’ ‘That she was afraid we’d run into a dealer or a client. She wouldn’t come out with me unless it was in my car or in a taxi. We never used the tube, never used buses, never walked anywhere from her flat together –’ he shook his head – ‘and it took me a long time to question how peculiar that was.’ ‘I’m not surprised if you were only there at weekends,’ Jackson pointed out. ‘It would have been obvious much sooner if you’d lived with her permanently. What was the plan for when you were married? Did you ever talk about that?’
‘She kept sizing up properties in Chelsea on the basis that my mother did a grande dame act the only time she met her. Jen thought it meant my parents were loaded and would give us a hand with the finances. I tried to tell her she’d got the wrong
end of the stick, but she wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Does she have family of her own?’
He crunched his knuckles. ‘I don’t know. She said she was an only child and her folks had died, but I don’t think it’s true.’
‘Why not?’
‘She forgot which background she’d invented for them. Her father started out as a bank manager and ended up as a hot-shot lawyer.’
‘She was trying to impress you.’
‘Then she should have been honest,’ he said shortly. ‘It wouldn’t have worried me what her parents do.’
Jackson believed him. He certainly wasn’t the snob that his mother appeared to be. ‘So where were you going to live?’ she asked, returning to her previous question. ‘It doesn’t sound as if Jen wanted to stay in Bermondsey.’
‘She didn’t. She wanted a ticket out and I was the sucker who was supposed to provide it. That’s the only reason she latched on to me.’
His tone had an edge to it that sounded like pain and Jackson wondered how to respond. What kind of reassurance did he want? That he hadn’t been suckered as easily as he thought?
‘It wouldn’t have been so black and white,’ she said slowly. ‘You said you liked the person she was at the beginning, so her feelings for you must have been genuine. She may even have tried to kick her habit for you.’ She gave him time to answer, and went on when he didn’t. ‘She’s a user, Charles. Most of them are deeply sincere about their desire to give up – they don’t like how it impacts on the people they love – but only a tiny percentage succeed without professional help.’
He pressed the back of his thumb against his eyepatch. ‘Then go and do the business yourself. You know where she lives. You might even prefer her to Daisy. She’ll be all over you as long as the first rush hasn’t worn off.’
Jackson allowed a pulse of silence to pass. ‘I didn’t deserve that . . . and, just for the record, I don’t fancy addicts – they’re too damn twitchy for my liking. But,’ she continued over his muttered apology, ‘even if I did, I wouldn’t turn myself into a martyr over one of them. So Jen initiated sex during cocaine rushes. What’s the big deal?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Does it hurt your pride? Are you thinking she only fancied you with chemical assistance?’
Acland leaned forward abruptly to grind the knuckles of his left hand into his eyepatch. ‘You need to stop,’ he said through gritted teeth.
She glanced at him, saw his pallor. ‘There’s a sick bag in the dashboard pocket,’ she said unsympathetically. ‘I’ll stop when it’s safe to do so.’
‘No.’ Acland’s right hand shot out and grasped the steering wheel, veering the car to the left. ‘You’re doing my fucking head in! Women do my fucking head in!’
Jackson stamped on the brakes and used her own strength to keep the BMW from ploughing into a line of parked vehicles. ‘Take your hands off!’ she snarled. ‘NOW!’
For a moment his grip seemed to slacken, then, with a sudden reversal of pressure, he turned the wheel to the right, using the force Jackson was already applying to steer the car towards the other side of the road. It happened so fast, and the combined strength of both their pulls was so powerful, that any attempt on her part to redress the drift came too late. She watched a lighted bollard in the middle of the road race towards them, felt the offside front tyre strike the kerb, and the only thought she had was that he was trying to kill her.
Her reaction was automatic. She took her left hand from the steering wheel, chopped the point of her elbow into the side of his jaw, then used her forearm to slam his plated cheek against the passenger window...
*
‘Harry was Bob Peel’s eldest . . . did a stint in the army, then followed his dad into dockwork . . . until Maggie Thatcher took agin the unions and sold off the wharves to property developers.’ Pat took a thoughtful slurp from the beer Jones had bought him. ‘Me and Walter always knew Harry was a bit AC/DC . . . very dapper . . . liked his clothes . . . but it came as a shock to Bob. He hoped the army would knock some sense into Harry . . . and, when it didn’t, he married him off to Fred Leeming’s lass.’ ‘Debbie.’ ‘That’s the one. They never had any kiddies, which was a shame. Bob blamed it on Harry’s nancy-boy ways, but Harry told me in private that it was little Debbie who had the problem. She had a fair few women’s problems . . . fibroids and such . . . ended up with a hysterectomy before she was forty.’ He lapsed into silence, as if he’d forgotten what he was talking about. ‘You said you saw more of Harry after he and Debbie separated,’ Nick Beale prompted. ‘That’s right. He was lonely, poor lad. His dad died twenty years back but his mum passed away the night of the millennium . . . never got to see the new century. Good thing, too, some would say. It would have broken the old girl’s heart to know her boy got murdered.’ He bent his head for another mouthful of beer. ‘Walter and me did what we could to keep him chipper. He drove his taxi most nights, but he’d usually find time to drop in here around six for an orange juice and a quick chat. He was a good lad . . . not my generation, of course . . . I was his dad’s friend.’ He smiled vaguely at the superintendent. ‘Did you know Bob Peel? Worked down the docks...’ Derek Hardy broke in. ‘They want to know about Harry, Pat. You need to tell them about the men he took back to his bedsit.’
‘Thieving bastards, more like,’ said the old man, his mouth curving down in disgust. ‘I don’t say I approved of what Harry got up to . . . poor old Bob’d turn in his grave if he knew . . . but Walter said there were some things you couldn’t help . . . and I reckon he should know. He’s a bit that way himself. Him and May got on well enough, but they weren’t exactly soul mates.’
Jones stirred. ‘They had three children.’
‘I’m not saying he didn’t do his duty . . . just that he left the bedroom stuff alone once it was over. The missus said May wasn’t particularly bothered about it . . . in them days, sex wasn’t the be-all and end-all of existence . . . you just got on with the hand you were dealt.’ He took another swallow of beer. ‘Him and May were happy enough, but there’s no denying Walter’d rather sit in here with me and Harry than stay at home with his old lady. Don’t reckon May knew it, though. Walter’d never have hurt her by telling her as much.’
Jones had heard this refrain before. His team had spoken to at least fifty men who hadn’t wanted their families to know they were leading double lives. Kevin Atkins’s wife had been particularly poignant about her husband’s discretion. ‘If he’d loved us less he’d probably still be alive. He went out of his way to keep his gay side secret . . . just to avoid embarrassing the kids.’
‘Did Walter and Harry get together after May died?’ he asked Pat.
‘None of my business . . . never asked.’
‘What about other men?’
‘You talking about Walter still?’
Jones nodded.
‘Doubt it . . . reckon he was scared off by what happened to Harry.’
‘The murder?’
‘Before that . . . Harry got taken for half a grand. Never seen the poor bugger so scared. Said he was frogmarched to a cashpoint with a knife to his throat and made to take out two lots of two fifty, one before midnight and the other after.’
‘Did he report it?’
Pat shook his head. ‘Told him to, but he was scared out of his wits they’d come after him. All he could think about was leaving the place he was in and going back to Debbie . . . Reckon it put him off fagging for good.’
Jones sorted the various pieces of information in his head. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A month or so before he was murdered.’
‘You said “they”. How many people were involved?’
‘Not sure . . . two, I think. Far as I remember, Harry said the lad he took home let a second one in soon as business was completed . . . could have been more, though.’
‘Into Harry’s bedsit.’
Pat nodded. ‘Gave Harry the scare of his life by all accounts . . . he w
as half-asleep and naked when he found a knife at his throat.’
‘Did he know who these people were? Did he describe them?’
‘He said they were black . . . reckon that’s why he was so frightened. He thought they were going to take his money and stab him anyway. It’s the kind of thing that type does, isn’t it?’
Jones ignored the remark. ‘Afro-Caribbean? Nigerian? Somalian?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Age?’
‘The first one was a youngster, I know that, but I’m not sure about the other. Harry guessed they’d run the scam before . . . went straight to his wallet, took out his card and said they’d report him for sex with a minor if he didn’t come up with a grand.’
‘Did he say where he met the youngster?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Probably a fare . . . he was damn wary who he let into the cab after. Do you reckon they’re the ones who killed him?’
Jones avoided the question. ‘We could have done with this information a bit earlier, Pat. Did you report it after Harry was murdered?’
‘Certainly did,’ said the old man in an affronted tone. ‘Me and Walter both. A couple of uniformed coppers took statements from everyone in here the day after Harry was found. We told them you should be looking for blacks . . . but nothing’s been done. Sometimes wonder if you lot are as afraid of them as the rest of us.’
The superintendent took a sip from his own glass. ‘You’ll have to accept my apologies on this one, Pat,’ he murmured diplomatically. ‘It seems that none of your information has got through. You have my word I’ll look into it.’
‘No need to cause a ruckus. You’ve got it now.’
Jones nodded. ‘Except I’m having a problem understanding why Harry would invite the same young black man back to his bedsit a month after he stole money from him.’
‘Who’s saying the boy was invited? Maybe him and his mate came back for a second helping.’
‘Harry’s bedsit was on the second floor of a block. He had to use an intercom to let people in and he had a spyhole in his door. We are as sure as we can be that his killer was there by invitation.’
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