‘It’s a crime scene,’ said a young black guy who was leaning on the roof of his BMW. ‘I’ve seen this shit on TV. The cops wear white overalls when they’re collecting evidence. I’m betting there’s been a murder.’
‘How do we get through?’
‘I don’t know, mate,’ he said amiably, ‘but you’re better off than me. At least you’re on foot. I’m stuck with the motor.’ He pointed across the road. ‘You can hang a right just before the tape . . . but you’ll have to push a way through. This gig’s drawn a bigger crowd than the Live 8 concert in Hyde Park.’
‘Cheers.’
‘De nada. If you see some cops, do me a favour and tell ’em to pull their fingers out. I’ve got a lady waiting for me and she’ll smack me around if I’m late again.’
‘Do you want to give her a call?’ Susan asked as Acland steered her between the BMW and the car in front. ‘I’ve a mobile you can borrow.’
‘Already done it.’ The man opened his palm to show his own cell phone. ‘She called me a mother –’ he broke off to grin at Susan – ‘liar,’ he amended. ‘Not too trusting, my lady. I’m hoping this thing’s big enough to make it on to the news.’
Susan waited until she and Acland reached the other side of the road before she laughed. ‘He’s living in cloud-cuckoo-land if he thinks his lady will accept the news as an excuse. She’ll say he heard it on his radio and smack him around even more.’
Acland paused at the kerbside. ‘You think that’s funny?’ he asked curiously.
Susan dropped her half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and ground it out with her heel. ‘I suspect the cheeky grin meant he was joking.’
‘Not necessarily. Five of the drunks who were kicking the old soldier were girls . . . and they were bloody vicious. The most the boy did was piss on the poor old sod, and he only did that because the girls told him to. It was sick.’
‘How did you scare them off?’ Susan asked again.
‘They didn’t like the look of my face when I took off my eyepatch,’ he said, surveying the crowded pavement. ‘You’d better hang on to the back of my jacket. That guy wasn’t joking about the need to push.’
>>>Reuters wire service to UK broadcasting stations
>>>BREAKING NEWS>>>BREAKING NEWS>>>BREAKING NEWS >>> Friday 10 August 17:17
Bermondsey man viciously attacked
Elderly London pensioner Walter Tutting, 82, sustained life-threatening head injuries from a vicious attack in broad daylight today. He was taken to intensive care at St Thomas’s Hospital after collapsing inside the doorway of an empty shop in Gainsborough Road, Bermondsey.
Hospital authorities describe Mr Tutting’s condition as ‘critical’. It is not known whether he was able to give details about his assailant.
Shop renovators Jim Adams, 53, and Barry Fielder, 36, found Mr Tutting when they returned from a lunch break. ‘He was in a bad way,’ said Jim Adams. ‘We were shocked that no one helped him. Passers-by must have thought he was drunk.’
Police have called for witnesses. A spokesman said, ‘As this incident happened around lunchtime, there must have been people who saw it. We believe Mr Tutting crossed Gainsborough Road before collapsing in the shop doorway. Passing drivers may have seen him.’
He refused to comment on whether police are linking this attack to the recent murders of three men in the SE1 area. Harry Peel, Martin Britton and Kevin Atkins all died from serious head injuries.
Traffic was brought to a standstill when part of Gainsborough Road was sealed off for a fingertip search. Witnesses say police discovered bloodstain evidence in an alleyway opposite the empty shop where Mr Tutting was found. The alley leads to Mr Tutting’s house, which has been sealed off pending examination.
Mr Tutting is a widower with three children and seven grandchildren. His daughter Amy, 53, is at his bedside.
Ten
ACLAND AND SUSAN’S ROUTE brought them to the other end of Murray Street. As they walked down it towards Gainsborough Road, they saw a throng of people standing outside the Bell with glasses in their hands. Disasters were good for business, it seemed.
Susan’s pace slowed. ‘We’ve picked a bad night to come here,’ she said. ‘I can’t see Jackson finding time to talk to us with all of this going on.’
Acland shared her reluctance. He thought he recognized one of the brokers in a group at the edge of the pavement. ‘Maybe we should leave it till tomorrow.’
Susan shook her head. ‘They know we’re coming. I spoke to Daisy before we left.’ She fished out her mobile and scrolled for numbers that she knew weren’t there. ‘It’s such a nuisance. I used the landline both times. We’ll have to push our way in and hope for the best.’
‘We could go somewhere else and wait till the police clear the road,’ Acland suggested. ‘It can’t last forever.’ His reluctance to be there was growing by leaps and bounds.
Perhaps Susan understood this because she placed a hand on his arm, keeping it deliberately light to avoid the immediate withdrawal that was his normal reaction to being touched. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be OK. Nothing’s ever as bad as you think it’s going to be.’
But as things turned out, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Four plain-clothes policemen moved in on Acland the minute he entered the pub, removing his kitbag from his hand and pinioning his arms. Taken by surprise, he offered no resistance, but, as one of the officers handcuffed him and advised him he was under arrest, he watched Daisy, who was standing in front of him, give a small nod of acknowledgement to Susan Campbell.
*
The capture was so rapid and so professional that few of the pub’s customers realized what was happening. In under thirty seconds from the time Acland had followed Susan inside, he was in the back of a car being driven to Southwark East police station. The only explanation he was given by the two detectives accompanying him was that he was wanted for questioning in connection with an assault. Once inside the station, he was given a police tracksuit and asked to remove his clothes and boots, before being taken to a secure interview room, where he was left to brood for an hour. If the aim was to unsettle him, it didn’t work. Acland was used to being alone with his thoughts. Yet the truth was he didn’t think about anything much, not even to speculate on why he was there. Perhaps it was Susan’s cheese sandwiches, or the warm, stuffy air of the room, but he kept drifting into a light sleep. Somewhere along the line his energy levels had hit rock bottom. Like a driver at the wheel of a moving car who is too bone-weary to consider the fatal consequences of exhaustion. In a nearby room, Detective Superintendent Brian Jones removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair while he watched Acland on a television monitor. He’d come straight from the incident room, a thick-set, no-nonsense man in his early fifties, who was seen as a bully by some of his team. He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Has he been like this since you brought him in?’ he asked. ‘Pretty much,’ said an officer who’d been in the car with Acland. ‘He nods off for a couple of minutes, then jerks his head up and stares at the ceiling for a while. Like that. If he’s on anything, it’s not obvious. Dr Campbell, the woman he came with, says he’s been with her since four o’clock, and she’s convinced he hasn’t taken anything in that time. He didn’t have
any paraphernalia when we searched him.’