‘What kind of doctor?’
‘Psychiatrist.’
‘Have you asked her if she thinks he’s fit to be questioned?’
‘Yes. She says he suffers from migraines, but doesn’t believe he has one at the moment. He was talking to her quite freely in the taxi coming over.’
‘Have you told her why he’s here?’
‘Not in detail. All I said was that he answered the description of a man wanted in connection with an assault.’
‘And?’
‘She assumed it related to the incident at the pub last night.’
‘Good. That may be what our friend in there is thinking as well.’ Brian Jones removed some photographs from a folder and selected a snapshot of an elderly man looking straight into the camera. ‘I’d rather do this without a solicitor, so, in the first instance, we’ll treat him as a witness. You two –’ he pointed to the man he’d been speaking to and a detective inspector – ‘show him this and let’s see what his reaction is. If he insists on a solicitor, we may need to do the interview under caution . . . but keep pressing the fact he’s just a witness. The rest of us will watch on the monitor.’
*
Acland regarded the two officers in silence when they entered the interview room. He acknowledged their introductions with a small nod – Detective Inspector Beale and Detective Constable Khan – but otherwise remained impassive, his hands clasped loosely on the table in front of him. ‘He’s very controlled,’ said the detective superintendent, watching the screen. ‘Most people show some indication of nerves after an hour in an interview room.’ They heard Beale apologize for keeping Acland waiting as he and Khan took seats on the other side of the table, then go
on to explain that witnesses were being sought in connection with an incident earlier in the day. ‘We’re interviewing anyone who might have seen something,’ he said, leaning forward to place the snapshot in front of Acland. ‘Do you recognize this man, sir?’
Acland lowered his gaze to the picture but otherwise didn’t move. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me how you know him?’
‘We had a run-in at the bank this morning. He was in the queue behind me and kept poking me in the back. I told him I didn’t like being touched and he got shirty with me.’
‘Did you hit him?’
‘No. I caught him by the wrist to stop him, then let him go when he pulled away. Is he saying I hit him?’
Beale avoided an answer. ‘What happened after you released him?’
‘Nothing. I left.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Home.’
‘Where’s home?’ Khan asked.
Acland gave the address of his flat.
‘Did you make a detour . . . go anywhere else before returning to Waterloo?’
‘No,’ said Acland, glancing at the photograph again. ‘I went straight there.’
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘Eleven . . . twelve. I can’t really remember.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
Acland nodded. ‘The woman upstairs and a next-door neighbour.’
‘Do you know their telephone numbers?’
‘No.’
‘Names?’
‘Not the neighbour’s, but the woman in the flat above calls herself Kitten. Her mail was addressed to Sharon Carter, so I presume that’s her real name.’ He watched Khan write it down. ‘What am I supposed to have witnessed?’
Beale eyed him for a moment. ‘Mr Tutting was taken to hospital at about one-fifteen this afternoon.’
‘Who’s Mr Tutting?’
‘This gentleman –’ Detective Inspector Beale tapped the snapshot – ‘the one you had a run-in with at the bank.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
Beale hedged. ‘He collapsed in the street.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Acland looked at the photograph again. ‘He had more guts than most people of his age . . . He told me to stick a sign on my back saying I was a bad-tempered bastard.’
Brian Jones signalled to another member of his team. ‘Hop in there and pull Beale and Khan out . . . but make sure the photo remains on the table. We’ll leave Acland to stew for ten minutes. I want to see what he does. And get Khan on to this Kitten female. We need to verify some times.’
*
Left alone, Acland showed no interest at all in the photograph. After a minute or two of staring ahead, he stood up, placed his hands on the floor and performed a perfect gymnastic handstand against the wall. He held his position for a full minute before embarking on a series of vertical press-ups, lowering his forehead to within an inch of the floor before pumping his arms straight again. ‘He’s a strong lad,’ said Jones, ‘but I can’t think that’s doing much for his migraines.’ Detective Inspector Beale, a tall, fair-haired man in his mid-thirties and Jones’s number two on the inquiry team, watched the monitor over the superintendent’s shoulder. ‘Does he know he’s being filmed?’ ‘What if he does?’ ‘That kind of press-up’s damned hard to do. It probably helps that he’s thin as a rake – less weight to shift – but . . . even so. Perhaps he’s telling us something.’ ‘What?’
‘That he’s strong enough to wait us out. The only time I tried a vertical press-up, I got stuck in the down position.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘Honestly?’ Beale collected his thoughts. ‘I’ll be surprised if he’s our man. He’s too straight. He wasn’t fazed by Walter Tutting’s picture and I didn’t notice any hesitations before he answered my questions. If he’d beaten the poor old boy’s head in, I don’t believe he’d have given me the spiel about Walter calling him a bad-tempered bastard.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Look at his control . . . it’s like watching a metronome.’ Jones swung his chair towards the inspector. ‘OK, let’s say you’re right. Why did Walter tell the paramedics that it was “the bloke at the bank with the eyepatch” who did it? Are you suggesting there were two men with eyepatches at the bank today and Walter had a run-in with both?’
‘No, but Walter lost consciousness again very quickly and his daughter says he forgets where he lives sometimes . . . so he might have confused the two incidents. Maybe he never saw his attacker and just assumed it was the same man.’ He jerked his chin at the monitor. ‘The only reason this lad’s in the frame is because the uniformed guys recognized his description from last night. We wouldn’t have known where to start otherwise.’
Thoughtfully, the superintendent tapped his forefingers together. ‘He’s the sort of person we’re looking for . . . ex-army . . . volatile temper . . . a fight last night . . . a run-in this morning with an eighty-two-year-old . . . knows how to damage people . . . doesn’t like being touched. Why does he have a psychiatrist in tow? What’s that all about?’
‘According to Dr Campbell, she’s just a friend.’
‘Why did she accompany him to the Bell?’
‘For moral support. He felt he’d made a fool of himself last night and didn’t want to face the landlady alone.’
‘The landlady being another doctor.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Yes. She’s quite a character, apparently. Goes by the name of Jackson and operates as an out-of-hours locum. I’ve left a message with her call service asking her to come in ASAP.’ He paused. ‘It’s another reason why I don’t fancy Lieutenant Acland for the attack on Walter. According to Susan Campbell, Dr Jackson offered him a room at the pub and he decided to take it because he doesn’t like where he’s living at the moment. But why would he come back so soon after beating an old guy half to death? He must have known the place would be crawling with police.’
‘He didn’t expect Walter to be in any condition to give a description.’
‘But he couldn’t rely on other witnesses staying quiet. It was broad daylight and the eyepatch makes him distinctive. Someone was bound to have seen him . . . if only in Gainsborough Road.’