‘You’re at liberty to do that, Lieutenant, as long as you or Dr Jackson notify us of your new address. There are no police bail conditions attached to your release, but that status could well be revised if you fail to inform us of your whereabouts.’
‘My car’s out back,’ said Beale. ‘I’ll drive you down myself. Dr Campbell phoned Daisy Wheeler ten minutes ago. She’s expecting us.’
Acland busied himself with the straps of his kitbag. ‘Why would Dr Campbell make the phone call?’
‘She offered to do it when I told her we were releasing you. She’s been in the waiting room all the time you’ve been here.’
Clearly surprised, Acland raised his head. ‘Have you been questioning her?’
‘Only to establish your alibi.’
‘Then what’s she still doing here? Why hasn’t she gone home?’
‘For support, I imagine,’ Beale answered matter-of-factly. ‘She says she’s your friend. I promised to drive you both to the Bell when your interview was over.’
There was a flicker of indecision on the lieutenant’s face before he gave a small nod. ‘I hadn’t realized . . . I thought she’d be long gone.’ He hoisted the strap over his head so that the bag lay diagonally across his back. ‘I appreciate the lift . . . thanks . . . but do you mind if I wait outside while you fetch Susan? I could really do with some fresh air.’
‘Sure.’ Beale opened the door and pointed to the right. ‘Down here, hang a left at the end and the exit to the car park is straight ahead. Mine’s the silver Toyota nearest the building.’
‘Cheers.’
Beale wondered about that look of indecision as he watched the younger man walk away. He wondered, too, about the extra layers of clothing. He raised his voice. ‘You’re not planning to abscond are you, Lieutenant?’
Acland paused briefly, turning to look at him. ‘If I did, I’d be letting Susan down,’ he said, ‘and I’ve never let a friend down yet.’
*
Susan lit a much-needed cigarette as she and Beale exited the police station to find a deserted car park. She propped her bottom against the Toyota bonnet and puffed smoke into the air while she watched the inspector scout around the exit to see if Acland was in the road. ‘What did you expect?’ she asked him. ‘I warned you he might change his mind.’ ‘He said he wouldn’t let a friend down,’ protested Beale impatiently, ‘and as it was in reference to you, I assumed he meant it.’ He eyed her accusingly, as if it were her fault. ‘He gave me his word.’ ‘Obviously not, if he doesn’t view me as a friend,’ said Susan thoughtfully. ‘You should have let me speak to him in the interview room.’ Beale flicked the remote on his key fob and opened the passenger door for her. ‘He can’t have gone far. We’ll drive around and see if we can spot him.’ He pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign on his dashboard. ‘Sorry. Rigid rule, I’m afraid. You’ll have to put the fag out before you get in.’ Obligingly, Susan obeyed before lowering herself into the seat. ‘I think we should go straight to the Bell. It’ll be a waste of time looking for him. He won’t come with us even if we do find him.’ ‘Wouldn’t you rather go home?’ ‘No,’ she said firmly, attaching her seat belt. ‘I need to talk to Jackson. She said she’d be back at the pub by twelve-thirty.’ Beale climbed in the other side. ‘I suspect Charles is planning to spend the night in the open – he added another layer of clothes before he left – so I’ll have him picked up in the morning.’ He put the key in the ignition and started the engine. ‘Let’s just pray no one gets murdered between now and then,’ he said with feeling, ‘because I’m not sure who’ll be for the higher jump . . . him or me.’
Susan smiled unsympathetically. ‘You need your head examining if you seriously believe that Charles Acland would pass himself off as a male prostitute in order to prey on lonely old men.’
Beale fired the engine, engaged the gears, then looked over his shoulder to reverse out of the parking space. ‘What made you come up with that comment?’
‘Your superintendent mentioned the gay murders . . . wanted to know if Charles had been in London when the last one happened.’
‘He wouldn’t have told you that posing as a male prostitute is the murderer’s MO. We don’t know how he gets in.’
‘I read the newspapers.’
Beale turned on to the main road. ‘The press is guessing . . . we’re all guessing.’ He glanced at her. ‘But let’s say you’re right, why should that exclude Charles?’
‘Because the whole idea of sex alarms him at the moment. He’s an intensely private person who won’t let anyone get too close. Your boss described him as abstemious. I’d describe him as self-protective and fastidious. Do you think that state of mind is conducive to sexual activity?’
‘There’s nothing to indicate that intercourse took place. The murders may have been the reaction to a proposition of gay sex.’
Susan shook her head. ‘Charles would never have got as far as the bedroom,’ she said confidently. ‘He won’t even enter a front door without coaxing. He’s uptight about his facial disfigurement, does everything he can to keep people out of his private space and won’t intrude on anyone else’s. There’s no way he’d get beyond the hall in a stranger’s house –’ she arched an ironic eyebrow – ‘particularly if he thought sex was behind the invitation.’
The inspector glanced at her. ‘So why didn’t you give that opinion to the superintendent? He’d have released Charles three hours ago if you had.’
With a sigh of irritation, she lit another cigarette without asking his permission. ‘No, he wouldn’t. He’d have done what you just did . . . jump at any half-arsed theory that might associate Charles with the attacks. I don’t even know why he came under suspicion in the first place.’
Beale lowered her window a couple of inches to draw the smoke away from him. ‘The man who was attacked today effectively named Charles as his assailant.’
‘How? Your boss told me he was unconscious.’
‘He came round briefly when the paramedics arrived. When they asked him who’d done it, he said it was a man with an eyepatch, and Charles admits that he had a row with Mr Tutting earlier in the day.’
‘He told me about that. He said some old chap kept jabbing him in the back. Was that Mr Tutting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why have you allowed Charles to go?’
‘His alibi stood up,’ said Beale, drawing to a halt at some traffic lights. ‘We think Mr Tutting confused the two incidents because Charles was back at his flat by the time the attack happened –’ he cast an ironic glance at Susan – ‘having yet another row. This time with his upstairs neighbour.’
She sighed again. ‘He told me about that, too. As I understand it, the woman’s lonely and she took against Charles when he rejected her advances.’ She paused. ‘You must think he’s in fights all the time, but I don’t think that’s true. I agree he’s had a bad twenty-four hours, but the fact that he came to me suggests he’s aware of it and doesn’t want it to happen again.’
‘What makes you think the super wouldn’t have understood that?’
‘Too many negative associations. Fights . . . rows . . . aversion to sex with a woman . . . seeking help from a psychiatrist. In your boss’s shoes, I’d have leapt for the more obvious conclusions. At least this way he seems to have found out for himself that Charles is so opposed to anything to do with the flesh that he’s slowly killing himself from starvation.’
Beale recalled the protruding ribs. ‘Is he doing it deliberately?’