She eyed him curiously for a moment, then gave a small shrug of disappointment. ‘You’re not the person I thought you were,’ she said.
‘Ditto,’ Acland murmured.
‘Then we’ve both wasted our time.’ She offered a small nod of farewell and headed towards the ambulance, where she had a brief word with the paramedics and Chalky before continuing on to her car.
Chalky came back. ‘Shift your arse,’ he ordered. ‘Your lady friend wants to follow the meat wagon so that we can see the lad safely delivered.’ He retrieved all the bags from the pavement, including Acland’s kitbag, and set off after Jackson.
Acland stalked angrily behind him. ‘Did she tell you to do that?’
‘What?’
‘Take my kitbag.’
‘Just doing you a favour, mate.’
‘Not interested. I want my stuff.’
‘Then show the lady some gratitude first.’ Chalky crossed Caroline Street and dumped all the bags into Jackson’s open boot before slamming it shut. ‘Grow up, son,’ he said scathingly. ‘Do you think anyone’s ever cared enough to come looking for me?’
*
Jackson made no comment when Acland slid into the seat behind Chalky and pulled the door closed. She merely lowered the windows to dispel some of the older man’s aroma then headed down towards the Aldwych. Amused by Chalky’s cheerful announcement that it was the first time he’d been in a car since he’d walked out on his old woman, she encouraged him to talk about himself. How old was he? ‘Last time anyone took notice, thirty-three . . . but I gave up counting after that. I went for a drink with some mates . . . had a few too many jars . . . and found the wife waiting for me when I got home. She had a bad temper, that woman. Didn’t want to celebrate my birthday herself but got steaming mad because I did.
Is that fair or is that fair?’
Jackson smiled. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘Now you’re asking.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Twenty-two years, give or take a year or two. I was born in ’51 . . . joined the army in ’69 . . . spent three years in Germany . . . did a couple of stints in Northern Ireland . . . married in ’78 . . . fought in the Falklands in ’82 . . . cashed in my chips a year later . . . then took to the road when I couldn’t stand the missus any longer. She blamed me for the lack of nippers. That’s what got her riled.’
‘Did you think about getting help for it?’
‘Nah. Waste of time. Reckoned the best thing I could do was bugger off and let her have a bash with someone else.’ He sounded quite cheerful about it. ‘It wasn’t much of a marriage. She only liked me when I wasn’t around – sent letters and such – then, soon as I came home, the knives came out.’ He pulled a face. ‘The drink might have had something to do with it. Couldn’t face her without a few jars under my belt . . . Kept asking myself why I’d tied myself to a roly-poly pudding – no offence – when I should have gone for something I could have got my arms round.’
‘What did you do after you left the army?’
‘Couldn’t settle to anything. The world seemed pretty flat after the Falklands.’ Chalky sighed. ‘I should have stayed a soldier. I got a buzz out of going to war.’
Jackson glanced at Acland’s face in the rear-view mirror, but if he had any fellow-feeling with Chalky’s views, he wasn’t showing it. ‘What rank were you?’
‘Made it to corporal just before we left for the South Atlantic. Best year of my bloody life that was . . . been downhill ever since.’
This time Acland did show some interest. ‘Which regiment?’ he asked.
‘Two Para.’
‘Which company?’
‘B Company.’
‘So you were in the attack on Goose Green?’
Chalky lifted a grimy thumb in the air. ‘Certainly was. It was us took Boca Hill. I lost a good mate there.’ He shook his head in sudden wistful nostalgia. ‘We joined up together and I can hardly remember what he looked like now . . . Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
Acland stared out of the window as Jackson turned on to Waterloo Bridge. The river was only beautiful at night, when the lights along its banks gleamed like diamonds on black velvet, and the Palace of Westminster, lit by arc lamps, looked more like a fairy castle than the seat of government. In daylight hours, with the embankments and bridges thronged with people and cars, he could see no beauty in it at all. ‘So how come a corporal from 2 Para ends up drinking meths in the gutter?’ he asked harshly.
Surprisingly, Chalky didn’t take offence. ‘I never drink the dyed meths,’ he said, as if such abstinence were a matter for pride, ‘though I still go for the white stuff when I can get it. It’s not so bad – rots your brain and rots your liver – but it’s cheap and it keeps the boredom at bay for a few hours.’ He scratched the beard at the side of his face. ‘I prefer cider.’
‘That’s not an answer. You wouldn’t have made corporal if you hadn’t had something going for you. What happened to that person?’
Chalky shrugged. ‘Who knows, son? Maybe he just got lost on the Falklands.’
Fourteen
THE AMBULANCE HAD ALREADY arrived by the time Jackson turned off Lambeth Palace Road into St Thomas’s A&E entrance. With every emergency parking space taken, she glanced at Acland in the mirror and asked him if he had a valid driving licence.
He nodded. ‘No one’s asked for it back yet.’
She pulled over and opened her door. ‘There’s a staff car park round the side. Find the main entrance and follow the signs. I just need a couple of minutes to check through the kid’s things . . . see if I can find out who he is. If you’re challenged, show this – ’ she pointed to a medical priority sticker on her dashboard – ‘and ask them to page Trevor Monaghan or phone me on this number.’ She took a card from her pocket and passed it back to him.
‘Don’t go looking through anything of mine,’ said Chalky firmly. ‘The black rucksack belongs to the lad . . . everything else belongs to me . . . and it’s private.’
Jackson eased out from behind the wheel. ‘You’re safe on that score,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m not in the habit of rifling through plastic carrier bags full of rubbish.’
She opened Acland’s door and handed him the keys. ‘You’re very trusting,’ he said, climbing out. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? You’re not planning to steal a BMW, are you?’ He watched while she opened the boot and made a quick search of Ben’s rucksack. ‘I haven’t driven since I lost my eye.’ ‘So? You can see well enough to climb railings.’ She removed a label from the inside flap with a name, Mr B. Russell, and an address in Wolverhampton. ‘I’ll take this for the moment, but can you go through his things with a fine-tooth comb after you’ve parked? We need home address, surname and next of kin.’
‘Shouldn’t the hospital do it?’
‘It’ll be quicker this way.’ She took out her medical case and slammed the boot shut again. ‘Bring the bag to reception when you’ve finished and ask them to page me or Dr Monaghan –’ she eyed him for a moment – ‘and don’t leave Chalky alone in my car. I’d prefer the contents to be intact when I come back.’