‘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.’
‘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?’
