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
‘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
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?’
Susan flicked her cigarette out of the car window. ‘I don’t know, but if you want to pray about anything, then pray it’s not Charles’s body that’s found tomorrow morning.’
The traffic lights turned green but Beale ignored them. ‘Are you serious?’
‘It depends how many reserves he has.’
Beale moved off in response to a car’s flashing lights behind him, but drew into the kerb once he was through the junction. ‘I can’t ignore information like that, Dr Campbell,’ he said, turning to her. ‘If your concerns are valid and he’s as vulnerable as you suggest, then I’m duty-bound to organize a search for him.’
‘That’s why we’re going to the Bell,’ she said. ‘He’ll avoid policemen like the plague . . . but I think he might talk to Jackson.’
The inspector shook his head as he reached into his jacket pocket for his mobile. ‘How’s she going to find him? He could have walked a mile in any direction by now.’
Susan laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I have an idea where he might be,’ she said, ‘but if I’m wrong, it won’t do any harm to delay for half an hour. At least give Jackson a chance.’
‘You’re placing a lot of faith in this woman, Dr Campbell.’
