Chameleon's Shadow

‘She’s a lesbian.’

The older man gave a snort of amusement. ‘The meths hasn’t totally rotted my brain, lad. I’ve a few dyke friends down in Docklands – they tend to hang together for safety – but I share a cider with them from time to time. They look after each other . . . There’s a couple of schizos in the group that the others take care of.’ He paused to run his tongue along the paper. ‘The doc’s doing the same for you.’

Acland got out and walked round to open Chalky’s door. ‘She wants me to check the boy’s rucksack to see if she missed anything.’

The older man studied him thoughtfully. ‘You’d better let me do that, son. The kid doesn’t like strangers poking through his stuff any more than I do. Think I didn’t notice you eyeing up the bags in the alleyway?’

Acland ignored him. ‘I’ll only be looking for next-of-kin details. You can watch while I do it if it’ll make you happier.’

But Chalky was more interested in creature comforts. ‘I’ll take a quiet smoke and a drink in here where it’s warm. You can show me what you’ve found afterwards . . . and I’ll tell you what’s important and what isn’t.’

‘No chance.’ Acland put his hand under the other man’s elbow and heaved him upright. ‘You can do your smoking and drinking on that wall over there.’

‘I’m not taking orders from you, lad.’

‘I outrank you.’

Chalky shook him off. ‘Not in my world, you don’t,’ he said with sudden belligerence. ‘In my world, anyone who’s been at this game longer than you takes precedence . . . and that includes young Ben in there.’

Acland kept an eye on his fists. ‘You don’t want to take me on, Corporal. I’ve been a mean bugger since the ragheads destroyed my face.’

‘You look it,’ Chalky agreed. ‘Seen guys like you before . . . fucked on the outside and fucked on the inside. What the hell? The wall’s as good as anywhere.’ He removed a half-bottle of vodka from another pocket. ‘I got lucky,’ he said by way of explanation as he wandered off. ‘A lass gave me a tenner this morning . . . said I reminded her of her grandpa.’

*

If Acland had ever thought about leaving, he abandoned the idea as he watched Chalky perch on the low wall bordering the car park and unscrew the vodka with shaking hands. Perhaps it was the desperate way the corporal sucked at the alcohol, or the fact he looked older than the fifty-six he was claiming, but the scene – Dickensian in its harsh reality – burned into Acland’s brain. He couldn’t imagine this man as a soldier with the fortitude to march and fight for two days on the desolate ridges of the Falkland Islands. He retrieved Jackson’s torch from the dashboard pocket, then opened the boot and upended Ben’s rucksack in the front corner. The ceiling light was strong enough to show objects, but Acland propped the torch on his kitbag to help him decipher anything written. He experienced a similar embarrassment to DI Beale as he surveyed the adolescent’s pathetic haul. There were more gadgets than Acland possessed – a couple of mobile telephones, a digital camera, a BlackBerry and four iPods – but fewer clothes. Acland guessed the gadgets were stolen – certainly none of them had functioning batteries – but he separated out the mobiles and the BlackBerry in case there was anything relevant on them. There were several envelopes, all addressed to Ben Russell c/o a drop-in centre in Whitechapel. Inside were handwritten letters from someone called Hannah. Acland skimmed through them. I miss you so much . . . Dad’s been over the moon since you left . . . He’s such a knobhead . . . keeps saying out of sight, out of mind . . . I feel sorry for your mum . . . I saw her in town and she looked really sad . .. At the top of each letter, by way of Hannah’s address, was The Hell Hole, but the frank marks on the envelopes suggested they’d been posted in Wolverhampton.

In one of the rucksack pockets, Acland found a photograph of a simpering girl with straight blonde hair, heavily made-up eyes and pale pink lips. A flourishing dedication had been scrawled in felt-tip pen across the bottom – Love you, babe – don’t forget to write – and on the back in pencil was written 25 Melbury Gardens, WV6 0AA. It didn’t take Einstein to work out that this was the address for Ben’s return letters, although Acland doubted it was where Hannah lived. The ‘knobhead’ father wouldn’t ignore letters from London.

He repacked the rucksack, placing the phones, BlackBerry, envelopes and snapshot in the front pocket, then dropped it to the ground at his feet. He took another look at the array of bags that Chalky claimed were his, then stepped away from the car and raised his voice. ‘Are you sure nothing else in here belongs to Ben? I remember him bringing more than just the rucksack into the passageway.’

‘You’re talking through your arse.’

Acland studied him for a moment. ‘If you keep claiming to be a soldier,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll slit your bloody throat. Nothing you’ve ever done in your whole miserable life allows you to range yourself with the guys I’ve led.’

‘I don’t take that kind of talk off jumped-up lootenants.’ There was noticeably more aggression in Chalky’s tone, as if vodka had released the fighter in him. ‘If you’re looking for his cash, he wears it in a belt . . . same as I do. The nurses will have pocketed it by now.’

‘Nurses don’t steal off kids, Chalky, and neither do I. Which of these bags is his? I’ll go through the lot if necessary.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ The corporal heaved himself off the wall and came towards him. ‘I’ll have your guts if you’ve touched anything of mine.’ He loomed menacingly at Acland’s shoulder. ‘It’s the Londis bag . . . the one with the baccy and the booze. They’re no good to him here. He won’t be able to smoke and drink in a sodding hospital, will he?’

Acland pulled the Londis carrier forward and untied the polythene handles that were holding the contents together. Two hundred Benson & Hedges and a bottle of whisky. ‘How did he get them? You said he was fifteen.’

‘Nicked ’em.’

‘You can’t nick spirits and cartons of cigarettes off the shelf.’

‘OK, he paid for ’em . . . probably in a Paki shop. Pakis don’t care who buys the stuff as long as cash changes hands.’