Chameleon's Shadow

was beginning to understand that she only did it to avoid eye contact with the people she passed.

The cynical side of him said that she had choices about the way she looked. Yes, she was tall, but there was no law that obliged her to model herself on Arnold Schwarzenegger or the Muscles from Brussels, Jean-Claude Van Damme.

On one of the few occasions when he’d found himself alone with Daisy – something he tried to avoid – he’d asked her if Jackson ever competed on the female bodybuilding circuit.

Daisy’s response had been withering. ‘Don’t be an idiot! Have you ever looked at their photographs on the web? She’d have to prance around in a bikini and a fake tan, and stuff her breasts with silicone to give herself some boobs. Can you see Jackson doing any of that?’

He couldn’t. Jackson was too individual to conform to a crowd-pleasing image.

As she approached him now, he tried to picture her in a bikini with melon-sized breasts and an orange glow, but it wasn’t an image that leapt easily to the imagination. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

‘Not really. He half admitted he’s told the police a pack of lies, but only because I pointed out some flaws in his story. I could have done with another half-hour. His mother came back just as I was getting somewhere.’

‘What flaws?’

‘Timings. If he was as ill as he says he was when he acquired the mobile, it must have happened recently, but he’s told the police he stole it from a dark-haired man between two to four weeks ago.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Or a tallish woman. He’s using his diabetes as an excuse for confusion.’

‘Did he mention me?’

‘No.’ Jackson was surprised to see his shoulders relax slightly. ‘Were you expecting him to?’

‘He might have remembered me from the alleyway.’

‘He’s not in the business of remembering,’ she said cynically. ‘The worse his memory the fewer questions he has to answer.’

‘What are you going to tell the superintendent?’

‘I don’t know. I’m in a bit of a catch twenty-two. I made a promise that I don’t particularly want to break . . . even though I think he was lying through his teeth.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘I was trying to persuade him to come clean of his own volition, but I can’t see him doing that . . . not while his mother’s around anyway.’

‘Couldn’t you tell Jones that it might be worth interviewing him again? That’s not a breach of confidentiality, is it?’

‘No,’ Jackson agreed, tucking her phone back into her pocket, ‘but it’ll be a waste of time if Mrs Sykes sits in on the interview. Ben will just stick to his original story or make up a new one. He’s pretty fast on his feet.’

‘Did he say if he had a duffel bag with him?’

‘No... denied all knowledge of one . . . along with the Londis carrier. The only thing he’s laying claim to is the rucksack.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d say it’s odds-on there was a duffel bag, and that Chalky took it because he knew what was in it. I’m sure he’s known Ben a lot longer than he admitted to us.’

Acland looked past her towards the river. ‘I wonder what was in it.’

Jackson studied the stiff set of his jaw. ‘Who knows?’ She paused. ‘Ben won’t have told the police if that’s what’s worrying you . . . he can’t, not if he’s telling them he knows nothing about it.’

He met her gaze briefly. ‘Why would I worry about that? The bag’s nothing to do with me.’

She shrugged as she opened the driver’s door. ‘Good. Then how do you feel about looking for Chalky? He seems to be avoiding the cops, but he might talk to us, and we’ve a couple of hours to kill. There’s a homeless drop-in centre in Docklands. The people there might be able to tell us where these dyke friends of his hang out.’

‘Sure,’ Acland said easily, opening the passenger door. ‘I don’t have a problem with that.’

So why don’t I believe you? Jackson wondered, watching his fists pump furiously as he settled into the seat beside her.

*

One of the drop-in centre volunteers not only knew where the women were located but also knew Chalky. She shook her head when Jackson asked if she’d seen him recently. ‘We’ve had the police in here asking the same question,’ she said, ‘but he hasn’t been in for weeks. He only ever shows up occasionally.’

‘Do you know anything about him? His real name? Where he hangs out?’

The woman shook her head again. ‘Sorry. He was in the Falklands War, that’s all I know about him. I’m told he has a bad temper when he’s drunk – some of our other clients are extremely wary of him – but we operate a strict no-alcohol policy so I’ve never seen him in that state.’

She gave them directions on how to find the squat where the group of women lived. ‘I’m afraid it’ll be a waste of time,’ she warned. ‘The police have already spoken to them and they haven’t seen him either.’ She allowed her curiosity to show. ‘What’s made Chalky so popular suddenly?’

‘He helped a boy who went into a diabetic coma,’ said Jackson disingenuously. ‘We thought he might like to know the lad’s on the mend. They seem to have known each other for quite a while.’

The woman nodded. ‘It’s only the youngsters who talk to him in here. They don’t seem as frightened of him as the older men.’

Acland raised his head. ‘What do the youngsters want from him?’

She looked surprised, as if the question was couched in terms she didn’t recognize. ‘I assume they find his stories about the Falklands interesting.’

Acland looked sceptical but didn’t continue.