‘Every time,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t have her stamina. She’ll keep an issue alive for a month if it suits her. Is your mother the same?’
Acland was unprepared for the question. ‘It never goes that far,’ he said, surprised into answering honestly. ‘Dad gave up provoking her a long time ago.’
Jackson found his vocabulary interesting. ‘I thought you said they were always arguing.’
‘When I was a kid . . . not any more.’
‘So you weren’t joking when you said they went at it hammer and tongs? These were physical confrontations you were listening to?’ She paused for a moment, but went on when he didn’t answer. ‘Who was doing the hitting?’ Silence. ‘I assume from the words you used that your mother has more of a temper than your father.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Have you inherited it?’
He turned to look at her for a moment. ‘I’m nothing like my mother,’ he said flatly.
Jackson shrugged. ‘So you take after your father and avoid confrontation?’
‘Yes,’ he said harshly.
‘You didn’t back off with Rashid Mansoor during your fight in the pub,’ she pointed out. ‘You went at
‘He should have left me alone.’
‘The same way your father now leaves your mother alone?’
No answer.
‘Are you sure you’ve got your facts the right way round?’ Jackson needled him lightly. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t your mother who did the provoking and your father who lashed out in temper? If he avoids confrontation now it’s almost certainly because he’s learned to manage his anger.’
Acland leaned forward to press his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. ‘He’s too spineless to be angry about anything,’ he said contemptuously. ‘He had to drive himself to Casualty once with blood pouring out of his arm after she took a knife to him. When he came back, he told me he’d cut himself on some barbed wire. It was pathetic. He was always making excuses for her.’
‘Perhaps he was trying to protect you.’
‘He made sure everything happened behind closed doors after that . . . then packed me off to school. We played musical chairs around Mother so that she could have everything her own way.’
‘And you despise him for that?’
‘Yes.’ He opened and closed his fists till the knuckles cracked.
Privately, Jackson sympathized with him. It would explain a lot about his character, she thought, if he had no respect for the gentler of the parental role models. She even wondered if his problems with his mother stemmed from a confused admiration for her strength. ‘Except it’s hard to break cycles of abuse, Charles. If your dad grew up with an alcoholic wife-beater for a father, it must have taken extraordinary control to put up with similar treatment from your mother . . . then reach a point where it doesn’t happen any more. Most people would commend him for that.’
‘Not me. He wouldn’t have married her unless he enjoys being a doormat.’
‘He might not have known . . . unless her parents tried to warn him –’ Jackson gave a small shrug – ‘which may be the reason why she fell out with them. But even if they did, he wouldn’t have believed the warning. The relationship she had with them would have been very different from the one she had with your father.’
Acland shook his head stubbornly. ‘He lived with his own father long enough. If he’d ever found the guts to stand up to him, he might have done the same with my mother.’
‘Is that how you tried to run your relationship with Jen?’
The question, unanswered, hung in the air between them.
‘You can’t seem to decide which of your parents to emulate,’ Jackson went on. ‘Whether it’s more important to prove who’s boss . . . or to walk away when the abuse gets out of hand. Did you get a buzz from hurting Jen?’
Acland stared at her for a moment. ‘Not as big a buzz as I got from hurting my mother,’ he said before turning away to look out of the passenger window.
Nineteen
LEACHED OF COLOUR, and attached to drips and monitors, Walter more closely resembled a marble effigy than a conscious human being. He lay with closed eyes, and only the minute rise and fall of the sheet across his chest suggested life. Taking his cue from the attendant nurse, who whispered to him to speak clearly, Jones leaned forward. ‘Can you hear me, Mr Tutting? I’m a police officer. My name’s Detective Superintendent Brian Jones.’
‘You don’t need to shout. I’m not deaf.’ The old man half-opened his eyes. ‘Can’t see too well, though. Who’s the other one?’
‘Detective Inspector Nick Beale . . . Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating the assault on you.’
‘About bloody time. I’ve been wondering what I pay my taxes for.’
Jones smiled. ‘Do you remember what happened?’
‘Bastard tried to rob me.’
