Chameleon's Shadow

make-up, but there were deep grooves at the side of her mouth that suggested it turned down more often than it turned up. She wasn’t smiling now. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’

Beale produced his warrant card. ‘There’s a phone in the sister’s office. You can double-check my credentials from there.’

Uninterested, she returned the card. ‘I’ve already told your people everything I know. What good will another five minutes do?’

‘I’d rather discuss that in private, Ms Tutting. Some of the issues your father’s raised are quite sensitive.’

She frowned unhappily but allowed herself to be shepherded down the corridor. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything he says, you know. He forgot my mother’s name a couple of weeks ago . . . kept insisting it was Ella . . . but that’s the name of one of my sisters-in-law. He remembered Mum the next day, but there was no arguing with him at the time. He doesn’t like being told he’s wrong.’

Beale closed the office door and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Had Ella been to visit him that day?’

‘Hardly. She and my brother live in Australia.’

Beale favoured her with a sympathetic smile as he took the other chair. ‘What about your other brother? Is he any closer?’

‘Manchester . . . but it might as well be Australia. Dad hasn’t seen him in twelve months. He made a flying visit on Sunday because he wanted to know what was happening with the house . . . but he wasn’t prepared to sit with Dad.’ She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag. ‘He said he didn’t have time because he had to be back in Manchester by seven.’

‘Leaving you to shoulder the responsibility as usual?’

The woman nodded.

‘That can’t be easy, not when you’re working a forty-hour week and trying to have a life of your own. Do your brothers know how hard it is to keep track of what your father’s doing?’

Amy Tutting was no pushover. She raised suspicious eyes to Beale’s. ‘What’s Dad been saying?’

Beale hesitated. ‘It’s more what he hasn’t said, Ms Tutting. He seems to be in a continuous loop of anxiety which involves a repetition of three phrases . . . “Mustn’t open the door” . . .

“Don’t tell Amy” . . . “Been a silly old fool”.’ He folded his hands on the table and stared at the woman. ‘We think the person he’s afraid of is you.’

Her mouth turned down immediately. ‘Only because I told him I was going to have him certified and put in a nursing home. I’m fed up with it. He’s in arrears on his council tax . . . sitting on fuel bills that haven’t been paid since the last quarter.’ She took a rattling breath through her nose. ‘He expects me to cover them, but I don’t see why I should.’

Beale agreed with her. ‘Is he living on a state pension?’

‘Plus what he gets from his contributory pension, but he won’t tell me how much that is. He worked as a printer for forty years, so it won’t be peanuts.’ She looked understandably angry. ‘He keeps all his papers locked away to stop me finding out . . . but there’s never enough to pay the bills. I’ve been trying to persuade him to grant me power of attorney and all he says is—’ She came to an abrupt halt.

Beale let the silence drift, gambling that her own irritation was motive enough to keep speaking.

‘It’s ridiculous. The only other way for me to manage his affairs is to put him into receivership through the court of protection, but I need a medical certificate declaring him incompetent for that, and his doctor won’t give me one. He says Dad’s only in the mild stages of dementia and might stay that way till he dies.’ She paused. ‘It’s not worth wasting time on anyway. My brothers will object as soon as the court notifies them that I’ve put in the application.’ She fell silent again.

‘Why?’

Amy gave a bitter little smile. ‘They’re only interested in what they’re going to inherit. It’s no skin off their noses if Dad squanders his pension, but the house is worth about twenty times what he paid for it in 1970. They don’t care how difficult it is for me as long as their inheritance isn’t sold to pay for a nursing home.’

Beale eyed the unhappy slump of her shoulders, wondering how blunt he could be. ‘Has your father told you what he’s spending his pension on, Ms Tutting?’

Either she misinterpreted the question or the tentative note in Beale’s voice suggested he knew the answer already. A look of resignation crossed her face. ‘Will it get into the newspapers?’

‘I can’t say at this point.’

‘It’s so disgusting. Why would an eighty-two-year-old man want to do that kind of thing? It’s only a couple of years since Mum died.’

‘Maybe that’s why,’ said Beale.

‘I suppose he’s told you he doesn’t do anything with them . . . just wants a chat now and then because he’s lonely.’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s not true. They all know the more they play with him the richer they’ll be. I’ve found mugs with sperm in them. It’s revolting.’

‘Difficult for you.’

‘He’s so senile he forgets if he’s paid them. All they have to do is ask for money upfront and money at the end . . . and he just keeps opening his wallet. He must be the easiest touch in Bermondsey. I told the doctor, Dad’s become a free banking service to every little tart in the area . . . and do you know what he said?’ The resentful lines around her mouth scored deeper into her skin. ‘It’s probably good for his prostate.’

Twenty

FOLLOWING HER FIRST HOUSE call of the evening, Jackson went on the attack about Daisy. As ever, Acland