Chameleon's Shadow

them? Less easy to mould?’

‘You wish.’

‘How will Hannah react when she finds out you’ve been hanging around with prostitutes? Will she take it well, do you think?’

Ben flashed him a look of dislike. ‘None of your fucking business.’

Pearson cleared his throat. ‘My client said he’s never been with a prostitute, Superintendent.’

‘That’s right,’ said the youngster. ‘I don’t even know any girls in London.’

‘You prefer boys?’

Ben lined up his pistol hand and pointed it at Jones. ‘Fuck off.’

‘So in all your time on the streets here, the only friend you’ve made is Chalky? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yeah . . . and if it’s Chalky you’ve been talking to, he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow most of the time. He probably meant shirt-lifters . . . calls them “girls” and “ladies” and spits on the ground behind their backs. He showed me the alleyway to get me away from them. He hates gays.’

Jones nodded. ‘So you said the first time we interviewed you. You seem very keen for us to see this only friend of yours as a died-in-the-wool homophobe.’

‘If that’s a gay hater, then that’s what Chalky is.’ He swivelled the pistol hand towards the window and performed a mock recoil. ‘He said if he still had his gun, he’d shoot the buggers.’

‘Are those your views, too?’

‘Sure. Shirt-lifting’s unnatural, innit?’

‘But sleeping with twelve-year-olds isn’t?’

The boy looked immediately to his solicitor to rescue him.

‘We’ve covered this area already, Superintendent.’

‘I don’t think we have, Mr Pearson. It’s the under-age girls your client’s been bedding in London that I’m interested in.’ He leaned forward. ‘We didn’t get our information from Chalky, Ben, and there was no confusion about the kind of girls that were being talked about. Young prostitutes with drug habits.’ He watched the youngster’s face for a reaction and thought he saw one. ‘What’s your role in the operation? Pimp?’

‘Like hell!’ Ben shifted his attention back to the solicitor. ‘He’s talking crap. I don’t know any prozzies.’

‘Where’s this leading, Superintendent?’

‘To Walter Tutting,’ answered Jones, keeping his eyes on the boy, ‘the elderly man who was beaten half to death last Friday . . . lives at 3 Welling Lane in Bermondsey. He regained consciousness a few hours ago.’

The speed of Ben’s response suggested he’d rehearsed his answer. ‘Nothing to do with me. I was puking like a dog on Friday . . . wouldn’t have ended up in here otherwise.’

‘Mr Tutting was attacked at lunchtime,’ Jones said, ‘and you were functioning well enough to climb over some railings twelve hours later. Would you like to tell me where you were and what you were doing between eleven and one on Friday?’

‘Can’t remember.’

The solicitor weighed in again. ‘Ben told you during his first interview that he has no clear recollection of details from Friday, Superintendent – nor, indeed, from a couple of weeks before his admission – other than that he was regularly sick and may have passed out a couple of times. His consultant confirmed these symptoms as typical of type one diabetes and the further complication of ketoacidosis.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Pearson. I also recall that the consultant mentioned mental stupor as a precursor to coma, and I’m wondering how a boy in a dazed state –’ he introduced sarcasm into his tone – ‘which appears to prevent him remembering anything – managed to find his way around Covent Garden in the dark.’

‘I was probably on auto-pilot,’ said Ben, observing Jones through half-closed lids. ‘If you go to a place often enough, you can find it in your sleep. Don’t remember doing it, though.’

‘Do you remember being in the Bermondsey area at lunchtime?’ Jones asked.

‘Don’t reckon I was. Never been there in my life as far as I can tell . . . don’t even know where it is.’ He scowled at his solicitor. ‘Is he allowed to do this? The doctor’s told him how sick I was, and it sure as hell ain’t got nothing to do with the stuff in my rucksack.’

‘Do you have any evidence connecting Ben with the attack on Mr Tutting, Superintendent?’

‘Not directly, but we believe he knows who was involved. His position will be a lot stronger if he confirms that for us now.’

‘Is this a fishing trip, Superintendent?’

Jones shook his head. ‘Far from it. At this stage, the only thing that’s preventing Ben from being interviewed under caution as a suspect in the assault on Mr Tutting are the constraints his illness puts on me under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’ He glanced at Ben’s mother, who was sitting with her habitually bowed head. ‘Whoever attacked Mr Tutting has a deep contempt for the elderly. First the poor old fellow was fleeced of his savings, then he was tossed aside as of no further value. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.’

Mrs Sykes stirred. ‘My Ben wouldn’t do a thing like that. Would you, love?’

‘Course not. I like old people. Chalky’s old. My stepdad’s old. May have had the odd row with ’em, but I’d never hit ’em.’

‘Is that where you draw the line?’ asked Jones.