winning the jackpot . . . looks and personality all wrapped up in one.’ He made a sound in his throat that sounded like a laugh. ‘I should have realized it was too good to be true.’
Jackson flicked him a sympathetic glance. ‘What do you know about cocaine addiction, Charles?’
‘It destroys people.’
‘It certainly alters aspects of the personality,’ she said calmly. ‘It can produce a variety of responses – euphoria, heightened sexuality, overwhelming confidence – but you wouldn’t assume those were drug-induced traits unless you were told. The downsides are aggression and paranoia, particularly in long-term users.’
Acland didn’t say anything.
‘When did you find out?’
‘About what? The drugs or the prostitution?’
‘Either.’
‘The day I told her it was over.’
‘At the end of September.’
Acland shook his head. ‘Closer to the beginning. She didn’t like me being the one to end it. A man doesn’t walk out on Jen . . . not without being made to look a fool first.’
Jackson pulled up outside her next patient’s house and killed the engine. She found the timeline, and details, of when and how he ended the engagement confusing. ‘Why did you go back at the end of September?’
Acland set to squeezing his knuckles again. ‘To fetch my stuff. She wasn’t supposed to be there. The agreement was I’d use my key and leave it behind when I left. She reneged on that the way she reneged on everything else.’
‘I’m surprised you thought you could trust her.’
He stared at his hands. ‘I didn’t. I just hoped she’d show a bit more sense.’
*
Beale drew his Toyota into a parking space in front of the Crown and leaned forward to watch a woman emerge from the side of the pub. ‘Do you see the blonde?’ he asked Jones. ‘That’s Jen Morley . . . Charles Acland’s ex . . . the call girl Khan and I interviewed the other night, the one who fancies herself as Uma Thurman.’ The superintendent followed his gaze and took in the swept-back hair and high-necked, figure-hugging outfit that the girl was wearing. ‘She could pass for her tonight. I’ve seen a lot worse.’ They watched her walk to a waiting cab where a small, portly man climbed out of the back and held the door open for her. ‘Did you check to see if she’s on file?’ asked Jones, watching the vehicle pull away. ‘She was arrested a couple of years ago during a blitz on crack
houses in south London. She fell into the bracket of users who picked the wrong time to visit their dealers. She was given a caution, but not charged. I couldn’t find anything else.’
Jones glanced towards the unlit passageway at the side of the pub again. ‘What are the odds on a supplier being down there?’
‘High,’ said Beale matter-of-factly. ‘From what Khan and I saw the other night, she’s pretty far gone. I can’t see her getting through a couple of hours with a client without some assistance.’
Body Found in River
The body of a man was recovered from the Thames in the Woolwich area this morning. His identity is unknown but he’s described as bearded with greying dark hair, of average height and build and wearing a brown overcoat. Police are investigating the circumstances surrounding his death.
Twenty-two
THE CROWN WAS SMALLER, darker and less noisy than the Bell, although it wasn’t short of customers. Their average age appeared to be older than the twenty-somethings Daisy attracted, and the place had an atmosphere of respectability rather than the boisterous buzz that the Bell’s younger clientele inspired. As soon as they walked in, both Jones and Beale questioned whether teenage prostitutes would want to frequent it, or even be allowed through the doors if they did. There was a prominent sign on the bar saying: ‘It is illegal to sell or serve alcohol to under 18s. Proof of age may be requested.’
If the publican recognized the two men as policemen, he didn’t show it. He broke off from a conversation with another customer and approached them with a smile. ‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’
Jones took out his wallet and nodded to one of the draught taps. ‘I’ll have a pint of the Special. What about you, Nick?’
‘The same, thanks.’
The man watched them while he drew beer into the first glass. ‘Any news on Walter?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘We’ve all been rooting for him. There’s a rumour going round that he’s regained consciousness. Is that true?’
Jones took a fiver from his wallet and placed it on the counter. ‘It is,’ he said equally pleasantly. ‘I’m Superintendent Brian Jones and this is Detective Inspector Nick Beale.’
‘Derek Hardy. I’ve been wondering why we haven’t seen any of you in here before. Walter hasn’t missed a night in thirty years, or that’s what he tells me anyway. Everyone knows him.’
‘You didn’t think about phoning us with that piece of information? We’ve only just learned ourselves.’
Hardy placed the first glass on a mat and started to draw the second. ‘Not my fault, mate. I called the hotline
