Johnson nodded. ‘He used to come in here before Mel and I took over. Did you know him?’
‘No.’ She folded the towel and put it in the rubbish bin. ‘What did you tell them about Walter Tutting?’
‘Me? All I did was describe a lad I saw with him once. They were more interested in Pat’s views on whether the old boy was a closet gay or not.’ He paused. ‘Pat recognized your friend. Maybe that’s what they’re excited about.’
‘Charles?’
Derek nodded. ‘He told the superintendent he’d seen him in here before.’
Jackson frowned. ‘When?’
‘Last year . . . said he sat at the bar a few times on his own. Before we arrived,’ he added, as if Jackson’s frown was an accusation of customer-poaching. ‘He doesn’t ring any bells with me.’
She pulled her sleeves down and buttoned her cuffs. ‘Ever seen a girl who looks like Uma Thurman in here?’
Derek shook his head. ‘Who is she?’
‘Good question,’ said Jackson with a frustrated sigh. ‘Charles swore blind to me that he’d never used any of the pubs round here. If he can lie about that, he’s almost certainly been lying about his girlfriend.’
Hardy folded his arms and studied her for a moment. ‘How the hell did you come to be involved with this bloke?’
‘Because I’m a fool,’ she said crossly, ‘and I’m damned sorry to have wished him on you and Mel. He should sleep through the night, but I’ll take him off your hands first thing . . . assuming he’s still here.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
She glanced at the monitor. ‘He makes a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ she said cryptically, ‘and it’s looking less and less like coincidence.’ She moved towards the door. ‘He’s not your responsibility, Derek. If they transfer him to hospital because they want to question him, then that’s something Charles will have to deal with himself. He wouldn’t be here at all if he hadn’t acted like a prize idiot.’
*
DC Khan, one of the officers who’d joined Jones and Beale in the bar, placed a couple of printouts in front of the superintendent. ‘This –’ he touched a page – ‘is Dr Jackson’s description of Chalky, the other gives the details of the man the river police pulled out of the Thames this morning. I’ve had a word with a chap called Steve Barratt and he’s blaming paperwork for why no one made the connection. He said they checked missing persons, but there was no one matching the description.’ Jones leaned forward to scan the pages. ‘So what else has dropped through the net? We have phone calls that haven’t been followed up . . . statements that haven’t been read –’ he smacked the back of his hand against Jackson’s description – ‘and now this. What are we running here? A chimpanzees’ tea party?’ ‘We distributed Chalky’s particulars across the whole network, sir.’ ‘But you didn’t think to list him as a missing person?’ ‘No,’ Khan admitted. ‘Just that he was wanted for questioning.’ Jones looked irritated. ‘What else did this Barratt tell you? Have they done a post-mortem?’ Khan shook his head. ‘Not a full one. A pathologist took some blood and temperature readings and had a look at the external features, but there were no signs of foul play. There’s a high level of alcohol in the blood. He concluded the man was a vagrant who drowned in the river some twelve hours before his body was recovered . . . and they gave the case a low priority. According to Barratt, vagrants are the hardest to identify. It usually takes months, and no one cares when they finally come up with a name.’
Jones wasn’t interested in anyone else’s problems. ‘What about fingerprints?’
‘They weren’t planning to run a check until tomorrow, but I’ve asked Barratt to advance that process and call me when he gets a result.’
‘You mean
‘The chances are good, sir.’
‘Even so . . . a name isn’t going to help us. It still won’t tell us if this man was Chalky. We need someone to identify the body.’
DI Beale glanced towards the window. ‘Shall I have a word with Dr Jackson before she goes?’ he asked. ‘I think she’s still around and she’s the obvious person to do it.’
‘Why not?’ Jones agreed slowly. ‘I’d like to know how she reacts. The lieutenant seems to bring misfortune on everyone he meets.’
*
Beale called out to Jackson as he emerged from the front door and saw her about to climb into her car. She flashed him an exasperated glance and toyed with pretending she hadn’t heard. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘I really need to get on.’ ‘I’m aware of that.’ He handed her the details that Khan had printed out. ‘This man was pulled from the river this morning. We believe it might be Chalky but we need someone to identify the body. Would you be willing to help us out? We can wait until you’ve finished your shift.’ She stooped to read the page by the BMW’s internal light. ‘Is there any doubt about when he died? It says here that the body temperature suggests late last night.’ ‘We’ve no reason to question it.’ He studied her expression. ‘Why do you ask?’ The struggle she was having with herself showed in her face, but she avoided a direct answer. Instead, she handed the paper back to him. ‘The conclusion at the end says the man fell in and drowned while heavily intoxicated, and there’s no evidence of foul play. Is there any doubt about
Of course Beale was suspicious. She wouldn’t be asking the questions if she didn’t have doubts. ‘We won’t know till tomorrow. The pathologist hasn’t done a full post-mortem yet.’ He folded the page and tucked it into his pocket. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Doctor?’
‘That I might not be as good a judge of character as I thought I was,’ Jackson said cryptically. She stared past his shoulder towards the Crown’s fac?ade, before giving an abrupt sigh. ‘I have no idea where Lieutenant Acland was between midday yesterday and late this afternoon, Inspector. The last time I saw him was outside a squat in Bread Street . . . which is down near the docks . . . and I think he was looking for Chalky.’
