Chameleon's Shadow

Acland shook his head. ‘I came in here to get away from things, not to talk to people.’

Jones noted the ‘get away from things’ but let the remark go for the moment. ‘That wouldn’t have prevented Harry from approaching you,’ he said. ‘He was one of the regulars. Everyone describes him as a friendly sort who’d strike up a conversation with anyone. He used to hand out cards for his taxi service. Are you certain you don’t remember him?’

A flicker of something showed in Acland’s face – recognition? – but he gave another slow shake of his head.

‘He sat at the far end of the bar with a couple of older men and only drank orange juice because of his job.’

‘I vaguely remember some older men – I think they were always there – but I don’t remember anyone else.’

Jones watched him closely. ‘Do you recall seeing either of those men outside the pub?’

‘No.’

‘One of them was the old fellow at the bank . . . Walter Tutting. Are you sure you didn’t recognize him when he started poking you?’

‘No,’ said Acland again, frowning at the superintendent in what appeared to be genuine puzzlement. ‘I thought he was a complete stranger.’

‘Then you’re either very bad on faces or you had a lot to think about when you were sitting at the bar.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Acland. ‘I came in here maybe four or five times during June and July last year. A lot’s happened since.’

Jones nodded. ‘You said you wanted to get away from things. What kind of things?’

The lieutenant didn’t answer immediately. He bought himself some time by running his tongue across his lips and feeling at the cut on the right-hand side of his mouth. ‘We were heading off to Oman for desert training throughout August. The logistics of organizing something like that does your head in after a while. It helps to have some space to get away from it.’

He was a bad liar, thought Jones. ‘Didn’t your girlfriend give you space?’

‘She wasn’t happy about me going to Oman.’

Jones nodded. ‘So it was Ms Morley, rather than logistics, who was doing your head in?’ He paused. ‘Is that why you were always alone?’

Acland didn’t answer.

‘Harry Peel was murdered on or around 9 September 2006. Do you recall if you were in London that weekend, Charles?’

Beale watched the lieutenant brace his legs to support himself against the wall. To his eyes, Acland looked close to collapse and he was intrigued by the need the man seemed to have to demonstrate his toughness to the detective superintendent. He had a sneaking feeling that it was being done out of respect, but whether the respect was for Jones or for the power he exercised as a policeman, Beale couldn’t tell. Nor was it clear if Acland had even understood the question, because he continued to look at Jones with the same mystified frown that he’d worn when he’d said he hadn’t recognized Walter Tutting.

‘Will your regiment have records of your weekends out?’ Jones asked.

Acland nodded. ‘But I can tell you myself. I was in London that weekend. I returned from Oman three days earlier on 6 September.’

‘So you came to see Jen after a month’s absence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she glad to see you?’

Silence.

Jones checked another date in his notebook. ‘What about 23 September?’ He looked up. ‘Were you in London then as well? If it helps to jog your memory, it was the weekend before you went to Iraq.’

Both men expected him to ask why that date was important, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave another nod. ‘I was at Jen’s flat on the Saturday. I went back to my base in the evening.’

‘What time did you arrive at the flat?’

‘Midday.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Where did you go afterwards? You must have spent time somewhere else if you didn’t return to your base until the evening.’

‘The Imperial War Museum.’

Jones looked sceptical. ‘Is that the recommended way to prepare for war?’

‘It was my way.’

‘Which exhibitions did you see?’

‘The Holocaust... a film about crimes against humanity.’