‘Heavy stuff,’ murmured Jones. ‘You can’t get much closer to the dark side of man’s nature than films about the brutality of war. So why did you need to remind yourself that soldiers don’t always behave with honour, Charles?’ He paused briefly. ‘What happened between you and Ms Morley that day?’
‘We decided to go our separate ways.’
Jones turned a page in his notebook and tapped his thumb against a paragraph. ‘Before or after you buggered her?’ The question was blunt enough to cause a reaction.
Acland’s hands shook visibly against the wall as he stared at the superintendent. ‘Is that why you’re here? Is that what these questions are about?’
‘Rape is a serious accusation, Charles . . . more so when the victim’s a woman and the man’s taste is to bugger her.’
DI Beale stirred. ‘You’d be well advised to take that on board, Lieutenant. If you’re wise, you’ll refuse to answer any more questions without a solicitor present.’
Acland glanced at him with a look of bewilderment, as if he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. ‘How’s a solicitor going to help me? You’ll believe Jen whatever I say.’
‘Why assume that?’ Jones asked.
‘The police always take the woman’s side.’
The superintendent shook his head. ‘The stats prove the opposite. Only a third of cases ever make it as far as court. The other two-thirds drop out at the police stage. It’s very difficult for a woman to substantiate rape . . . particularly months after the event.’ He eyed Acland thoughtfully. ‘Unless the man admits it, of course.’
Twenty-five
IT WASN’T UNTIL JACKSON had finished her second house call after leaving the Crown that she opted to save time and cut security corners by putting her case into the back of the BMW rather than into the boot. As soon as she opened the door, she saw the duffel bag on the floor. Whatever was in it wasn’t big enough to fill it and the bag was collapsed in on itself, lying on its side, half-wedged under the driver’s seat. Jackson’s understanding of what it was, and how it had arrived there, was immediate. She recalled Acland’s effete pose with his jacket and a knot of alarm tightened in her gut as she made the inevitable link with the body in the Thames.
Her first instinct was a craven desire to slam the door and pretend she hadn’t seen it. There was no reason why she should have done, except that she’d chosen to stow her case on the back seat. If she continued with her shift, only she would know that she didn’t spot the bag until the early hours and the imperative to do her job was a great deal stronger than the less attractive imperative of making another trip to Southwark East police station.
Her second instinct – governed as much by curiosity as by common sense – was to check the contents. The shape inside the canvas folds suggested a conical object and she had no intention of spending an hour explaining to a bored policeman why the bag might be important...
. . . only to be told she’d handed in an empty wine bottle.
*
Acland repositioned himself against the wall, retreating as far as he could into the corner. ‘What does my relationship with Jen have to do with your taxi driver?’ he asked Jones.
‘Who says I’m talking about the taxi driver? A civil servant called Martin Britton was killed the weekend of 23 September.’ He could see from the lieutenant’s expression that he wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. ‘He worked for the MOD. Perhaps you ran into him at the Imperial War Museum.’
‘I didn’t.’
The superintendent shrugged. ‘You were angry that weekend. You might have lost your temper with anyone.’
Acland shook his head.
‘You lost it with Jen.’
‘The anger was all on her side.’
‘Why?’
‘She was happy to take my money but she didn’t enjoy what I did to her.’
Jones frowned. ‘You paid her for sex?’
Acland nodded.
‘Why would you treat her like a prostitute, Charles?’
‘Because that’s what she is.’
Jones didn’t argue the point. ‘And you thought payment constituted consent?’
‘That was the agreement.’ His mouth twisted. ‘She made the deal and told me to do my worst. She was laughing at the beginning . . . wasn’t so keen afterwards.’
‘When did you find out she was on the game?’
‘The day I ditched her.’
‘Which was when?’
‘Three days after I returned from Oman.’
Jones eyed him curiously. ‘The weekend of the 9th?’
